A Kind of Hush (5 page)

Sunday morning. Si’s uncle Chris had wangled some tickets for a ‘Quo’ concert at Wembley, so we are all going. Needless to say, Pete and Den were over the moon, at last they were going to see their heroes in the flesh. But first I was to spend the day with Chef and his wife at their place in Greenford.

I had to be there by twelve so I jumped from my bed and grabbed a quick shower and shave. Looking in the mirror I was surprised to see that I had quite a large bruise on the side of my head by my left eye. The centre of the bruise was oozing just a trickle of blood. I must have got caught in the fight and not noticed. That happens often, you get so high that if you do get smacked you just don’t feel anything, nothing registers.

I checked the rest of me for any damage. A few bruises on my shins and the skin was gone from both sets of knuckles, but other than that I seemed okay. I stuck a small piece of tissue on my face to dry up the blood and got dressed.

I caught a West Ruislip train at Lancaster Gate and chugged out to Greenford.

Chef lived in a nice little bungalow just down the road
 from the station. His front and back gardens were alive with red roses, he was potty about them. I walked up the path and rang the doorbell, then stood back clutching the piddling bunch of flowers that I had bought at the station and braced myself.

The door flew open and this big woman came bundling out and threw her arms around me. She almost crushed every ounce of breath that I had out of me and then planted a massive smacker on my forehead which I knew would leave a bloody great big lipstick smear.

This was Beryl. Beryl was Chefs wife and Beryl was very big, very strong and very, very blonde, out-of-a-bottle type of blonde if you know what I mean. Beryl liked me, thank God. I'd hate to think what she could do if she hated me.

'Stewart darling!' she screeched. I wish she wouldn't call me Stewart, she always calls me Stewart.

'Good to see you, sweetheart, how are you? Oh! You've hurt yourself! Are you all right? Come inside and let me have a look at it. How did it happen? Did someone hit you? Did you fall? Does it sting? You tell me who it was and I'll sort them out. Ooh, it does look nasty. Cheffeee! Come and look at Stewart's face.'

On and on and on she went, but then that's Beryl, her heart's in the right place, it's just that her mouth never seems to stop.

She dragged me into the kitchen and sat me down. She then got some cotton wool, soaked it in Dettol and proceeded to dab at my face. It stung like hell. She finished by sticking an oversized plaster on it and said, 'Now you take care of that or it will fester and go poison.' She then went and put the kettle on for a cup of tea.

Chef had come into the kitchen by this time and stood leaning against the breakfast bar chuckling quietly at my obvious embarrassment.

'Come on, son, I've got some beer in the garden,' he said and walked out of the back door. I followed and still clutching my little bunch of flowers sat down in a deckchair next to his. He handed me a can of lager and looking at the now crumpled posie in my hands asked, 'Were they supposed to be for us?'

I looked down at them and laughed. 'Sorry Chef,' I said, 'she made them go completely out of my head.'

He laughed as he took them and laid them on the ground. 'She has that effect on most people, son, don't worry about it.' He then looked serious and said, 'I see that you were busy again last night. You're going to get into big trouble if you don't watch yourself.'

'What do you mean, Chef,' I said with a grin.

'Don't piss me about, boy,' he said. 'You know exactly what I mean.'

'Sorry, Chef,' I said. And I meant it.

'What happened?' he asked. So I told him. Like I said, I could talk to Chef, he was a bloody good listener.

After I had finished he sighed and said, 'You've got a bloody good head on your shoulders and a natural talent for your work, you could go a long way if you put your mind to it. It would be a pity to see all of that go to waste just because you haven't yet learned how to deal with your past.'

'What do you mean?' I asked.

'Why do you feel the need to keep on doing what you did last night? What do you get from it?'

'I'm getting even,' I said.

'What do you mean by getting even?'

'Just that, Chef, getting even,' I said. 'Stopping those sorts of blokes from picking on innocent kids. Showing them that they can't keep on getting away with it.'

'Are you sure about that?' he asked. 'Some people would see it as mugging, or even queer bashing.'

'I know,' I said. 'I've heard that from people before, but it's not. Last night's was a known nonce. No one believed Tony when he told them what that bastard was like and he could have gone on fostering kids and screwing them for ever, he had to be stopped. The social services couldn't and the police either couldn't or wouldn't, so we did. But it's not queer bashing, not in any way. When those blokes proposition Si at the station, they know bloody well that they are talking to an underage boy, if it was a gay bloke looking for a partner for the night, then there are plenty of places that he can go for that. These blokes are after kids and kids only, they're nonces and they have got to be stopped and if we didn't do it, no other fucker would.'

'That's quite a speech,' said Chef. 'But what happens to you if it all goes wrong? What happens if one of those men goes to the police?'

'They don't,' I said.

'They haven't yet,' said Chef. 'But it could happen.'

