My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (14 page)

"I did, yeah. It was a lot of fun for not a lot of money," said Michael.

"Not like where you are now, I suppose."

"Well, not quite. I didn't leave because of just that. There were a few factors really. I loved working with them. They were happy children. Innocent children. So many stories there. One autistic boy was obsessed with his own reflection," Michael recounted, with a fond smile.

"What, like mirrors?" asked Jo, frowning again.

"Mirrors, windows, cutlery. He'd stare into whatever it was that reflected his face or body and point at his reflection. 'Don't tread on the flowerbed or I'll take your PlayStation away,' Michael put on a different voice as he reminisced about a more recent, pleasant and enjoyable past, imitating the autistic boy he once taught.

Jo didn't really get it, but smiled nonetheless. "He sounds a little like Rain Man," she said. 

"When I first met this boy, he pointed at me and said 'You look like that man.' I asked him what man he meant. 'The man from the chip shop,' he said. 'When was this?' I asked. 'In the chip shop, in 1997,' he said. I wasn't in the chip shop in 1997 to my knowledge, but you never know," Michael recounted.

"Maybe you were. He could replace forensic evidence," smiled Jo, breaking an attempt at humour and relaxing somewhat. 

Michael smiled and the two looked at one another. There was a definite attraction, however it was probably more to do with the angst he secretly felt and the comfort he found being with Jo. It was warmer and more genuine than just receiving banter from the male detectives.

Jo was a pretty young woman. Her fresh, immaculate skin was pale, with rosy cheeks, like scorched pads of scarlet paint on her face, due to the cold weather that night. Her dark hair occasionally fell down her face to cover one eye which she tried to blow off with a huff of breath every so often.

"What do you think when you tell us about the violent children you're dealing with?" she asked him, curiously.

"I think very hard about whether it's the right thing to do and know that I've helped take a lot of violent children off the streets, not to mention a lot of knives and guns," Michael continued. "It might just also be the swift, hard kick they need to make them realise there's another way. Another path."

"Tough love. Do you think you'll ever report an innocent person to us?" Jo enquired.

"What, by mistake?"

"Yes."

"If I did it by mistake, then hopefully you guys would be professional enough to have checked out the innocent mistake and so it'll end up OK in the end," he said, without hesitation.

Jo was satisfied by this and the two continued to walk in the darkly lit street.

They saw a row of ATMs against a wall, and standing between each of these cash machines, as people queued to withdraw their money, were four uniformed police officers in their yellow, high visibility jackets.

"Look at that!" Michael said, surprised at the sight of these illuminated money guards.

Jo looked to where Michael gestured. "That's Woolwich for you. You don't come here a lot then," she said with a smile.

"Never. When I was young, perhaps five or six, Mum would bring me here. There was a great fruit and veg market back then and an even better toy shop for me. I'd only ever want to look at the boxes the toys were packaged in and be satisfied with that. We'd leave the shop and my mum would head back in and buy me the toy I'd been staring at. I never wanted for anything, but she said I never complained or cried or moaned, so she treated me."

"What was the toy?" Jo asked.

"Usually a He-Man figure or something like that.

"Oh, before my time I think," she remarked.

"What, you weren't around when He-Man and Fisto were having it large in the forests of Eternia?" Michael grinned.

"Er, no, I certainly was not. The only toy called Fisto I know of is probably found in a shop in Soho or something," Jo quipped.

Michael raised an eyebrow.

"Really?"

"That didn't sound the way I wanted it to," Jo was embarrassed.

"I know what you meant," Michael smirked.

"No, you didn't," Jo held back the smirking, curling corners of her mouth.

"I'm wondering what you would have said if I mentioned other He-Man figures like Spikor, Ram-Man or Faker."

"Oh shut up. Stop taking the piss. Besides, I know you're making those names up now." Jo relaxed with each word and footstep.

