Daily Routine Orders 15
Ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! That’s the sound of Shelter having the last laugh, and no wonder. The enemy has attacked in strength and has been repulsed.
I’d just got back from buying boots and was feeding the damn cat when they arrived. Two officers in an Escort. One male, one female. I considered not answering the door but then I thought, why not? This was bound to happen eventually. Confront the enemy, Shelter old lad. No retreat. No surrender.
I was magnificent. Stowed my purchases in the cupboard. Smiled on the step, invited ’em in, offered coffee which they declined. How could I be of help? We’re making enquiries about a young woman, they said. This woman. They pushed a snapshot at me, suddenly, hoping I’d flinch or something – give myself away. Not a chance. ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, cool as a cucumber. ‘We’ve met. In fact she was here, in this very flat, just the other day. A week last Tuesday, to be precise.’
Well, of course they wanted to know why she’d been here – under what circumstances, at which point I went all shy and modest. ‘Ah, well,’ I said. ‘You see, I’m lucky enough to be quite comfortably off. I have money in the bank and a good pension, and I feel terribly sorry for those unfortunate young persons one sees sleeping out of doors in cardboard boxes and so forth, so now and then I – I invite one of them back here for a bath and a hot meal. I never let them stay overnight because – well – because I’m afraid I might be murdered in my bed, I suppose, but I usually give them a pound or two to help them on their way.’ At this point I shrugged and gave them my daftest grin. ‘It’s silly, I know, but it makes me feel better.’
‘It could be dangerous, sir, in all sorts of ways.’
‘I know, officer, but –’ The stupid grin again.
‘So you fed this young woman and gave her money?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you talk to her, sir – did she mention going away at all?’
I shook my head. ‘They tend not to talk about themselves, Inspector, and I don’t pry.’ He was a constable but I addressed him as inspector.
‘Of course not, sir. What time of day was it when she left the house?’
‘It was evening. Late evening. Tennish, ten thirty. It was raining.’ I did my rueful smile. ‘I hate to turn ’em out, but as I said –’
‘Quite, sir. And she didn’t say where she was going?’
‘No.’ I’d practised the concerned frown and I employed it now. ‘I do hope nothing terrible’s befallen her, Inspector. She was a charming girl – charming.’
‘Yes, sir. From a good home, I believe.’ They moved towards the door. ‘We won’t take up any more of your time, sir. Thanks for your help – and do be careful who you bring into your home. Some of ’em are dead wrong ’uns, y’know.’
‘I know, Inspector. I’ll be careful.’
I stood in the doorway with the bloody cat in my arms. When they were halfway down the path I called after them. ‘Will you let me know if – you know – if she turns up?’
‘Of course, sir. G’night, sir.’
‘Goodnight, Inspector. Goodnight, Sergeant.’
Ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
‘So now what do we do?’ We were walking back up Parkway. The sun was going down. Gail shrugged. ‘What Nick suggested, I suppose. Keep an eye on this chap – hope he slips up.’
‘I think we should warn people. You know – don’t go off with anyone.’
‘Hmm. You’d think they’d know that anyway. One thing we need to know is what he looks like.’
I nodded. ‘We’ll get Nick to point him out on Monday.’
‘Why not now, or tomorrow?’
I shook my head. ‘He won’t be around. Nick, I mean. He lives in a squat, but I don’t know where.’
‘We could try and spot the guy ourselves – get the address from Captain Hook.’
I scoffed. ‘He won’t give it. It’s his own address, Gail. He’d think we were planning to do his place over.’
She grinned. ‘I think he’ll tell me, if I’m by myself. You take my pack and wait here.’
I waited on the canal bridge. It was dusk and turning a bit nippy. I shivered, and it wasn’t just the cold. I was thinking about Ginger, and Tanya who liked to be called Toya, and her dad who said bless you and shoved a fiver in my hand. I was thinking about Gail too – how she’d changed my life for the better, but how, whenever I thought of her, a faint unease would stir somewhere deep inside – a sensation I strove to smother or ignore. A cool chick, Nick had called her, but it wasn’t quite that. She was cool, but there was something else – a sort of poise; a self-possession which jarred with her circumstances. It seems a funny thing to say, but she wasn’t screwed up enough. I must have known, too, deep down, but I kept shoving it away. If it was a dream it was a warm dream, and I didn’t want to wake.
She was back in a few minutes, smiling. ‘Nine Mornington Place,’ she chirped, shouldering her pack. I nodded but didn’t say anything and we set off along the High Street.
