My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (26 page)

"Look. It's his car, man. It's the snake's car," he said, as he pointed at Michael's Golf that was parked in the car park, shadowed by a tree and an out-building of some kind.

"It is the car of the snake? Really?" said Abdul, still continuing to chew on the jelly candy.

"Yeah, man. Come wiv me, yeah. Abdul, come on, man." Sinatra led Abdul through a break in the fencing and into the car park. Sinatra looked around as they made their way to Michael's vehicle.

They were instantly blocked from any security camera view because, unfortunately for Michael, he hadn't managed to get his usual parking space today as for some reason the car park was quite full.

"What you do to the car?" Abdul asked, smiling.

"I don't know. I wanna do somefin, yeah?"

"You want to break car?" asked Abdul, as he rounded the car and crouched down beside the right side rear wheel.

"Where you goin', Abdul, man?" Sinatra whispered, shuffling low, holding his jeans with one hand as he stooped round to where Abdul was.

He was kneeling beside the tyre and had unscrewed the tiny black cap to the valve. He skimmed the palm of his hand across the rough ground and located a small stone. More like a piece of gravel really. He put it inside the cap, then found another and did the very same thing.

"What you doin', Abdul?" asked Sinatra as Abdul replaced the cap, pushing the stone into the valve and releasing air from the tyre as he screwed it back.

"We will see him drive and psshh! Over the hills? The hills, in the road?" struggled Abdul, excitedly.

"Hills? What hills, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"The hills that make the car slow and then the car drive and then the car hits the hill and goes slow."

"Oh, speed humps. Yeah, so what?"

"Yes, speed... hump? Yes. He drive. The snake. He drive his car over the hills, the humps, and each time hump, pssh, air goes from wheel, yes? You understand?" explained Abdul, trying his hardest to tell Sinatra that whenever Michael drove his car over a speed hump, more air would squish out from within the tyre. He was adamant about the fact and was acting as if he had tried and tested that action before. Perhaps he was a rogue back in Afghanistan. Maybe it was what all the kids did back there.

Michael had thrown buds at windows. He had even played Knock Down Ginger by ringing on a doorbell and running away. Children from the dawn of time had played a prank of some sort on an adult.

Was Abdul the same? Could he just be playing?

Those particular boys, despite their curled, smiling mouths, whisked up by a frenzied adrenaline rush, did, however, feel angry. They were angry with Michael. That was the difference. That was what set the action apart from the prank category. The action was meant to cause angst, distress, unnecessary chaos and possible harm.

"So he could have a flat tyre?"

"Flat tyre, yes. Yes, flat tyre, pssh," Abdul panted. He straightened, but lowered his head, concerned he could be seen over the car roof or through the window. Not that there was anybody around.

"Let's bounce, man. Let's go," Sinatra said, tugging Abdul's shirt.

"Yes, let's see the snake on the hill humps. Joking, yes?"

"Jokes, man, jokes."

Michael sat with a child. A thirteen-year-old girl called Majestic.

She was white, with a huge amount of wild hair that twisted out, round and upon her head, this way and that, with a fringe that had been hair-sprayed to her forehead. She had a necklace that dangled down her turquoise hooded top, a top that had 'Go Deep Go Hard' printed on it in neon pink. The necklace glistened her name, 'Majestic'. She toyed with a Blackberry phone that pinged every few seconds as they sat at a desk in a classroom.

Michael sighed and looked up at a clock. It was half past two in the afternoon and it was a rarity that Majestic was there at all, let alone at that time.

Some pupils were taught in an afternoon as they couldn't cope with mornings, however even then they didn't take part in much either.

"Sir, yeah? I'm not gonna do any bloody stupid work, so you can make an aeroplane out of it or somethin' cos I'm not doing it," Majestic sighed.

"Is that what you wanted to say, Majestic?" Michael said, frowning at her.

"No, but I saw you had some work looking shit in front of yooz, so thought I'd say something," she said in her squeaky tone.

"You did write an interesting story the other day, Majestic. Did you not want to type the rest of that up?"

"No. Anyway, Miss sent that fucking story to my dad and he grounded me cos of what I wrote in it. It was my story. If I wanted my dad to read it then I woulda given him a copy of it. Sending it to my dad. Oh my days, I can't believe it!" she said, giggling strangely, covering her mouth.

"Well, the story was really graphic, Majestic, so I think that's probably why Miss told your dad about it," Michael explained.

