Keeping Bad Company (12 page)

There were limits. I couldn’t cope with Albie for twelve hours. Certainly not once he’d drunk the rest of the whisky. Besides, whilst he didn’t smell as bad as Jonty, he didn’t smell that good either. I’d have to fumigate the flat afterwards.

‘I can’t do that!’ I snapped. ‘What’d I do once the whisky got to his brain? Besides, there’s my landlady. If she got to know I’d brought him in, she’d throw a fit. I’d be out.’ An idea struck me. ‘What about the lock-up garages behind the shop? Hari’s got a place there, hasn’t he? Couldn’t Albie bed down there tonight?’

‘Come off it, Fran! You know Hari!’

Albie had been paying closer attention than I’d supposed. ‘It’s very kind of you to worry about me,’ he said grandly. ‘But I’ve got plans for the evening, as they says. I’ll be all right. Them fellers won’t come back tonight.’

I made a decision. ‘Albie, listen to me. I want you to get away from this area round the church. I’m not so sure those two goons won’t come back. Go and collect Jonty if you must, but I really believe the pair of you should stay away from St Agatha’s, right? I worked out I might find you here and our friends with the Cortina thought the same. I’ll meet you in the morning where we first met, on Marylebone Station, understand? Just by the Quick Snack stall. I’ll come along early, around eight o’clock. Can you be there? It’s very important.’ I reached out and took his hand. ‘Promise me, Albie.’

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I’d promise you anything. Putty in a woman’s hands, that’s me.’

‘Please,
Albie . . .’

‘And for a lovely girl like you, what wouldn’t I do? All right, dear. I’ll be there, early, like you said.’ He raised my hand and made a kissing sound, thankfully well clear of contact.

Ganesh and I watched him lurch off down the road on his way to share the whisky with Jonty. I just hoped they could keep from opening it up until they’d left the porch. I had my doubts. Nor could I blame them. At least the whisky dulled the misery for a few hours. In their shoes, I’d probably take to the bottle. I wondered where he’d got the bottle from, if he’d pinched it or paid for it and if the last, what with? But confirmed drinkers always manage to get hold of their favourite tipple somehow.

‘He might be at the station tomorrow,’ Ganesh said, ‘but I wouldn’t count on it. It’s like I said, Fran. There’s no talking sense with him. Still, there’s nothing you can do except trust the old soak, I suppose.’

‘You saw what happened! You must’ve recognised that Cortina. You can hardly blame me for worrying!’ I said bitterly.

Chapter Six

I was absolutely whacked when I got home that night, but still curiously reluctant to go to bed. The memory of a footstep above my head nagged at me.

I fell on the sofa before the TV set, thinking that a burst of mindless late-night entertainment, or even a serious political discussion, anything, might distract me. It’s a funny thing, but you do without something for years and don’t miss it. Then you find yourself unexpectedly presented with whatever it is. After that, you wonder how you managed before and can’t imagine life again without it. That’s how it is with me and the telly.

The last squat I lived in, we didn’t have telly, but then we didn’t have electricity either. The council had disconnected us, not because we were unwilling to pay the bill, but because they wanted us out of the place.

Then I came here and sitting in the corner was the little television, with its blurred focus and crackling sound, and I was hooked. I know it’s a time-waster. But it’s also a time-filler and when you’re out of a job, it’s a sort of cackling companion, rabbiting on about trivia of all sorts and throwing up endless pictures to amuse the eye. I understand only too well why so many old people, especially those living alone, switch on first thing in the morning and don’t switch off until they go to bed.

But tonight I only stared at the blank screen, lacking the will or the strength to turn the thing on, even for my regular old film fix.

It wasn’t surprising I was dog-tired. It’d been a long day, what with not having slept very well the night before, getting up early and finding myself involved in an unexpected skirmish with DS Parry. Then there was arranging with Angus about the forthcoming Saturday, and traipsing around looking for Albie, plus rescuing him from Merv and his pal.

I was worried about Albie, where he’d gone after I’d left him and whether he’d turn up on time in the morning. I was also having serious second thoughts about having committed myself to Angus’s loony art project. I was only thankful I’d hadn’t told Ganesh any more about it. To top it all off, I kept thinking about rats. My brain churned. I was developing a full-scale panic attack. ‘Stop it, Fran!’ I ordered myself aloud.

Ganesh and I had found a pizza place after leaving Albie, so I wasn’t hungry. I
was
thirsty but making tea was beyond me. I hauled myself upright, staggered to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. Then I went to the subterranean bedroom, removed the duvet and pillow from the bed and brought them back to the living room and the sofa. A brief expedition to clean my teeth and I fell on the sofa, tugging the duvet around my ears.

Tired as I was, I lay awake for quite some time, wondering whether my visitor of the previous night would return. At first I quivered with tension at the sound of every passer-by and that night, just for the purpose, everyone seemed to be taking a short cut home down our street. As time wore on, the pedestrians were fewer. That was worse. Now each one was a possibility. Anyone walking slowly set my nerves jangling and had me sitting up on the sofa, alert to jump up and be ready, though for what I didn’t know.