'We'll deal with that as and when, Chef.'

'That's daft,' said Chef. 'Bloody daft.'

'What do you think I ought to do then?' I asked.

T think you ought to deal with your own problems before you start taking on other people's,' he said.

'How d'you mean?'

'Do something about your own father, you're great at 
fighting other people's battles and you're good at telling other people that they mustn't let these animals walk free, but yours still is and he's still got your sisters and maybe even a grandchild or two by now. When are you going to do something about him?'

'I can't,' I said.

'Why not,' he said. 'Are you scared?'

'Yes I am, I'm fucking terrified if you must know.' I got up and walked to the other end of the garden.

Chef lit another cigarette and waited. I sniffed and coughed and managed to hold back the tears that I could feel building up. I took a couple of deep breaths, walked back and sat down again.

'Sorry Chef,' I said.

'What for?' he asked. 'There's nothing wrong with getting angry, just so long as you can control it, and there's no shame in admitting that you're scared either. Think about what I've said and maybe you'll begin to understand why it is that you are like you are. As it is, believe it or not, I have a great deal of sympathy and understanding for what you do, I just believe that you are going about it the wrong way.'

We went inside for the biggest Sunday lunch that you have ever seen, all cooked and lovingly prepared by Beryl. Chef never cooked at home. By the time I left, late afternoon, I was full fit to burst.

We were at Wembley by seven-thirty. Pete and Den wanted to make sure of good seats. Si turned up with this bloke who looked like a refugee from the fifties. You know, drape jacket, brothel creepers, elephant trunk hairdo, Elvis sideburns, the whole bit. It was his uncle Chris. He impressed us straightaway by steering us to a 
side entrance. Then flashing a card at the security guard, he led us straight down to the front of the hall to pick our seats before the crowds came in.

I must admit that my choice of music is a lot slower. Heavy rock and head banging doesn't really do that much for me. But that concert was brilliant. It wasn't so much the sounds, more the atmosphere. Everybody jumped at the same time, everybody rocked at the same time and everybody seemed to know every word of every song. I even caught myself singing along to one or two of the numbers. When they'd finished, the crowd screamed for more. They were just about to go into 'Rocking All Over The World' when Chris told us to follow him and started to push his way through the crowd to the area at the side of the stage.

'Hang on, we want to hear this,' yelled Pete and Den together.

'You will!' screamed Chris back at them, 'you will.'

We got to a line of bouncers who were protecting a double door that led backstage. They glared at us menacingly.

'Oh shit!' I said to Mick, 'what's he doing?'

Chris smiled and produced a wad of cards, one for each of us. He showed them to the bouncers and they moved aside and counted us through, the biggest bouncer saying through a gap-toothed smile, 'Now you behave yourselves back there, lads, or I'll come looking for you.'

'Backstage passes,' mouthed Pete and Den, their faces wide with amazement. 'Backstage fucking passes.'

'How the fuck did you manage that,' I yelled at Chris.

He smiled and said, 'It's not what you know

'It's who you know,' we chorused.

We watched the end of the show from the side of the stage, Pete and Den's heads were almost totally buried in the massive speakers as they bopped up and down to the beat while strumming their imaginary guitars.

We met the band and were stunned when they invited us back for a drink. We had a jar or four or ten with them and the crew and gave them a hand to pack away all of their stuff. We eventually left loaded with pictures, records, autographs and pissed out of our skulls.

All the way home, the twins swore undying loyalty and devotion to Chris for what they believed was a miracle. I must admit, I thought that the guys were brilliant to treat a load of strange kids like us so nicely; well, they had no need to did they? They could have just told us to piss off, but they didn't. They gained at least one more fan that day.

 
I took Chefs words to heart and for a while threw myself into my work and aimed at getting some qualifications. Chef had pressurised the boss into allowing me two days a week for catering college. I even began to like it, new people around, making new friends, I was getting on well. I still saw the lads occasionally but I had cut down on the amount of business I joined them on. Mick seemed to understand that I had a lot of thinking to do, so he got into the habit of expecting me only when he saw me.

Everything seemed to be going fine. Then Chef died.

I was gutted, destroyed. I loved that bloke, more than he would ever know and the bastard upped and died on me. How could he do that? Didn’t he know how much I needed him?

He had just finished preparing a sea bass for serving. It was all tarted up with brightly coloured vegetables, Nouvelle Cuisine he called it. He stood back to admire his work and lit another cigarette. I noticed that he had placed a piece of asparagus in such a way that at first glance it looked like the fish had a giant penis. I pointed it out to him and he started laughing, then he started coughing and then he went. It was as quick as that.

Liz, the kitchen hand, dropped-to her knees beside him and started to thump his chest and give him mouth to mouth. It seems that she learned it at one of her Red Cross days. It did no good. As she lifted her head I could see the smoke from his cigarette rising slowly from his nose and mouth.

