Taking Liberties (Liberty Chapman) Page 14
We don’t have a phone. We got one once but Dad ripped it out of the wall when it woke him up one too many times. When we’ve occasionally needed to use one, we’ve asked the lady next door. What’s her name? I rub the side of my head. Why can’t I remember her name? And what is the dried stuff on my forehead, flaking off under my nails?
I open the door and go outside, the walkway balcony cold under my fingers. I look out at all the lights that zoom towards me, then rush away just as quickly. I think I might be sick again.
I push myself in the direction of next door and realize that I’m not wearing any shoes. The walkway feels rough through my school socks. Mam will go mad later and tell me that she can never get the grime out.
I bang on the neighbour’s door. I can picture the woman. All iron perm and wrinkled upper lip. She wears those massive clip-on earrings but she’s always taking them off and rubbing the pinch marks they leave on her lobes. I once asked her why she didn’t just get them pierced.
‘I did once, love,’ she said. ‘Went septic. I were on antibiotics for weeks.’
I bang again but no one comes so I bend down and open the letterbox.
‘Can you come to the door?’ I can hear the telly from inside. ‘It’s me from next door, Mrs . . .’ What’s her name? Why can’t I remember her bloody name?
No one comes to the door but the corner of the curtain twitches from inside.
‘Please help me.’ I bang on the window. ‘I need to use the phone.’
A face peers around the curtain edge. It’s not the woman but an old man. Her husband. His white hair is so thin I can see his pink scalp.
‘Please!’ I shout. ‘I need to call the police.’
Weirdly, he smiles at me showing his gums but he doesn’t move to open the door.
‘The police!’ I shout again. ‘I need to call the police.’
He’s still smiling and gives me a thumbs-up before dropping the curtain and disappearing. I thump again but he doesn’t come back. What the hell is wrong with him? Turns out I was wrong about the tears. They’ve come now, streaking down my cheeks. I turn away from the window, lean against the balcony, putting both hands out as wide as they can go, pressing my head into the railing.
I’ve got to do something. I can’t just stand here.
Through my tears, I look down below. There’s a phone box.
I haven’t got any money, but 999 calls are free, aren’t they? I start to run down the walkway towards the stairwell, past the flat. The door’s still wide open and anyone could get in. But what have we got to steal? A telly on the never-never and a plastic settee covered with cig burns.
I keep running when I get to the stairs, taking them two at a time in my socks. I can feel all sorts of rubbish getting stuck to them but I don’t care. Mam can shout and bawl all she likes. When I get to the bottom, I’m out of breath, but I don’t stop. I sprint to the phone box like I’m the last leg of the relay team.
When I get there, I can see that most of the windows are smashed. No one hardly ever uses it, or at least not to make phone calls. I yank open the door and pray the receiver hasn’t been vandalized. The stink of glue comes up at me and I heave. Someone’s left a used bag in the corner and mounds of toilet roll covered with what looks like blood.
I reach over and grab the receiver. Please let it be working. When I put it to my ear, there’s no sound so I bang the receiver. On the wall above someone has drawn a cock and bollocks in marker pen. They’ve even added hair. I bang the receiver again. Dialling tone at last. Panting, I dial the numbers and wait.
‘Police, Fire Brigade or Ambulance?’ asks a woman. ‘Which do you require?’
‘Police,’ I reply.
‘What’s your name, please?’
‘Lib,’ I say, then add, ‘Elizabeth Greenwood.’
‘Right, then, Elizabeth.’ The woman’s voice is all calm and that. ‘Can you tell me the problem?’
‘I don’t know.’ My voice sounds shrill compared to hers. ‘I don’t know. I woke up in the dark and everyone’s gone. Mam and the kids, they’ve all gone.’
‘So you’re on your own, Elizabeth?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And how old are you?’
‘Eleven,’ I tell her.
She says something else but I don’t catch it. Instead, I watch the receiver falling out of my hand and then I feel myself falling after it.
Liberty stared at her phone. She was sitting on a bench outside court, breathing in pollution and feeling the sweat trickle down her back. Images of those grainy photographs pushed and shoved their way to the front of her mind.
