My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (13 page)

"Hi," said Jo.

Michael responded with a smile.

"How's it going, Jo?" asked Crowe, twisting round to see her.

"Good. You?"

"Same old same old. You know how it is," he said. 

Jo unzipped her dark, lightweight jacket to reveal a black vest, which showed her cleavage and exposed her flat stomach, due to the vest riding upwards above her low-slung dark blue jeans. She had certainly become more toned over the past few months.

Michael's eyes wandered to fix on Jo's hip bones and the glimpse of her black lacy knickers. She was definitely sexy, slim and well-defined. Different from when he first saw her. Fitter. Perhaps she was in disguise. Perhaps she had gone through a dramatic workout regime. She arched her back and straightened her top, tucking herself in and caught Michael's gaze.

He turned away and saw Cole eyeing her up in the rear view mirror, also witnessing his stare. Michael turned to the window as Cole smirked.

"Once you get yourself sorted out, Jo, can you brief Jakey on what to expect?" uttered Crowe. 

"That's brief, not debrief," Cole quipped. He shifted gears and rounded onto Blackheath Hill.

Jo snorted and shook her head. She probably experienced remarks like that often.

"From Blackheath, we'll head towards Charlton and the Cherry Orchard Estate. We'll drive around the surrounding roads for a bit and see if you can recognise anyone. Point them out and we'll call a uniformed car to check them out. We'll then head to Woolwich and do the same there," Jo said to Michael.

He tried to concentrate his eyes on hers, without diverting to her chest, however her eyes were equally as distracting. Piercing light blue pools. He conducted a quick second look at her lips.

Between each sentence, she paused briefly, biting gently upon her lower lip.

Michael blinked and looked at her forehead.

Her hair was tied back and upwards: trendy, yet slightly powerful. "How does that suit you, Michael, um, Jacob, sorry."

Cole and Crowe exchanged a look. They smirked at one another, like teenagers.

Jo shot them a look and narrowed her eyes.

Michael coughed and straightened. He nodded and became more confident.

"Yeah, sounds fine. As long as nobody sees me," he said, looking at each person in turn, leaving Jo last. His gaze lingered on her and he managed an awkward smile.

She glanced away.

Michael turned to his nearside window as Jo looked back round again at him. Her eyes practically scanned his entire body, from head to toe. She turned back to her window. She liked him. Was intrigued by him. She felt he was a completely different character from the males she worked with, both colleagues and criminals. Being around Michael, no matter how briefly, gave her a sense of normality. She imagined what it would be like to be his girlfriend. To come home to somebody who wasn't in her line of work. Someone to ask how her day was and share a bottle of wine with. Jo, however, lived alone. She ate, drank and slept alone. She let loose a deep sigh as the car drove up Blackheath Hill.

The light was fading fast. Greenwich Park was on their left and the roads were almost empty.

They headed for Vanbrugh Park and into Charlton Road, the road to Charlton Village and indeed the Cherry Orchard Estate.

"What's your feeling about all this?" asked Cole.

"I don't know," shrugged Michael. What was he supposed to feel? Nervousness? Deep concern? A sense of excitement maybe? Should a rush of adrenaline have jetted around his body, like an out-of-control locomotive? Perhaps he should have felt nothing because he hadn't thought it through enough. He hadn't weighed up the various outcomes to this particular scenario. Michael was an extremely perceptive and intuitive guy. He was cautious, quick-thinking and took in every word he heard and image he saw, analysing information like computer code and more often than not, he made the right choice every single time. However, it was guaranteed to be one of those times where Michael wasn't perceptive or intuitive. What on Earth did he think? Nothing. Nothing at all.

"Is everything all right?" asked Jo.

"Huh? Me? Yes, fine. Why d'you ask?"

"Eh up, gang alert," interrupted Cole, as the car passed a group of twelve or so black youths standing on a corner or sitting on a wall. 

