Keeping Bad Company Read online

  We also drew a blank at the pub, much to Gan’s obvious relief – no beat-up old wreck parked outside and no Merv inside.

  The patrons’ musical ears were being given a rest tonight in the absence of a live band. But their tolerance was being tested in another way by a stand-up comedian. He was young, very nervous, and dying on his feet up there on the tiny stage. He’d misjudged his audience and prepared all the wrong material, trying for the witty and satirical when what they wanted was blue jokes, the more politically incorrect the better. At the moment the drinkers were in a fairly good mood and ignoring him. Later, when their tolerance wore thin, they’d start barracking him. The landlord was casting the performer uneasy glances. I could see that at any minute the perspiring jester would be requested to cut short the act, such as it was, and go while the going was good. I wondered if he’d get paid and doubted it. I was sorry for him because he was probably a struggling wannabee, like me, trying to get himself an Equity card.

  ‘Come on,’ said Ganesh, rightly judging the mood. ‘Before they start throwing things.’

  We set off again, seeking information in earnest. I fully realised it wasn’t polite, to say the least, to disturb someone who had cocooned himself in a sleeping bag or gone to earth under a pile of old clothes or newspapers, but I quickly discovered it was also hazardous. Shaking a sleeper’s shoulder usually resulted in a fist punching out of the huddled shape. We’d also forgotten that the homeless often keep a dog for protection. A close encounter with a large and very unfriendly Dobermann reminded us. The animal chose to go for Gan and not for me, rather to my relief though not to his. Gan escaped with minor damage to his jeans but became especially sensitive to a canine presence after that. He’d exclaim, ‘Dog!’ as soon as we got anywhere near, long before I spotted the mutt in question.

  It was best, in fact, to stand well away from the doorway or alley and call out my request. Sadly, but understandably, street dwellers don’t like being asked for information, especially about one another. My polite questions about Albie’s whereabouts got me nowhere. ‘Never heard of him!’ was still the usual reply, followed by, ‘Bugger off!’ or some variant of same. Frequently we were spat at, and on one occasion the occupant of a doorway shied an empty lager can at us. It missed me by a hair’s breadth, hit the pavement with a clang, and rolled noisily away into the gutter.

  ‘Could’ve been worse,’ I said, determined to look on the bright side. Ganesh hadn’t been enthusiastic to begin with and noticeably less so since the dog episode. It was up to me to keep the momentum going. ‘Could’ve been a bottle.’

  ‘Could’ve been a knife,’ said Ganesh, who prefers to look on the downside, and had begun to hang back, happy to let me go first as we approached each new doorway. ‘Or hadn’t you thought of that?’

  I hadn’t, but I did from now on.

  I approached the next likely place with more caution. It was a narrow passage, floored with black and white chequerboard tiles, and running back towards some kind of business entry. It was pitch-dark in there, despite the streetlighting, which had now come on and buzzed fitfully behind me, casting a murky yellow glow on the wet pavement. There was something at the far end of the entry because I could hear movement. Paper rustled.

  ‘Hullo?’ I called. ‘Is someone there? I’m sorry to disturb you but I’m looking for someone . . .’

  There was no reply. The rustling stopped and then recommenced in a flurry. There was a scattering noise across the glazed tiles that made the hair on my neck bristle. A car drove past and its headlights cast a sudden ray of brighter light into the doorway. I had a brief sighting of a shape, raised on hind legs, nose snuffling the air in my direction. Evil little eyes gleamed in the reflected glare of the headlights.

  I leaped back with a strangled squeak of horror and cannoned into Ganesh, who yelped and exclaimed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Rat. . .’ I whispered, gripping his arm.

  I had to admit that was something else I hadn’t thought about. There was another reason for sharing your sleeping place with a dog if you were out on the streets. Rats don’t like dogs.

  I don’t like rats. I’d face any street-dweller, with or without dog, bottle or knife, and in any state of mind or out of it, sooner than face a rat.

  ‘We’ll give this doorway a miss,’ I said.

  After that I was more rat-conscious than Ganesh was of slavering hounds. I saw rodents more than once. A pair of them scurried round a plastic rubbish sack in which they’d gnawed a hole. Worst of all, I spotted a real monster crouched on a windowsill, his scaly tail hanging down by the brickwork. That did it. From now on, no matter how hot it got, I’d keep all the windows of my flat closed!

  All this time we were getting nearer and nearer to St Agatha’s church where I knew, from his own account, Albie was occasionally to be found at night in the porch. So although it had begun to rain steadily and promised to be an unpleasant night, I wasn’t yet ready to give up.

  Ganesh felt differently. ‘I’m getting fed up with this,’ he said. ‘And I’m hungry.’ Rain had plastered his long black hair to his face and he was examining the rip made in the leg of his jeans by the Dobermann.

  But I had high hopes of finding Albie at St Agatha’s. Enquiries on the way there had only been on the off chance and I hadn’t really expected anyone to tell me anything.

  ‘We must check out the porch,’ I said. ‘This is the last. Then we’ll find a place to eat, promise.’

  ‘All right,’ he muttered.

