Just Another Angel (23 page)

He was certainly no taller than me, and he stood in an instinctive boxer's crouch. He was wearing a Levi's sweatshirt and a pair of jeans without showing a belly-bulge between them; something few men over 45 can do.

‘I've been looking forward to seeing you,' he said, coming up close so I could smell him. He gave off a mixture of sweat and sex. I've known it happen to people who get excited easily. He probably had trouble with his glands.

‘There's been a mistake,' I croaked. ‘I don't know you.'

‘But I know you, sonny.'

Why do bullies always call people sonny? I'd noticed that with Malpass. And where was he when I needed him?

‘I've never seen you before in my life,' I said, not believing for a minute that honesty was going to be the best policy.

‘But you've seen my wife, haven't you, you turd.' He yelled this in case I had trouble hearing him from six inches away.

I recoiled so much I thought I was going to topple backwards, but the cable round my legs kept me anchored to the beer keg.

‘Thought you could get your slimy little end away with my Josephine, didn't you?'

For a moment I thought he'd flipped and reckoned he was Napoleon, when it clicked he was talking about Jo. I was right about him having flipped, though.

‘I don't …'

‘Don't what? Don't lie? Don't like women? That's not what I've heard, and I've been asking around about you. You're Jack-the-lad, not me. Nobody's ever called me that. You're the fancy music man, aren't you? The smoothy who drives around in a cab. What sort of a man does that, eh? You're not a kid, you should know better than to sniff round other men's wives.'

Well, this was a turn-up, getting lectured on morality by a South London hood.

‘There's one thing I can't stand, and that's messing around with other men's wives. I never did it. I'd never do that to anybody, and I don't like it happening to me.'

He was so close now I could count his teeth. I was seeing his pock-marked face through a red film of chlorine irritation. I could still smell it, and his breath and his sweat. I retched down the front of my T-shirt and Scamp stepped back, but it didn't stop his flow.

‘I think about these things all the time, see.' He put a forefinger to his temple to illustrate thinking, just in case I wasn't following.

‘I know I have to watch Josephine, because men are always after her.' He began to step from one foot to the other, more like a boxer than ever. ‘She can't help it, that's why I have to look after her. That's what I do.' He paused and nodded his head. ‘Yeah, that's what I do in life, I look after my own.'

Then he suddenly went up on his toes, and both hands flashed out and clipped me on both cheeks. The blows were not that hard, he hadn't even made proper fists, but by God they were fast.

‘Looking after my own, that's what I do,' Scamp continued as if nothing had happened. ‘And I do it so that people know I've been around and I've kept my eyes open.'

‘You've got the wrong bloke,' I said, tasting blood. My lip, I think.

‘Oh no I haven't. Your name is Angel, you're the one with the cab, the one who plays in a band. I know you've been seeing my Josephine and I've heard you brag about it, you cocky little bastard. Now nobody, but nobody, does that to Jack Scamp and gets away with it.

He was back in front of me, prodding me with a forefinger.

‘I have a position to keep up, sonny, and I do it by leaving little messages so that people know I'm on top of the situation. Your friend Kenny was one of my messages, except that Nevil here did that one. He wanted to do you too, on account of what one of your girlfriends did to him.' I heard Nevil breathe loudly. ‘But I said no, I had to do this one personally. Bring him.'

Scamp turned to reach down into one of the boxes of groceries that were scattered over the floor, but I didn't see what he was after as Nevil was lifting me up by the shoulders.

He picked me up and clear of the beer keg so that the flex holding my legs came off clear but it stayed on my ankles, acting as a hobble. Nevil just walked with me about a foot off the floor until I hit the table with my stomach.

That seemed to have been what he had in mind, as he put a paw on the back of my neck and bent me forward until my face was squished into the table top.

I felt him rip the tape off my hands, but he kept my left arm in a hammer-lock. My right arm, he forced around in front of me and pressed it hard onto the table, so that the fingers splayed out just in front of my face.

Scamp came around and stood in my line of vision. The hammer-lock kept my head down, but I could see he was carrying a bottle of whisky by the neck.

‘I'm going to enjoy making you one of my messages,' said Scamp. ‘As soon as I heard about you, I promised myself I'd make sure you retired early from the orchestra pit.'

He didn't smile, or laugh like maniacs are supposed to. He just smashed the bottle down across my hand. He did it twice before the bottle broke.

I would have laughed, because the fucking loony thought I was a pianist. I would have, if I hadn't fainted.

 

‘No, it is him. I know him, he's a mate, probably just had a few and he's sleeping it off. He won't mind, honest. Come on, he won't ...'

I knew the voice from somewhere. It seemed important to remember from where.

Bunny. It was Bunny, my old mate, me auld mucker, my pal, the man I would trust with … with … well, he'd have to do.

‘He's crook, I tell yer.'

This was another voice, one I didn't know, and there was something odd about it. It was female, but that was okay, I could remember them. It was also Australian; that was it. Maybe a Qantas jet had landed and the hosties were on the rampage. If they were, Bunny would have found them.

I hauled myself up from whatever I was lying on. It was the floor of the back of Armstrong. Door-handle; that was my next big objective. Now I was really in control.

Tap-tap.

What the hell? Bunny was rapping on the window. ‘Hey, Angel, you've got a fare. Let's roll and hit the spots.'

‘I'm telling you, he's crook, sick, ill. Strewth, can't you see?'

Good for you, lady. I'll never be sarky about
Young
Doctors
again.

‘He's had a drink or three, that's all.' Thanks, Bunny, I owe you. ‘Come on, Angel-face, open up.'

