A second cry, high-pitched as if from a terrified woman, followed. Ray could envisage what was happening—the guy he’d nearly pissed on must have been lurking in the shadows awaiting a suitable victim. His first instinct was to run away, but he didn’t—this might be a perfect opportunity to test his new heroism by charging to the assistance of the damsel in distress, and damning the consequences. He tried to ignore the adage about the sort of people who rush in where angels fear to tread.
Despite his good intentions, his legs proved unwilling to comply—playing the hero would not be easy for a man accustomed to driving a coward’s body. Breathing heavily, he staggered forward, coming close to collapse as he entered the alley. Adrenalin kicked in, his lurching walk turned into a jog and then a sprint. Ahead, he could hear a male voice and a strange puppy-like whimpering.
‘Shut up and stop grovelling,’ said the voice, deep and hard. ‘Give it up. You know what we want.’
‘Don’t think of fighting, because you’ve got no chance and we’ll get it anyway,’ said a second voice, smoother, more cultured, but just as menacing.
Rounding the bend into the lamp post’s glow, Ray made out the silhouettes of two men bending over a small, cowering figure. His initial plan was to demand what was going on and to remonstrate with the assailants, but he had a fleeting impression of something dark brushing past at high speed, clipping his ankle and making him stumble. The damp mossy slabs were as slippery as wet eels; he skidded, lost his footing, and his momentum cannoned him into the nearest man who tumbled like a skittle and flattened his comrade. The impact stunned Ray who lay on the cold ground feeling as if he’d run headlong into the wall. He tried to prepare himself for the consequences, but the two men, both at least a decade younger than him, were down. One groaned and twitched. The other lay still.
‘Cheers for that,’ said a hoarse male voice, ‘but although the scoundrels are valiantly vanquished for the moment, we’d better get the hell out of here.’
A hand grabbed Ray’s arm, dragged him to his feet and hustled him from the alley towards the town.
It was only when they were running down Vermin Street that Ray’s head cleared enough to recognise the little guy from Subvert. ‘Where are we going?’
‘My place, before those big bullies come after us. Now, move.’ He bundled Ray along until they were approaching the junction with Mosse Lane, where after a quick glance back up the street, he pulled a large rusty key from his pocket, opened a nondescript wooden gate and pushed Ray through. They were in a small moonlit courtyard in the middle of a tiny square of old houses. The little man locked the gate behind them and swaggered to the nearest house.
‘Come in,’ he said, as he unlocked the front door and used a cheap cigarette lighter to light an oil lamp.
Ray followed him into a diminutive room that would have felt even more cramped had it contained anything more than a three-legged stool, a beaten-up chair with a cracked leather seat and a beanbag, all standing on a threadbare rug that might have once been red. It smelled musty and dusty with an underlying pong as if something had died there some time ago. Ray could hardly complain—his own kitchen stank as much.
‘Thanks for helping out back there,’ said the little man, ‘though there was no need—I had the situation well in hand. I’m Kevin Crumb, by the way. Most people just call me Kev. You?’
Ray paused. Anonymity might be his best policy if Alex had given his name to the cops. Memory carried him back to his first day at senior school and Mr Marks, the English teacher, asking for his first name. ‘Ray, sir,’ he’d replied. ‘Did you say “Razor”, boy?’ The class had sniggered, and the nickname had stuck until an unfortunate incident on the rugby pitch, when his repeated panic in the face of the opposition’s front row had cost the match. After that his schoolmates just called him Wimpy Holmes.
‘Call me…’
‘Ishmael?’ Kev smirked.
‘What? No, it’s Razor,’ Ray declared, already feeling a little bolder.
‘Welcome to my pad, Razor,’ said Kev.
‘Nice place,’ Razor lied, though conceding to himself that, with any amount of effort and money, it might have the makings of a pleasant little town house.
‘Sure it is,’ said Kev, ‘but it’s better than being on the street. It’s mine, you know. My uncle left it to me in his will, but I don’t come here often.’
‘That was good of him.’
