Authors: Kathy Lette
I was trying to pay attention but was completely distracted by the man’s muscled forearms, which flexed deliciously with each swing of his arms. ‘In my line of work I see kids as young as eight or nine employed as lookouts and couriers.’
‘And what is that, exactly? Your line of work?’ I asked, thinking, Mr Universe? Hugh Jackman’s body double? Number-one female masturbation fantasy as voted by
Moist
magazine?
‘Nathaniel Cavendish.’ He extended his hand. ‘Ex-banker turned do-gooder.’
‘I thought the only bank we could rely on since the Global Financial Crash was the sperm bank?’ I bantered, thinking how much I’d like to make a withdrawal.
‘You’re right.’ He laughed. ‘As an investment banker, I was an expert at extracting money from people’s pockets . . . only without the traditional method of resorting to violence. So I left the Swiss bank I worked for in the City and I now run a charity helping young offenders go straight.’
‘Wait,’ I said, intrigued. ‘You gave up a life of luxury to work with the disadvantaged? I think
you’re
the one on drugs.’ But I was secretly impressed. This was the kind of man I thought Jack Cassidy would turn into.
‘The whole GFC was caused by wanker bankers ripping off the system. It hit me that we were no better than these kids being sent down for dealing. If I hadn’t been born with a whole canteen of silver spoons in my mouth and had grown up here’ – he gestured around us, at the underbelly of the estate – ‘I’d have been one of those boys you just encountered. They’re not bad. They’re just angry at their situation, at society, at themselves . . .’
Nathaniel Cavendish had a soulful, elegant quality that reminded me of a young Marcel Proust before he took to his bed to write
À la recherche du temps perdu
– if Proust had been in possession of rock-hard abs and perfect pectorals, that is.
‘The worlds of investment banking and drug dealing are so similar. It’s all alpha men, danger, deals, adrenalin, quick money, fast cars and sexy women. If you’re in investment, you’re managing a portfolio. Guys on the estate, they’re the CEOs of drug businesses. They understand how to market, how to distribute . . .’
I was listening, but also awestruck by the man’s caffè-latte skin tone, which was nearly as smooth as his style.
‘Drug dealing’s like a corporation, you see. It’s a pyramid structure. Drugs from Afghanistan or Turkey are driven across Europe by young Bulgarians and Lithuanians, stuffed into every orifice of their cars. The heroin gets taken from them at Dover and hidden in the back of lorries. Once the drugs are in London, they’re passed down through the distributors. In banking and drug dealing, cash is so easy to come by it becomes like Monopoly money.’
‘Yeah, until you get the “Go to jail. Do not pass Go” card.’
‘Exactly. But the worst that can happen to a banker is that your bonus is docked. I try to show these kids a different possibility. The charity I run gets young offenders work experience at banks and businesses.’
Nathaniel Cavendish seemed to have just popped in from the age of Enlightenment. All he needed was a frock coat and a pair of breeches. Even though I’d only just met the man, I could already see myself sitting by the fireside of his ancestral home, running my hand soothingly through his lovely locks as he told me about the hard day he’d had, saving ragamuffins and urchins from chimneys and coalmines.
‘So how exactly do you wave this magic philanthropic wand of yours?’
‘While they’re inside, I have a captive audience. Literally. I get kids reading about the stock market and property investment. Then, when they leave prison, I ask friends to mentor them and give them work and show them how to invest in shares and make money from legal trading.’
My heart did a fast fandango. Nathaniel seemed mail-ordered – he was just the type of male I would write away for.
‘Drug dealers are good at maths. I just show them the mathematical equations. For someone making money through drugs, if you add up the time they’re going to spend in prison, the money for lawyers, et cetera, it’s always going to work out better going straight. Even working at McDonald’s is going to be a better bet in the end.’
‘But what about you? Don’t you miss the high life at all?’ I asked, thoroughly captivated.
‘Not really. After all, the best things in life are free – walking, talking, laughing, oxygen and orgasms.’
I swallowed hard. Oxygen might be free, but I didn’t seem to be getting enough of it all of a sudden, as my head was spinning.
‘I’m sorry. That was very forward of me! . . . But when tragedy waits to check your coat and jeopardy’s mixing the drinks, there’s no doubt that it adds a certain piquancy to the daily pleasures of life,’ he said, in his mellifluous melted-chocolate tones. ‘It makes wine taste better but also makes kissing a beautiful woman all the more poignantly appreciated.’
I would have swallowed again, but I didn’t seem to have any saliva left after drooling throughout our entire walk across the estate.
