Authors: Helen Black
‘I know.’
‘I have to get Sam looked after by David, and Anna looked after by Milo.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s a bloody nightmare.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Which is why we have to make the most of the time we’ve got.’ He leaned over and kissed her. ‘I’ve always wondered where defence lawyers keep their briefs.’
‘This is a closed meeting.’
Alexia had arrived at the Turk’s Head, a shabby pub in Tye Cross, the red-light district in Luton. Outside the pub, one buttock on a bar stool, was a hulk of a man with a bald head that seemed to melt in folds over his collar. He was eating a doorstep sandwich that dripped mayonnaise down his pink chin.
‘I’ve been asked to attend,’ said Alexia.
The hulk raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think so, love.’
Alexia was unsure of what to say next when another man appeared in the doorway. He was smartly dressed, in a well-cut black suit. His shirt, also black, was double cuffed. But something about him didn’t fit. It was as if he were trying far too hard. As if he would feel far more comfortable in a nylon tracksuit.
He put a hand on the hulk’s meaty shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Bigsy.’
Alexia squeezed past, close enough to smell the filling in the bouncer’s sandwich, and followed the other man into the belly of the beast.
‘Don’t mind him, he’s there to keep out troublemakers.’
Alexia looked around the dingy interior of the pub, packed with more tattoos and England tops than a Wembley final, and wondered who on earth they had in mind.
Men and women of all ages filled every inch of the saloon. Young skinheads at the back, top to toe in denim, laughing with their girlfriends over pints of Stella. Middle-aged men nodding their Burberry caps as they propped up the bar. Pensioners around the tables engrossed in games of dominoes.
‘Thank you for coming, Miss Dee.’ The man led her to the front of a makeshift stage. ‘The Pride of England have been very impressed by your reporting on the Stanton boy’.
‘I’ve tried to be fair,’ she said.
He pointed to a chair that had been kept deliberately free with a well-thumbed copy of
Pride and Prejudice.
‘Take a seat,’ he said, scooping up his novel, and he took his place on the stage.
He tapped the microphone. ‘Testing, testing.’
The noise of the crowd began to quiet in anticipation, and Alexia slipped her hand into her pocket to turn on her tape recorder.
‘Good evening.’ His voice was low but clear. A homemade banner with the club name ‘Pride of England: Luton and Dunstable Branch’, daubed in red, hung behind him. Next to it was a surprisingly well-drawn outline of a British Bulldog. ‘How are we all tonight?’
It reminded Alexia of how the stand-ups at Jongleurs warmed up their crowd, and she half expected a joke about George Bush. But this wasn’t comedy.
‘I know most of you know me.’ He laughed at the whistles that rustled through the audience. ‘But for those of you that don’t, I go by the name Blood River.’
Alexia shivered.
‘I assume that most of you have come to show your solidarity against the terrible murder of Charles Stanton.’ Blood River waited for a mumbled assent before continuing. ‘And the even more shocking treatment of his killer.’
‘Scum,’ someone shouted from the back.
Blood River put up his hands. ‘I know all of you here ask yourselves every day why foreigners get everything they need when most ordinary, working-class whites face low wages and poverty. The question on each and every lip is why do we, the British people, allow that?’
‘We’re fucking mugs.’
Blood River chuckled indulgently. ‘Let me tell you why. White Britons are basically a decent and generous bunch, so when the government tells us some poor souls are in trouble our instinct is to help. After the Second World War the Jews and the Russians came here, and we smiled and made room, never mind that the country was nearly bankrupt from fighting the Nazis. Then the Jamaicans and the Indians arrived by the boatload, so we budged up some more and nobody mentioned the decline in industry or the rising unemployment figures. And on and on it’s gone, until day by day the incomers have taken over.’
‘Scroungers!’
Blood River held up his hands again. ‘To be fair, it’s not their fault, is it?’
‘Too fucking right it is.’
Blood River shook his head. ‘No, lads, we asked them to come, bleedin’ begged them to come. And you can’t blame them, can you? If you were living in some shit-hole and one of the richest countries in the world, one of the kindest countries in the world, said all right then, come and live with us, we’ll give you a job, a house and a good school for your kids, what would you do?’
