She turned off the pavement like she usually did, made her way to the front of her block of flats. 1930s I think, lots of that type in this part of South London. Old, but still going strong. And worth more than where I lived.
I guessed what she would do next: put her head down, start rummaging through her handbag for her keys. I was right.
I’d been in that flat. Told them all in the pub that she’d invited me in. They didn’t believe me. They never do. But she had done. Made me a cup of coffee, even. So yeah, I was really there, true. Let the others in the pub think what they like. Say what they like. I was there.
Honest.
It was comfortable. Really comfortable. That’s the best way to describe it. The sofa looked like the kind you’d want to sink into after a hard day’s work. The TV looked like the kind you would want to watch. On the shelves were books that looked interesting if you liked that kind of thing and CDs that I’m sure would have been good to listen to. There were other things around too, like candles and little ornaments and small lamps that gave off soft, warm glows. Rugs that reminded you of the expensive foreign holidays that you’d never be able to afford to take.
Not a bare bulb in the place. Not one piece of never-never furniture from Crazy George’s that’d given up on you before you’d finished paying for it. No mismatching knock-off carpet remnants, donated tables and chairs. Not like my place at all.
I told you I was there.
And in the middle was her. Sitting on the sofa, sipping some real coffee, not the instant shite I was brought up with. She was like the flat. Nice. Dark hair that was long and well cared for. Green eyes that made you want to smile just to look at them. And she had dress sense and style.
She was so sweet, so honest. So loveable.
Then she told me her troubles. Her problem. I listened, all sympathetic like. And when she’d finished, I knew. Knew I could help her. And I wanted to help her. Protect her. Because she was lovely. Really beautiful. And there’s a lot of bad things, bad people, out there, just waiting to snatch that beauty away. Because they’re cruel. It’s what they do. She might live in this area of South London but she’s not of it, if you know what I mean. So she needed me to look after her. Like her own guardian angel.
Of course, I didn’t say any of this. Just drank my coffee, said I’d help her. But I think she knew. I could tell the way she was looking at me. Could tell what I was thinking.
She touched my hand. Told me how much it would mean to her if I would help. And I got that feeling, that little zing of electricity going up my arm like I’d just stuck my finger in a live socket. And I looked at her. Her eyes. Big enough to fall in to.
I swallowed hard. Said I would do what I could. She could rely on me.
She smiled. And I felt my heart lift. Really lift. Like getting a blessing from an angel.
I smiled back. She just jumped like I’d hit her. I saw myself in the mirror over the fireplace when I did it. Don’t blame her for jumping. Not a smile but a grimace. A blood lust one like apes do when they’ve just arse-fucked an outsider to the tribe and killed him by pulling his arms off. Once a squaddie always a fucking squaddie.
I stopped smiling. I was angry with myself, ashamed. She kept her hand there. Gave me another smile.
And that told me everything between us was still OK.
Now like I said, I wasn’t falling in love. That would have been fucking stupid.
The hand in the bag was my cue. I’d planned the shortest route to her while I’d been waiting. I hadn’t forgotten. The best view, the most camouflage, the quickest escape route. The bushes in the grounds of the flat. Obviously. Away from the road, the street light. Other people. Sarge would have been proud of me. Vicious old cunt.
I stood up, still hidden, breathing heavy, hand in front of my mouth, getting psyched, ready to run forward, ready for what was about to happen.
I thought about her all day long. All night. Even when I slept. Beautiful but vulnerable. I began to think things I’d never have considered a couple of months ago. Make little plans in my head. For the future. Thinking of her smile, the way she’d looked at me.
The future.
She stood on the front step, rummaging.
I waited.
But not for long.
They said at this charity that I go to that my problems go further back than just the shellshock. Go way, way back. Before the army. When I was a kid. To stuff that happened to me then. Bad stuff.
But I don’t think about that now.
They said I needed an outlet. So I got one. When I told them in the pub what I was doing, when I showed them the cards, they just laughed. As usual. They never take anything I say or do seriously. Think I’m some mentalist, some nutter, spend all day at the library reading private eye novels. Thinking, like the counsellor at the charity said, like I’m the hero of my own fantasy. They think I’m away with the fairies. Delusional, they say.
Well, we’ll see.
They say the drinking doesn’t help either. I should stop it. Just feeds it.
We’ll see.
They say that if I could just stop living out this fantasy life and get on with the real one then that would be something. That would be progress.
We’ll see.
She got her key out, tried to put it in the lock, dropped it. She bent down.
And then he was on the doorstep with her. Tony. The cunt. Mouth open, hands going, talking to her, explaining something. Couldn’t hear what, didn’t matter. Didn’t want to know.
And then his hands were on her. Grabbing her shoulders, his voice raised.
The cards I had printed. Threat Management. That’s what they said. Got them done at a machine at Elephant and Castle shopping centre. Threat Management, that’s what they say. Then my name. And a contact phone number. The pub’s. Haven’t got one of my own.
He grabbed her, pushed her up against the door. Her bag dropped on the ground. His arms were on her shoulders, holding hard. A blur of something dark and shiny flashed between them. Tony looked down, found the blade in his fist. Her body went towards his, his mouth was up against her ear. Saying something to her. Something unpleasant. They struggled, like two reluctant dancers. Locked together, they moved towards the side of the block of flats, like he was dragging her off.
That second night in the pub. On her own. Said she needed someone to take care of something for her. Someone she could trust.
Threat management.
Tony. The one who gave her the broken arm. Who thought women were there to do what he wanted. Who couldn’t take no for an answer. Who claimed they were never an item in the first place but couldn’t accept it when she dumped him. Who threatened to hurt her even more.
Hurt her bad.
Wanted someone to do that to him.
And once he was gone she would be grateful. Very grateful.
I was out of the bushes, adrenalin pumping the stiffness out of my legs, straight on him. My arm round his neck, his head in a tight lock, I pulled hard as I could, cutting off his air supply. He choked and gurgled. I pulled harder. Got my mouth close to his ear, said something unpleasant of my own.
He kept struggling.
With my other hand I grabbed for the knife, twisted him round. Saw fear in his eyes. Knew that feeling well. Had enough of that in the army. When you’re up against something you don’t know, something that could kill you. For me it was in Basra in Iraq. It was shellshock. It was anger. It was things I did there that I know will haunt me till I die. What I got thrown out of the army for. For him it was someone bigger and harder than him when he was only used to hurting girls.
He let her go. Now it was just him and me.
I heard her voice.
Take him… do it…
I twisted his hand, felt something snap. He dropped the knife. Gave a strangled gasp. I still had him round the throat, didn’t want to let him get away. I pulled harder. Even in the darkness I could see him start to change colour.