Nathaniel stopped in front of a tower block with smeared-glass doors leading into a drab landing. ‘Here you are.’ He glanced back at my crumpled bit of paper, still in his hand. ‘Floor 12, flat 49. Hawthorn House, Buttercup Road . . . Hawthorn, Buttercup . . .?’ He looked around sadly at the sea of grey asphalt. ‘England has become a place where they tear down the trees . . . and then name buildings after them. But, oh, do forgive me. Here I am, blathering on. Just as well you found out how boring I am now, and not on a walking tour of the Cotswolds.’
Was he suggesting a walk in the Cotswolds? I’d rather he took me for a walk on the wild side . . . Although, in my scuffed shoes and dowdy pencil skirt, I was clearly not dressed for a date, I thought, wishing I’d spruced up a little more that morning. Since joining Pandora’s, my only sartorial motto seemed to be – if the shoe fits, it’s ugly.
Nathaniel turned to face me, full on. ‘But you haven’t said a word about yourself. Why are
you
here, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Interviewing a witness. I’m a lawyer.’ I gave him my ‘Pandora’s – Thinking outside the Box’ card.
He cast his eye over it. ‘Matilda Devine . . . divine by name and divine by nature.’ He slipped it into his back jeans pocket then kissed my hand in his gallant way. ‘I’m delighted by this propitious encounter. Our second. Seems it’s meant to be.’ He smiled, doffed an imaginary hat, then strode off to abolish slavery or invent penicillin, or something equally noble.
Riding up in the rackety lift and walking along the dank corridor, all I could think about was Nathaniel Cavendish’s general perfection. I would have dwelt longer on his aristocratic loveliness, but I’d found the right door, knocked and was now being appraised through a cyclopean spyhole. The perfectly coiffeured and made-up child who opened the door to me was lap-dance ready and wet-T-shirt glamorous . . . if you like your fifteen-year-olds that way. Once I’d given my name, she let me into a tiny handkerchief square of a flat.
Chantelle was curled up on the couch next to an imitation Tiffany lamp. The stained glass reminded me of the delicate wings of a butterfly.
‘How are you, Chantelle?’
‘I ain’t been able to cry yet . . . Though I seem to be able to cry in my dreams,’ she said. ‘How’s Gran? When can I see ’er?’
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her gran was currently claustrophobically ensconced in a psychotic boot camp otherwise known as remand prison, so said instead, ‘Your grandma’s well. She sent you all her love.’
‘She’s still in jail, ain’t she?’
‘Her bail hearing appeal is scheduled for next week. Meanwhile, I can take you to see her when you’re feeling stronger.’
‘I’m strong!’ Chantelle’s body may have been frail, but her voice was pure steel. ‘I’ve already enrolled online for kickboxin’ and karate at the YMCA. I ain’t gonna be a victim. I’m gonna fight back. To protect my gran.’
‘That’s so good, Chantelle. Because that’s what I need to ask you.’ I sat beside her and took her limp little hand in mine. ‘Do you want the Crown Prosecution Service to go ahead with the prosecution? You
can
ask to withdraw your evidence. Being in the witness box in court can be really scary and intimidating. Nobody would judge you if you didn’t want to go ahead, Chantelle. Nobody at all.’
She snatched her hand from mine and leapt up off the weathered settee. ‘I hope their ears turn to assholes and shit on their shoulders! I want ’em locked up for ever! So they can never ever do this to any other girl! J’hear me!?’
Roxy was right. Chantelle did have her grandmother’s fighting spirit. ‘Are you sure?’
She gave a strained smile full of endearingly crooked teeth. ‘Yeah, I’m sure.’
I relaxed for the first time in days.
Later, after a quiet supper with Portia, going over the most tedious multiple-choice maths homework (Q. Why did the maths student’s mother throw her watch out of the window? A. Because she wanted to watch time fly), I went to bed that night and slept soundly, totally confident that justice would triumph and the rapists would be convicted – and all without the intervention of the Senior Treasury Counsel Jack bloody Cassidy.
I only wish I’d reminded myself that, if everything seems to be coming your way, you’re probably going the wrong direction up a one-way street . . .
I awoke at dawn with the distinct feeling that I was being watched. I sat bolt upright in bed and switched on the light. As my eyes and mind adjusted, I realized that there was a parcel on the end of my bed. I picked it up with hesitant, pincered fingers. It was a box of handmade, crystallized rosepetal chocolates from the Burlington Arcade – the most expensive chocolates in London. Plus a note. Typed. No signature.