"No, she didn't! She didn't tell him about it, she just fucking sent it and said, like, 'this is Majestic's story which made us feel concerned' or some shit like that. I mean, it's English, it's what the lesson is all about, making up fucking stories."

"Choose different language please. Try not to swear so much."

"Well, she fucking makes me swear. Sorry but she does. Interfering bitch," Majestic said, giggling and covering her mouth as she did so once more. She was very conscious about her lower teeth as they weren't straight at all and one in particular was chipped. She was an attractive little girl, but far too young to have experienced the type of things she had seen. "Anyway, I dunno what was so crazy about it. Miss got a yellow highlight pen and marked some of the words and shit. I think she's the crazy one. Maybe she's a lesbian. Do you think she could be, sir? Here, look, I got my story, look," Majestic said, tapping a few keys on a laptop in front of her.

"No, it's OK, Majestic, I've read it." Michael really didn't want to hear any of it, but it was too late.

"Look yeah. Dis is the highlighted shit in my story that Miss was so worried about. 'I went to a shubz and met bare buff boys from Turnham. They all had fizzies and showed me dem. A few minutes later they took me inside the house and put their cocks in my mouth and one jizzed on my head which really pissed me off cos it took me like free hours to get my hair ready and shit. One boy slapped me in the face and pulled my jeggings down-'"

"Majestic, I don't want to hear anymore," interrupted Michael.

Majestic continued, despite Michael's effort to interrupt. "'I was being abused but I secretly liked it as well. Den one boy found my bandanna and figured out I was from Deptford gang and slapped me again, so I ran out. They could see my pussy though but I didn't care cos I just wanted to get back on tha bus and get fucking out of there. I fucking hate Turnham.'"

"Majestic. That's enough, please. I said I've read it."

"Oh my God, it's just a fucking story. I didn't fink you should be worried about it," she giggled.

"It just sounds a little bit too real, Majestic."

"Don't people say 'write what you know about' or shit like that?" Majestic replied, tilting her head. She was serious and somewhat confused.

"So what were you going to say?"

"Oh yeah. Do you believe in ghosts? I do. In my room, the candle flickers and it's den dat I know I have to sing, so I sing my ghost song to make da ghosts let me sleep. I fink I first found out about da ghosts when I was in primary school and it was den dat I first went a bit off the rails and started getting into trouble," she explained, trying her best, in her matter of fact way, to explain the reasons behind her odd behaviour.

It was actually when an elderly uncle of hers died a few years back that Majestic started to go off the rails. Why her previous schools or social worker hadn't picked up her over-sexualised behaviour and language was beyond anyone's guess.

Michael had figured that the elderly uncle must had been abusing Majestic.

Even Majestic's father had said to Michael that, "Majestic started going mental when her uncle died. She weren't the same."

A primary school teacher reported in her file that Majestic was far too sexualised for her age, at that time eight years old, asking female teachers, "When you touch your fanny, does it feel good?" The response from Majestic's mother was, "All little girls say things like that. What the fuck is wrong with you teachers? Don't you have kids of your own?"

Michael decided he would contact the member of staff who dealt with the procedure for Child Protection.

"Shit, it's well late, I'm gonna go. See you tomorrow, sir," Majestic said, getting up off her chair and speedily making for the door. She walked in her usual waddling manner and exited the room.

Michael exhaled and shook his head.

"Man, what a mess," he murmured to himself, as he scooped up some paperwork and closed down the laptop.

It was a quarter to four and Michael inserted his car key into the ignition and started up the engine. He pulled on his seatbelt, shoved the vehicle into gear at the same time and gently rolled out of the school car park and onto the street. After a few turns here and there, Michael found himself on the very road that Abdul had mentioned. The one with the hill humps. Speed humps to everyone else.

The car rolled up and over one and down with a thud. The heavy vehicle's bulk came down hard on its rear tyres and pressed its weight on them. It wasn't long until the car approached another hump as Michael ascended the steep road and, once again, the car slammed down. Twice more. 

Michael could have driven much, much slower, at a snail's pace, but that would have held up the cars following close behind him, and the bottom line really was that he just wanted to get home and out of the area.

Slam! The car bounced down hard off the hump and indeed, as predicted by Abdul, the right hand rear tyre was becoming flatter with every concrete hump he passed over.

