Nick's Blues (13 page)

“With my mates, weren't I?”

“Mates?”

“Yeah. Josh. Casper. Ross — Ross Blevitt. Ask him. Ask any of 'em.”

“And where was this?”

“Just, you know, around. Hangin' out.”

“All right,” Ferris said, “let's go and see them, these friends of yours.” Knowing already it was a waste of time, but something that had to be gone through, something that had to be done.

Ross Blevitt wasn't too hard to find.

Lounging around the open space in front of the block where he lived with his stepfather and his brothers, the usual crew of seven or eight with him, smoking, joking, listening to what passed for music. Ferris's tastes ran more towards lounge stuff, easy listening, Andy Williams, Dean Martin, Stacey Kent — Amy Winehouse she could take at a pinch.

Blevitt flicked aside what remained of his cigarette, spat, and, hands in pockets, sauntered forwards, khaki sweat pants by 55DSL, striped t-shirt from Duffer of St. George.

“Ross,” Ferris said, “long time, no see. Must be a month at least since you were answering questions down at the station.”

“New regime,” Blevitt said and winked. “New leaf.”

Standing behind and to one side, Rawlings laughed.

“The other night,” Ferris began…

“Woman got robbed,” Blevitt said. “Cut, too. Nasty.”

“Rawlings here,” Ferris said, “he claims he was with you.”

Blevitt's gaze shifted for a moment to where Rawlings was standing.

“He's lyin',” Blevitt said. “Never saw him the whole evening. None of us did. Off somewhere with those mates of his, Casper an' that. Up to no good, I shouldn't wonder.”

“You bastard!” Rawlings said. “You bastard.”

“Well, Steve,” Ferris said, turning towards him. “It looks like you'll be coming down the station after all.”

The officers got hold of him firmly by both arms. Possibly firmer than was strictly necessary.

“Hey, Steve,” Blevitt called after them. “That Stanley knife of yours. Still got it stashed somewhere?”

***

A police search of the Rawlings family flat produced no such weapon; by then it was at the bottom of the canal near Camden Lock.

What they did find, in a plastic sandwich bag taped inside the toilet cistern, was a gold necklace, identical to the one snatched from around Victoria Coleman's neck.

Before anyone could stop him, Rawlings' father, on a rare visit home, punched his son in the face and blacked his eye, broke his nose.

“All right,” Jackie Ferris said, “That'll do,” thinking it was a shame Rawlings' old man hadn't tried something less severe but similar years before.

The upside of his mum going to work late was she made breakfast, even if breakfast was only toast; the downside was he had to get up to eat it. Any suggestion she bring it to him in bed was sure to be greeted with enquiries as to what his last servant had died of and the like. The same remarks her mother, in turn, had made to her.

Even so, once Nick had pulled on some clothes and splashed water in his face, he didn't feel too bad. And the toast — not too thin, not too brown, butter and plenty of marmalade — the toast was good.

“That boy…” Dawn began.

“Which boy?” Nick said.

“The boy that mugged that woman with a knife…”

“Rawlings.”

“Yes. They reckon he might get sent away this time, borstal or wherever.”

Nick didn't think they had borstals any more. Or if they did, then they were called something else. “Serve him right,” he mumbled and carried on eating.

“You know you're due at the hospital this morning?”

“No, I forgot. Clear slipped my mind.”

“Okay, you don't have to be sarcastic. I was just…”

“Getting on my case.”

“Reminding you.”

“Yeah, okay mum, thanks.”

“You sure you don't want me to come with you?”

A long-suffering look aside, Nick didn't bother with an answer.

Lifting the kettle, Dawn added warm water to the pot and swirled it round. “You ready for some more tea?”

Nick pushed his cup towards her.

“You haven't seen Melanie lately, have you?” Dawn asked.

Nick shook his head.

“Nick, have you?”

“I said no, didn't I?”

“You shook your head.”

“Mum, it's a universally recognised sign, right? Movement of the head from side to side. It means no. No, I have not seen Melanie. Why would I?”