‘Yeah, I suppose it was. Take a seat. The beanbag’s the most comfortable, but it’s smelly—I found it in a skip. The chair’s okay since I fixed it… I think.’
Razor nodded and sat on the cracked leather chair. Although it creaked, it seemed solid enough.
‘Would you like a cup of tea? The milk’s off.’
‘Yes, please,’ said Razor. ‘I don’t mind it black.’
Kev lit a candle and disappeared through a doorway at the back, giving Razor a chance to look around, though there was precious little to see: four walls with peeling paint, two of them with battered doors, the bits of furniture, the oil lamp, a spidery fireplace and a small pile of empty beer cans in the corner. Gradually, his heart rate returned to normal and all sorts of thoughts crossed his mind concerning Kev’s motives. He settled on the hope that it was merely gratitude and smiled at Kev’s confidence that he’d had the situation under control—it was not how it had appeared.
Kev came back with two mugs. He handed one to Razor, who checked it carefully before drinking. The mug was clean, its contents pale. He took a sip—it was like drinking the ghost of tea.
‘It might be a bit weak,’ Kev admitted, as if reading Razor’s mind. ‘The bag’s been used too many times. I’ll pick up some new ones tomorrow.’
‘It’s hot and wet,’ said Razor. ‘It’ll do me fine.’
‘Thank you again for helping me.’
‘My pleasure. What were you doing there?’
‘Hiding. I feared those fellows were intending to give me a right good working over.’
‘I got that impression,’ said Razor, glancing around the room. ‘Were they trying to rob you, because, and forgive me for saying it, you don’t appear to have much money?’
‘You mean that having nothing, nothing can I lose?’
‘I suppose so. They looked well off, so why pick on you?’
‘The big posh one reckoned I’d nicked his wallet.’
‘Why would he think that?’
‘Because I had nicked it,’ said Kev, grinning as he pulled a smart blue leather wallet from his back pocket and examined it. ‘Louis Vuitton—not bad, and worth a bit on its own.’ He first took out a couple of credit cards, frowned and chucked them into a small bin. Then, he removed a fistful of bank notes, counted them and shrugged. ‘Only ninety-five quid. I was hoping for more. Still, it’ll buy a few groceries.’
‘And beer?’ said Razor.
‘I guess that’s likely as well.’
The exchange left Razor confused. Rescuing a self-confessed thief from retribution had not been the heroic gesture he’d aimed for, but for reasons he couldn’t understand, it felt right to have helped this strange little man, whatever he’d done. He sipped his pale imitation of tea. ‘Do you steal many wallets?’
‘Not as many as I’d like. Most guys aren’t as careless as Sebastian.’
‘You know him?’ Stealing from a friend was really low in Razor’s opinion.
‘No, but I’ve seen him about. He was in The Barley Mow, shooting off his mouth with his pal and bullying the barmaid. When he took his jacket off, I took the opportunity to teach him a lesson. Tragically, he spotted me and gave chase. I thought I’d given them the slip until I was forced to reveal my presence to prevent an unpleasantness.’
‘Sorry about that. I didn’t see you in the dark.’
Kev laughed. ‘Thank you for restraining yourself. Not everyone in this town would be that considerate. Alas, those guys heard me and well, you know the rest. That was some charge you made to take them both out like that.’
Razor attempted a heroic devil-may-care grin, but couldn’t stop laughing at himself. ‘The truth is I’m not sure what I would have done, if something hadn’t made me stumble. I just skidded into them.’
‘Cry havoc and let slip the feet of war. Whatever your intent, I thank you.’
Razor placed his mug on the floor and stood up. ‘I’m glad I could help, but I ought to be going. Thank you for the tea.’
‘Go if you wish, but you’re welcome to stay the night. It’ll be safer. Those guys might be looking for you now.’