As Michael reached the top of the road and turned onto Winn Common Road, he began to notice that something didn't seem right with the car. He frowned and turned down his stereo, catching sight of the silver gaffer tape on the passenger seat. He scrolled his window down to listen as he drove slower. He passed through the width restriction in the road. Highly concerned, he didn't even notice Abdul and Sinatra standing on the grass at the top of the street as he drove pass them. He pulled his car over across the road into the layby area, switched off the ignition, unbuckled his belt, flicked the locks up and exited the car. He bent down to the right-hand rear tyre and saw that it was considerably flat. Frowning, he inspected the cap and unscrewed it. It practically came off as soon as his finger and thumb touched it, and when it did, the tiny gravel like stones dropped to the ground.  Michael's eyes danced and diverted to the stones and then looked at the plastic cap to the valve.

"Muthas. They let my tyre down. Chav fuckers," he muttered, sighing as he figured out what to do. He sighed again and pressed his fingers against the side of the tyre, seeing exactly how flat it was, wondering if he could continue and drive the vehicle all the way home, without any trouble. He decided against doing so as it would probably damage the wheel.

"Dammit," he said, straightening to stand. He pulled his iPhone and saw the time was ten to four. He scrolled to his favourites to locate 'Bex'. He pressed her name and brought the phone to his ear, sighing. He rolled his tongue around inside his mouth, filling out his cheeks and gums, thinking as he looked at the deflated tyre and awaited Rebecca to pick up.

The ringing went straight to her voicemail.

"Hi, you've reached Rebecca Samson. If you'd like to leave your name, number and message, I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you." Beep.

"Hey baby, it's me. Just calling to say I was on my way home from work but I've got a flat tyre. I found a few tiny stones in the valve cap. It's bound to be a pupil at work or something..."

HOOT! A car horn sounded, passing Michael's car, which caused him to stop speaking.

"Yo, hang up da phone. Do it, man," came a voice.

Frowning, Michael's tone changed as he turned again and completed his message.

"Yeah, I'll hopefully not be too late, my love. If I can't manage to change the wheel, I think there's a garage down the road from work or near this common. Speak later. Love-"

"I said, put da phone down!" said the voice again, more aggressively.

The phone was smacked out of Michael's hand and hit the ground.

Rebecca sat on the sofa, in the flat she shared in Luxor Street with her boyfriend, Michael. Her knees were nestled up close to her chest and her two phones were tight in her grasp: her work iPhone and her personal Samsung. Her MacBook Pro was open and split with her Hotmail and her work Outlook Express setup. Her mascara was smeared slightly from her eyes down her cheeks. She had been crying and she was still sniffing. Her thumb scrolled to the name 'Mikey' on her iPhone and she brought the phone to her ear. It beeped and went straight to the automatic default voicemail.

"Hi, my love. It's gone seven, nearly eight and I'm wondering where you are. I've emailed you and can't get through to that or your phone. Just worried, that's all. I don't think you said you were going out tonight. Love you."

She hung up the call and lowered the phone. She wiped a fresh tear from her left cheek with the back of her hand.

She heard a car engine outside. Rebecca straightened and peeped out of the window to a see a dark-coloured Audi. She then noticed a dark blue transit van had pulled up behind the Audi. The windows of both vehicles were too dark to see anyone inside. She shrugged, disappointed by the view. She'd been hoping it was going to be Michael's silver VW Golf. She took her Samsung and scrolled through to another set of names.

A ring sounded out. It was quite loud and was instantly answered.

"Hello Bec, how are you!" came the familiar voice of Michael's father.

"I don't know really. I'm a bit concerned as Mike's not come home from work yet," replied Rebecca, holding back tears. Her hand was trembling.

"He hasn't? Blimey, he's late. OK, did he say he was going out at all?" asked Edward, calmly.

"No. He would have texted me or called or emailed. I know sometimes his phone signal dips in and out, but he'd always manage to get through to me if that ever happened. I'm - I'm worried that something's happened and I can't help thinking he's..." she blubbed, releasing a flood of tears, unable to fight them back any longer. She clutched a paper tissue and brought it to her nose, wiping it.

"It's OK, don't cry. I'm sure he's fine. Don't cry, Rebecca. When was the last time you spoke or had word from Mike?" Edward asked her.

"He - he called me when he was on his way home, saying he had a flat tyre," Rebecca answered, trying to compose herself.

"And what time was that, do you think? Do you remember?" Michael's father held the phone tight against his ear, entered his living room and sat at the wooden dining table. He flipped open an A4 notepad and reached for a ballpoint pen.

Michael's mother, Violet, looked up from the leather Chesterfield sofa, concerned.

"What's wrong? Are they OK? Tell me they haven't broken up!" she said, frantically, receiving a wave of Edward's hand, signaling her to be quiet as he made a face at her, mouthing the words, "No, shut up."