“I don't know. She went past in the street the other day, when I was working. Looked terrible, I thought.”

“She always looks terrible.”

“No, but I mean really terrible. Ill.”

Nick pushed away his plate. “Okay, so take
her
to the hospital.”

“Very funny.”

“Or if you're so worried, go and ask her. Ask her mum.”

On balance, Dawn didn't think she'd bother; it rarely paid to interfere. She wanted a cigarette but rather than trigger another argument she thought she'd wait until she was alone.

“Nick, love, you wouldn't go down the corner and get us a paper, would you?”

“What did your last servant die of?”

“Kindness. Now, here you are…” Tipping change out of her purse. “
Mirror
or the
Mail
, I don't care which.”

With an ostentatious sigh, Nick palmed the money and left.

Dawn counted to ten, opened the kitchen window wide and lit up. It didn't escape her that she was the one behaving like a young teenager, sneaking fags behind grown-ups' backs.

Nick bumped into one of the boys from his class on the street, not someone he knocked around with, but knew well enough to talk to about the Arsenal and how much they hated Man U and how this other kid they both knew reckoned he'd shagged his cousin at her fourteenth birthday party.

At the shop he forgot and bought the
Sun
by mistake, knew his mum hated the
Sun
with a vengeance, wouldn't have it in the house, so took it back and changed it. He figured his mum wouldn't care how long he was as long as she had time to smoke one of her Bensons down to the tip and spray air freshener round the kitchen.

“You had a phone call,” Dawn said, the moment he came through the door.

“Chris?”

Dawn grinned. “I don't think that's what she was called.”

Nick could feel his cheeks starting to flush.

“It was Ellen. She said did you want to meet her Saturday morning? Somewhere up the Archway. The Toll Gate Café?”

Nick shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Well, that's what she said, I'm sure.”

Nick's mouth felt dry. “Is that all she said?”

“No,” Dawn said, grinning still. Loving this. “She said if you'll show her yours, she'll show you hers.”

Bright red, Nick dropped the newspaper on the table, went into his room and closed the door.

***

The Toll Gate Café was marooned in the middle of a large traffic island, along with a large pub, a mini cab office, a second-hand clothes store and little else. Getting there involved either waiting at three different sets of lights, or taking your life in your hands, vaulting some railings and running like hell.

Nick chose the second option, rapped his ankle on the top rail and was narrowly missed by a Ford Fiesta, his art folder nearly slipping from his hand.

The place itself had curved windows, blue-green paint and an old sign behind glass above the door, Café Restaurant in old-fashioned curvy script.

Nick pushed open the front door.

The interior was long and narrow, with mosaic tables and chairs in various shapes and sizes, some of which looked as if they'd been stripped from an old hall or cinema. There were paintings on the walls.

Emma was sitting half-way down, book open in front of her, folder propped alongside. She was wearing black cords and the same shirt she'd had on when he'd bumped into her in Camden, lavender blue. Head to one side, she was twisting a length of hair between her fingers as she read.

Music was playing, not loud. Nick vaguely recognised the song, without knowing either the lyrics or the singer. Something his mum might have known?

As Nick walked towards her, Ellen looked up from her book and smiled.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“What's wrong?”

“What d'you mean?”

“You're limping.”

“No, I'm not.”

“You are.”

“I banged my ankle,” Nick said. “It's nothing.”

“Anyway,” Ellen said, “you found it okay.”

“Yes.”

“You want coffee?”

“Sure.” Nick glanced along towards a serving area at the far end. Cakes and quiches. What looked like fruit salad. A coffee machine. “Do they… ?”

Ellen shook her head. “You order there, they bring it here.”

“What's that?” he asked, pointing at the tall glass by her arm.

“Latté.”

Nick left his folder on the table and went to place his order. There was one woman in front of him, a small child, a baby, little more, asleep in a sling close to her chest. A bearded man reading the newspaper aside, most of the other customers seemed to be mothers with children. At the very back, an Asian guy, not so much older than Nick himself, was working away at his laptop.

