Billy Rags (23 page)

I climbed over the fence and went back into the estate. Still lifeless. Rain raced down the dead streets. I walked to the edge of the estate, but keeping within a good distance of the phone box. Here there was an older street, pre-war suburban, more respectable than the estate it flanked. The very best sort of council estate with dainty little front gardens contained behind neat privet. Some of the houses had garages built on to the side walls. I stopped outside a house that had a double garage. There was a light on in the hall but the bowed front window was black with night. I opened the front gate and walked up the path and round the side of the garage. There was a trellis gate and beyond that the back garden with the dining room light twinkling on the wet grass. I pressed the latch on the gate. The trellis-work shuddered. Beads of rain cascaded down on to the concrete path. I pushed against the gate. Wood scraped on concrete. I stopped pushing. In the next house a toilet flushed and a landing light went on and off. I waited a few minutes and pushed the gate again. It shuddered open enough for me to squeeze through. I went round the back of the garage. There was a small door that led into the garage, right next to the kitchen door. The kitchen was in darkness. I could hear the television beyond the dining room curtains. I tried the garage door. It was unlocked. I opened it and went in.

A small square window in the garage's front door let in the light from the street lamp. There was a Hillman Minx and two children's bikes. There was also a door that led into the house. There were panes of frosted glass in this door. Beyond the panes, darkness.

I hunted round the garage for a tap. But there was no tap, only a box full of empty bottles stacked by the back door. I took each bottle from the box very carefully, to see if there were any dregs. There were lager bottles and beer bottles and spirit bottles but they were all empty. But at last I came across a lemonade bottle. There was an inch or so of flat liquid in the bottom. I unscrewed the cap and sniffed it, in case it was paraffin or something like that. But it wasn't. It actually was lemonade. I put the bottle to my lips and drank. It was beautiful. The nearest I'd ever get to the Elixir of Life. I kept the lemonade in my mouth for as long as I could, just so the taste could keep working on my palate. Finally I swallowed the stuff but the taste stayed with me.

I put the bottles back in the box. Then I went over to the Hillman and tried the doors. All except the nearside rear door were locked. I opened the rear door and got in and lay down on the back seat. It was real penthouse stuff to me, feeling the softness of the upholstery against my body. But even so, I couldn't sleep. I was too full of excitement at the prospect of the next morning. I just lay there in the warmth of the car, imagining what it would be like in a moving car, belting down the motorway towards the Smoke.

When daylight came I stayed in the car for another hour. I reckoned that whoever lived in the house wouldn't be a shift-worker, and that the earliest they'd be up and about would be around half-past-six. I didn't want to move before I had to, so I lay there in the car trying to pace out the time to around six o'clock. But after about an hour I began to panic. Lack of sleep and food was making me light-headed. I began to want to doze off. One time I actually closed my eyes and almost fell asleep. I jerked myself upright in panic. It was no good. I couldn't chance it any longer. I had to take my chances in the street. But at least I was warm and dry and in an hour or so I'd be travelling at seventy miles an hour.

I opened the car door and held it open to let some of the stale air out. Then I noticed some mud on the upholstery so I leant back into the car and wiped the seat. After I'd done that I closed the car door very quietly and went over to the garage door, the one I'd come in by. My fingers closed over the door handle. I took one look over my shoulder just to check that I hadn't left anything out of place.

Then a shaft of light spurted through the frosted glass panels of the door that led into the house. Inside, somebody called goodbye. Then footsteps, coming towards the door with the frosted glass panels. The footsteps stopped. A bolt was drawn. Then a key turned.

I opened the garage door and pulled it to behind me but without closing it properly. I heard the other door open and close and then footsteps going over to the Hillman. I looked to my left. The kitchen light was on. I could be seen from the window. I went round to the side of the garage. The neighbouring house was in darkness. I leant against the side of the garage and waited. I heard sounds of more bolts being drawn. Then one of the garage doors was opened. I looked towards the end of the garage. I heard the other door being opened. It swung into view, overlapping the end of the garage wall. I could see the man's fingers gripping the woodwork and his feet beneath the door. And the door was the one with the window. When the door was completely open he walked back into the garage. I saw his head as he passed the window. Middle-aged, glasses. A trilby. All he would have had to do was turn his head.