"Mike called me at three forty-nine this afternoon," Rebecca sniffled.

'15:49 - called Rebecca Samson (live-in girlfriend),' Edward jotted down fast upon the notepad. "What time does he leave work?" he asked.

"Sometimes he can get away at half three, but I think his normal time to finish is three forty-five," Rebecca said.

'15:45 - leaves work (Plumstead),' Edward wrote. "That's right, I remember now. So, did he say to you where he was when he called to tell you about the tyre?"

"He left a message on my phone, so I - I didn't get to speak with him." Rebecca started to sob again, breathing with quick jerky breaths, almost hiccup-like.

"Rebecca, it's OK. You're OK, Rebecca. You're calm, you're doing fine," Edward said to her down the line as Violet got up from the sofa, rounded the dining table and, pulling out a chair from underneath, sat next to her husband.

She eyed the notes written on the pad and wondered what was going on.

"He - Mike said he was going to go to a garage near a common where he was at. I don't know - I..."

"Do you still have the message on your phone?" Edward asked coolly.

"Yes. It's saved. I have it," Rebecca answered.

"Good. Now, did you hear anything else in the background of the message at all, Rebecca? An unusual sound, another person's voice, traffic noises?"

"I - I heard a car beeping and I think someone else's voice, but it was quite faint. I - I don't know." She felt as though she had failed with her not knowing. Rebecca really disliked failure. Sure, nobody does, but her especially. She was a winner, whether at work or playing a board game. She did her best and her best was to win and succeed.

"That's fine. Thank you. You're doing great, Rebecca. You're really good. Now, keep your phone charged and what I'll do, I'll make a few calls and Violet or myself will call you in a short while, all right?"

"Yes," Rebecca said, composing herself once more.

"Do you have any wine at home?" Edward asked.

"Erm, yes, yes. Half a bottle, surprisingly," she replied, caught slightly off-guard.

"Haha, well, you get yourself a glass, make sure your phone isn't on silent mode and plug the charger in now if it's nearby. Is the charger near you?" Edward asked her.

Rebecca turned her attention to the iPhone charging lead which rested on the arm of the sofa and pulled it to her iPhone. She inserted it into the bottom of the phone.

Bleep. The iPhone began to charge.

"Yes. It's charging now," Rebecca informed Edward, Michael's patient, caring and highly professional father.

"Great. OK, don't leave the house, make sure you eat and don't answer the door to anyone," Edward softly commanded.

"OK."

"Speak to you later, Rebecca. Don't worry. Love to you. Love to you. Bye."

"Bye," she replied, laying her charging phone on the arm of the sofa. She sniffed and wiped her eyes and nose.

Edward placed his Nokia mobile phone on the wooden dining table, next to the notepad and jotted down another piece of information.

'Sounds on message: 1) Car horn. 2) Person(s).'

"What's happening, Ed?" Violet asked.

"Hold on, wait a minute," Edward replied as he continued to write further notes. 'Flat tyre: near a Common? May go to a garage nearby.'

"Right. Rebecca said that Mike's not arrived home yet. She's very upset and concerned."

"Well, of course. He should be home by now," Violet stated, looking at and reading Edward's notes.

"Don't use the phone and if anyone calls, can you be quick to let them go, please?" Edward requested.

"Of course. Of course. What are you going to do?"

"I'll give Geoff a call first and then I'll pop down to Simon's."

"Don't you think you should call Carolyn?" Violet said.

"Oh no! Not yet. I don't think it'll get to that. Goodness me! First things first, Vi. That's the last thing to do. Crikey," he blurted.

"Oh, sorry. I just-" Violet humbly replied.

"It's all right," he said, retrieving his pad and mobile phone.

He stood up and passed his wife, who suddenly began to sob. Edward turned and lowered himself to put an arm around her, kissing her cheek. "Hey, it'll be all right. Make some ginger tea, eh?" he said, comforting his nearest and dearest. His most cherished for nearing forty years.

She nodded her head. "I can't help it. He's-"

"Sshh. It's all right. I'm going to phone Geoff in the other room," Edward finished and headed off.

"Edward! How are things?" answered Geoff. The tall, large-framed white man was slumped in a leather armchair in his living room, with a laptop on his big, bare thighs and his legs stretched out. He rested on the extended foot and leg rest that flipped out from the base of the chair. Geoff was in his late fifties and was wearing shorts and a West Ham football shirt. His mobile phone was in one hand. He muted the television.