W
ARNING
. Y
OUR GRAN
’
S NOT TELLING THE WHOLE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.
T
HE GRANDDAUGHTER LEFT THE HOSPITAL AFTER SHE WAS ADMITTED.
S
HE WAS MISSING FOR AN HOUR – THE EXACT SAME TIME THE RAPISTS WERE SHOT.
S
USPECT THE KID POINTED OUT THE CULPRITS TO HER GRAN AND WATCHED THEM GET THEIR PUNISHMENT.
T
HEN WENT BACK TO THE HOSPITAL.
H
ERE’S THE HOSPITAL REPORT – THE ONLY ONE.
W
HICH
I’
VE NICKED TO HELP YOUR CASE.
A F
RIEND
.
P.S. H
OPE
I
GOT THE RIGHT CHOCCIES
Enclosed in the envelope was the original hospital record, which clearly showed that Chantelle had been missing and unaccounted for between the hours of 9 and 10 p.m. Her rapists had been shot at nine thirty exactly.
I turned the letter over and over. There was no indication of who had sent it. Was it a hoax? If not, then Phyllis and Chantelle had lied to me. But, more worryingly, who had left this mysterious package? How had they got into my bedroom? I looked around, panic-stricken. I tried the window – locked. I break out into a sweat even
thinking
about jogging, but now found myself sprinting from room to room, flinging open cupboards and peering beneath beds. How could Chantelle have left the hospital when she was so battered and bruised? But there it was, in black and white – the official hospital record.
I rang Chantelle’s mobile and confronted her. She maintained that, after the police had interviewed her, she’d staggered outside for a ‘ciggy’. The kid’s pants were so badly on fire I expected an automatic water-sprinkling system to kick in.
After briefing Roxy, we dropped Portia at school then headed straight back to Holloway Prison. On the drive there, my mother was smoking so much I was tempted to give her a tracheotomy so she could smoke two cigarettes simultaneously.
Then came the interminable wait at the gate to gain entry, followed by the mandatory free medical exam. As the officer gave my mother an intimate pat down, she feigned disappointment. ‘What? Not even a movie and dinner first?’ A surly half-hour later, we were finally granted access to the prison. Even on a sunny day there was an air of twilight and deliquescence to the place. It was hard to think of anywhere less appealing. Put it this way, if the prison officer had told me to go to hell, compared to my current surroundings, I would positively look forward to the trip.
‘Kiss my left flap, you dog-fingerin’ twat’ were the charming first words I heard upon entering the remand wing – and it was downhill from there.
‘Did Chantelle leave the hospital with you to point out the rapists?’ I asked as soon as we were ensconced in our glass aquarium of a cubicle, wardens circling like sharks.
Phyllis put her hands to her head and covered her face for a moment. ‘I can’t remember. It’s all a blur.’
‘You can’t remember if your bruised and battered granddaughter limped out of the hospital, went in the car with you to the estate then stalked two rapists?’
Phyllis shrugged, her plump triceps swinging like sodden washing in the wind.
‘Phyllis, I have the hospital record here, saying that Chantelle was missing from her bed between nine and ten.’
Phyllis’s cheeks hung slack as ancient breasts. Her silver hair was now a horror of Gorgon-like dreads from lack of brushing. Her few days in prison had not just been unkind to her face – they’d stomped on it with hobnailed boots.
‘She was worried I’d shoot the wrong blokes . . .’ She trailed off nervously, sending us sidelong glances in sudden embarrassment. She gripped her hands together convulsively. ‘Me eyesight’s not that grand.’
‘Forget your eyesight.’ Roxy sighed. ‘Do you have any idea how bad this makes you look in the eyes of the law?’
‘Chantelle no longer looks like a victim, but a cold-hearted, calculating killer. She could be charged as an accomplice. Aiding and abetting attempted murder when her trigger-happy gran went for some testicular target practice. Didn’t you think of that, Phyllis?’
The colourless dough of Phyllis’s face was suddenly highlighted by the blotches of angry red which now rose in her cheeks.
‘J’know the attitude of men to girls on the estate? These are throw-away girls. Worth less than a lollipop tossed down on the ground. Men are predators. Girls are prey. From the age of eleven they get raped. Those men told Chantelle they’d burn her alive if she told anybody. They threatened to cut my ’ead off with an axe. I just wanted Chanty to see
them
in pain. What would you ’ave done if it was your daughter?’ she asked me desolately. ‘Well? Answer me!
What would you ’ave done
?!’