  I suggested kindly that if he preferred, he could go home. He pointed out that for him this meant returning to Hari’s flat above the shop. Seeing as he’d put up with Hari since returning from the wholesalers, he could do with a break, thanks very much. Even if it was only traipsing round the streets with me, risking life and limb disturbing the disturbed.

  ‘You’ll see, at the very least we’ll pick up fleas!’ he concluded.

  I’m often grateful to Ganesh for being there, but there are occasions when I wonder if his kind of support is what I really need.

  St Agatha’s is in a quiet residential area – quiet at night, at least. It wasn’t too well lit around there. The mock-Gothic building reared up against the sky like a part of the set in that old film I’d been watching the previous night, all pinnacles and arched tracery, half veiled in shadows. The line of sight was further impeded by trees planted along the frontage. One of the nearby streetlamps had gone out. Iron railings divided the property from the pavement. There was a gate, now secured with chain and padlock.

  ‘That’s that, then,’ said Ganesh with relief, rattling the gate and turning away.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ I asked. ‘If you’re sleeping rough, you look for somewhere secure. There must be a way in.’

  There was, just a short distance down, and disguised by a rampant buddleia bush. The railings had been damaged and two of them removed. We squeezed through and approached the porch, which extended some eight feet out from the building and was doorless. I turned round when we got there to survey the road and work out just what had been in Albie’s range of vision when he saw the snatch. Actually, not a great deal, due to the trees. A moment’s doubt struck me. Had it all been, after all, an alcoholic nightmare?

  Ganesh whispered, ‘There’s someone in the porch . . .’

  I’d realised that as soon as I’d poked my head through the arched entry. A sour stew of unwashed human body, filthy rags, booze dregs and nicotine combined in a stench fit to make you gag. Albie hadn’t smelled that bad. But I hadn’t seen Albie since Marylebone Station and had no idea what he’d been doing meantime. For all I knew, he’d spent the time in a massive drinking session.

  I called out tentatively, ‘Albie, is that you?’

  Whoever it was moved, rustling about like a larger version of the rat we’d discovered earlier, recalling my fears.

  ‘It’s Fran,’ I called more loudly. ‘Fran, the private detective.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Ganesh incred
ulously.

  ‘And actress!’ I added, determined to jolt Albie’s memory. ‘We met at the railway station.’

  ‘Do I know this woman?’ Ganesh was asking rhetorically. ‘Private eye star of stage and screen? I know a Fran who’s usually out of work between spells waitressing or mail-order dispatch packaging.’

  ‘And you might remember my friend,’ I explained to the darkness. ‘He was at the station, too.’ To Ganesh, I added, ‘And the word “friend” is variable!’

  A wheezing cough came from within the porch. ‘Go away . . .’ quavered an elderly voice. ‘I gotta dog, a big’un . . . wiv rabies.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like Albie,’ I whispered.

  ‘He hasn’t got a dog,’ said Ganesh, the expert. ‘It would’ve had us by now.’

  I ventured into the porch. My eyes were adjusting to the gloom and I could make out the occupant, huddled in the far corner by the church door.

  ‘I ain’t got nuffin’!’ His old voice was tremulous and terror made him smell even worse. ‘Why don’t you leave me alone? You ain’t gonna hurt me?’

  ‘Of course not, I swear. Don’t be scared, please. I just want a talk – ’ I began.

  ‘You ain’t goin’ to throw me out?’ he whined, less afraid and ready to defend his space. ‘It’s raining. I got me bronchitis again.’ He wheezed and spluttered and sounded pretty bronchial to me.

  He oughtn’t to have been sleeping here. None of the people we’d seen should have been existing like they were. ‘If you’re ill,’ I said, ‘perhaps we can get you into a shelter somewhere.’

  He spluttered. ’I ain’t goin’! You one of them do-gooders, ain’tcha? You Sally Army or what? Well, you can go and shake your bloody tambourine somewhere else . . .’ He began to cough, wheeze and hawk in a frenzy. I stepped back sharpish because there was a lot of saliva flying around. Eventually he subsided, like a dying volcano, and mumbled, ‘Used to make a living, good living. . .’

  ‘I’m looking,’ I said loudly, hoping to penetrate the haze that fogged his brain, ‘for Alkie Albie Smith. Do you know him?’

  ‘No . . .’ he croaked.

  ‘Oh, come on, he kips here sometimes. If you come here as well you must have run into him. I’m a friend. I’ve got a message for Albie. It’s important.’

  Gan, edging into the porch behind me, pressed a couple of coins in my hand. ‘How much?’ I whispered.

  ‘Coupla quid. Go on, tell him. Then we can get out of here if he doesn’t know anything. I’ll throw up if we stay any longer and he’s probably got half a dozen notifiable diseases!’

  ‘Who’s that feller?’ quavered the old bloke, taking fright again at the sight of Ganesh. ‘Why ain’t he got his uniform on if he’s Sally Army?’

  I pushed Ganesh back outside again. ‘I’ll pay for information about Albie, right? A quid or two quid if it’s special.’

  The mound in the corner heaved and another waft of foul air engulfed me. I clapped my hand over my nose and retreated. ‘You can stay there and tell me,’ I said hurriedly.