A skinhead girl with a feather-cut and a ring through her lip stood up. Alexia wondered if it could be Snow White.
‘The trouble is they’ve stayed, haven’t they?’ said the girl, but her voice was unfamiliar to Alexia.
‘You’re right.’ Blood River nodded. ‘What the government wanted was a short-term solution to labour problems, but what they’ve got is long-term social problems.’
He pointed to a table of old boys. ‘Sid, Jim, I bet you’ve seen a lot of changes round here over the years.’
A white-haired man with frail hands and an inhaler poking out from his top pocket nodded. ‘When me and Sid was kids the whole of Luton was white. Now my daughter is the only one in her block that’s not one of these Muslims.’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said the man next to him, presumably Sid. ‘I like a Ruby Murray on a Friday night, but it’s too much now, there’s just too many of them.’
‘You’ve hit the nail on the head,’ said Blood River. ‘It’s the number that is the problem. Most of us don’t mind a few foreigners here and there.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ shouted the girl.
‘But it’s when we become a minority in our own land that we can’t stand it,’ said Blood River. ‘When we can’t wave our own flag, the great cross of St George, at football matches, we have to say enough is enough.’
A cheer went up through the crowd. Blood River was on a roll.
‘We do not like it when cheap Polish plumbers drive our lads out of business; when British nurses don’t get a pay rise because so much is being spent on translators. We especially don’t like it when half the people we allow into this country turn out to be criminals.’
While he waited for the fresh applause to die down, Blood River took out a white handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face. Alexia watched, half appalled, half in awe. He really knew how to work a crowd.
When he went back to the mike he let his voice drop. ‘People ask me why I hate the incomers, and I always say the same thing. I don’t hate them, I don’t hate anybody. What you see on my face and what you hear in my voice isn’t hate—it’s anger. Anger that a person who the decent folk of my country have allowed in, could throw it all in their faces and kill a child in his own school.’
His voice rose. ‘Anger that this person who was given the best of everything: a free house, free money, medical care if she needs it…this person spat on the graves of every man, woman and child who lost their lives in the war.’
The room erupted, with the skins stamping their ten-holer boots and the chavs beating their fists on the bar. Alexia could feel the heat of passion in the room like a flash-fire. She was frightened yet intoxicated by the force of his words.
Once the din had settled, Blood River spoke again. ‘And do you know what makes me angrier than anything else? It’s the leftists, the liberals, the do-gooders. The social workers who queue up to sort out their problems, the solicitors who keep them out of jail.’
‘Fucking Judases,’ shouted the skinhead girl.
Blood River nodded solemnly. ‘These are the people we must stop.’
Rats.
Luke is woken by the telltale scratching outside the lean-to.
It’s the worst thing about sleeping rough. The cold and the damp he can survive, but he can’t stand the vermin, with their black coats and long pink tails like fat worms. They say that in London you’re only ever a couple of feet from a rat, and Luke can well believe it.
Teardrop Tony claims to have been bitten by one, but Caz points out he also says he’s related to the Queen. Either way, Luke’s not taking any chances and throws an empty can at the pallet, sending them scurrying back to their lair.
Caz stirs and snuggles closer. She smells of last night’s chips but Luke doesn’t mind. He likes watching her sleep, when her system isn’t fighting drugs and trouble.
He casts his mind back to the girls at Manor Park, with their shiny hair and straight teeth. Here’s Caz, with her hair scraped off her face in an old elastic band, her lips dry and chapped; yet asleep like this, peaceful, she’s the prettiest girl he has ever seen.
She yawns and opens one eye. ‘What you looking at, soft lad?’
‘You,’ he says.
She pulls her sleeping bag over her face. ‘Well, don’t.’
He laughs and crawls outside.
‘Where you off to so early?’ she asks.
He smoothes down his crumpled clothes and ties his laces. ‘For a coffee.’
‘Make mine a skinny latte with a double shot of hazelnut syrup.’
He laughs again. They both know the Black Cat only serves piss water with last night’s milk floating in blobs on the top like cottage cheese.