It was a biggish, three-storey house in a short Victorian terrace. There was a minute, sour-looking front garden in which three dustbins took up most of the space. There was no gate. A short path led from the gateway to the white door. No light showed in any of the windows.
‘Nobody home,’ said Gail. We were standing in the shadow of some budding sycamores across the street.
‘Let’s hang about a bit,’ I murmured. Looking at the place made me shiver. The video inside my skull came on, and I saw Ginger following a shadowy figure up to that white door. Is that how it happened, I wondered. When, exactly? Where was I at that moment? And why had Ginger followed him – Ginger and Toya and possibly others. Why?
Gail had a watch. We waited forty-five minutes. Nobody went in, nobody came out. A woman kept coming to a lighted upstairs window next door, seeming to look straight at us. She probably couldn’t even see us, but it made us nervous. If you’re homeless it’s not smart to be found loitering in a residential area, especially after dark, and she just might phone the police. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’ll try again tomorrow.’
Sunday we were back under the sycamores by half eight. It was dry but the sun was still behind the houses so it was nippy too. All the curtains were closed at number nine. I wished me and Gail were having a lie-in like the bastards in those rooms. A good night’s sleep in a comfy bed, a lie-in till about ten and a breakfast of eggs and bacon, toast and coffee, eaten slowly in a warm kitchen. Paradise, and millions take it completely for granted.
Our man, if it was our man, didn’t lie in till ten. Just before nine the door opened a crack and a black and white cat shot out, followed by a hand. This hand groped for the pint of milk on the doorstep, found it, pulled it in through the crack. The door closed, and a minute later the downstairs curtains opened. Gail and I took a stroll along the road and watched from the corner. After about ten minutes a guy came out, closing the door behind him. He was a big man in his forties. He wore an Aran sweater and cord trousers and had very short sandy hair. As he came down the path the cat, which had been sitting on the wall, jumped down and fled. The man turned left and strode off along the street.
‘What d’you want to do?’ said Gail. ‘Follow?’
‘Naw. He’s not going far. Not dressed for it. Probably off for a paper.’
I was right. He was back in five minutes with a thickish roll of Sunday reading tucked under his arm. He turned into the gateway without noticing us and let himself into the house with a latchkey.
‘D’you reckon that’s our man, then?’
Gail shrugged. ‘Well, it wasn’t Captain Hook, and he seems to live on the ground floor, so I’d say yes, that’s our man.’
‘But he looks so – ordinary.’
‘He might be ordinary, Link. We don’t know he’s done anything, do we? The police found nothing suspicious.’
‘We know he was seen with Ginger and Toya,’ I said. ‘Just before they disappeared. And I know I’d give my left arm for a look inside that house.’
Gail nodded. ‘Me too, but it’s not possible. All we can do is watch.’
So we watched. We saw the cat return and sit there where the milk bottle had been. We didn’t see the upstairs curtains open, but when we sauntered by on the other side at half nine they were open. The sun had cleared the housetops and we strolled in watery sunshine under the trees. We didn’t like to stand in one place too long in case we drew attention to ourselves, and there’s a limit to the number of times you can walk up and down the same short street without somebody noticing. It was dead boring, anyway, and it didn’t look as though our man was coming out, so at a quarter past ten we decided to pack it in till evening. The cat was still on the step when we left.
It was the business with the cat that fooled me. You can say what you like but there’s something reassuring about a cat. I mean, say you saw some guy fussing with his cat – fondling it and talking to it and chuckling over it – you wouldn’t think, oh-oh – there goes a dangerous man. There goes a killer. I better steer clear of him. Well, you wouldn’t, would you? You’d probably think, look at him, the great soft lump. Well, anyway, that’s my excuse for what happened to me that evening, but I guess I’d better start at the beginning.
First off, there was the rain. It’d been a lovely morning – sunny and warm – but around twelve it clouded over and began to pour. Gail and I were tapping along the High Street when it started, so all we did was move under the rail bridge and carry on. The weather didn’t seem to deter the punters – the market was seething as usual and we did all right, but it was the rain that led to our fight.
We never fought, Gail and me. We felt the same way about most things and so we got along fine. But when it started to get dark that Sunday evening and I suggested it was time to get back to Mornington Place, she said, ‘Not me – not in this stuff.’
‘What stuff?’ I cried. ‘What you on about, Gail?’
‘The rain, dummy. I’m not standing in the rain till God knows what time, waiting for some dumbo who’ll probably decide to stay home and keep dry.’
‘But we agreed. We said we’d go back tonight.’
‘It wasn’t raining then. And anyway I’ve got a couple of things to see to.’
