Bucket Nut Page 14

  I kept to the shadows because I didn’t want to show myself. And I used the heaps of metal and tyres for cover.

  I couldn’t see anything wrong. It was silent and dark. There were no cars passing. All I could hear was the shuffle and rustle of Ramses and Lineker as they prowled back and forth. But all of a sudden I felt bad – like I was being watched by someone who wanted to do me damage.

  I backed away from the fence, and kept the cars and machinery between me and the road until I made it back to my kit bag.

  Better not leave by the gate, I thought.

  There was a back way out. Nobody ever used it, but I found it when I first moved in. I was glad of it to begin with. Not that I ever used it myself, but I was glad to know it was there. It comes from sleeping in derelict houses. The first thing you do when you go into a house is to find another way out the back. The last thing you want is to be trapped in a place with only one exit. It might be the polizei coming in to clear you off, or it might be a gang of tramp-bashers, or it might be winos. Whatever. You just can’t make a quick exit through the same door the enemy’s coming in at. You don’t have to believe me – any burglar worth his salt will tell you the same.

  In this case the back door was a metal gate set in the ten foot brick wall at the very back of the yard. It doesn’t really go anywhere. Beyond the wall is a space and then another brick wall. Behind that is a disused railway siding. I suppose the space used to be an alley but it got blocked off by buildings at both ends.

  If I wanted to get out without being seen, that was the way I should go – through the metal gate, across the space that wasn’t an alley, over the wall and through the siding.

  I shouldered the kit bag and started off.

  The metal gate was easy because I had all the yard keys. I let myself out of the yard and into the space beyond. And then suddenly it was awful. I was in a narrow space between two walls, two high walls. I started to sweat for no reason at all.

  I looked up at the wall I had to climb and saw that the top of it was protected with broken glass stuck in concrete. It reminded me of something but I couldn’t remember what. I began to feel quite ill, so I went back into the yard and sat on the ground near the gate.

  It was stupid.

  ‘This is stupid,’ I said. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid.’

  And then I thought, suppose there’s someone on the other side of the wall? Someone waiting to catch me. Suppose Count Suckle’s people, or Mr Cheng’s or Bermuda Smith’s or whoever they are – suppose they did a proper job of sussing out the yard? Suppose they had it surrounded?

  I felt a bit better because now I had a reason for feeling so awful.

  I left the kit bag where it was and went to call the dogs. They were still roaming around on the far side, all jittery and uneasy. When I put my hand on Lineker’s collar he flinched away and I noticed that his hackles were up all along his back.

  They came with me to the back gate. They didn’t want to, but they came. I shooed them into the space between the two walls and watched them as they ran from one end to the other and then back to me. They didn’t bark or snarl. They just looked at me, puzzled, before padding off back to the fence.

  I looked at the wall. According to Ramses and Lineker it was safe.

  According to them there was no one on the other side. I trusted those dogs. They weren’t stupid – not Ramses leastways.

  ‘Fuck it,’ I said, and went to get some tyres.

  When the tyres were piled high enough I climbed up. First I balanced the kit bag on top of the wall. Then I spread my padded jacket on the glass. Then I heaved myself up and looked over.

  There was nothing moving out there. As far as I could see with the torch there was just old slurry and broken bricks and rotten railway sleepers. I dropped the kit bag down. I shifted myself so that I could stand on the wall where the glass wasn’t sticking up too proud. I picked up my jacket and jumped.

  It was easy. If you don’t know how to fall, don’t take up wrestling.

  As soon as I was down on the other side I felt fine, really all right. And I couldn’t understand what had gone wrong before.

  I picked my way slowly through the rubble. It would be plain daft to make a perfect ten foot landing and then twist an ankle on half a brick.

  Half a brick. Do you know, in that old siding, there was not one solitary thing which was not broken? Broken bricks, broken glass, broken and rotting sleepers, broken pushchairs, broken supermarket trolleys. Everything was smashed and rotten.

  At the bottom of the slope, near where the railway line had been, was an old shed. The door was missing, the window was broken and part of the roof had been ripped away. But, I thought, it would be a bit of shelter, just for one night.