The youths were hooded and of West African origin. Darkly dressed with hints of red, whether it was their footwear, a bandana, a baseball cap, an armband, a trace of a t-shirt or a rag dangling out of the back pocket of their baggy pants.

The car passed them and the youths eyeballed it.

One of them even had a facemask, covering the lower half of his face. He looked like a cast member of GI Joe. Ice hockey-style, black plastic, with a skeleton feel.

Through tinted glass, on the back seat, Michael stared at each of the youths.

"It's da Feds, man," noted one youth, staring at the car.

"Yeah, boy two, boy two," responded another.

"Fuck dat shit and fuck dem pussies. What they gonna do? What? What joo want?" called out a third.

"Shit!" Cole slammed on the brakes real hard. The car suddenly screeched to an abrupt halt.

Michael jerked forward. His head and shoulders moved into the front part of the car. He stopped himself, grasping the passenger seat head-rest.

Crowe jolted and looked at Michael and smiled. 

"The bloody nerve of them," frowned Cole, looking ahead through the windscreen at another hooded black youth crossing the street in front of the car, eating from a box of deep fried chicken and without a care, flinging chicken skin to the ground.

The youth bopped to the pavement and looked at the gang assembled around the wall.

"It's da Feds, blud!" called the first youth, as the chicken eater approached.

"Joo eatin ma fuckin chicken, bitch?" yelled the second youth, as chicken eater turned his head to glance at the car. It was then that his eyes locked onto Michael's eyes, staring back at him through Crowe's passenger side window.

"What the fuck!" cried the chicken eater. His jaw dropped. A piece of chicken skin stuck to his bottom lip as he stared.

Michael struggled and pushed himself backwards. His heart raced at full speed. He swallowed and breathed heavy, in and out, in and out.

Crowe turned around and smirked at him, with his grin, fast becoming a frown. "Don't worry, mate. The next one, we'll make sure we knock him down, eh?"

"Is he okay?" asked Cole, who looked up.

"Michael?"  Jo said.

On the street corner, with the youths, was an equal cause for concern.

"What joo lookin' at?" replied the angriest and most vocal member of the gang. He took the box of fried chicken from the chicken eater.

"Yo. TT. Tiny Taser, what the fuck, man?"

Tiny Taser, the chicken eater, was of course a Tiny, as his gang name suggested. It meant that there was also somebody out there called Young Taser and an 'Elder' gang member, who, if going by the so-called rule of thumb in gang member name-tags, was an original gang member called simply Taser. However, at that particular moment in space and time, the only person to be focused on with the Taser name was Tiny Taser, the carefree young man who crossed the main road without looking to see if it was safe, casually eating his extremely greasy and over-fried chicken. The young man who discarded chicken skin and caused an oncoming car to stop suddenly, making its passengers jerk forward.

That main passenger in question was Michael, a man who counselled and mentored vulnerable and at risk young children. A man who was paid to be an undercover informant for the Metropolitan Police Service. A man who was previously shielded by the tinted glass of the back seat of an undercover, unmarked police vehicle, but who had just been jolted forward and was seen by Tiny Taser, a gang member whose real name was Sinatra Umbundo: Michael's student.

Sinatra 'Tiny Taser" Umbundo turned his head, keeping his confused eyes locked like laser sights on Michael, as the unmarked police vehicle started to move once more.

"That was my teacher, blud," commented Sinatra.

"What the fuck you talking about?" spouted one of the crew.

"With the Feds. In the car. That was my fucking teacher, man. I swear down. I ain't lying to you. I see dat face every day, blud," Sinatra continued.

"Why is he widda cops?"

"I don't fuckin' know." Sinatra was flustered.

"Joo fink he's a pig, too?"

"Nah, blud. He's safe. You get me? Well, I thought he was. Shit. Why him? He's actually all right, you know. It probably ain't nuffin, you get me, yeah?" Sinatra said, trying to relax himself.