"'Allo Geoffrey. Hope I'm not disturbing you," responded Edward, on the end of the line.

"Of course you are, Edward. You interrupted my surfing the net for hot babes and watching mindless Jason Statham films. Course not, what's up?" Geoff quirkily replied.

"Right, I just had a call from a very upset young lady."

"Blimey, what have you been up to?" Geoff joked.

"The young lady is our Mike's girlfriend, Rebecca," Edward explained.

"Right. Go on." Geoff took on a more serious tone.

"Mike's not arrived home yet and it's just gone eight o'clock."

"What time does he usually get home each day?" Geoff asked.

"A little before five."

"Let's say five, then. And when does the youngster leave work in darkest Plumstead?" Geoff inquired.

"Quarter to four," Edward said. "He called his girlfriend four minutes after leaving work saying he had a flat tyre. Said he was near a Common. What would that be Woolwich or Plumstead Common, Geoff?" Edward asked, his own voice now expressing slight concern.

"Mm, left his work at three forty-five, made a call at three forty-nine - four minute drive, taking into account traffic - more likely Plumstead Common, Winn Common, around there," calculated Geoff.

"Yeah, I thought so, too."

"Give me Michael's car reg and leave it with me," Geoff commanded Edward, who reeled off the details and then ended the call.

It was at four twenty-one that afternoon when a uniformed police patrol vehicle drove down Winn Common Road, the very road where Michael had discovered his flat tyre. The police vehicle swirled its blue lights as it pulled into the layby and in front of Michael's parked car.

Three white children, from ten to thirteen years of age, ran across part of the Common, heading for some residential flats as the two male police officers exited their car and walked towards Michael's VW Golf.

Two other kids were inside the car with the passenger door and driver's door wide open. The kids looked up to see the officers approaching.

One was a teenage girl, fifteen, mixed race, full make-up. She sat on the back seat, resting her elbows on the headrests of the driver and passenger seats. She widened her eyes, as did the white boy of seventeen trying to remove the car stereo with a screwdriver and making a real mess of the dashboard.

"Are you the owner of this car, mate?" asked the officer, standing by the driver's side, on the paved area.

"Nah, it's my mate's, init," scowled the young man, sighing, yet he continued to do his best to pull the radio out.

"What's your mate's name then?" asked the police officer.

"What? Oh, I dunno his real name, init."

"Do you want to describe him for me?" the officer asked.

"What?"

"I knew we'd get busted by Feds," the girl complained.

"Shut up, man!" the young man snapped.

"Your mate who owns the car. What does he look like?" asked the officer, patiently but firmly.

"He's er - tall. Like a man. He's hench. Black, yeah."

"What's hench?" asked the officer, which caused the girl to giggle, immaturely.

The young man smirked. "Hench. You know, big init. Shit, man," he said as he tossed the screwdriver to the floor of the passenger side and looked at the officer. He then glanced through the windscreen at the other policeman in front of the car.

He was speaking into his radio. "Do you want to step outside the car, please? And you, love. Come on," the officer commanded.

"I have a registration to a silver Volkswagen Golf," said the second officer, speaking into his radio, eyeing the number plate of Michael's car.

The young man clambered out of the car, along with the girl who clambered through the centre between the driver and passenger seats instead of flipping the seat forward and getting out that way, the normal way. They straightened, annoyed they were interrupted, especially by coppers.

"Look, the car door was open, yeah. Nobody was around yeah, like for ages, yeah, so I took my opportunity init."

"What's your name?"

"Hello Geoffrey. What's the update?" asked Edward, sitting in an office-type room that housed a desk and a standalone PC with a landline telephone.

"At 16:23 two uniforms called in a check on a plate which came back as Michael's car," Geoff informed him from his comfortable, reclining armchair, reading from his own A5 notepad.

"OK. Go on."

"His car was on Winn Common Road, in a layby and was having its stereo removed by a couple of teenagers. They've put a 'Police Aware' notice on the windscreen of the car."

"Right. Any report of Mike?"

"Hold on, I'm not finished with the car yet," Geoff replied.

It was 18:07 and the grass of Winn Common was being churned up by dirty swirling circles from tyre tread marks from a silver-coloured Volkswagen Golf. It slid this way and that. It was Michael's car and the driver was a spotty, white, sickly-looking fifteen-year-old boy, tracksuit clad and with three equally pasty-faced youths inside. He crunched the clutch dreadfully, shifting through the gears awfully as he drove the car over the grass and towards a mass of bushes.