  I went in. It smelled of piss and old bonfire. I knew that smell. Once you smell it you never forget it. Sometime, not too long ago, that shed had been a doss for winos.

  There were piles of damp newspaper, bits of torn cardboard and rag. There were broken bottles and crushed aluminium cans. I cleared some space in a corner, the corner which smelled least of piss. I unrolled my sleeping bag and sat on it. Then I switched the torch off and waited. I waited until my eyes got used to the dark and my ears began to sort through what they could hear.

  You have to sit very still for at least ten minutes before you can hear what’s going on around you.

  There were rats. There are always rats. There was an owl. Even in the middle of London you can hear owls. They hunt the rats and mice. There were the deadened sounds of traffic. There were the sharp scampering sounds of small animals and beetles. There was the rattle of paper in the wind. There was me breathing. But there were no people.

  I began to relax, and as soon as I relaxed I felt hungry. I had hardly eaten a thing since breakfast. It had been that sort of day. I thought about the sort of day it had been. I thought about what Harry Richards said to me. I tried not to think about what Goldie said. I tried to think about Rockin’ Sherry-Lee instead. But I couldn’t. One thing was certain, it had been one of the worst days in my life. And it only seemed natural that I should end it in a doss for winos.

  ‘Eat,’ I said out loud. ‘Fucking eat and cheer up.’ It sounded like I was talking through a loudspeaker.

  I switched the torch on and opened my bag. I decided on a tin of beef and potato stew. I wouldn’t make a fire because that might draw attention. I would eat the stew cold. It doesn’t make much difference – tinned stew isn’t very nice anyway, but if you are as hungry as I was then, you won’t mind much.

  I had the tin of stew in one hand and the torch in the other. I was staring down into the kit bag when this horrible thought struck me. I was flabbergasted. It seemed like the end of the world, the last straw. I had forgotten to pack a tin opener.

  Can you believe that? Can you? I couldn’t. Three fucking bolas and no tin opener!

  I stood up and hurled the tin of stew through what was left of the window. Glass shattered. I heard it bouncing off the rubble outside. I went out after it. I picked up bits of brick and cinder. I chucked them one after the other as far as I could throw. I jumped up and down. I was blind with rage. I howled. I opened my mouth and let out this great roar with so much force it hurt my throat. I punched the wall of the shed so hard it made my knuckles bleed. I kicked the wall until the toe of my boot split.

  What can I tell you? In prison once I knew a woman who felt so bad she used to break windows and when there was nothing but herself left to destroy she used to cut herself with the broken glass.

  Sounds weird, does it? Well, maybe you haven’t felt bad enough to understand her.

  The screws used to sit on her. They’d tie her hands and feet with bandage, and they’d gag her to stop her biting herself. It was a kindness really. She would’ve killed herself bit by bit if no one had stopped her. At least it always looked as if she would. She was never allowed to go far enough for anyone to find out. Who knows, maybe she would have stopped by herself given time.

&n
bsp; Violence blows itself out. Mine did anyway, and I just felt tired and cold and foolish. I was very glad there was no one watching.

  I went back in the shed and I couldn’t stand the place any more. So I packed up and left.

  While I was walking away I began to think about Mr Cheng. It was partly because I was so hungry and the first thing that popped into my brain was a plateful of his chicken and snow peas. But chicken and snow peas are no use in your brain when you want them in your mouth and I started to get angry again. Because it was all Mr Cheng’s fault. If it wasn’t for Mr Cheng I would be at home in the Static with Goldie and I wouldn’t be tramping the streets with cans of stew on my back and no tin opener. I wouldn’t be cold and hungry without a friend in the world. Mr Cheng had a lot to answer for.

  And let me ask you this – why were Count Suckle’s boys out to get me? Me. They should have been out to get Mr Cheng, but they weren’t. I was an easy target. I was on my own. I was a woman. And, when in doubt, men always blame a woman. But it wasn’t fair. True, I hadn’t exactly been an innocent bystander, but I didn’t know that at the time. And Mr Cheng had tried to kill me too. His people followed me to the shebeen. They locked the kitchen door. I was just the dumb animal who carried the bomb and I wasn’t any use to him after that.