"Probably nuttin'! Don't fuckin' believe it, blud. You're a bitch, Taser, man. What's wiv your head? He's a Fed. You know it! Day put dem in schools, man, to fuck wijoo. Be your friend. Spy onjoo anshit. He ain't no friend, guy, I'm telling you. I swear down." The angrier youth tried and succeeded in convincing Sinatra.

Michael tilted his head, thinking. He stuck his tongue firmly inside his mouth, which filled out his cheeks and gums. He looked up to the rear view mirror at the undercover police detective driving the car, then turned to the undercover police detective in the passenger seat. He looked at the undercover police detective next to him on the back seat. They were all looking at him.

"Are you OK?" asked Detective Jo Blake. "You look a little awkward."

"I feel awkward," Michael replied.

"What's up, matey?" asked Crowe.

"One of the kids on the corner. I think he saw me," said Michael, watching Crowe glance into his wing mirror, watching the youths becoming more and more distant. 

"Don't worry too much. We'll radio a car to search them. That'll take the focus off from them seeing you," chuckled Cole, as he drove on.

"No, no it won't," snapped Michael. "It'll only crank up the focus. The kid who saw me is one of the kids at the school. I see him every day."

Cole glanced at Crowe and caught Jo's eye in the mirror. He nodded at her and she turned to Michael, placing a familiar, gentle and slender hand upon his. Was that for reassurance, an unwritten rule, protocol or a game-plan?

Michael looked at her hand on his and then at her face.

Her eyes were filled with genuine empathy and concern for his wellbeing. Her hand was actually placed discreetly out of her colleagues' view.

Michael also knew this. 

"It'll be OK. If you want to call it a night, just say and we'll take you home. Also remember back to when you first signed on board; if it gets too heated for you, then you call us and we'll take you to the safe place that was agreed. Well away from places you're familiar with," she held her look on him.

Cole had a satisfied expression on his face as he turned into another street.

Crowe glanced up the streets.

Michael looked at Jo's hand on his again. "Drive on. I'm OK."

"Good stuff," replied Crowe, in his soft Scottish tone. "If you feel confident enough, maybe you can head out for a walk."

"I don't think that's-" Jo blurted.

"Where'd you think? Woolwich town centre?" Cole interrupted.

"Good a place as any," smirked Crowe. "You got your radio, haven't you, Jo?" He swivelled in his seat to look at his uneasy, female colleague.

Woolwich town centre was a hole. Literally. There was building work all over the place. Outside the Docklands Light Railway entrance and opposite the Woolwich Arsenal railway station. Potholes, filled with muddy puddles, dotted the uneven road near the market accompanied by the eerie presence of unsavoury eyes, watching your every move.

Footsteps echoed down the street as Jo and Michael walked side by side. Close, like a couple.

Out of the corner of his eye, Michael looked at Jo. He coughed, clearing his throat.

"D'you come here often?" he said.

Jo double-glanced at him as she caught his smirk. She formed an awkward smile. "It is grim, isn't it?"

"Just a bit," replied Michael.

"So how long have you been working with these types of kids?" she asked.

"At this particular place, about five years," Michael said, watching his step.

"How about before this particular place?" she probed.

"That was a whole bunch of different children altogether. Autistic children, wheelchair users, Downs."

"Down where?" asked Jo.

Michael frowned, wondering, briefly, if she was humouring him or not.

She awaited his answer.

"Downs Syndrome," Michael replied.

"Oh. Right," Jo obviously wasn't humouring him at all. She took this bite-sized piece of caring information about Michael, processed it quickly in her mind and gave him a satisfying and pleasant smile in return.

Their eyes locked momentarily, just for a split second, before she turned ahead, shoving her hands inside her pockets, making her frame a little tight.

"Did you enjoy it? Working with disabled kids, I mean?" Jo had a disabled mother and thought about her in that precious moment. She had only ever seen her mother in a wheelchair. The years of being confined to it had taken their toll and when seen out shopping by school classmates, they used to think Jo's mother was actually her grandmother. Jo would go along with that as it would have been too much hassle and unnecessary stress to explain the truth to them.