By the time, he got back to the table, Ellen had his folder open and was leafing through the contents.

“Some of this is really great.”

“Oh, yeah, fine. Don't wait to be asked.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No, it's okay.”

“I mean, I thought that was the point.”

“It is, it is.”

“So?”

Nick sat down and re-angled the folder between them. “Go on, then”

“What?”

“Tell me what you liked.”

Ellen leaned back in her creaky chair. “I like the idea. I really like the idea. The maps and all that. And some of the photos. Here…” Leaning forward again, delving. “This one, for instance. Brilliant, yeah?”

Nick flushed with pleasure.

In the photograph, a burly stall-holder, red-faced, chest hair sprouting from his open shirt, was waving an outsize purple aubergine in the direction of two Muslim women clad from head to toe in black, dark eyes all that were visible, wide in surprise.

“Okay,” Nick said, “so why d'you like it?”

“It's funny for a start. The bloke, he's like those blokes in those old seaside postcards. Sort of like a caricature, you know. Not real. Except he is. And the women… the way they're looking at him… it's the whole thing about, you know, society. Multicultural. No, I love it. It's great.”

A waitress brought Nick's latté and found space for it on the table.

“What about the rest?” Nick asked.

Ellen made a face. “The paintings,” she said. “Well, they're not very good, are they?”

“Says who?”

“Says me.” Laughing. “I'm sorry, Nick. They've got to go.”

“All right, genius.” Starting to reach across her. “Let's see yours.”

“In a minute. We haven't finished looking at this yet.”

“It's all crap, remember.”

“Not all.”

“Apart from the man with the aubergine.”

“Apart from the man with the aubergine.”

Nick leafed through several sheets until he found what he was looking for: several pictures of giant boot and shoes hanging high over the shops below.

“Here. What about these?”

“They're okay.”

“Only okay?”

“Yes, you know, you've seen them before.”

“Of course you have, they're there.”

“I mean everyone that goes down Camden, that's what they take pictures of, those stupid shoes.”

“Well, I'm sorry,” Nick said, flapping the folder shut and turning away.

“Oh, come on,” Ellen said, “don't get like that.”

“I'm not like anything.”

“You're sulking.”

“I'm not.”

But when he looked at her and the way she was smiling, just with her eyes, he shook his head and grinned. “Maybe just a bit.”

“If I just went ahead and said everything was wonderful… well, what's the point?”

“I know.”

“And I do like a lot of it, I really do.”

“You said. Except the paintings are useless and these are too.”

He pulled one of the photos from the page and tore it in half then half again.

“Nick!”

“What?” A second photo torn across and then a third.

“Stop.”

“Why? They're crap.”

Ellen stared at him, unsure of how angry he really was. After a moment, she reached out a hand to touch his forehead. “Your stitches, you've had them out.”

“Yesterday.”

“There's just a little scar.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It'll fade.”

“Probably.”

She was slow taking her hand away. “I like it,” she said. “Your scar.”

“Thanks.”

“Your photos…” she said.

“No,” Nick said. “Not now. Let's look at yours instead.”

Almost immediately he could see why she thought his painting was poor.

The first section of the folder was portraits, head and shoulders, mostly. Several girls, a couple of whom Nick recognised as being from her school. And the bloke, the DJ she'd been going out with he assumed, black face smiling, serious, handsome. Nick didn't ask and she didn't say.

Next were what he supposed were still lives: groups of ordinary things clustered on a dressing table around a vase of flowers. Girls' things. Lipstick. Lotion. Lip salve. A box of tampons half-hidden by a magazine.

“Careful,” Ellen said, when he came to the back of the folder. “Sometimes it sticks.”

As Nick lifted the page a picture opened out on three sides like something from a children's book. Except this was a collage of photographs Ellen had cut from magazines. Images from the Iraq war, bombed buildings, falling statues, burned-out tanks, charred bodies. And curling out of these she had painted tiny flowers, budding leaves, tendrils of green.