She had lied to the police and now they were going to find out. Her career was over, and without her career, her life was over. The flat with views of the Heath, the Porsche, the health-club membership. All gone.
The traffic on the road ahead had come to a standstill. Drum and bass music blasted out from the open window of a red BMW, the low notes making Liberty’s bowels curdle. She took a breath and punched in Jay’s number.
‘Hiya.’ He sounded chirpy. ‘Everything all right?’
‘No.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ His voice had lost none of its sunshine.
‘I’ve got a problem,’ said Liberty. ‘We’ve got a problem.’
‘Go on.’
‘The alibi I gave to the police isn’t going to stack up,’ she said.
There was a breathy noise down the phone, which might have been a sigh. ‘Course it’ll stack up, Lib. You’re a solicitor. Word is your bond and all that.’
The passenger of the red BMW let his arm trail out of the window and the smell of a fat spliff floated towards Liberty.
‘I was caught by a speed camera on the way home from the restaurant,’ she blurted out.
‘What?’
‘I forgot about it until just now,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’ Jay asked.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Liberty tried to swallow her irritation. ‘I was flashed on the road to my hotel. It’s only a matter of time before I get a summons.’
There was a pause on the line as Jay processed what he was being told. More frustration welled in Liberty. Jay was the funny one, never the clever one. ‘I doubt anyone will put two and two together,’ he said at last.
Liberty jumped up from the bench. ‘That’s not a chance I can take, Jay. I’ll lose my job over this. I could bloody well go to prison.’
‘Hold up, Lib. Don’t get carried away.’
‘Carried away?’ she hissed. ‘I lied to the police. I lied to protect you.’
‘I know,’ he said.
The red BMW began to crawl away and the passenger flicked his roach into the gutter.
‘I’m going to have to tell the police I made a mistake,’ she said.
‘You can’t do that.’
‘I’ve got to,’ she said. ‘I know it will land you in the shit, and I’m sorry about that, honestly I am, Jay, but this is my life we’re talking about here.’
His voice dropped. ‘It won’t be just me in the shit, though, will it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Think about it, Lib. There’s no way the police are just going to accept a U-turn from you. The coppers involved are complete bastards. They’ll do you for wasting police time at the very least.’
Liberty thought about Connolly and Hassani and slumped back onto the bench. ‘Fuck.’
‘You need to speak to Crystal,’ said Jay.
‘What for?’
‘If anyone can help us out with this, it’s Crystal.’
The portable air-conditioning unit in Jay’s office rattled, a dribble of water pooling below it. An endless throb of music from the main stage in the Black Cherry bled through the closed door and Crystal tapped her foot in time. She was sitting on the desk, a box of love eggs at her side. She was wearing skinny black jeans and a scowl. Her hair had been tamed, curls glossed and separated. ‘So, this is a complete and utter fuck-up,’ she said.
Crystal reached over for a packet of Juicy Fruit laid on the desk, took out a stick and pointed it at her. ‘Yeah, well, you did.’ She unwrapped the gum, bit it in half and chewed, then pushed in the remaining half. The sweet plastic smell of childhood travelled across the room to Liberty. Crystal didn’t offer her a stick.
‘Jay said you would be able to help,’ said Liberty.
‘I bet he did.’ Crystal looked away, staring at the wall, her jaw moving as she chewed.
‘Can you?’ Liberty asked. ‘Help?’
Crystal snapped her head back towards Liberty, eyebrows raised. ‘Yes.’
‘How?’
Crystal narrowed her eyes at Liberty, reached into her mouth and pulled at her gum, forming a long string. Then she shoved it back into her mouth.
‘Tell me how, Crystal,’ Liberty pressed.
‘Pay people.’ She waved a hand. ‘Lift the photograph. Without that the whole thing goes away.’
‘What people?’
‘Police, CPS, DVLA,’ Crystal replied. ‘Depends what stage it’s reached. Hopefully we can intercept it before it’s been through too many hands.’