‘Like what? Phoning your sister? Again? We’d both eat better if you didn’t shove so much dosh in the damn phone.’
‘It’s my dosh, Link. I can do what I like with it, and anyway I’m not phoning my sister. I’ve other things to do.’
‘And they’re none of my business, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Well, shove off and do ’em then, only don’t expect me to hang around like I’m your dog or something till you decide to come back. I’ll be in Mornington Place if you want me.’
And that’s how I came to be alone in Mornington Place when the cat business happened.
It was a miserable vigil. Miserable. I was even more down than when Ginger disappeared. I stood under the dripping trees – they weren’t in leaf enough to keep the rain out – and thought about Gail. I hadn’t meant for us to fight. I loved her. It was just that I’d spent all day thinking about Ginger and Toya and Nine Mornington Place. I saw a movie once – Ten Rillington Place – about this sick killer who lured women into his house and murdered them. It was a true story. The title – Ten Rillington Place – had a ring to it, and in my imagination Nine Mornington Place was beginning to have that same ring. I’d more or less convinced myself that horrible things had been done in that house, and that it was down to me to expose them.
I don’t know what time it was when the door opened. I seemed to have been there hours. I was soaked and freezing, and I’d more or less decided to jack it in and go make it up with Gail when suddenly there he was – the guy we’d been watching that morning. The very ordinary guy who wore cords and kept a moggy and liked to read the Sunday papers. He was standing on the doorstep, silhouetted against the dim light which spilled through the doorway. He was calling softly, ‘Sappho – chi-chi-chi – here, Sappho.’ I stood absolutely still, way back under the sycamores. He was obviously calling a cat – probably the one we’d seen earlier – but no cat appeared. After a minute or so the guy went inside, leaving the door ajar. I watched the strip of light, and in a moment he reappeared carrying a dish. He squatted and put the dish on the step. ‘Sappho!’ he called, striking the dish gently with a fork or spoon. ‘C’mon, Sappho – meat.’ He was in shirtsleeves and must have felt cold, but he persisted, calling and calling, but no cat appeared. Presently he straightened up and came shuffling down to the gateway in carpet slippers with a fork in his hand, peering to left and right, calling. I thought, this is your monster? Your serial killer? A guy who’ll stand in shirtsleeves in the rain, calling his cat? Aw, come on! It was then he spotted me.
I knew he’d seen me and I wasn’t scared – what’s scary about a guy who can’t find his pussycat? Embarrassed is what I was. Embarrassed, because it must’ve been obvious I’d been watching him. I started to move away but he called out, ‘I say – excuse me?’
I looked across. ‘Me?’
‘Y-yes. You haven’t by any chance seen a cat, have you? A black and white cat?’
I shook my head.
‘Oh. Pity. She hates the rain, you see. Detests it. I felt sure she’d be waiting on the step, especially since it’s her suppertime. I do hope nothing’s –’ He broke off and looked at me. ‘Oh, I say – I am most terribly sorry.’ He looked sorry. ‘Here am I, fussing about a silly cat and there you are, soaked to the skin. I – have you nowhere to go, young man?’
I shook my head.
‘That’s terrible. Terrible.’ He stood looking at me, fiddling with the fork. I could tell he didn’t know what to say.
‘I’ll be off then,’ I mumbled.
‘Yes.’ He nodded, but continued to stare. As I turned away he said, ‘I suppose you’re hungry?’
‘I’m all right.’ I’d started to walk away – would have got clear away if the cat hadn’t appeared at that moment, scampering under a street lamp.
‘Sappho!’ I turned. The creature ran to him and he lifted it. Cradled it in his arms, crooning. Rocked it like a baby, burying his face in its wet fur, oblivious to the rain which was drenching him, the great soft noodle. And to think – I turned away.
‘Young man?’
‘Huh?’
‘Can I offer you something to eat or – I dunno – a couple of quid?’ He dithered, anxious to do something for me but worried his offer might offend. ‘There’s a coat – a good one – I don’t use any more. You’re welcome to that if it’ll help.’
I wasn’t hungry but I was cold and wet and the coat sounded tempting. I nodded. ‘That coat’ll be – thanks.’ He smiled and began shuffling back to the house, cradling the cat. I followed. It was as simple as that.
There was a short hallway with a door on the right and stairs at the end. The guy pushed open the door with his free hand and stood aside, holding the cat. ‘Go on in, young man. I’ll be with you in a jiffy.’
The room smelled of polish and was so tidy it looked like nobody used it. Heavy curtains covered the bay window. The only light came from a lamp which stood on a gleaming table. I stood dripping on the guy’s immaculate carpet while he carried Sappho through to what I assumed was the kitchen. After a moment he called out, ‘You couldn’t fetch the dish, could you – the one on the step?’