I stood frozen to the spot, a smile still on my face from the fish joke. I didn't know what was going on, couldn't take it in.

'Call an ambulance!' barked Liz.

I just stood there.

'Stu, call a bloody ambulance!' she screamed again.

I clicked into gear and rushed to the phone.

The ambulance arrived ten minutes later. Liz was still pounding on Chef's chest. One of the ambulancemen gently moved her to one side, while the other checked Chef for a pulse. On finding nothing he began to do all of the things that I guess they do at times like that, then he looked up and said, 'I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do, he's gone.'

Liz cracked up then and had to be led away by one of the other women. I was numb. I helped them to pick him up then took hold of his hand. He was still clutching his lighter. I gently prized it from his grasp and slipped it in my pocket, I've still got it, it's only a grotty old Clipper but it's my most prized possession. Then they took him away.

I didn't go to the funeral, I couldn't face it. I sent the biggest bunch of roses that I could afford with a card that said, TO DAD, IF ONLY. LOVE STU'.

I went to see Beryl some time later, she gave me a hug and cried a lot, she remembered the roses and understood 
the card. I didn't know then that I'd be seeing her more often, for different reasons.

That weekend I went out with the lads and did some business.

We’ve got a new chef now, he’s okay, but it can never be the same.

It’s one o’clock in the morning, it’s very hot and I was sitting just outside the window of my room looking through the railings that run all the way around the roof of the hotel.

I’m watching the ‘toms’ at work in the square below. Toms are prostitutes, for those that don’t know, but I haven’t quite worked out yet how cockney rhyming slang turns prostitute into tom; I’ll let you know if I do.

She was back again, wearing a tight-fitting red dress that shows all of her legs and sets off her long blonde hair a treat. She doesn’t seem to be like the other girls. She doesn’t walk to the cars that cruise by, or laugh and joke the way that the others do. If someone wants her, she’s always taken to them by one of the other girls. She never seems to smile and rarely talks. If she gets into a car, she’s always back within the hour. There was something about her that was bugging me.

I watched for another hour or so until I saw a long dark car pull up and take her away. It was the same car that brings her when she works the square, so I assume it’s her pimp. I went to bed.

The following night I started watching earlier. She arrived in the car at about eight o'clock, same red dress, same quiet, almost depressed manner. She stood by the gate to the gardens in the middle of the square clutching her handbag and staring at her feet. I decided to go for a walk.

I walked out of the door of the hotel and across the road towards her, she had her back to me. One of the girls with her said, 'Hello darling.'

I smiled and walked past. I turned to go into the gardens and glanced at her face, her eyes met mine and for an instant the world stopped. Her jaw dropped as she recognised me.

'Stu?!' she said. 'Is that you?'

'Yes,' I said, frowning.

'It's me, Stu, Jenny.'

'Jen,' I said. 'It can't be.' Jen is my sister, she was a skinny eleven-year-old when I left home, but this, this was a young woman. Suddenly, recognition hit me like a brick full in the face. We threw our arms around one another and hugged and hugged. I had a million questions to ask her, but I didn't know how to start. I was speechless, she was sobbing.

One of the older girls walked over, Jen looked up at her and whispered, 'It's my brother, I've not seen him for years.'

She smiled and said, 'Okay, love, but don't be too long. If you're not here when he comes back, you know what'll happen.'

'Thanks, Sally,' said Jen and we started to walk towards the hotel.

'No, not there,' she said. 'It's too close.'

'Okay,' I said, 'come with me.' I took her down the side of the hotel to the car park.

'Hang on a sec,' I said and I ran in the back door, through the kitchen to the chef's office and took the van keys from the hook by the door. I ran back out, grabbed Jenny by the hand and pushed her into the small Escort van that we use for the meat-market. I jumped into the driving seat, started the engine, slammed it into gear and sped off.

I drove out to a pub that I know in Chiswick overlooking the river. Parked up, bought a couple of drinks and we sat looking at the boats.

'What happened?' I asked.

'It was Dad,' she said. 'He got worse and worse, used to bring his friends in to do us while he watched. He got fed up with us, bored he said. Started to call us names like slag and whore, he put Ali in hospital when he thought that she had enjoyed one of his friends too much.'

Ali is my older sister Alison.

'She's still in there. He broke her arms and ribs and ruptured her spleen. She's in a terrible state, I don't dare go and see her.'

'Which hospital?' I asked.

'The Whittington,' she said. 'But don't go, if he catches you, he'll kill you. He's mad, out of his head.'

'Don't worry,' I said. 'I know what I'm doing. Now what about you?' I asked. 'Why are you out here?'

'He sold me,' she said.

'W - w - what?!' I stammered.

'He sold me. He got fed up with me, I got too old for him and he sold me.'

