Black Lipstick Kisses (16 page)

Police come in cars, or noisily, and all I could hear was the dull hum of London's traffic, which never goes. There are worse things than the police out at night, and I was as glad of Lilitu as I had ever been, and more, as I heard the stealthy pad of footsteps from the car park, and a female whisper. There were two people, probably a couple looking for somewhere to shag. Confident once more, and not wanting to totally wreck their fun by unexpectedly finding themselves looking down the muzzle of a Doberman, I rose.

To find myself face to face with Biggy and Snaz.

What do you say? What can you say? I'd had an embarrassed apology on my lips, expecting a pair of lovers eager for privacy. What I got was two people I'd been more or less at war with for months, and the shock of fear that hit me was anything but pleasant. It was nothing to theirs – Biggy's face a mask of utter terror as Lilitu reared, clawing at his chest, her jaws snapping at his face. He ran, and so did Snaz, smack
into the giant wheelie bin, her forehead on the handle, and she was down, clutching at her face and begging not to be hurt as Lilitu lurched forward.

I pulled on the lead with all my strength, yelling at Lilitu to back off. She did, reluctantly, growling, her front legs braced to attack. I knelt, put my arm around her, stroking her behind the ear, and slowly her muscles began to relax. Snaz did not look good, her face creased up in misery, her hand clutching her bloodied forehead. The moment Lilitu was calm I went to her, reaching out, only to have my hand smacked away as she found her voice.

‘Fuck off, you psycho bitch! What are you doing here? This isn't your ground! I'm not fucking doing anything to you, am I?'

She burst into tears, still swearing at me, but brokenly, then just sobbing as she tried to pull her hair away from the cut on her head with one trembling hand. Biggy was nowhere to be seen, and as Snaz tried to stand her legs gave way under her. I swore under my breath, feeling out of my depth and wishing my head wasn't spinning so badly. I reached out to her again, because it was the only thing I could think of to do, and she was crying really bitterly.

This time she let me touch her, and I helped her to her feet. It was only then that she saw my piece. A flicker of surprise crossed her face but quickly changed to pain. Her cut was bleeding quite badly, and even in my drunken state I could see she needed help. It was more than I could give except to get her somewhere she wasn't likely to be accused of vandalism, or me.

I had the sense to keep close to the wall as I helped her to the road. She let me, leaning quite heavily on my shoulder, but tried to push me away as we reached
the street. I let go and she staggered a bit, sitting down heavily on a low wall. Biggy was still nowhere to be seen, or anyone else. Snaz looked as if she was about to keel over.

‘Look, have you got a mobile?'

‘No!'

‘A number? I could call your parents . . . or someone.'

‘No! Dad'd fucking kill me!'

‘I . . . I'd say you fell or something . . . I don't know . . .'

‘Look, just fuck off, leave me alone . . .'

‘No, I can't! Do . . . do you want your hoodie?'

She looked up, out of tear-stained eyes, as if I was completely mad. I shrugged and pulled off the hoodie, wrapping it around her shoulders. She was right, when I'd been up all the time myself the last thing I'd have wanted was my parents to know. There was nothing for it but to get her to an A and E as fast as I could.

‘Come on, I'm taking you to casualty.'

‘No. Fuck off!'

I ignored her, helping her back to her feet. For a moment she tried to resist, then gave up abruptly, leaning her weight on my shoulder. It was all I could do to walk, but I couldn't just dump her, and I didn't dare go into a house for help so close to my piece, and stinking of beer and paint fumes. I made the end of the street, onto a busier road, and suddenly there were people about, looking at us, but not one offering to help. There were cabs, coming out from the city. I tried to flag one down, and a second, both driving straight past. The third stopped, a sullen-faced man who muttered under his breath about drunken sluts and dogs in the cab, but took us there.

Casualty was packed, thick with the smells of vomit and disinfectant, people shouting, a hard-faced woman
blocking the desk as she demanded that her son be seen immediately. There were different desks, signs everywhere, everybody hurrying about or busy. I stuck Snaz in a seat and joined a queue, took a number, got told sharply to take Lilitu outside by one person and to stay with Snaz by another. It was not how I'd planned my night.