‘Sure.’
‘You don’t mind?’ He chuckled. ‘I sometimes think I’d forget my head if it was loose.’
I retrieved the dish with its little heap of mush and carried it through to the kitchen. He had the cat swaddled in a pink towel. ‘Thanks.’ He smiled. ‘Thanks a lot. Just put it down anywhere. I’ll get the coat in a minute.’
I went back into the other room, conscious of leaving wet footprints. If I’d entertained lingering suspicions on entering the house they’d now dissolved. The man was obviously a total wally with his cat and his obsessive tidiness. I couldn’t help smiling to myself as I surveyed the room. Plumped cushions. Straight pictures. Gleaming surfaces. A place for everything and everything in its place. The occupant of this room was what my grandad used to call a Mary Ellen – the sort of man who wears frilly aprons around the house and may be seen in the garden, pegging out clothes. I was getting more complacent by the second till I saw my watch on the sideboard.
It was mine, all right. The one I’d handed over to the Scouser about a million years ago. I’d have known it anywhere. There was a tightening sensation in my chest as I stepped over for a closer look, and when the door slammed I cried out.
He’d come in without my hearing. Crossed the room. Was standing now with his broad back against the door, smiling a different smile. He nodded towards the sideboard. ‘That was – careless of me.’ He chuckled, and it was not a wally’s chuckle. ‘Still, it doesn’t matter, does it – not now.’ He looked at me and hissed, ‘Link. Link the Stink. Laughing Boy Two, at last. Whassamatter, Laughing Boy – cat gotcha tongue?’ He laughed and called towards the kitchen, ‘Hey, Sappho – got the kid’s tongue, have you?’
I stared at the guy, paralysed with horror. We’d been right, Gail and Nick and me. This was our man. You only had to look in his eyes to know he was mad. He was totally out of his tree and he had me trapped, like Toya and Ginger and –
‘Oh, yes.’ He’d read my mind. ‘He’s here, the big Liverpudlian, along with the others, and a promising recruit he’s turning out to be too. Lots of potential. Bags and bags of swank. Would you like to see?’
‘No!’ It came out as a shriek. I pressed myself against the sideboard. ‘I want to go home. Let me go.’
He laughed again, shaking his cropped sandy head. ‘Oh no, lad. No going home. Not any more. You made me wait a long time, but you’re in the Army now. The Camden Horizontals. Come and meet your comrades.’
‘Let me go!’ I knew it was no use, of course I did, but my brain had packed up. I didn’t seem to be able to say anything else. He’d gone down on one knee and was lifting a corner of the carpet. I measured the distance to the window. If I could reach it – smash a pane, I thought –
‘Here – have a gander.’ He’d folded back the carpet and removed three or four short boards from the floor. ‘I’ll put the big light on so you can see better.’ He got up. As he moved towards the switch by the door I made a dash for the window. The light came on. I grabbed for the drapes as he whirled with an oath, coming for me. I wrapped my arms round the curtains and swung on them. There was a creaking, splintering noise as the rail tore loose at one end and swathes of heavy fabric came down on both of us. Sobbing with terror I clawed myself free, slipped my pack and swung it at the window. The pane cracked but failed to shatter, and before I could take a second swing he was on me.
The strength of the insane. I’d come across that phrase, and now I found out what it meant. I’m not a small guy and he was a lot older but I couldn’t break free. I bucked and writhed and lashed out with my feet, but he’d wrapped his arms round me and his grip was like bands of steel. My feet left the floor and he carried me across the room like he’d carried the cat, except he didn’t croon or nuzzle, and when we reached the hole in the floor he threw me down and fell on me like a wrestler. I was pinned, lying on my stomach with my head overhanging the hole. A draught rose from the hole, carrying a cloying, sweetish smell. After a few seconds my eyes adjusted to the dimness and I saw them.
There were seven, laid out in a row like sardines. He’d done something to their heads – they were all like his – you couldn’t tell if they were girls or boys – but I recognized Ginger by his clothes. His face was – well, I wouldn’t have known him from that. I gagged, twisting my head to one side. ‘Let me up!’ I screamed. ‘I’m gonna puke.’
He laughed, ‘Puke away, soldier. You’re the one’ll lie in it, not me.’
I vomited into the horrible grey dust and he laughed again. ‘Get it all up,’ he roared. ‘It’ll do you good.’ His weight bore down on me so I couldn’t breathe. Black shapes floated in front of my eyes. I was losing consciousness.