‘I doubt it. It all happened so fast it’s unlikely they even saw me.’ Razor tried to act determined though the rain spattering against the window and a howling wind sapped his resolve. He felt like sleeping for a week and longed to be safe and warm in bed with Flit. Such thoughts had become a regular torture and too often the only way he could drop off was after walking himself into a state of exhaustion. Kev’s motive for taking him in were another cause for concern—did the little guy intend to rob him, could he be some kind of sexual deviant, or was there another reason?
It was time to get out and return to pounding the streets, though sleep called so strongly, Razor’s dozy brain wondered if he’d already been drugged. He yawned.
Razor awoke to the mouth-watering scent of frying bacon. Foggy recollections of the screaming man nightmare dispersed, leaving him alone in an unfamiliar little room, lit by dull morning light. He was enclosed in a smelly beanbag, with a soft pillow beneath his head and a musty blanket wrapped around him. His watch showed it was approaching nine o’clock and his bladder suggested he should move pretty smartly. He struggled to his feet, relieved to see he was fully dressed and, hearing movement in the kitchen, pushed open the door.
‘Good morning,’ said Kev, who was standing in front of an ancient cooker, attending to a blackened frying pan. ‘Sleep well?’
‘Yeah, apart from a bad dream. Where’s the bathroom?’
Kev pointed. ‘Through there and second left. Sorry.’
Razor hurried along a grubby corridor, burst into the bathroom and understood Kev’s apology—it was on the sordid end of the squalid spectrum, but he had no option. When he’d finished, he used a rock-hard sliver of grey soap to wash his hands and wiped them on his trousers, trying to ignore the foetid towel dangling from a rusty hook in the corner. A glance into the smeared and spattered mirror showed the bruises on his face had spread and were taking on sunset colours, reminding him of some abstract paintings Flit had unaccountably liked.
The bacon smell drew him back to the kitchen.
‘Eggs and bacon okay for you?’ asked Kev.
Razor glanced around, surprised the work surfaces were gleaming clean, despite advanced years and wear. ‘That would be great.’
‘Take a seat.’
Kev set down a plate of bacon and eggs. Razor sat and ate greedily, washing his breakfast down with a mug of strong tea made with fresh milk. ‘That was great. Where did it come from?’
‘I went shopping.’
‘With money?’
‘Of course.’
Razor’s suspicions rose. He felt his pockets. ‘Where’s my wallet?’
Kev shrugged. ‘How would I know?’
Although Kev’s expression was innocent, Razor would be no soft touch. ‘I want it back.’
‘But I haven’t got it.’
‘Who else would have it?’ Anger flared.
‘Sorry, mate, but I haven’t seen it. Honest,’ said Kev, his face creased with worry, his pale-blue eyes bugged like a frightened rabbit’s.
Razor shook his head, determined to take back what belonged to him, even though the money was of little importance. It was the principle that mattered—a thousand pounds for a night’s bed-and-breakfast? Ridiculous! Fury was approaching the surface, as happened too often these days, and he felt control slipping away. He wanted to give someone else a taste of pain. Kev, not a man who looked as if he could defend himself, would be an ideal subject. Razor kicked back his chair and stood up, clenching his fists.
‘What are you going to do?’ said Kev, backing away and knocking the frying pan from the cooker.
It crashed to the red brick floor, shocking Razor from his furious mood. He had a thought. Unclenching his fists, he returned to the tiny living room, where his parka was hanging from a nail. His wallet was in the pocket and the rest of his money was still inside the olive tin in his backpack.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, ashamed, all anger draining away as if a plug had been pulled.
He offered Kev the tin. ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for behaving like an idiot. I should have trusted you.’
‘You’d be mad to trust in the tameness of a wolf,’ said Kev with a grin. ‘To be honest, in other circumstances, I might have pinched it, but I won’t take your money now.’
‘Seriously, you can have it,’ said Razor. ‘I don’t need it.’
‘Why not?’
Razor shrugged. ‘Because I’m… er… planning to go away where money won’t be of any use, so you might as well take it. You look as if you could use it.’
‘I can always use money, mate, but I don’t understand. Why won’t you need it when you come back?’
‘I won’t be coming back.’
‘But…’ Kev began.