‘Do you know where I can get some money?’
Sonic Dave chews over both the question and his fried egg carefully. Reports of his incarceration have obviously been greatly exaggerated, for here he is, as mad and as greasy as ever.
‘Where could you get some money?’ He repeats the question as if it’s an exam.
At last, he points his knife at Luke. ‘A bank.’
Luke sighs. Sonic Dave was always going to be a long shot.
‘What do you know?’ asks Teardrop Tony, sliding in next to Luke, closely followed by Long Tall Sally.
‘Young Luke here was just wondering where he might obtain some cash,’ says Sonic Dave.
Teardrop Tony slaps two twenty-pence pieces onto the Formica tabletop. ‘Don’t spend it all at once.’
Luke smiles and pushes the coins back towards Tony. ‘I need a bit more than that,’ he says.
‘How much?’ asks Long Tall Sally expertly rolling a few slivers of tobacco with one hand.
‘A grand,’ says Luke.
His audience nod sagely though Luke knows between them they probably have less than a tenner in their collective pockets.
‘The Boots up in Charing Cross has got a load of new perfume in,’ says Teardrop Tony. ‘You could get at least a fiver a bottle.’
Sally shakes her head, the roll-up attached to her bottom lip by saliva. ‘It’s totally on top. They’ve got at least three security guards.’
‘And stealing two hundred bottles would seem a tad impractical,’ says Dave, yolk running down his chin.
Long Tall Sally lights her scrawny cigarette, filling the air with the smell of paper rather than Old Holborn. ‘It’s no smoking in here,’ shouts the owner from behind his counter, but he doesn’t make any attempt to stop her.
‘The lads at the Troc do all right,’ she says.
Luke wrinkles his nose. Sally often hangs out with the rent boys who work the Trocadero on Piccadilly Circus. They’re mostly young and mostly off their heads. The living dead who sell their arses for crack.
‘I was thinking of a job,’ says Luke.
The other three stop dead in their tracks as if hit by a taser.
‘Work?’ asks Sally, the novelty the idea of spreading a tidal wave through her dreads.
‘Why not?’ says Luke. ‘This is the bloody capital city of England. There must be lots about.’
‘I had a job once,’ says Sonic Dave, a wistful look in his eye. ‘It was 1985.’
‘Doing what?’ asks Teardrop Tony, suitably incredulous.
‘Window cleaner,’ he answers.
‘I’ve always fancied that,’ says Sally. ‘Up on those ladders and that.’
Luke swallows his impatience. Conversations among the homeless veer off at tangents like puppies on their first walks.
‘So do any of you know of anything?’ he asks.
‘Anything what?’ asks Sonic Dave.
Luke banishes the tension from his voice. ‘Jobs. Work.’
‘Oh,’ says Dave. ‘No.’
‘No,’ says Teardrop Tony.
‘No,’ says Long Tall Sally.
Luke breathes deeply.
‘You looking for work?’ asks the owner, scooping the ash and fag ends along the table with a cloth.
Luke is so shocked he can only nod.
‘Be here any morning at five,’ says the owner. ‘Sharp.’
‘So where’s my bleeding coffee, soft lad?’
Caz is in the doorway, her hood framing her face like a grubby halo.
Long Tall Sally makes room for her to sit down. ‘Luke’s getting a job.’
‘Oh, aye?’ says Caz.
‘He needs a grand,’ says Sonic Dave.
‘What for?’ asks Caz.
‘I’m going to get us somewhere to live,’ says Luke.
Caz winks at him in the way his mother used to when he said he’d seen a ghost or Batman.
‘I am,’ he stammers, feeling like a ten-year-old kid. ‘I really am.’
Caz leans over and pats his hand. ‘Course you are, soft lad.’
‘Tell me again why we’re doing this?’
Penny crushed a handful of pistachio nuts, sending at least half flying across Lilly’s kitchen.
‘We’re making kulfi,’ said Lilly, and stirred a panful of milk and ground almonds.
‘Come again?’
Lilly sprinkled a generous spoonful of sugar into the pan. ‘Indian ice cream.’