I grabbed for the door-handle, as much to steady myself as anything else. I didn't seem to be able to move my legs properly. My hand didn't seem to be working either.

Just as I flicked off the lock, Bunny must have pulled from the outside. My hand seemed to explode, and I think I must have screamed.

Anyway, there I was lying on the pavement on my back, looking up the skirt of a very tall Qantas air hostess, who was looking down at me in equal amazement.

Of all the opportunities I'd had for a good chat-up line, simply croaking ‘Hospital' wasn't one of my best.

Still, you can't win ‘em all.

One or two now and then would be nice, though.

 

Bunny drove. I sat in the back with Rayleen (couldn't you have guessed?), and she made me put my right hand in her lap while she ran her fingertips over most of the rest of my body looking for other injuries. If my right hand hadn't felt as if somebody had grafted a bunch of bananas onto it and then dipped it in acid, it would have been a pleasant experience. Rayleen didn't find anything else broken, though she seemed convinced I'd been run over by a steamroller.

Bunny kept talking as he drove, but I had no idea what he was saying. I didn't really have much idea of what was going on at all. I remember seeing lots of traffic lights, mostly red ones, zip by, and then the lights of Goodge Street underground station, some of which were still working.

Then we were staggering into a hospital casualty department, and I was grateful Bunny was there – they can be dangerous places on a Friday night. Rayleen helped too, or rather her uniform did, giving us a pseudo-official status that meant we could jump the queue. The fact that she could swear like a trooper and at one point told a nurse that I was a security guard escaping from a hijack attempt, also helped.

I was lucky, of course. They always say that if they think you've been in a fight, although it was still short of chucking-out time.

A harassed young intern assisted by a cool, pretty nurse (called Ruth, from Stanmore) told me that I was bucking the statistical trend by having three fingers smashed between the knuckle and the phalangeal joint. He told me that the central finger always goes first, followed by the ring finger and then, if you're lucky, the index. The little finger usually escapes, as mine had. And there had been no damage to any arteries; the small amount of blood there was had come from minor cuts from the broken bottle.

The intern cleaned me up, then made me lie on a trolley in a curtained cubicle. The nurse (just 22 and looking forward to her holiday in Greece) checked my hand for bits of glass and then applied an impression splint. That would come off in two days, she told me, and be replaced by a spatula splint, and yes, she would be on duty on Sunday.

She'd given me a shot to kill the pain, and it was making me drowsy. I asked if I could see the people who'd brought me in, and after a few minutes, Bunny and Rayleen appeared at the bedside.

‘What time is it?' I asked. ‘Oh, and thanks for the lift.'

‘Going on 11.00, and don't mention it, it was your diesel,' said Bunny cheerfully.

‘I had a bag in the cab,' I said, thinking it was important.

‘I know, I was driving the both of you,' quipped Bunny, doing a quick Groucho Marx walk around the bed. Rayleen looked at him as if he'd dropped from behind peeling wallpaper.

Bunny straightened up and took my wallet out of his back pocket. He flipped it on my chest.

‘There's no cash left, you've been caned. No watch either, if you were wondering.'

That was nice of Nevil. He'd provided me with a cover story – I was supposed to look as if I'd been mugged. Then again, I had. Two hundred travelling money plus two hundred in bad rent money, a watch, my building society account book, three hours of my life and a few digital bones. Well and truly mugged.

‘They left the tapes in Armstrong, that's one thing,' said Bunny. ‘Oh – and they didn't take your swimming trunks either.'

‘Who's Armstrong?' asked Rayleen, reasonably enough.

‘The taxi we came in,' answered Bunny honestly.

‘Why was he wearing swimming trunks?'

‘The sunroof leaks, you wombat. How should I know?'

‘I thought you said he was a friend.'

‘He is. I drove him here, didn't I?'

Rayleen raised her eyebrows to the heavens and reached into her clutch bag for a pack of cigarettes.

‘Not in here, I'm afraid.' It was the intern again, this time holding a clipboard and looking official. ‘I've got some questions for you, if you're up to them.'

‘I'd really like a smoke first,' I croaked, laying it on with a trowel.

‘Entrance hall, if you really must. I'll be back.'

I swung my legs off the trolley and sat up. My hand throbbed, and with the quickly-drying plaster, it looked like an Indian club sticking out from my shirt sleeve.

With my left hand I fumbled inside my wallet. My driving licences were still there and the odd bits of paper you always accumulate. The card with Malpass's phone number was still there.

‘Jacket?' I asked vaguely.

‘We left it in the car,' said Rayleen.

‘Armstrong's keys were in the pocket,' said Bunny.

‘Good. Let's go have a smoke.'

It's still the easiest way to get thrown out of hospital. In fact, the three of us, all with duty-free Marlboros well alight, were shown the door in no uncertain terms. Once outside, I threw my cigarette away.

‘Where's Armstrong?'

‘Round the corner in the space marked Consultant Gynaecologist.'

‘Thanks. Want a lift somewhere?'

‘Nah, that's okay.' Bunny put an arm round Rayleen's waist. ‘We'll get a minicab. They're cheaper.'

‘And more reliable,' I said.

‘You can't let him go off like that,' hissed Rayleen loudly. Then she made a fist under Bunny's chin. ‘And don't give me any crap about a man's gotta do what a
man's gotta do. The only thing a man's
got
to do in this world is stand up when he pees.'

Bunny had found a philosopher. They were in for an interesting night.

‘You're right, Rayleen,' I said. ‘He can't let me go – until he gives me my keys.'

‘Oh, sure,' said Bunny, fumbling in his pocket.