The Ninth Step - John Milton #8 (John Milton Thrillers) (4 page)

“What things?”

“When I was younger. I—” Eddie paused, wondering, perhaps, whether he should continue. “It stays between us, John?”

Milton was about to extricate himself; he didn’t want the responsibility of being someone’s confessor, but Eddie continued anyway.

“I had a difficult childhood. Things happened to me, when I was a kid, bad things that stayed with me all my life.” Eddie paused and Milton could see that he was thinking again about how much he was comfortable disclosing. “Ah, fuck it. It’ll be better once I’ve got it off my chest.” He inhaled deeply, then let out a long sigh. “My folks died when I was little. Car crash. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters, no grandparents or aunts and uncles. It was just me. They put me in a children’s home in Jersey.”

“I lost my parents the same way,” Milton offered.

He brightened. “There you go. Listen to the similarities, not the differences, right?” That was one of the main teachings of the program. It was repeated in every meeting. You listened to the things you had in common. You figured out that others were like you, that you were nothing special. They said drunks tended to be grandiose. Finding out you were just like everyone else made it difficult to hold on to the notion that you were special.

Eddie continued. “The home was an awful place. Haut de la Garenne. Heard of it?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. They had special rooms they used to discipline the kids. They called them punishment rooms. I was a bit wild, very unruly, so I got to spend a lot of time in those rooms. Lucky me, right?” He paused again and Milton could see that he had reached the point where he would either speak about what was tormenting him or he would not. “They abused us. Not just beatings. Sexual. People came to visit from the mainland because they could do whatever they wanted there. What were we going to do? We had no one to talk to. They were brazen about it. Sometimes they took us to the mainland. Little holidays, they called them. They took us to parties in London. There were men there. They did… things to us.”

Milton felt awkward. He didn’t know how to respond to Eddie’s story, so he said nothing and just listened.

“I didn’t say anything,” Eddie said. “Didn’t report it. We were orphans. No one cared. What were we going to do? Nothing.”

Milton heard the deep rumble of an engine as a bus went by outside.

Eddie leaned back in the chair. “I got out eventually. Adopted. I was one of the lucky ones; there were others there who didn’t get out. I knew at least one boy who died there, and I’m sure he wasn’t the only one. They had me for eighteen months. What happened to me then is one of the reasons I am how I am now. It made me who I am. It made me want to kill myself. I nearly did, more than once. And then, when I realised I didn’t have the guts to do that, it led me to the drink. It gets bad, sometimes, the memories, the pain of remembering it all, and I can’t feel anything when I’m drunk.”

“I know that feeling.”

Eddie paused, and Milton regarded him. He hoped it was helpful for him to talk. He found, to his surprise, that he liked him and wanted to help.

“One of the reasons?” Milton said.

“What?”

“You said it was one of the reasons you drank. There was another one?”

Eddie exhaled and shook his head. “Can’t talk about that yet. Family shit. Much more complicated. One step at a time.”

Milton let it go. “But the program is helping?”

Eddie nodded. “It took me a lot of time and a lot of therapy to realise that none of what happened to me was my fault. The rooms have helped me to work that out. And then, when I had that fixed, I decided that I was going to take an account of my life. I was owed some justice for what happened to me, and there are people I’ve hurt who deserve the same. The eighth and ninth steps, right? Make a list of the people you’ve hurt and then make amends. I know it’ll help me, and maybe it’ll help others, too.”

The time had passed without Milton really noticing it, and, when he did check his watch, he saw that it was time to go. He stood.

“Off to work?”

“Yes. It was nice to meet you, Eddie.”

“You too. Thanks for listening.”

“My pleasure.”

“Maybe I’ll see you at the shelter. If I get a fare out west, I’ll pop in and get a cuppa.”

“I’ll be there. Every night.”

He said goodbye to the others around the table, zipped up his leather jacket, and went outside. It was dark and damp, and, although the rain had stopped, the roads were slicked with water. Milton took out his packet of cigarettes and put one in his mouth. The weather was cold. He zipped the jacket all the way to the top, lit the cigarette with his Ronson lighter, and set off for the entrance to the underground.