  The further I walked the angrier I got.

  ‘Dumb animal,’ I said, out loud. ‘I’ll show him dumb animal.’

  A couple passing in the opposite direction stopped and stared at me.

  ‘Who you looking at?’ I said, and they hurried away.

  It brought me up short. I was acting as if I was all alone in the siding, but I wasn’t. I was out in the streets and I had already walked a long way. I was nearly at the river, but I hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Shit!’ I said. I’d done it again. I was going somewhere without knowing how.

  All right, I thought, I’ll go to the Beijing Garden and I’ll dumb animal Mr Cheng. I was halfway there already – white headlights coming towards me, red tail-lights running away. I followed the red. It suited my mood.

  In the West End you couldn’t walk straight without banging both shoulders. Everyone was going somewhere – going to eat, going to dance, going to a movie or a play. Everyone on the move. No one standing still in the cold.

  No one except me. I stood and looked at the Beijing Garden. There were plastic plants in the window and paper lanterns on the light bulbs. There was silk embroidery in picture frames on the wall. There were pink tablecloths on the tables and blue and white ashtrays. I couldn’t see it all from where I stood, but I knew it was there. I had been there so many times it was almost like home. Every time the door opened the smell that came out with the customers made my mouth water.

  It was so familiar I could’ve almost walked right in and had a joke with Auntie Lo. A joke with Auntie Lo, that was a laugh. The only joke to Auntie Lo was me. ‘When you getting married, Eva? Huff-huff-huff.’ That Eva, she’s a hoot, a real stand-up comedienne. Let’s blow the shit out of her along with everyone else at Count Suckle’s place. That’ll be a regular side-splitter. Huff-huff-huff.

  There was a party of smart people sitting at the big round table in the window. It was a table reserved for big smart parties. It made the place look successful. While I watched, one of the smart well-fed men paid the bill. The other smart well-fed men and women began to look for their coats. That was good. I looked round for a brick.

  Just then Mr Cheng’s Astra purred round the corner and stopped outside the door. The guy driving it got out in a rush. He wasn’t allowed to park there because it was a no parking zone. He dashed into the restaurant and got tangled up in the smart well-fed party coming out. They were all talking at the top of their well-fed voices.

  I crossed the road. I didn’t have much time. The guy had left the Astra door open but he had taken the keys. I discovered that when I got in.

  I did the quickest wiring job ever.

  The well-fed party drifted up the street towards theatre land still braying and whinnying.

  I jammed the Astra into reverse and swerved back across the road until the nose of the car was pointing straight at the Beijing Garden’s front window. I flicked the headlights to high beam, and leaned on the horn.

  Faces gathered at the door and window – curious faces which changed very fast into anxious faces.

  I threw the gear stick into first and revved the motor. The horn kept blaring.

  They had plenty of warning. More, much more than they had given me.

  I took my foot off the clutch and stamped on the gas. The Astra leapt forward. And I drove straight through the Beijing Garden front window. It hardly took a second.

  And it was lovely.

  There was the scream of the motor, the crash as I hit the glass. The way the big round table disappeared under the bonnet. The way the people shrieked and ran.

  I let the motor stall. Then all I could hear was the tinkling of falling glass, and the high sounds of people in hysterics. To me it was the sound of perfect peace.

  I shoved the door open and got out. I walked out of the shattered window, my feet scrunching on broken glass. Then I got on my toes and trotted away.

  I was laughing.

  It was better than I’d ever imagined – much better than a brick. And anyway there aren’t that many loose bricks lying around the West End.

  I was satisfied. Satisfaction doesn’t come easy, but I had wrecked Mr Cheng’s restaurant and I had wrecked his precious Astra all in one go. Call it what you like. I call it satisfaction.

  ‘Huff-huff-huff,’ I said, as I jogged through the crowds crossing Piccadilly Circus, but I didn’t say it very loud. To anyone else it would’ve sounded like me panting.