‘Gerroff me!’ I gasped. ‘I’m passing out.’
‘That’s the general idea, Link,’ he hissed. ‘This is your passing-out parade.’ He laughed wildly. ‘Passing-out parade – geddit?’
He was killing me, slowly, asphixiation. My mouth yawned as I strove to suck in enough foul air for one last try. ‘They know I’m here,’ I croaked. ‘My friends know I’m here.’
I don’t suppose he believed me – he’d know a dying man’ll say anything – but my words must have reminded him about the brightly lit room, the curtainless bay, and they saved my life. He swore and lifted himself off me. I heard him scrambling to his feet. Gasping and choking I rolled clear of the hole, knowing I had only seconds to clear my head. The big light went out and in the glow from the small one I saw him returning with bared teeth and a length of flex stretched taut between his fists. I tried to get up but my legs were useless and I fell back and lay, shielding my throat with my hands. He was bending over me, brandishing his garrotte, when the siren screamed.
He was yelling at his lads to stand and fight as the coppers dragged him out. I was so dazed I didn’t know what was happening. I staggered into the hallway. They’d smashed both doors to get to us. Gail was on the step, trying to get past two policemen. When she saw me she gasped, ‘Link – thank God!’ The coppers let me through and we flung our arms round each other.
I know exactly what you’re thinking. Here comes the happy ending, right? Hang on a minute.
‘Was it you?’ I asked. ‘Did you bring the law?’
She nodded. ‘I came looking for you but you weren’t around. I was just leaving when the light came on and the curtain fell and I could see you struggling with – him. I knew I couldn’t do anything alone so I ran to Albany Street.’
‘But – how’d you get ’em to – they wouldn’t believe us before. How’d you manage –’
‘Link.’ She sort of stiffened in my arms. Started to pull away. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’
She never told me, though. She didn’t have to. They’d finally got the crazy guy into the van. It pulled away with two cars following, and then this poncy-looking dude came through the gateway carrying a fancy camera and all the gear. He pranced up the path grinning like a baboon.
‘Louise, darling,’ he burbled. ‘You’re a genius.’
Gail had broken our clinch. I looked around for Louise darling, but there was only me and Gail and the two coppers, and neither of them looked like a Louise. Then it hit me. The guy was talking to Gail.
She’d a sheepish look about her, I’ll give her that. ‘Link,’ she murmured, ‘this is Gavin. Gavin – this is the boy I told you about.’ Gavin beamed and stuck out a paw. I ignored it and turned to Gail. ‘And you,’ I blurted. ‘Who are you?’
She flushed. ‘I’m sorry, Link. My name’s Louise Bain. I’m a journalist. I’ve been –’
‘Don’t tell me. You’ve been on to this loony for months, right? But you didn’t give a shit how many kids got murdered, just so long as you and this wally were on the spot when they grabbed him.’
‘Hey, steady on!’ cried the photographer. ‘She saved your life, remember.’
I looked at him. ‘One more word out of you and I’ll ram that fozzing camera right in your stupid face.’
Gail was shaking her head. ‘You’ve got it wrong, Link. I was researching homelessness, that’s all. I knew nothing about this other business. Nothing at all. You’ve got to believe me.’
There was more in the same vein. I was so distracted with anger and grief I hardly knew what I was saying. I remember asking Gavin why he didn’t get some shots of the victims and sell them to the parents. Gail was in tears by this time, and so was I. It ended with her shoving a wad of banknotes in my hand. ‘Good luck, Link,’ she choked. ‘I’m really sorry.’ Gavin was starting his car. She got in with him and I found myself standing in a haze of blue smoke, watching her exit my life.
Oh, I know. I ought to have chucked the money in her face. A telly hero would have, but then a telly hero doesn’t have to live on the street. Anyway, that’s the sort of happy ending it was.
Yeah, but like – justice was done, right? Was it, though? Shelter (that’s what he called himself – they found a sort of log book) – Shelter gets life, which means he gets a roof, a bed and three square meals a day. I don’t.
What I hope is this. I hope when Louise and Gavin do their story it’ll have some truth in it and that a lot of people will read it. People can only start to make things better if they know what’s going on. There has to be an end to this some day. I just hope it happens while I’m still around.
In the meantime, though, I’m not sure what I’ll do. I can’t stay round Camden, that’s for sure. Too many ghosts. I’d be forever seeing Gail across the street, or Ginger. I might try the Embankment or Covent Garden. There’re a lot like me round Covent Garden. Or of course I could leave London altogether.
It’s a free country, right?