‘But you’re not Indian,’ said Penny, brushing slivers of nuts off her alpaca jacket.
‘We are a broad and catholic church,’ said Lilly. ‘Particularly when it comes to food.’
‘Why can’t we just stick to British traditions?’ said Penny. ‘It should be toffee apples for Bonfire Night, not this stuff.’
‘Sam hates Bonfire Night so I’m adopting Diwali.’
‘It just doesn’t seem right,’ Penny sniffed. ‘Next they’ll be telling us we can’t celebrate Christmas.’
Lilly looked sideways at her friend. ‘No one’s saying that.’
‘Don’t be naïve, Lilly, there are some London boroughs where they have to call them
seasonal holidays
or some other nonsense.’
‘That’s just racist propaganda,’ said Lilly.
Penny pointed to a pile of chopped pumpkin flesh. ‘So what’s that for?’
‘Pie,’ said Lilly. ‘I’m incorporating Thanksgiving.’
Penny threw up her hands in exasperation. ‘Anyway, why can’t we just buy the food?’
Jordan, Penny’s new foster child, whooped through Lilly’s garden. They watched him through the window as he chased the leaves swirling in the wind.
‘Because this is a celebration,’ said Lilly. ‘Not online shopping.’
‘You’re such a good mummy,’ said Penny, with more than a trace of sarcasm.
Lilly nodded at Jordan, who was leaping around like a demented sheep dog.
‘He’s settled in nicely.’
Penny beamed. ‘Poor little lamb. He’s been through a lot but he seems happy with us.’
‘And up at school?’ asked Lilly. ‘Does everyone hate me?’
‘Course not.’
‘Liar.’
‘Penny laughed. And you? It all seems quiet on the Western Front.’
‘Indeed it is.’
‘And is that good?’ asked Penny.
‘How can you even ask that?’
Penny eyed her through her fringe. ‘The Lilly Valentine I know seems to thrive on drama and excitement.’
‘Not this one,’ said Lilly. ‘This one likes a peaceful life.’
She reached into the cupboard for a bottle of rose-water. The smell reminded her of her nan. ‘I’ve kept out of everyone’s way at Manor Park, Sam’s happy and Anna’s case is coming along.’
‘So everything’s in order?’
Lilly let a few drops of the pink elixir splash onto the surface of the kulfi and set it to cool. ‘Just the way I like it. No trauma, no scenes, no surprises.’
‘So who’s that?’ asked Penny, pointing through the window to the figure of a man crossing the lawn.
Lilly squinted at the silhouette. It was Jez.
‘What on earth does he want?’
If Jez was embarrassed by Penny’s flirtatious smile he didn’t show it.
‘Take a seat through there.’ Lilly waved a sugar-encrusted hand towards the sitting room.
‘Why am I not surrounded by gorgeous men?’ whispered Penny when Jez was out of sight.
‘You’re married to a millionaire,’ Lilly pointed out.
‘I might give it all up and become a legal aid lawyer.’
‘And do your own ironing?’
‘Good point,’ said Penny. She went to collect Jordan and headed for the door.
‘What about the food?’ Lilly called.
‘I’ll stop in Waitrose,’ she said.
‘Shop-bought!’
‘I have better things to do.’
Lilly turned to Jez. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but what are you doing here?’
‘It’s nice to see you too,’ he laughed. ‘Can’t a man call in on a friend these days?’
Lilly poured Jez a glass of wine and eyed him suspiciously ‘We’ve known each other a long time and you’ve never seen fit to pop by.’
He took a sip. ‘This is a great place. Very you.’
‘I mean it, Jez, I’m starting to worry,’ said Lilly.
Jez put down his wine and sighed. ‘We go back a fair way, don’t we?’
‘I just said that.’
‘Which is why I hope you’ll take what I’m about to say in the spirit it’s intended,’ he said.
‘Now I’m really worried,’ she replied.
‘This case we’re involved in, Lilly, it’s a tricky one, very tricky,’ he said. ‘The law on conspiracy is complicated.’
‘My expert says there was no conspiracy.’