But no one stopped or even paused by the house. Last of all, the next-door neighbours arrived home by car, headlights sweeping the front of our house like air-raid search beams. They – a carload of them by the sound of it, perhaps they had houseguests – staggered out on to the pavement, the women’s voices shrill and excited with drink, the men hoarse, incoherent with that drunken bonhomie that can so quickly turn sour. They giggled, guffawed and swore as someone, stumbling up the steps, had trouble with the key. Eventually, they too had gone indoors with a final echoing slam of the front door. I was left to myself, my imagination, and the ever-present distant rumble of London traffic.

I began to be angry with the absentee. How dare he keep me from my well-earned sleep like this?
If you’re going to come, come!
I addressed him silently. But he didn’t oblige and eventually I ordered myself to put him on one side, like a half-read book, and go to sleep. At least, I told myself, I wasn’t in that tomblike bedroom. Out here, in my living room, I felt safer. I wasn’t, but I felt it.

When I eventually passed out, it was completely. I didn’t dream, not even in the circumstances. I was too far gone for that. It was a wonder my old-fashioned wind-up alarm clock woke me at seven. Thinking I must have been barmy to have arranged such an early rendezvous with Albie, I staggered around the flat getting myself dressed, and set off for Marylebone.

I hopped on a bus that took me there by a more direct route and made it to the Quick Snack stall by about ten past eight. If Albie had been prompter, he wasn’t to be seen. But I didn’t think he’d have given me up already.

Looking around, I realised I’d forgotten how busy railway stations are at that hour of the morning. Commuters poured off every train and swept by me, a solid sea of determined faces. The concourse had the appearance of a disturbed ants’ nest as people scurried towards the main exit or the Underground entry within the station precincts. To spot even Albie’s distinctive figure in the throng would be difficult. I got myself a coffee and sat down, as I had before, on the metal seat, with a definite sense of
déjà vu
or at least
déjà
been there.

From here I could watch the entry to the Underground, over to my left as I faced the coffee stall. It was clogged with office workers pushing through the barriers. There was a notice informing them the down escalator was out of action and that there were 121 steps to negotiate. That would add to the poor souls’ enjoyment. When I worry, as I occasionally do, that I haven’t a regular job, sights like that cheer me up no end.

Fewer people were coming up from the tube and through the barrier into the station, and none of them looked remotely like Albie. I began to wonder if he’d taken my advice and moved away from the streets around St Agatha’s. I knew that, on the whole, it was unlikely. He and Jonty would have started on the whisky, and after that they wouldn’t have bothered to move on.

The seat seemed to get harder and harder as if there were no flesh padding my bum at all and my joints rested directly on the metal. I’d drunk the first coffee and another one. The commuting crowd had thinned out. Eventually the last of them vanished. A different sort of passenger was arriving off the trains now. Not workers, but shoppers and people coming up for the day for one reason or another, who had no reason to fight for the early train, or could take advantage of cheaper tickets by travelling later. It was well after ten. I’d been here two and a half hours and I knew Albie wasn’t coming. Perhaps I’d always known it. I stood up and eased my cramped legs.

Damn it! I thought. He probably hadn’t even remembered. He was sleeping it off somewhere. I quelled the fear that some other reason detained him. I simply should have known better than to attempt to make any kind of firm arrangement with someone like Alkie Albie Smith. Ganesh and I would have to go out tonight and try to find him again. Ganesh would love that.

I went home. I’d had nothing to eat with my coffee and it was getting on for lunch time. I set about making toast in my kitchen and was debating whether to scramble a couple of eggs,
haute cuisine
as far as I was concerned, when I was interrupted by the ring of the doorbell followed by the noise of someone hammering on the front door.

Footsteps scuffed outside in the basement and as I walked out of the kitchenette into the main room, a face appeared at the window and a hand tapped urgently on the glass. Faintly I could hear my name being called. It was Parry.

‘Go away!’ I shouted.

‘Let – me – in!’ he mouthed back.

‘Get a warrant!’

‘I – need – to – talk – to – you!’

I unlocked the front door and he stepped in, uninvited.

‘I’m just getting my lunch,’ I groused. To back me up, a strong smell of burning toast wafted into the room. I belted back to the kitchen and whipped two charred squares from beneath the grill. Cursing, I hurled them into the bin.

Parry appeared behind me. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I’ll do that. You make us a cup of coffee or something.’

His offer of help convinced me more than anything else could have done that he was the bearer of bad news. There were only two people he could have come about. Ganesh or Albie.

I asked, ‘Is it Gan?’ because when all was said and done, Ganesh mattered more. I felt cold and my heart gave a little hop of fear.

‘No,’ he said, his back to me. ‘As far as I know, your Indian mate is still selling bars of chocolate and girlie mags in that shop. You putting anything on this toast?’

He obviously wasn’t going to blurt it out. But so long as it wasn’t Ganesh, it could wait five minutes and I wanted that five minutes. Whatever Parry had come about, I wanted to be ready to deal with it.

‘Eggs,’ I said. If the man liked to cook, I’d let him.

Well, he wasn’t a great cook but who am I to criticise? I sat at my table and ate my lunch and he lounged on the sofa, drinking his coffee and smoking. He didn’t ask, as he took out the ciggies, whether I minded. When I’d finished, I picked up my coffee mug and swivelled round on my chair to face him.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s hear it.’

He squashed out the cigarette stub in a saucer he’d found in the kitchen to serve as an ashtray. The man was certainly making himself at home but I was too worried to care.