What it did do was keep my mind off Michael and Stephen. By the time casualty had patched Snaz's head up and we'd got out of the hospital I was so tired I could barely stand up. She left me with a grudging thank you and I made my way back to All Angels to collapse onto my bed. I was asleep in moments, and didn't wake up until well into the afternoon.

The events of the night before came back slowly: walking the streets getting drunk, painting my piece, Snaz and Biggy, the hospital. All of it seemed unreal, a good deal less real than my memory of the Satanic ritual, that was for sure. It had happened though. My fingers were still stained with paint and my head ached slightly. I remembered that I'd left the cans and wondered if I should go back, only to decide against it. The centre would be busy, or at least as busy as it ever was, and with the caretaker there it was quite possible my piece had already been buffed.

It was worth it, the whole experience, and the more so if Stephen found out. The only shame was that I didn't have a photograph. There was some money left from my modelling sessions, not much, but enough for a basic camera. I'd meant to treat myself, too, but so far I'd spent it on drink and cab fares. A camera was a good idea, and yet it was always possible that my piece would be left.

I needed to do something anyway, because I knew
I'd be brooding again in minutes if I didn't keep my mind occupied. So it was down to my local retail estate for a ten-pound disposable camera, then to the centre. This time I approached casually, excuse ready to hand as I walked in at the front door. The business with redeveloping All Angels was still going on, in theory, although with inside knowledge from Stephen I didn't need to do anything about it. I could pretend, and spent a while harassing the caretaker until he let me use his computer and printer to make a petition.

He was not in a good mood, on the phone to somebody as I stapled my sheets together, pointing out that he couldn't be there 24 hours a day. I asked innocently what the matter was and got a brief but heartfelt spiel on the problems of his job and his opinion of graffiti artists, especially the one who had defaced the entire back wall. It was exactly the excuse I needed. After making a few sympathetic noises I pinned my Save All Angels petition to the board with both my signature and his to start it off and walked around the back.

My piece was still there, perhaps not quite so perfect in the cold light of day and without the benefit of several cans of strong beer, but still pretty good. The caretaker hadn't followed me out, so I used the whole film up on it. I could understand the caretaker's point of view, when someone else made the decisions but he had to do the dirty work, but there was no question in my mind that to have my piece removed was the act of a Philistine.

I had it on camera, at least, and there was a website or two I could stick it on, just to make sure that it was seen by people who would appreciate it. Michael would, I was sure, and I wondered if it would be possible to bring him up before the piece got buffed.
The answer was no, as I discovered when I went back in to get a coffee. The caretaker was mixing up a bucket of cleaning fluid. I had to at least try.

‘Why bother?'

‘I bother 'cause I'm told to bother.'

‘They'll only do it again.'

‘Yeah, sure they'll do it again. It's not the first time either, but Mrs Goulding says it's got to be done by this evening, so it's got to be done by this evening.'

‘Mrs Goulding?'

‘Mrs Councillor Goulding. She's coming here this evening, for one of her meetings. Street crime, it is, and it won't do to have that dirty great thing on the wall.'

‘I doubt they'll even notice it.'

‘They already have. You can see it plain from all the end spaces. There's Byrne coming and all.'

‘Oh, right.'

‘Don't suppose you fancy giving us a hand?'

‘Er . . . no, sorry. I'm not really dressed for it.'

He gave a chuckle, sarcastic and dirty too, his eyes flicking briefly to the hem of my skirt as he squeezed out the last of the bottle of cleaning fluid. I turned away, wondering if I should wait for Stephen. With luck he might turn up before the piece was completely buffed, and it would be so funny to tease him.

The Jaguar pulled up no more than five minutes later, while I was still sitting outside sipping coffee. For a moment I caught Stephen's face as he passed, and he saw me, but didn't give so much as a flicker of recognition. I soon discovered why. There was somebody with him, a middle-aged woman with a face like a hatchet and an expression of cold severity. For a moment I wondered if it was his wife, but I'd seen her before, probably at the All Angels meeting. Sure
enough, when he appeared from the back the caretaker addressed her as Councillor Goulding.