'How? Who to?'

'Someone that he met through his dirty film club, a bloke named Gus. He gave Dad a thousand pounds for me and takes kids to him when he needs them. I've been with him for about three weeks now, he's an evil bastard, he hurts me, Stu, I can't walk sometimes.'

'Okay, babe,' I said and slipped an arm around her as she started crying again.

'I've got to sort this,' I said, 'I've got to sort this. First I've got to get you safe.'

'You can't,' said Jen. 'I've got to go back, if I don't Gus will have me burned.'

'No, he won't,' I said. 'Trust me, I left you once, I'm not going to let you down again.'

We got back into the van and I drove out to Greenford.

We arrived at Beryl's at about eleven o'clock. I rang the bell and waited with my arm protectively around Jen. I felt terrible.

Thousands of things were going on in my head and I needed time to sort them out. Beryl opened the door, saw me and beamed, then she looked at Jen's tear-stained face and pulled us both inside.

'What's happened, love?' she asked. Looking at Jen, she said, 'Who's this lovely thing and why so sad?'

While Jen used the bathroom I briefly explained the situation to Beryl, and before I could ask she said, 'Of course she can stay here, I'd love the company. Now don't you worry, you go and do what you have to do.'

I promised her that I would get some money to help with Jen's keep.

'Don't be silly,' she said. 'Chef left me well-provided for, I've got money coming out of my ears. Anyway, you know very well that Chef would want me to do this.'

I thanked her and gave her a hug.

Jen came back and I told her what the plan was. Beryl helped by explaining that she wouldn't let her out of her sight and that she was perfectly safe as no one but the three of us would ever know where she was. She then made Jen laugh by flexing her muscles and saying, 'And if anyone is fool enough to try, then they will have to walk over me first.'

I kissed them both and left.

I was back at the hotel by one in the morning. I parked up the van and walked over to the staff entrance. It was pitch black. I was trying to find the keyhole when I was grabbed from behind and slammed against the door. A hand pushed my face hard into the wood and a voice said, 'Where is she?'

'Who?' I asked, trying to sound innocent.

'Don't fuck with me,' said the voice.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' I said.

'The red dress, where's the girl?' he said and something whacked across the back of my legs.

'Honest ... I ... I don't know what you mean,' I said, trying hard to control the pain.

He spun me around and shoved a knife under my nose. 'Your name's Stewart, her name's Jenny. She's your sister and you took her tonight. Sally told us . . . eventually.'

I heard a chuckle off to my left. Sally, I remembered, was the girl who let Jen go with me. I wondered what they had done to her.

'What do you want?' I asked.

'I want to cut your throat,' said the voice and the chuckler started again.

'Where . . . is . . . she?' he growled.

'I. . . I. . . don't know,' I stammered.

'Oh well, your loss/ he said. 'Say ta ta to your knees.'

A figure loomed up in front of me, he had what looked like a baseball-bat in his hands. Just as he raised it above his head, lights flooded the car park. I screwed my eyes shut and gritted my teeth preparing myself for the pain that I was about to feel. Just then the door behind me began to move.

Til be back,' hissed the voice and he disappeared.

I fell backwards into the arms of the night porter and passed out.

I awoke on the settee in the manager's office. I was shaking like a leaf and the backs of my legs hurt like hell. The night porter had dragged me in there before deciding what to do. He gave me some water and asked me if I wanted to call the police.

'No . . . no . . . erm . . . don't call them,' I said. Til be okay.'

'You sure,' he said. 'Those people didn't sound too nice.'

'Yeah, it's okay,' I said. 'It was just a misunderstanding. Thanks anyway, Sam.'

'Okay,' he said, 'it's your life. But if the guvnor hears about this, he's not gonna be any too pleased.'

'Don't worry, Sam,' I said. 'It won't happen again, sorry to have bothered you, mate.'

'No bother to me, mate,' he said. 'You just livened up an otherwise boring night.'

'Thanks, Sam,' I said again. T think I'll go up to bed.'

I got up and walked, no limped, to the lift, my legs felt like they were on fire. In my mind the voice hissing Til be back' was playing over and over again.

I got to my room, dropped my jeans and checked the backs of my legs. Straight across both calf muscles and curving round to the outside of my right one was one massive great vivid blue and red bruise. I thought that I was lucky not to have two broken legs.

I went to the pay-phone in the hall and called Mick. I spoke to him for a few seconds, went back to my room and threw a few things into a bag. Then I wrote a short note and pinned it to the back of my door. I climbed through the window, took a long look down at the square, moved around to the side of the building and shinned down the fire escape to the first floor and waited.

Ten or fifteen minutes later a battered old Toyota pulled up outside. I slid down the last few feet, crouched and listened for a couple of seconds, then scurried still crouching to the car.

Fucking hell,' said Mick. 'What have you been up to now?'