The Hillman started up. It idled for a minute or two, then it crept out of the garage. The car stopped, a door opened. Footsteps back to the garage. The fingers appeared again round the edge of the door. The door was dragged shut. Now I could see the Hillman. The man walked past the car to the gate that opened on to the road. He lifted the latch and swung back the gate. Then he got back in the car and drove the Hillman out into the road. I pressed myself against the garage wall as he walked back from the car to close the gate. All he had to do was to look as he fastened the latch. But he didn't. He walked back to the Hillman and slammed the door and drove off.

I waited a few minutes before I made a move. I listened for noises in the street and round the houses. When I was as satisfied as I could be I walked away from the garage to the gate. I felt naked. I lifted the catch but I was shaking so much that I let it drop back again and before I'd realised what I'd done I'd tugged at the gate, making a row that rang up and down the empty street. Whoever was left inside the house must have heard it. I'd made the whole of the fencing rattle. I got the gate open and without bothering to close it I took off down the street. But I stopped running when I saw a milk float whirring round the corner. I couldn't change direction because that would have looked great, a running man, changing direction, with rags on his feet, haring off the minute a milk float appeared. I kept on walking towards the milk float, playing up the shuffling tramp bit, hands in great-coat pockets, shoulders hunched. The milkman gave me a quick look but it didn't interfere with his whistling. He opened a garden gate and rattled his crate down on a doorstep and pressed the doorbell. Settling-up time. I was tempted to shamble over to the float and lift myself a pint, but at this stage in the game blowing the whole thing with only an hour or so to go would have been suicidal.

I carried on until I came to the phone box. I went in and rang the operator and asked her what I should dial for the time and she said such and such a number but she could give me the time herself, should she do that? Well it was just coming up to twenty-five to eight. I thanked her and put the receiver down. Twenty-five to eight. Twenty-five minutes.

They'd be here in twenty-five minutes.

I opened the door and went outside and sat down on the low wall next to the box. About two hundred yards away to my left was the main road. Dual-carriageway. Traffic already zooming up and down it, the morning sunlight flashing on the racing paintwork. That was the way they'd be coming. A right turn, a U-turn, the door would open, and there'd I'd be, sinking in warm upholstery, a steady seventy under the morning sun.

The street was still empty. The man with the Hillman must have been the only early starter. It would be after eight o'clock before they all started making it for wherever they spent their eight hours a day. But still I was taking a risk by sitting there. My euphoria was making me careless. The milkman hadn't sorted me but it was the kind of street that wouldn't be keen on a tramp taking up residence outside the telephone box. A nose between the lace curtains and a quick phone call to the local nick would be enough to put the damper on things. So I got back in the phone box and watched for the Rover.

I calculated the time to be five or ten minutes past eight. People had started to leave their houses, walking or driving, on their way to work. One or two kids were amongst them, uniforms buttoned, satchels swinging, eager for the new day.

It must be quarter past eight now, I thought.

A big car turned into the street off the main road. My heart leapt. The car was white. The right colour. I peered through the dirty panes. Yes. The right colour. But the wrong car. A Triumph. It purred past the kiosk and disappeared down the street.

Never mind. What's quarter of an hour? Jesus, if they're here before half past eight I should think myself lucky. Anything could happen. Traffic bottlenecks. Slow service at petrol stations. Anything.

More time passed. Clouds drifted across the face of the sun. The street became grey again. Gone half-past now, I thought. Must be gone half-past.

Another car came in off the dual-carriageway. It was white. I could see that much. And the right size. But this time I waited. The car got closer. A Rover. Yes, it was. A bloody beautiful Rover. I pushed open the kiosk door and ran to the edge of the kerb. The Rover was fifty yards away. It began to slow down. They'd seen me. This was it.

