He wasn’t playing the machines, and in fact was staring at the cigarette dispenser.
‘Hello there, Harry,’ I said. He stared at me without recognition, then laughed himself into a coughing fit. Three gold chains jangled around his neck as he coughed. There were more gold bands on his wrists and fingers, plus a gold Rolex on his right wrist.
‘Dear God,’ he said at last, ‘that nearly killed me.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘Did you beat him up afterwards?’
‘Who?’
‘The blind fella who gave you that haircut. It’s diabolical. I won’t even tell you what I think of the colour.’
‘Why not take out an ad?’
‘Sorry, son.’ He lowered his voice and cleared his throat. ‘Do I need an invite or are you going to introduce me?’
‘Sorry, Harry, this is Belinda. Belinda, Harry.’
‘What’re you drinking, girl?’
She looked to me first and I nodded. ‘Coke, please.’
‘Needs your permission, does she? And you’ll be wanting a double brandy, I take it?’
‘Not tonight, Harry. A half of bitter’s fine.’
He shook his head. ‘My hearing must be going.’
‘Let me get these,’ I said. ‘Are you still TJ?’
‘That I am.’ Bel looked puzzled, so he spelt it out. ‘Tomato juice. I can’t drink any more, it makes my hands shake.’
She nodded, understanding everything. I got the drinks in while Harry tried his usual chat-up lines. I needn’t have worried; Harry was okay. He was stone cold sober and he wasn’t dodging police or warrant-servers or his ex-wife’s solicitors. He was fine.
When I got back, Bel was playing one of the bandits.
‘She’s had four quid out of it already,’ Harry said.
‘And how much has she put back?’
Harry nodded sagely. ‘They always put it back.’
Bel didn’t even look at us. ‘Who’s “they”?’ she said. ‘Women in general, or the women you know in general? I mean, there’s bound to be a difference.’
Harry wrinkled his nose. ‘You see,’ he said in a stage whisper, ‘things haven’t been the same since women’s lib. When my Carlotta burnt her bra, I knew that was the end. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’ I sipped my beer and managed to catch Bel’s eye. She gave me a wink. ‘Harry,’ I said, ‘we need something.’
‘We?’
‘Bel and me.’
‘What do you need? A wedding licence?’
‘No, something that’ll get us through a few doors, something with authority stamped on it.’
‘Such as?’
‘I was hoping you’d have a few ideas.’
He rubbed his unshaved jaw. ‘Yes, I could maybe do you something. When would you need it?’
‘Tonight.’
His eyes widened. ‘Jesus, Mark, you’ve given me tough ones before, but this...’
‘Could you do it though?’
‘I wasn’t expecting to work tonight...’ From which I knew two things: one, that he could do it; and two, that he was wondering how much he could charge.
‘It would be cash?’ he said. I nodded. ‘It’s cash I like, you know that.’
‘I know that.’
‘Jesus, tonight. I don’t know...’
‘How much, Harry?’
He took off his cap and scratched his head, forgetting for a moment his psoriasis. Huge flakes of skin floated on to his shoulders. ‘Well now, Mark, you know my prices are never unreasonable.’
‘The difference is, Harry, this time I’m not getting paid.’
‘Well, that may make a difference to you, Mark, it doesn’t make a difference to me. I charge what’s fair.’
‘So tell me what’s fair.’
‘Five hundred.’
‘What do I get for five hundred?’
‘Two identity cards.’
‘That’s not much to show.’
He shrugged. ‘At short notice, it’s the best I can offer.’
‘How long would it take?’
‘A couple of hours.’
‘All right.’
‘You’ve the money on you?’ I nodded, and he shook his head. ‘Running around Tottenham with five hundred on him, and I bet he’s not even carrying a knife.’
Behind us, the bandit began coughing up another win for Bel.
‘This is definitely your lucky night,’ said Harry the Cap.
‘Make yourselves at home.’
It wasn’t easy in Harry the Cap’s first-floor flat. For one thing, what chairs there were were piled high with old newspapers and magazines. For another, half the already cramped living room was taken up with a rough approximation of a photographer’s studio. A white bedsheet had been pinned to the wall to provide a backdrop, and there was a solitary bruised flash-lamp hanging from a tripod. Harry gave the back of the lamp a thump.
‘Hope the bulb’s not gone, bleeding things cost a packet.’ The bulb flashed once, then came on and stayed on. ‘Lovely,’ said Harry. There was a plain wooden dining-chair which seemed to be the tomcat’s regular perch, but Harry tipped the reluctant beast on to the floor and placed the chair in front of the bedsheet, angling the lamp so that it hit an imaginary spot just above the back of the chair. ‘Lovely,’ he said again.
Then he started tinkering with his pride and joy. It was a special camera which in the one unit could take a photo (slightly smaller than passport size), develop it on to an ID card, and then laminate the card. Harry patted the machine. ‘Bought it from a firm that went bust. They used to do identity cards for students.’
Bel was standing in front of a mirror, combing her hair into place. The mirror was large and old and hexagonal, and in its centre was a posed photograph of a bride and groom with their best man and bridesmaid.
‘Your parents?’ Bel asked.
‘Nah, picked it up down Brick Lane. A lot of people make your mistake. Sometimes I don’t own up.’
‘Where’s that music coming from?’
‘Upstairs, some black kids.’
The constant bass was like a queasy heartbeat. It seemed to envelop the flat.
‘Can’t you complain?’ said Bel. Harry laughed and shook his head.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’ll just get the cards typed up.’
He had an old manual typewriter, the sort they’d thrown from offices on to the street in the ’70s. It was solidly built, but the keys needed realigning. Or maybe they just needed a clean.
‘You’ll never notice once the machine’s reduced it.’
This, I knew from previous experience, was true. Once the card had been filled in, it was placed inside the unit, a suitcase-sized object attached to the camera, and a reduced-size copy was made, only now with photograph in place. Normally, I didn’t bother too much. People seldom really scrutinised an ID card of any make or variety. If they saw that the photo was you, they were satisfied. But this time was different.
‘Remember, Harry, some of the people I’ll be dealing with might just give my ID more than a cursory glance. Don’t go making any typing errors.’
‘Do me a favour, I did a secretarial course at night school. Seventy words a minute.’
‘I didn’t know there were seventy two-letter words.’
I left him to get on with it. Bel flicked a final hair into place and turned to me. She offered me the comb, but I shook my head. I looked in the mirror and saw a hard-looking bloke staring back. He had cropped black hair and a professional scowl. He looked just like a policeman.
‘Which area do you want?’ Harry asked from the typewriter.
‘Better make it Central.’
‘Central,’ he acknowledged. ‘Good, I know how to spell that.’