A Couple of Months Earlier
There’s a tramp who robs me every Wednesday, same time, same place. His name is Konstantin Boryakov and he claims to be an ex-KGB agent in hiding, afraid for his life because he pissed off some colleague years ago who subsequently became Russia’s President and has a very long arm. I’m sure it’s utter bollocks, but I’ll let you debate it with him. Although his grey matted hair and beard is second to none and almost entirely hides his face, the guy stinks so much you can smell him a mile away, so keeping a low profile (the definition of being in hiding after all) is hardly a realistic option. No one in their right mind would want to go near Konstantin. Except me. For some reason I feel sorry for him. Fuck knows why, but I do.
Wednesday, early in the morning, late July and I’m walking to work, hurrying slightly as I’m a little behind time. The Russian doesn’t like me to be tardy when he does me over. Places to be, people to mug, I assume. So I’m taking long strides along Margate seafront trying not to sweat too much. The air is still and close, barely a breeze off the sea. Although scientists claim a man’s body odour is attractive to women I’m not convinced. To date I’ve found that reeking like a festering badger hasn’t worked for either my sex life or my career.
It’s not the most pleasant of routes either. To my right is a road that seems to carry sluggish cars and trucks whatever the time of the day. Beyond the clogged arterial thoroughfare is a wide strip of sand and then the North Sea, an expanse of muddy brown water dotted with massive ships heading in and out of the Thames. Beautiful it is not. To my left is Dreamland, the lurid amusement arcade which is alight with neon, flashing tubes and bulbs. It’s a shabby throwback to yesteryear where the local chavs have always hung out. Great if you want some drugs or black-market Viagra. Not so great if you want to keep your watch, wallet or dignity. Walk quickly, look straight ahead and ignore the knock-off Burberry is my rule.
Which reminds me…The time. I flick a quick look at my watch. I’m definitely late. Fuck. I break into a trot which floats my tie over my shoulder like a hastily prepared hangman’s noose. Past Dreamland, past Arlington House (another 1960’s monstrosity, a high rise block of flats that leers over Margate like a rotten molar) and then into sight of the train station, which hunkers down and tries to hide from the locals on the far side of a busy roundabout. However, Konstantin likes to position himself away from the station, which frankly isn’t a lot of use to me today when running behind schedule. Neither is being robbed, but I take my hurried chances with the traffic anyway, narrowly avoiding being crushed under the wheels of a Polish truck whose driver is more intent on ogling some blonde in a short skirt than looking out for errant pedestrians like me.
For a moment I consider some sort of protest. A shout like, “You fucking blind bastard!” springs to mind, but it’s not the finest prose ever and the moment passes, as it does when the object of your derision is doing 40mph and possesses a mass of several tons.
Safely across, my would-be murderer in the lorry rumbling away into the distance, I can see the tramp standing in his customary location. Konstantin seems to find it highly amusing to wait for me and my wallet in Buenos Aires. Which, unfortunately, is not the vigorous Argentinean city, but an inexplicably named Victorian terraced cul-de-sac that nestles at ninety degrees to the sea adjacent to the roundabout whose teeming traffic had almost witnessed my untimely death. Maybe in the dim past this was indeed a vibrant section of Margate society, but those days are long, long gone.
I stroll over, walking along the axis of Buenos Aires. Konstantin, who stands on a dog-shit-peppered patch of grass, doesn’t meet my eye. He doesn’t acknowledge me at all, in fact. He likes to pretend we don’t know each other, which is a lie because he’s had lots of my easily earned cash (I work in a bank) in the last year. But the Russian also demands a challenge, a bit of drama in his misappropriation even though it’s akin to a cat playing with a half dead mouse — the fight the expiring rodent puts up is minimal, but it’s better than nothing.
One previous event illustrates this perfectly. After a few weeks of being voluntarily mugged I’d simply handed my wallet over when confronted by Konstantin. The Russian, swaddled in his threadbare hand-me-downs, had looked at the expensive piece of hand-crafted leather with disdain, turned his nose up and walked away without a word. I didn’t lay eyes on the malodorous bum for several weeks, in fact I’d almost given up on him when, walking home one Tuesday evening after work, he’d popped up out of nowhere and scared the living shit out of me. He’d fixed me with a baleful, bleary-eyed stare and said, “See you tomorrow zasranec,” and then shambled off. Normal service had clearly been resumed.
Back to now, and Konstantin moves to intercept me via a shuffling trajectory. He pays no attention to what’s cluttering the grass and a rank smell explodes as he drags his feet through turds that have crusted over and festered in the heat. I stop in my tracks. So does he.
“Give your wallet, no shitty business,” Konstantin husks and holds out his grubby paw, palm upwards, fingers curling like a claw.
My olfactory sense screams at me that the ‘shitty business’ is actually plastered all over his outsized shoes. “Why do I let you do this?” I say, asking myself as much as him — my first words to the tramp in all the time I’ve been allowing him to rob me.
The down-and-out Russian gives me a blank stare. His right arm is still outstretched but he crooks his index finger slightly in a ‘come on’ gesture. I’m clearly not going to get an answer so I pass over my wallet which he grasps before pushing it into a pocket in his stained coat, which was probably once green. I buy cheap canvas wallets these days. Although I can afford leather, as I earn far more money than my contribution to society justifies, the student buried in me still writhes at any unnecessary expense.
With his left hand Konstantin simultaneously returns the empty wallet he had appropriated last week and then twists away to reposition himself on the grass/shit strip. I’m about to speak again, but the squealing sound of metal on metal that is a train slowing down intrudes and the query is lost forever.
I turn and bolt.