On my way back down I heard sounds that weren’t music, from behind a closed door. Remembered the television room, and put my head inside.
There were a couple of youngsters slumped on separate sofas: newcomers, nervous, flushing under my gaze, their eyes jumping between me and the TV screen. I didn’t think they were that interested in a news bulletin. Waiting for what came next, perhaps; or more likely just watching telly because they were numb and scared and at least it was something familiar, something they knew how to do.
I was on my way out again when I caught something, Alfie’s name mentioned.
Suddenly there was at least one interested viewer in that room, there was me coming right inside now, pushing the door to behind me and never mind the way those kids jumped, never mind what they thought.
News conference on the screen: long table, microphones, policemen and women and one nervous civilian between them. Alfie’s older brother, they said, and a lot older too, he looked thirty at least. And short and dark and very Welsh, twisting his hands together and making the usual useless appeals. ‘Whoever did this, for God’s sake give yourself up, isn’t three dead boys enough?’
To which the answer was obviously no, and I didn’t know why he was wasting his breath. Five had to be a minimum here, there was no getting away with anything less.
The brother was going on, pleading for information now, for any information. ‘You don’t have to go to the police. You can come to me, I’ll be an intermediary. I came to London to find my brother; I’ll stay as long as I have to, to find his killer. I’m staying at the Prince Consort Hotel on Church Street, contact me there if there’s anything you can tell us, anything at all…’
Nothing I could tell him; nothing Mickey could tell me either, or nothing he admitted to. No, he didn’t know where Dex and Tony had buggered off to; he didn’t know they’d gone till just that morning, when he checked their rooms. And no, they’d left nothing behind, obviously nothing with him for safe-keeping. Usually they did that, so probably they’d gone for a while, wherever it was they’d gone. Out of the city, even, maybe…?
But I didn’t believe that, and neither did he. You don’t do that; you don’t leave London so easily, a snap of the fingers, one fright and you’re gone.
No, the city grips tighter than that. They were still around, those boys. And I’d find them.
If there were luck or justice in this world, I’d find them first.
Shaved and showered, smartly dressed, I was into work before eight next morning. The girl in the doorway was awake too, only her eyes showing between sleeping-bag and woolly hat. Thin, tight eyes, weary and distrustful.
Wise girl.
After a couple of hours’ intensive working, I glanced out of the window and saw a policeman. Saw him stop, question the girl for a minute or two, finally nod and move away.
That didn’t impress me at all.
So I phoned downstairs to the security guard. He’d been on duty since seven, he’d be getting bored by now, he’d be into a change of routine,
‘Tell her to move, Carl. The law can’t shift her, maybe, but we can. Tell her that.’
And he did, he told her. I watched from my window, saw her gesture stiffly, saw her spit. No trouble guessing what she was saying down there, the message she was sending. They get vicious on the streets, these kids do. Not hard, not as hard as they like to think, but vicious for sure.
Vicious isn’t always wise, though, it isn’t always protective. Carl came back, and we had another little chat on the phone while I sat in my chair and watched the street, thinking how cold it was out there. How cold she must be already, cold all the time, despite the sleeping-bag and so many layers of clothing…
So I talked to Carl, and heard him laugh; and watched him carry a bucket over the road, watched him tip a gallon of cold, cold water over the girl.
Even through the double glazing, I could hear her shriek.
Hear her swear, too, see her come scrambling out of the sodden bag in a fighting fury; but Carl was already half-way back, strolling contemptuously across the street with a big grin on his face, not even looking. She snatched up a handful of frozen dog-shit, hurled it at him, missed. Cast around for a stone, a can, anything else; but the services are good around here, the streets are swept. She was all the trash there was.
And she was wet and freezing cold, and he was twice her size. She didn’t come after him, just slumped back into her doorway. Rummaged desultorily in a carrier bag, pulled a few clothes out, dropped them again; wrapped her arms around her knees, rocked to and fro, head down and shoulders shaking.
When I left the office an hour later, she was back in the bag. I wasn’t sure that was such a good idea, better to keep dry, I would have thought; but I didn’t stop to say so. She was curled up small, back to the street, no begging now. And Carl had his game-plan all worked out.
From the look of her she wasn’t going anywhere; but if she didn’t move, twice more today she was going to get a wetting.
It was going to be a hard cold day for the kid and a harder colder night to follow, with wet bedding and a sharp frost forecast even here, even in the heart of the city.
It’s a tough life, when you’re not welcome in other people’s doorways.
The tube was on again, so I took the Northern line out to a small hotel at a frugal distance, and asked at reception for Mr Kirk.
The girl behind the counter nodded over my shoulder; I turned, saw him in a corner, watching me. Watching everyone that came in, I guessed, and probably praying, good Chapel background that he had. Probably praying even now, that I should prove an answer to his prayer.
Maybe I was, at that.
I asked the girl to bring us a pot of coffee, two cups. She said he drank tea. One of each, then, I said. No hurry, I said. When you’ve got the time.
She nodded, promised. I made my way between chairs; he stood up as I reached him, met my extended hand with his, ready presumably to shake with any stranger in his need.
‘Mr Kirk, I’m glad to catch you. I saw you on the news last night, and I thought perhaps we ought to talk. Oh, I’m sorry, my name’s Jonathan, my friends call me Jonty…’ And some people called me Skip, but he didn’t need to know that, it wouldn’t mean a thing.
‘David,’ he said, reciprocating, politely not asking for a surname. More sussed than he seemed, perhaps; or else just learning fast. He’d have to be, if he’d been hunting for Alfie in any of the right places. ‘Please, sit down, I’ll order some tea…’
‘No need, I’ve done that.’
‘Well, then.’ He sat down himself, fidgeted his clothes into neatness, and got straight to the point. ‘How is it that you can help me, then, ah, Jonty?’
‘Only that I knew Alfie quite well, I know the people he mixed with, some of the places he hung out. These kids, they wouldn’t talk to the police, they might not talk to you – but they’ll talk to me. Specifically,’ laying plenty of cards on the table, honest as they come, ‘there are two boys we need to find, because they’re next on the hit-list, they’ve got to be. I don’t know if you’ve realized this, I don’t know if the police are aware, even; but Alfie was one of a team, five good friends,’ really working on that Chapel mentality here: all good buddies together, all looking out for each other and don’t mention what they did for cash. ‘Three of them are dead now, and it’s too much for coincidence. Whoever this madman is, he’s not killing at random…’
And so I talked, and drank coffee, and painted what picture I liked of Alfie’s life, what picture I thought David ought to see. He sipped at his insipid milky tea, and nodded, and tried to understand.
I was still talking when the girl interrupted me, beckoning David over to the desk to take a phone call.