  From somewhere in the heap of rags and the gloom, a hand emerged, palm uppermost. It looked like something you’d find if you unwrapped a mummy’s bandages. ‘Give us the two quid!’

  I put one pound coin in the withered palm. ‘Tell me and you can have the other.’

  His claw closed on the coin and was drawn back into the darkness. ‘Sometimes,’ he grumbled, ‘they play jokes. Sometimes they chucks me them tokens what go in the slot machines.’

  I waited for him to satisfy himself that the coin was real. ‘I ain’t seen him fer a week or more,’ he said suddenly. ‘I know ’im, yes. Known ’im for years. I come here tonight, thinking ’e’d be ’ere. But he wasn’t. So I settled meself down to wait for ’im. Cause he usually comes ’ere sooner or later, see? This is where he kips.’

  This much I knew already. A week. I wondered how well the old man was able to keep track of time. ‘When you saw Albie last, did he mention anything special? Like he’d seen something unusual happen, outside here, at night?’

  ‘Nothing much round ’ere, ducks. Gotta a hostel fer wimmin down the road. Bit of trouble there sometimes.’

  The battered women’s refuge. Somehow, it seemed to me, we kept coming back to that.

  ‘Did he tell you he’d seen some sort of dust-up relating to the refuge?’

  ‘No . . . he don’t take no notice. None of us does. What you don’t see don’t get you into no trouble.’

  But Albie had seen something and I was afraid it was yet going to get him into trouble. There was no more to be learned from the old bloke. I gave him the remaining pound coin.

  ‘Thanks, ducks,’ he said, and wheezed again.

  ‘Satisfied?’ asked Ganesh when I rejoined him.

  Angry, I snapped, ‘That’s hardly the word!’ Ganesh was silent. I added, ‘Sorry, you know what I mean.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing you can do about it, Fran.’

  We set off back up the street. The air out here was crystal clear and clean compared to the fug in the porch. The remains of it lingered in my nostrils. I wondered why the church hadn’t put an outer door on the porch. Perhaps they were sick of it being broken open, and calculated that it was better to let wanderers sleep in the porch than to have them break into the church itself in search of shelter. It was fully night-time now but the rain, which had contributed to the freshness, had eased. The lamplight glittered on puddles and the wet road surfaces. Our feet echoed off the pavement flags. A solitary car splattered past, showering spray from the gutters. As the old chap had said, there was nothing much around there. It was a respectable area and at night people barred their doors and didn’t go out. Not on foot, at any rate.

  But there was someone about. Ganesh touched my arm and pointed ahead.

  A dishevelled figure had turned the corner up ahead and was padding down the pavement towards us, clad in an oversized greatcoat, which flapped like bats’ wings as he moved.

  I drew in a sharp breath. ‘Albie?’

  Then it happened.

  A car rounded the same corner and screeched to a halt by the lone figure. Two men jumped out, one tall, one shorter, both wearing dark clothing and knitted hats pulled well down over their ears. They grabbed the pedestrian and began to hustle him efficiently into the car. Their victim set up a voluble protest, familiar enough to identify him for sure as Albie to me. He began to thresh about wildly in his captors’ grip, kicking out with his feet, but he was already half way through the open car door and in another few seconds would have disappeared inside completely.

  Ganesh and I came to life at the same time and yelled out, ‘Hey!’

  We set off up the pavement, waving our arms and screaming anything we could think of, just to make sufficient noise. Noise is a weapon. If you can’t do anything else, yell. It disorientates, frightens and above all, attracts outside attention.

  The two thugs by the car paused and looked towards us. Despite the poor light and the little that could be seen of either of their faces, I felt sure the taller one was Merv. In reality, there was no way Gan and I would have been a match for them, whoever they were, but just at that moment, someone pulled back a curtain from an upper window overlooking the road and a beam spotlighted the scene below on the pavement.

  The would-be snatchers released Albie, jumped back in their motor and roared off with a squeal of gears and smell of scorched rubber. I did manage to get a better look at the car as it swerved and rounded a corner to the right.

  ‘It’s Merv’s Cortina,’ I gasped.

  ‘I don’t know what sort of engine they’ve got in it,’ Ganesh retorted. ‘But it’s either been souped up out of recognition or replaced. It didn’t leave the production line with that one under the hood, that’s for sure!’

  The beam was abruptly cut off as the person at the window above dragged the curtains together, not wanting to be a witness.

  Ganesh and I turned our attention
to Albie who was propped against the nearest lamppost, panting and wheezing.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Ganesh asked anxiously. An incoherent gurgle responded, followed by a feeble flailing of Albie’s hands meant to indicate, I supposed, that he couldn’t speak for the moment.

  We waited and eventually the poor old devil got his breath back, or most of it. ‘You see that?’ he croaked indignantly. ‘You see what them geezers tried to do?’

  ‘Yes, we did. You remember me, Albie?’ I peered into his face, which glowed eerily in the light from the lamp overhead.

  Recognition dawned. ‘I do, indeed, my dear! You’re the actress.’

  ‘And private detective,’ said Ganesh, a trifle maliciously, I thought.