Liberty took a deep breath. Crystal was suggesting they pay corrupt officials to remove evidence. ‘That’s a crime,’ she said.
‘So is providing a false alibi.’
They stared at one another for a long moment. Crystal’s eyes were grey as flint. Liberty, Jay and Frankie had eyes the colour of melted chocolate. A window to their souls. Crystal’s had always been hard and sharp.
‘I don’t think there’s much choice.’ Crystal let herself slide from the desk to her feet and reached down for her bag. ‘Do you?’
Liberty blinked rapidly. Her eyes felt dry and sore. Was there a choice? Another way out of this? If there was, she couldn’t think of one. She felt like she was letting herself be pulled out of the way of a car directly into the path of a ten-ton truck.
Crystal nodded and made for the door.
‘How do you even know the sort of people who can do this?’ Liberty asked.
Crystal stopped, cocked her head to one side, lips pressed together. ‘Do you want this to happen or not?’
‘Okay,’ Liberty said. ‘And thanks.’
‘I’m not doing this for you.’ Crystal shut the door behind her, leaving Liberty alone with the love eggs.
Amira Hassani stamped down Carter Street. The girls didn’t usually come out until the evening, but things always got started earlier than usual on Fridays. Maybe someone would know something. She was still furious about the morning. Having to let the solicitor go had felt like an icicle being plunged into her chest. Those people made her sick. Who did they think they were? Above the law? Safe and protected? Their whole lives easy, a smooth passage from good to better.
Well, she might not be able to nail Chapman for perverting the course of justice but she wasn’t going to just roll over. No way. She was going to find Daisy Clarke and make sure she testified against Rance. Sol had told her to stay well clear but screw that for a game of soldiers. She checked her watch. Three thirty. She’d need to go home soon so that Dad and Zaid could go to mosque.
The door of Scottish Tony’s opened and a working girl called Jadine came out, platinum blonde wig puffed out like a synthetic halo. Amira crossed over to her. ‘Can I have a quick word, Jadine?’ she asked.
‘Course you can, love.’
Jadine was a regular down the nick but Amira always treated her with respect. A lifetime of not knowing who you really were would mess with anyone’s mind. You could hardly blame them for turning to drugs and drink. ‘Have you seen anything of Daisy?’ she asked.
Jadine batted false eyelashes. ‘Daisy the Dog?’
Amira nodded.
‘Not for a bit,’ said Jadine. ‘She’s not down here so much now she’s got a spot at the Cherry.’ She reached into a pink fur handbag, extracted a packet of cigarettes and offered it to Amira, who refused. ‘Rather her than me.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Jadine lit a brass Zippo, the gas making a small whoosh. Amira worried for the wig.
‘The Greenwoods.’ Jadine pulled a face. ‘Who needs them in their life?’
A car pulled down the street and Jadine dipped to look inside. She was six foot yet still wore high heels. When the driver caught sight of Amira he quickly went on his way.
‘Is that it?’ Jadine asked. ‘I don’t want to be rude but I really need to earn some cash. I’m clucking like a turkey on Christmas Eve.’
‘Have you got any idea where I might find Daisy? She’s not at the Cherry and she’s not at home.’
Jadine took a drag of her cigarette, her lipstick leaving a ring on the filter. ‘She’s been spending a lot of time with the youngest Greenwood, Frankie. They’re both a bit too fond of the rocks.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘Not that I’ve got much room to talk.’ As another car came down the street, Jadine raised heavily pencilled eyebrows and Amira melted into the shadows, leaving her to pick up her first punter of the day. The passenger window lowered and Jadine leaned in with a breathy laugh. ‘Looking for business, love?’
A part of Amira wanted to pull Jadine away, tell her that she didn’t have to do this, that she needed to make a life for herself that didn’t involve getting into cars to give blow-jobs to strangers. But realistically what sort of life would that be? She was a forty-year-old trans woman with hepatitis B and a heroin ad-diction. The world was not exactly her oyster.