But the Rover didn't keep on coming. Instead the car turned left into one of the side streets. All that was left in the street was the echo of the Rover's engine. Then nothing.

I felt sick. This time I'd been sure. I stood there on the edge of the pavement staring at the spot where the Rover had turned off. Then I heard footsteps approaching along the pavement. I tinned my head in the direction of the sound. A schoolgirl. About twelve years old. Staring hard at me, almost faltering in her step, wondering whether or not it was safe to pass by. Her parents had done their job well. I turned away again. The footsteps quickened and then she passed me. I watched her as she walked away. She didn't look back.

I went back into the kiosk. More and more children appeared. I watched them go by, trying to keep the panic from rising too far up my chest. After a time there were no more children. The street was empty again. Nine o'clock. It must be nine o'clock, I thought. An hour. Where were they?

Then the phone rang. The sound screamed up and down my nervous system and I whirled round and scrabbled the receiver off its hook.

“It's me.”

Sheila's voice, crackly and distant.

“What's happened?”

My own voice sounded high and twisted.

“They won't be there.”

I stared into the reflection of my eyes in the kiosk mirror.

“They won't be here?”

“The car broke down. Miles from anywhere, on the way up. Ronnie had to phone a mate to fetch them back.”

“Why didn't he come up with him?” I said, already knowing the answer, just letting the panic operate my mouth.

“How could they? The other feller wasn't in it.”

“Why didn't you come up on the train with clothes and money?”

“Billy, don't be a damn fool, you know . . .”

“All right, all right. So what's happening. What the Christ is Ronnie doing?”

“He's fixing somebody else. He has to be careful. He can't risk it again himself so he's got to spot someone safe.”

“So what about me? I've got to be bleeding careful too, haven't I? I've . . .”

“Billy, listen. I'm seeing Ronnie at one o'clock. He'll have fixed it by then. I'll have to phone you after that.”

“Just like that. Listen. I wouldn't be risking hanging round this box if I hadn't . . .”

“Billy, be careful. Don't blow it now. Not now. Phone me back. That's all you can do.”

I couldn't say anything else. I put the phone down in the middle of something Sheila was saying. I closed my eyes and leant against the door. I felt terrible. I'd geared myself up to being collected at eight o'clock, to getting in the car, to eating, to changing. Now I had to wait till two o'clock to find out what was going to happen. I might not even have someone come for me for a couple of days. Christ. And now I had to start the discipline all over again. I had to keep myself together till two o'clock. And then till God knew how long after that. I'd sustained myself for the last twelve hours on the thought of that lifeboat travelling up from London. Now I had to start all over again and it was an adjustment I couldn't take. The thought of it utterly demoralised me. I felt beaten, and I began to treat my depression with the balm of self-pity. For the first time I began to think I might fail.

The kiosk door opened a little against my weight. I pushed the door the rest of the way open and walked out. For a moment or two, I just stood there, staring down the empty road towards the dual-carriageway. Then across the road a front door opened and a woman appeared. She was carrying a shopping bag. Her actions were quite normal until she reached her front gate and noticed me. Then she slowed down and gave me a long look. She took her time opening and closing the gate. Her eyes were on me all the time. Even as she walked away she kept looking back over her shoulder at me.

I had to pull myself together. I'd allowed myself to take too many risks because the thought of the Rover speeding up to get me had made any thoughts of danger seem trivial. But now I was down to earth. I was a million miles from home and I had to be careful. Again.

I hurried down the road and turned right, back towards the edge of the estate, towards the railway. I had to find somewhere to lie low until two o'clock. On the wasteland to my right there was a row of three hoardings. Nothing behind them except more wasteland and beyond that fields and a few houses. I crossed over and made for the hoardings. One of them was advertising Skol Lager. A picture of a great big glass full of translucent yellow liquid and the glass dripping with ice-cold perspiration. I remembered the swig of lemonade I'd had in the garage.