She walked straight for him, brisk and purposeful, Stephen made to follow, then turned as he saw that I was approaching, looking shifty for an instant before he turned his politician's smile on. Councillor Goulding had stopped to talk to the caretaker and was in easy hearing range, just adding to my sense of mischief as Stephen addressed me.

‘Ah, Miss McKie. Have you come to give your opinion at the meeting this evening?'

‘No. I came to put up a petition to stop the All Angels development.'

‘A pity. I'm sure with your experience with the church you would have been able to make a valuable contribution. We will be considering a major new initiative to combat street crime with a zero tolerance policy, in particular the recent spate of graffiti attacks. In fact I understand that there was an incident here last night.'

Councillor Goulding had turned and was looking at me with an air of disapproval that would have done Eliza Dobson credit, her eyes fixed to my crucifix of long tourmaline crystals set in silver, and doubtless wondering if it was hung upside down on purpose. There was more than a little doubt in her voice when she spoke.

‘Miss McKie is involved with the church?'

Stephen stepped in before I could claim to be with the Reformed Satanists.

‘I was unclear perhaps. Miss McKie is the caretaker at All Angels on Coburg Road. She has, I believe, enjoyed considerable success in deterring vandals and er . . . other anti-social elements. Miss McKie, meet
Councillor Goulding, who is chair of the committee on urban regeneration.'

The Councillor gave me a marginally less frosty look.

‘How did you go about this, Miss McKie?'

‘I set my dog on them.'

The look became frostier again. Stephen went on, now walking towards the rear of the building.

‘A great shame you are unable to attend the meeting, Miss McKie. Hmm . . . yes, I see. I always wonder what these things say.'

We had come in view of my piece, at which the caretaker was working methodically but not with very much success. It was still perfectly legible, or at least more so than the majority of wild-style pieces.

‘That's a D first, or maybe an O. No, D, and u, and z . . . no, s, and k. Dusk. Dusk.'

He shot me a glance. I returned a bland smile. He knew, and there was worry on his face as he turned to the Councillor.

‘Did we capture anything on the CCTV camera in the car park?'

The caretaker answered.

‘They were sneaky, came in along the wall. Got some feet. Three of them, there were, and a dog. Left their cans behind too, they did. Get some good fingerprints, I reckon.'

Stephen spoke quickly.

‘I doubt the police would consider that an effective use of resources, and besides, with young offenders of this type it is not particularly likely that their fingerprints will be on the record. Nor am I certain that applying the full weight of the law is necessarily the answer. Yes, it is destructive, of course, and certainly
we must do everything we reasonably can to prevent it, or at the least implement some form of damage limitation policy, yet I cannot help but think that the root of the problem lies in time management. If only we were able to increase fund allocation for youth services we might be able to somehow channel the undoubted creative energy that is expressed here.'

Councillor Goulding was unimpressed.

‘Nonsense. Our policy must centre on deterrence. What is needed are heavier fines, increased CCTV surveillance.'

‘Perhaps, but again we run up against budgetary constraints. If I may address you, Miss McKie, as – dare I say it – a typical young person of the borough, what do you think?'

It was just too good to miss.

‘I think they should bring back the birch, that's what I think, so just give them a good old-fashioned spanking.'

Councillor Goulding shot me a filthy look, which was just as well as Stephen's face had gone crimson. I smiled sweetly and made my excuses before he could say anything else, struggling not to grin as I walked away.

Our little exchange had made me feel a great deal better about taking the spanking. I had turned it neatly round to my advantage, making it something that made me the stronger partner, not him. He would be round later too, unless I was very much mistaken.

Other than a mouthful of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes I'd had nothing to eat since my snack at the café, and I stopped for chips on the way, eating them in the park and wishing I'd had the sense to retrieve the cans. Not
that it was likely to be a problem, but I do like to be careful. After all, the whole idea of taking risks is to come out on the up side.