MILTON TOOK THE TUBE to Oxford Circus, walked from there to Russell Square, and arrived with five minutes to spare. His place of work was a building that looked nothing more than a large green shed with a shingled roof that was equipped with a ventilation chimney. A line of black cabs was parked alongside it, and steam piled out of one of the windows. Milton approached, and, as he drew nearer, he began to smell the distinctive atmosphere. The place was redolent with conflicting scents. Fried bacon was the most prevalent, with fried onions and tobacco beneath it. There was the smell of tea and coffee, too. Damp clothes and sweat.

Milton had found the job online and had Googled it. The sheds had been built all around London in the middle of the eighteenth century. They were intended to serve horse cabmen as somewhere they could have a meal or a drink, shelter from the elements and chew the fat with their colleagues. They were built on the road, and, because of that, the regulations stipulated that they could take up no more space than a four-wheel horse cab. There had been dozens at their peak, but there were only thirteen left now. The entrance to this one was next to the black rail that had once been used for tethering horses and ran along the outside of the structure. The shelters were less exclusive now, and this one advertised that fact with a chalked sign that read TAXI DRIVERS ONLY INSIDE—WINDOW OPEN TO EVERYONE ELSE. A second sign, older and more weather-beaten, announced that the shelter was supported by the Cabmen’s Shelter Fund and that there were a number of regulations that had to be observed.

Milton stepped off the pavement and up through the open door. The interior was a little more spacious than might have been assumed from the outside, but it wasn’t large. Half of it was taken up with bench seating that could accommodate ten drivers. There was a narrow window smeared with trails from greasy fingers. A sign on the wall offered full English breakfasts all day and the spare space had been decorated with paintings of modern black cabs. The guitar suspended from a hook was often brought down in the early hours by one of the regular drivers who thought he had talent, leading anyone else who was around in song. There were shelves filled with second-hand books and a rack for newspapers and magazines. The other half of the space was for the tiny kitchen. There was a small stove, double racking for shelves on both walls, and a sink. A refrigerator was placed against the wall between the kitchen and the open dining area.

“Hello, John.”

The woman’s name was Cathy. She was the owner of the shelter, and, as she had proudly announced to Milton when he responded to her ad, the business had been in her family for sixty years. Her grandfather had purchased the business after the Second World War, her father had taken it over when his father had passed away, and now it was hers.

“How are you?” she said.

“I’m good,” Milton said. “How’s business?”

“Brisk. It was a good day. Always busy when it rains, and it’s going to rain again tonight.”

“It’s going to rain all week.”

“Lucky us. Lots of drivers out. I think you’re going to have your hands full.”

“Not a problem,” Milton said. “I like it better that way.”

“Makes the time go a little faster?”

“That makes it sound like I don’t enjoy it.”

“You don’t have to pretend you do, darling.”

He smiled. “I’m not pretending. I do. Seriously.”

“You’re a strange one.”

Milton had explained during their interview that he had experience in catering. He might have overplayed that a little, but it was at least partially true. He had held down a job as a chef in a restaurant in Ciudad Juarez for a night before it had been attacked by members of one of the more dangerous cartels that rendered that city so dangerous, and he had found himself plunged into an attempt to keep a young journalist safe from harm. But he was a decent if rudimentary cook and, having been single for most of his life, had taught himself the basics. He was confident that he would be able to handle the beans on toast and bacon sandwiches that made up the staples for the mainly male customers who patronised the shelter. It had been enough for her to offer him the job.

Cathy opened the door and glanced outside. The first fat droplets of rain had started to fall. “Bloody wonderful,” she said. She took her coat, put it on, and turned to Milton. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “Have a good night.”

“And you.”