Jez put up his hands. ‘I know that, but it doesn’t mean the jury will buy it.’
‘It’ll be my job to convince them.’
‘And I’m sure you’ll do your level best,’ he said. ‘But this is a murder trial at the Old Bailey.’
Lilly felt her hackles rise. ‘I wonder how I missed that.’
‘Don’t get shirty,’ Jez sighed. ‘I’m not saying you’re not good enough.’
‘It sounds that way.’
‘I’m just trying to point out that this isn’t your usual thing, Lilly’
She felt her throat redden. ‘I appear in court every day.’
‘On family matters,’ he said. ‘Divorce hearings at Luton County Court are not in the same ball park.’
Now she was angry. Who did he think he was, coming into her home and telling her she wasn’t up to the job?
‘If you’ve come here to patronise me, Jez, I suggest you head back to London.’
Lilly stalked to the door and opened it, the clear indication being that he should walk through it.
He followed with a sad smile. ‘Sheba said you’d react like this.’
‘She’s a genius,’ said Lilly.
He put a hand on her arm. ‘I truly didn’t mean to upset you, Lilly, but I just wish you’d consider getting a silk.’
‘You’re not a silk!’
It was below the belt. Lilly knew Jez would be made up any day.
His smile didn’t falter. ‘Just give it some thought.’
Jez jumped onto the train back to London. He hoped Lilly would take his advice. He didn’t want to annihilate Lilly but what choice did he have? He had been summoned yet again to an audience with Ronald.
The waitress leaned over to light the candle, revealing a generous portion of cleavage.
‘How the devil are you?’ asked Ronald.
Jez smiled across the table. He hated this place, with its red brocade drapes and leather banquettes. The air was hot and oppressive. ‘I’m very well, Ron.’
The head of chambers reached into the humidifier and extracted a San Cristobal cigar. He ran it under his nose, his eyes half closed, then nodded for Jez to take one.
Jez had never seen the point of cigars. He liked the instant nicotine hit of a Marlboro Light, but even in a club like Campions the smoking ban applied to everything—except their own products at fifty pounds a pop.
He chose a cigar, bit off the end and lit up with the candle.
‘I’ve been talking to Tobias about you,’ said Ronald.
Tobias De Winters was the man who currently dealt with the applications to take silk. The gatekeeper of the brotherhood.
‘All good I hope,’ said Jez.
Ronald smiled through the cloud of smoke. ‘He has no doubt about your abilities.’
Jez nodded coolly. ‘And he knows I’ve taken some prosecution work?’
Ronald beckoned to the waitress to bring more whisky, a sherry-casked single malt that Jez thought tasted like strong cold tea.
‘He has noted that you are happy to use your full skill set,’ said Ronald.
Jez took a sip of the golden liquid and longed for a vodka tonic. He wasn’t sure sending kids to prison was a skill he particularly wanted to hone but needs must and all that.
Ronald tapped his ash. He clearly had something else to say, but Jez knew better than to hurry him.
‘He has one little concern.’
‘Oh?’ Jez tried to sound unconcerned.
‘The Duraku case,’ said Ronald. ‘There is a worry that it may not be going as well as it could.’
Jez frowned. ‘In what way?’
‘Tobias feels you’ve been giving the defence an easy ride.’
Jez shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine what’s given him that impression. We’ve only got as far as entering pleas.’
Ronald sat back in his chair, his jacket falling open to reveal his ever-increasing paunch.
‘Come on, Jez, you’ve let the débâcle of bail slide without so much as a comment.’
‘It wasn’t worth the argument, Ronald. The girl’s being well supervised.’
Ronald tipped back his head and blew a column of smoke towards the yellow ceiling.
‘And it’s got nothing to do with the redhead defending her?’
Jez feigned a laugh. ‘If I didn’t know that was a joke I’d be offended.’
‘I hear that you and she have been somewhat friendly in the past,’ said Ronald.
Jez thought back to the drunken snog he and Lilly had shared at a party, when she’d smelled delicious and tasted even better. It might have gone further if she hadn’t thrown up.
‘Who’s been telling tales?’ he asked.