"I'm not! They're real. They're as real as Tung Lashor, Mantenna and Whiplash. Trust me, I had them all," Michael said, almost quite passionately, with nostalgic fondness.

"The names sound quite perverted," stated Jo.

"Perhaps now, but not when you're a child."

"So who was He-Man's nemesis? Pervertor?" Jo mocked.

"Ha. Funny. Skeletor, actually. That was until the evil Horde arrived and a new line of toys and cartoon characters besieged the toyshops. Hordak became the main villain then." 

"Whore Dak? Oh honestly!" cried Jo. She shook her head.

"Not whore as in a street walker prostitute. Hor. H O R. Hordak. He was Skeletor's old master," corrected Michael.

"And I suppose the man called Mantenna had a retractable penis or something," replied Jo, smugly, still believing that Michael had made up all these characters.

"No! Mantenna fired stun beams from his extended eyes, but was also a comedic character. He'd stutter a lot, too."

Jo closed her eyes briefly, taking it all in. She gritted her teeth, tossed her hair back and turned to Michael.

"Oh my God, you're actually telling the truth."

"Of course I am!"

"About Hordak and all the others?"

"Yes."

"Shit. And I went and spouted off about Antenna Dick," Jo blurted. She was hugely embarrassed.

"As well as mentioning your Fisto toy from Ann Summers in Soho," joked Michael. 

"I didn't say I got one in Ann Summers, I said a shop in Soho!" Jo defended herself, pointing her forefinger at Michael.

"You actually have one!"

"No! No! Oh my God. Shut up. Shut up," she laughed, slapping his arm.

He gently barged her.

Jo barged him back with a nudging shoulder.

He leaned in as she tried again, sending her slightly off balance.

Jo stopped and looked at him.

They both smiled.

"That's assault," she said. She exhaled her visible breath into the cold night air.

Michael sneered and held his look. 

She stepped up to him, closer, just a few inches away from one another.

"Are you assaulting a police officer?" She had a serious expression, reminiscent of a 1940s femme fatale. She looked Michael up and down.

He narrowed his eyes and stared at her, taking a brief glance around his surroundings.

They were in a quiet, darkly lit side street. Nobody was around.

He scoffed again, covering his awkwardness. He puffed his own warm breath into the cold, dark of the night.

"I've got your number, mister," she said, with a devilish smirk.

Michael frowned when suddenly the familiar Nokia ring-tone sounded out from Jo's pocket.

"Saved by the bell," she said, as she retrieved the phone and brought it to her ear.

"Where are you two lovebirds at then?" came the distinct Scottish tone of DC Crowe on the other end of the mobile phone.

"We'll make our way to the station. Pick us up there," Jo said, bluntly. She beeped out and replaced the phone, looking up at Michael. "Did you hear him?" she asked.

"No, lovebird, what did he say?" Michael replied.

"Nothing. Come on. I know a shortcut." Jo led them both down another street.

Michael followed her lead and stopped in his stride, pausing to think of Rebecca. This wasn't him. He was a stand-up guy. Friendly banter, sure, but he wasn't an outright flirt. This role was starting to change him. He liked the money he was receiving as well as the wrongs he felt he was righting. He watched Jo walk ahead, glanced around his surroundings briefly and began to consider bringing it all to a halt.

Sinatra Umbundo, also known as Taser, tightened his hood as he walked briskly down a street in the still of the night. Looking worried and feeling disappointed, angry and betrayed, Sinatra crossed into another street and bowed his head. His eyes rolled upwards into their sockets, enabling him to see two shadowed figures ahead grouped by a streetlight.

Sinatra had crossed over into another postcode; strayed across an invisible boundary. Postcode wars were rife across London. The streets belonged to the hooded youths who terrorised, intimidated, robbed, beat, kicked, stabbed, shot and killed other gang members or teens who crossed into their territory without the required pass. You had to know somebody in a particular area, a certain street, or estate, in order for you to be a recognisable face and thus gain a pass to wherever it was you were going. The person you knew could have been a rival gang member who granted you permission to travel. It didn't matter if you were popping to a shop, going swimming or were attending your daily route to school; if you didn't have a pass, then you either received a beating, had your phone and Oyster Card taken, or chased until you gave in. Or worse, you got stabbed or shot.