She stepped down onto the pavement, raised a large pink umbrella, and headed off toward the station. She lived in Essex, all the way out in Theydon Bois near the end of the Central Line. “Excuse me, mate,” one of the customers said as he stepped around Milton and hurried through the rain to his cab. Milton watched as the cabbie drove away, honking his horn as he passed Cathy. She was popular among her clientele. Milton envied her that.

He closed the door and went to work.

MILTON LOVED THE SHELTER. This was the end of his first week, and he had enjoyed each shift. He arranged the bottles of sauce on the windowsill of the exterior serving hatch, replacing an empty bottle of ketchup with a fresh one. Cathy had arranged two potted plants on the corners of the sill, decorating the window, and two stools were placed outside when the weather was good.

The atmosphere was always lively. The customers were drawn from a small collection of regulars who had obviously known each other for years. They pretended to flirt with Cathy—she made no effort to hide how much she enjoyed the banter—and took a little while to warm up to newcomers. Milton had replaced a man who had worked nights for ten years before he had fallen ill with cancer, and he knew it was going to take them a little time to come around to him. The first couple of nights had been awkward, the atmosphere clearly more reserved than it had been during the day. He knew that he would have to persevere.

The shift progressed without incident. The rain started to fall more heavily outside and, as Cathy had predicted, the weather persuaded more cabbies to take to their cabs to cater to the increased demand for their services. That, in turn, meant that there were more of them who wanted refreshment. He was busy, and the time passed quickly.

It was gone three when he heard a commotion from outside. He glanced out the window and saw, through the cloud of steam, two drunken lads from one of the local nightclubs. He eyed them for a moment, saw that they were going to be a nuisance, and wiped his hands on the tea towel that he wore in his belt. There were three drivers inside, enjoying a lively discussion about football while they filled up on hot tea.

The two young men staggered up to the front door, opened it and came inside.

“You can’t come in here,” said Jack, one of the drivers. He was an older regular who was particularly fond of the fact that the shelter was exclusive.

“Says who?”

The men were both rolling drunk, reeking of alcohol and looking for trouble. Milton knew that the drivers could sort them out themselves if he left them to it, but they did not; they looked to him first, and he realised that they were giving him the chance to prove himself.

“Says me,” Milton said. “Drivers only, lads. Outside, please. I’ll serve you through the hatch.”

“Who are you to tell us what we can and can’t do?” the other man said, slurring his words even more than his friend.

“I’ve asked you nicely. Let’s be civil.”

“Or what?”

“Or I won’t ask nicely,” Milton replied, a little more iron in his voice. They were too drunk to realise that it would have been in their best interests to retreat and decided, instead, to resist.

“It’s pissing down outside. Get us a bacon sandwich. We’re going to have them in here.”

Their attitude was a mistake. If Milton had a choice of how to deal with them before, now he did not.

The two of them were in their early twenties and both reasonably large. But the drink had imbued them with a sense of confidence that had robbed them of their caution. Without it, they might have recognised that Milton was not the sort of man it would be wise to annoy.

The room was small and the two of them were cramped between the cabbies who were sitting at the table and Milton. He approached until he was an arm’s length away and then warned them, one final time, that they needed to leave. They started to respond with another volley of slurred abuse, but he did not let them finish. One of them, the larger of the pair, was a little farther ahead of his friend and closer to Milton. There was no room for an expansive punch or a kick, so Milton opened his hand and pushed out a palm strike that ended just above the man’s abdominals. He stepped into the blow and shoved forward, transferring his body weight, his arm relaxed and pushing ahead as if he was pressing through to the man’s spine. The fact that his arm was relaxed meant that he hit harder and faster than if he had tensed his muscles. The impact was painful and immediately rendered the man breathless. He doubled up, and Milton took the opportunity to knock him down with an abbreviated elbow strike to the side of his head.

The man dropped to his knees, and Milton stepped around him to square up with his friend.

“Sorry,” the second man said. “I didn’t… we didn’t…”

“Pick him up and piss off,” Milton said, gesturing to the first man, who was gasping for breath on the floor at his feet. “And don’t come back.”