Razor raised his hand. ‘Thank you for letting me sleep here and for breakfast, but I’ve got to go now.’ He transferred the notes from the tin to his wallet and placed twenty pounds on the table, despite Kev’s protestations. ‘This is for putting me up last night. Sorry for the misunderstanding. Goodbye.’
He grabbed his parka and backpack, went out the front door and tried the gate.
It was locked.
‘Let me out… please.’
‘Yeah, of course.’
Kev picked up his keys and released Razor back into society. ‘Take care, mate,’ he said and locked the gate.
Razor wandered away, up Vermin Street and towards the centre of town, trying to work out what had happened. It was weird that it felt right to have helped Kev out, though he’d have been hard put to explain why—not that he had any intention of explaining anything to anyone ever again. He’d made his mind up to depart this life in a blaze of glory, performing some heroic deed.
A glimpse of a police uniform sent him scurrying down the nearest alley—the local cops had a troubling reputation, though he wasn’t sure why. Besides, he’d suffered more than enough questioning at the hospital. He strode away, slipping into the usual comfortable rhythms created by his footsteps and the beating of his heart.
He’d once been a stickler for structure in his life, but since Flit’s untimely death, almost everything had been beyond him. Helpless with grief and regret, all he’d been able to do was drag his body through one guilty day after another. This, he recognised, would be unlikely to present the right opportunities—he needed to work out how and where to put himself into harm’s way, though even then he suspected intervening in a crime would more likely result in a bloody nose than death. Most hoodlums, even violent ones, tended to stop short of murder. Yet, surely, if he was in the right places at the right times, the odds for a valorous ending would improve. It might take a while, but he’d got nothing better to do and, even if he couldn’t be certain of a quick death, he could still carry out gallant deeds in the meantime. He walked on, wondering where to go.
By midday, his feet had carried him into Ride Park, a vast area of grass and woodland. It was ideal for solitary walking, thinking and, most of all, for keeping away from cops. The only time he’d seen any there had been at the Sorenchester Country Fair last summer when a team of police motorcyclists had run through a rowdy routine of formation riding and other acts of skill and daring until their bravura performance was curtailed by one of the bikes bursting into flames. The fire brigade’s arrival and subsequent extinguishing of the blaze, which had spread to the dry summer grass, had proved even more exciting than the display.
A middle-aged woman in a smart tweed coat was walking a black Labrador towards him. He gave her his best reassuring smile and was surprised when she deliberately took another path—he’d forgotten his shaven head and battered face. Although he’d never before considered that he could look threatening, and the experience was disconcerting, he wondered if it might prove an advantage. Perhaps looking like a hard case would provoke violence. Or maybe he’d get to like his new image—if he survived long enough.
Twenty minutes later, he was deep in the park, beyond the point where dog walkers were permitted and way beyond the limit of asphalt paths. He squelched through puddles and mud, concentrating on staying on his feet. Following a cameo appearance, the sun retired behind dark clouds that were scudding in from the southwest, hinting at another downpour before the afternoon was old. It would, however, make little difference, unless rain kept murderous criminals indoors.
A slim, young woman in jeans and a tight pink sweater ran from the trees towards him, her face screwed up, her teeth gritted, her chest heaving.
A tall, athletic man in a black top and trousers was after her, looking determined. ‘I’ll get you, missie,’ he grunted between gasps.
Opportunity knocked. As soon as the young woman was past, Razor raised his right leg and swung it, ramming it into the tall man’s midriff. The impact spun Razor around like the ballerina on Flit’s music box, he lost his balance and hit the mud hard. He sprang back up, trembling, but prepared for a fight. The man lay groaning.
Something hit Razor on the back of the head and for the first time in his life he saw stars in daylight.
‘Get off him!’ There was fury in the young woman’s voice.
She raised a hefty stick and smacked it against Razor’s forehead, leaving him stunned and bewildered.
When he looked up, she was holding a mobile phone. ‘Police… I want to report an attack in Ride Park.’
Still groggy, Razor stumbled away.