A boy from Sinatra's previous school was excluded when a fellow pupil rummaged around inside his schoolbag and found a lethal looking kitchen knife. He told on him and the boy was subsequently expelled without hesitation. He had to attend the Youth Offending Team. It was quite a distance and several postcodes away from his home. He didn't attend a single session due to the fact he didn't have the unofficial street pass or know anybody in any of the areas he would cross over into. That, of course, didn't serve the boy well and got him into further trouble and complications with the law. He gained himself a curfew. It wasn't such a bad deal for him as it kept the boy safe on his own turf, though the eyes of the law didn't quite get the message when they ordered him to sign his name at the Youth Offending Team each week and, once again, repeated the same process as before.

Twice more that occurred, taking up around eighteen months of wasted time, resources, and not to mention taxpayers' money. It resulted with the boy being carted off to a Young Offenders Institute, where he was unfortunately severely beaten in his cell by a racist teenager.

The racist hit the boy round the head with a wooden chair leg whilst he slept. The wood splintered immediately upon making contact, cracking his skull. He then hit him around his ribs and chest. A piece of splintered wood pierced through his skin and punctured his left lung. The boy, unconscious from being struck on the head, couldn't breathe. He died in his cell. 

Sinatra was determined to get himself across town and into another postcode because he had a secret. 

"Yo, where d'you think you're going to, blud?" shouted a bulky, large-framed youth to Sinatra. He approached him with a peculiar swagger, with his arms open by his side, in a very threatening manner.

Sinatra straightened, eyeing the youth briefly, taking his presence in and weighing up the situation in ultra-quick time.

The youth was black, of Congolese origin. His head was freshly scarred, many times over. Baggy jeans worn low around his backside exposed his greying boxer shorts. His belt was buckled around his thighs. It was no wonder he walked awkwardly. The duck-like waddle was carefully orchestrated as to not make too sudden a move or cause enough friction to bring down his jeans. The cocky walk was almost an art form in its own right. He sucked on a lollipop and pointed it at Sinatra.

"So? Answer me. Where you going?"

"I know Taser, init. I'm his Younger," answered Sinatra.

"You're Younger Taser?"

"Yeah, man," answered Sinatra.

"Taser is like twenny-two or somefin, man. How the fuck joo know Taser, yeah?" questioned the youth.

"He's ma uncle, init," replied Sinatra, firmly.

"Taser is your uncle, yeah? Cool. Cool. So you a Cherry yoot?"

"I just live onda estate, init," explained Sinatra, looking around his surroundings. He just wanted to get going.

"So joo ain't hanging wiv dem?"

"Nah man. Fuck dat shit. I gotta bounce, man. You get me?" said Sinatra, making his move, trying to pass the youth.

"Where you headin' to, guy?"

"I gotta link, init." Sinatra's heart raced.

"You gotta link? Who is she? She hot?"

"Jus my girl, init. Es E free," reeled off Sinatra. He tried not to give away too many details.

"E3 yeah? What Blackheef? Whose da link, man? I might know her, yeah. You gonna see her now?"

"Yeah. I said dat."

"You gonna beat her? You gonna beat dat link?" asked the youth, staring at Sinatra, wide-eyed and intimidating, but held with a venomous smirk, which revealed a glistening gold tooth.

Sinatra contemplated his reply. He wondered whether he was going to "beat" his "link". To "beat" was to simply have sex with and a "link" usually referred to a girlfriend or at least a female you saw from time to time. Sinatra coughed and formed a big grin. He took a step past the youth as he laughed, taking in a brief glimpse of another glistening sight as he did so: the shiny handle of an automatic pistol, shoved down the back of the youth's jeans.