Frankie liked London. There was a buzz about it, as if everybody had somewhere proper interesting to go, rushing out of the station, chatting shit into their phone. When this deal set him up back home, maybe he could talk Jay and Crystal into expanding down here. Crystal would give him the death stare, tell him they needed to stick to what they knew. But Jay would probably be up for it.
‘Frankie.’ Daisy elbowed him in the side. ‘I need the toilet.’
Frankie sighed. They’d decided, or at least he’d decided, that they needed to keep clear heads. No brown. No rocks. A couple of lines of ching just to keep them going. A couple had turned into one every half an hour, with Daisy spending the whole train journey in the frigging toilets. He watched her waddle off towards the Ladies in King’s Cross station and began to regret bringing her.
It had seemed a good idea. Who was going to suspect some bird of anything dodgy? She could blend in, innocent like. In the cold light of day she didn’t look anything other than what she was: a skanky tart who took too many drugs.
His shades were making the bridge of his nose sweat. The strap of the bag on his shoulder was digging in. Guns were a lot heavier than they looked.
They took the tube to Brixton and emerged on Brixton Road among a sea of people trying to get outside. A man in a pair of shorts so tight they would have done for the 1972 Brazil team tutted at Daisy as he banged past her.
‘There’s too many folk here,’ she whined.
She’d been whining all morning about one thing or another. She kept going on about not understanding why they were going to London. No matter how many times he repeated himself, she just kept muttering away. ‘Something doesn’t feel right, Frankie,’ she said, over and over, as if she’d have the first clue about put-ting together something like this. All she knew about in life was taking drugs and giving blow-jobs.
Frankie growled. She was starting to get on his tits. Obviously, she’d never been anywhere or done anything, but she didn’t need to act so retarded. When this job got done, he was going to pay her off and kick her to the kerb. He walked up the street, keeping an eye out for a cab. Brixton Dave had given him an address but Frankie didn’t have a clue how to find it. He’d just hand the bit of paper to the driver and let him take them there.
The pavement soon got blocked off by some tables outside a bar, each seat taken by someone smoking and drinking. The beer looked fucking shot, so cloudy the
y wouldn’t get away with it back in Yorkshire. The sign above the bar’s door said ‘Micro Brewery’. No wonder it was ‘micro’, selling that shite.
‘I need the toilet,’ said Daisy.
Frankie bit his knuckle. He so badly wanted to give her a slap. ‘Fine,’ he snapped. ‘Go in this bar.’
When she was gone, he thought about getting a drink but wasn’t about to risk stomach rot from the mardy-looking ale they were selling. Instead he went into the newsagent next door and bought a bottle of Lucozade. The sweetness on his tongue made him think about Lib. How she used to give them all Lucozade when they were poorly. Crystal would argue that she’d never done anything like that and that Frankie had been too young to remember what had gone on. But she was wrong. He did remember.
Daisy appeared by his side, a sheen of sweat thick on her fore-head. ‘Give us a swig.’
He handed it to her and watched as she brought it to her lips. There was a whitehead in the corner of her mouth that made him feel sick. What person looked at themselves in the mirror and thought, Nah, not popping that? Then again, it wouldn’t surprise him if Daisy never looked in a mirror, except when she was dancing down at the Cherry or snorting coke off one. She held the bottle out to him. ‘Keep it,’ he said.
Back in her hotel room, Liberty poured a miniature bottle of gin into a glass, topped it with tonic water then poured in a second bottle of gin. She drank almost half off the bat. The panic that had paralysed her earlier had disappeared, allowing the cold, hard truth of what she’d done to look her in the eye. She didn’t flinch.
There was a rap at the door, which she ignored. Then it came again. If it was Rance, she would send him packing without any saccharine. She opened the door.
‘Hello.’ Jay nodded at his sister’s glass. ‘Bit early for the hard stuff.’
Liberty jerked her head for him to come in and shut the door behind him with her foot. Then she opened the minibar with a flourish. ‘Help yourself.’
Jay took a bottle of beer. The top came off with a soft pfft and he sat next to her at the foot of the bed. They didn’t look at one another and they didn’t speak. They just stared straight ahead at the television, which wasn’t turned on, and gulped their drinks.