I went further down the hall and came to another door. I tried that one too and it opened into a bedroom. Not the honeymoon suite at the Savoy, but a bedroom nevertheless.
The walls and window were hung with old tapestry curtains, in one corner was a battered chest of drawers that held an ancient black and white TV and a tray covered with loose cigarette papers, shreds of tobacco, stripped cigarettes, small lumps of dope, and minicab firms’ advertising cards, some whole, some torn. Beside the tray was a packet of clean hypodermic needles amongst a litter of used spikes, burnt spoons, night light candles, silver foil, and an empty glassine packet with just a trace of golden brown powder sticking to the sides. Against one wall was an old radiogram that looked as if it had come from a skip, next to a pile of records. Clothes were scattered everywhere. On a double mattress with no box springs, under a pile of dirty blankets and a stained duvet two people were asleep.
I went over and looked down at them. On the bare pillows I could just make out that one was male, the other female, although their hair was of equal length. I went to the window and pulled the curtain that covered it across the piece of string that held it up, then went back to the bed and kicked the edge of the mattress hard.
The female opened her eyes and looked up into mine. ‘Morning,’ I said. ‘Full English or continental?’
Her eyes were glazed and I might as well have not bothered. She focused on my face and looked around as if she wasn’t sure where she was.
‘Who are you?’ she said.
I ignored the question. What was the point? She was probably on re-entry from orbit and my name would mean nothing to her. Often it meant nothing to me.
‘I’m looking for Jimmy Himes,’ I said.
‘Who? What the fuck are you doing here?’
I told her again, and she shook the still form next to her until he grunted into life. ‘Matt,’ she said, ‘there’s someone here.’
I just knew this day was going to end in tears.
The man sat up, pulling the blankets off his girlfriend’s bare breasts. They were thin and long with puckered brown nipples and she didn’t try to cover them. I wished that she would. He was about twenty-five, skinny, with tracks on both arms.
‘I don’t want any trouble,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to burst in, but the front door was open.’
A white lie. But forgivable under the circumstances, I thought. Although I might as well have saved my breath.
‘Are you the filth?’ demanded Matt, pushing his hair out of his eyes.
People are always asking me that. ‘No.’ I said.
‘Then what the fuck do you want?’ He said.
I repeated myself for the second time.
‘Never heard of him,’ he said. ‘Fuck off.’
I ignored him. He was probably used to it. ‘I’ve got some photos,’ I said, and took out the envelope, opened it and pulled out one. I hunkered down on my heels, and showed it to them.
‘Don’t know him,’ said Matt. ‘Now fuck off or…’
‘Don’t Matt,’ I said tiredly. ‘You’re out of your class.’ Which was probably the wrong thing to say in front of his inamorata.
‘I’ll…’ he said, beginning to push back the covers and get at me.
I didn’t want to see any more of his skinny body and shoved him back flat on the mattress. ‘I said don’t,’ I said.
He lay there and I could smell his breath. I’ve smelled more pleasant things, believe me. I held up the photo again and said. ‘Are you sure you haven’t seen this boy? His name’s Jimmy. Think about it.’
‘Maybe,’ said the woman.
‘That’s better,’ I said, and eased the pressure off Matt’s narrow chest. ‘Where? Here?’
‘He used to score sometimes.’
‘Where?’
‘Where we do.’
‘Jill,’ said Matt, and I increased the pressure on his chest again, until he shut up.
‘What does he supply?’
‘Everything. Dope. Smack. Coke. Uppers. Downers. Es. Speed. The lot.’
‘Where is he?’ I asked.
‘How much is it worth?’
Now we were getting there.
‘Jill,’ said Matt again. ‘You don’t know who this geezer is.’
‘What does it matter?’ said Jill. ‘That cunt’s always shorting us. Serves him right if this bloke does him. How much?’ to me again.
‘A tenner.’
‘Bollocks. Fifty.’
I wasn’t going to argue. If she was lying I could always come back. And do what? Shit. It wasn’t my money. If she was lying I’d just tell Himes and let him put a bit extra on the price of his spark plugs.
I stood up and took out my money. I wasn’t worried about letting them see it. I peeled off five tens and held them up. ‘Give.’ I said.
‘He lives upstairs. Handy like,’ said Jill. ‘First floor at the front. His name’s Derek. White bloke with dreads. He’s probably there now.’
‘Thanks Jill,’ I said, and dropped the money onto the bed where she grabbed it and stuffed it under her pillow.
‘Don’t tell him it was us told you,’ said Matt. ‘We’ve got to live here.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said, and turned to leave.
‘You can have this for another fifty,’ said Jill, and flipped the covers off her body. She was like something out of Belsen. Emaciated. With tracks up her arms and legs and even in her crotch.
Fifty what? I thought. Pence?
‘No thanks love,’ I said. ‘Another time maybe.’ And I left the room quickly. Closing the door behind me. I didn’t wait to hear her reply. I’ve discovered in my little life that saying no to a woman’s offer of sex is like asking for credit in a pub. A refusal often offends. I’d leave Matt to catch the flak. I’m sure he was used to that too.
I climbed the stairs to the first floor and found the door of the room at the front and knocked hard. There was no answer, so I tried again and heard a male voice call out, ‘Who is it?’
‘Jimmy sent me,’ I called back.
There was silence again and then from just the other side of the door the voice said, ‘Jimmy who?’
‘Jimmy Himes.’
‘Whaddya want?’
‘Guess.’
There was a further pause before I heard the sounds of locks disengaging, and the door opened six inches on a security chain and a white face half hidden by lank blond curls appeared in the gap. ‘Who are you?’ The face asked.
‘Nick. Are you Derek?’
‘Whaddya want?’ He said again.
‘Can I come in. It’s a bit public out here.’
‘Bollocks. Whaddya want?’
‘I’m looking for Jimmy.’
‘He ain’t here.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘You Old Bill?’ That question again.
‘No.’
‘Then fuck off.’ And the door began to close.
I lashed out with my right foot and the steel toe of my DM slammed into the door pushing it back to the full extent of the chain, and the face vanished. I slammed my left shoulder against the door, the chain snapped and I was inside. The owner of the voice was on the other side of the room. He turned and I saw he was holding a small baseball bat. A miniature version of a Louisville Slugger, but still plenty weapon enough to crush my skull if he got a good shot in.
I stood inside the doorway as he came at me. He was of medium height and build, but his arms were thick and muscular. He pulled back the bat to give me a good whack and I moved inside his arm and took the blow on my left shoulder, and let him have a good whack of my own with my clenched fist into his solar plexus. He let out his breath with a gasp, all the strength seemed to go out of his body, the baseball bat fell to the uncarpeted floorboards with a clatter and he doubled up. That sort of punch hurts and disorientates. I allowed him to drop to his knees, took hold of his left hand and bent the little finger back until I felt the ligaments at breaking-point and the boy screamed a high pitched scream. That hurts too. Much worse than a punch in the stomach. A bladder-emptying kind of hurt that fills your whole head with pain.