  I slowed down next to the Academy. I really was out of breath. The bag on my back was heavy. I thought about Milo of Croton running around with a calf on his back. That was the way he weight-trained. I ran around with cans of beef and potato stew on my back. If I wanted to increase the weight, I could buy more stew. Milo had to let his calf grow. It’s a slow business, waiting for a calf to grow. Maybe they had a lot of patience in ancient Greece.

  I walked all the way to Hyde Park Corner and looked at the monument with the dead soldiers on it. I hadn’t killed anyone this time. I hadn’t even hurt anyone. I might have done. If I’d seen Mr Cheng in the restaurant, or Auntie Lo, I might’ve kept my foot on the gas and ploughed straight into them. But I hadn’t seen them. Maybe they were there, back near the bar. Maybe they saw me. But I didn’t see them. I stopped the car right after the crash. I was so thrilled with the crash and the mess and the frightened faces I didn’t have to go any further. But I might have. If I’d seen Mr Cheng or Auntie Lo I might have.

  That’s the trouble with feeling bad. You feel bad, so you do something to make yourself feel better. And the trouble with that is that feeling better doesn’t last long. The thing you did to feel better sometimes has a habit of making you feel worse in the long run.

  I stared over the traffic circling round Hyde Park Corner, over at the statues of dead soldiers. I still felt pretty good but I wasn’t laughing any more. I was wondering how I would feel at this very moment if I had seen Mr Cheng and Auntie Lo – if I had kept my foot on the gas. I wondered if I would have laughed then as I trotted away.

  The awful thing, the really horrible thing was that I thought I would have laughed.

  It was weird, standing there, looking at dead soldiers, thinking about what I might have thought if things had been a bit different. Looking at dead soldiers, and feeling bad about feeling so good.

  That’s what thinking does. It spoils things. It doesn’t pay to think. It hadn’t solved any of my problems either. I was still cold and hungry and I still didn’t have anywhere to sleep.

  I crossed Hyde Park Corner by the underpass. It didn’t make any fucking sense at all. Why was I feeling bad because I might’ve hurt Mr Cheng and Auntie Lo? I hadn’t even touched them. And you can bet shit to a sugar-cake they hadn�
�t felt bad about me.

  There was a busker in the underpass, probably right below the dead soldiers. She was singing something about someone she called Dear Dandelion. The voice was nice but the guitar was out of tune. Maybe a cold damp underpass is a bad place for a guitar.

  I stopped under one of the lights and took the pack off my back. My shoulders ached. I needed a rest.

  The busker sang, ‘Only needed a shoulder to cry on. Don’t run away, dear Dandelion.’

  I looked at her and she stopped playing. Perhaps she saw something in my face. Perhaps she thought I was going to pinch her takings.

  ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Don’t mind me.’

  ‘Nah,’ she said. ‘My fingers are dropping off. I was packing it in anyway.’

  Like I said, the voice was nice. She pocketed the loose change, dropped the guitar into its case and hurried away. Her footsteps rang on the hard floor like church bells.

  ‘Got to do something,’ I said.

  People crossing by the underpass glanced at me out of the corners of their eyes and went on their way. And suddenly I saw myself as they saw me. It wasn’t nice. A hulking great creature squatting over a kit bag, talking to herself in a public place.

  ‘Gawd!’ I said. ‘That ain’t me.’

  Because it wasn’t. I was Armour Protection. I was the London Lassassin. I was going to fight Rockin’ Sherry-Lee Lewis tomorrow night. I was going to be famous.

  But it was me. Stuck right dead centre in the richest part of London between Knightsbridge, Mayfair and Belgravia with no tin opener and nowhere to kip. How lucky can you get?

  So I pulled the zipper of the kit bag and looked inside. Looked straight at a cuddly tiger with wonky whiskers.

  ‘Shit,’ I said, staring at the tiger.

  I could go to Ma’s, I thought. She’d just love to see me. I bet. She’d have a bloke there by now if she’d got lucky. He would just love to see me too.

  ‘What you think?’ I asked the tiger.