graffiti-scabbed wall. The odd thin birds I thought I had seen hanging in the branches of a blasted plane tree turned out to be a pair of swaying yellowed condoms. Nothing was what it seemed.
A stream of cars at the roundabout, their windows closed tight, headlights on, drivers staring through their screens as if watching movies, a few people walking with lowered heads across Lambeth Bridge, one man in a luminous silver slicker. I thought he looked young enough to be a policeman, and broke into a run, my shoulder-bag bouncing against my side.
I hadn’t meant to hit the man so hard in the stomach; the pavement was slick and I found myself unable to stop. I knocked the breath from him, jack-knifing him to the kerb. I told him I thought he was a policeman.
‘That’s what you do to policemen, is it?’ He spat in the gutter and stood upright, clutching himself. A student in his early twenties, he had dropped a plastic-covered file of sheet music into the road. I helped him gather up the pages, but had heard him speak and knew he wouldn’t help. He was the kind who didn’t get involved, the kind who lived in Hamingwell.
‘I need to find one. Someone’s just been assaulted in my building.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Seconds ago I had knocked him over and here he was apologising.
‘You don’t understand.’
‘I’m not a policeman. I can’t do anything.’
‘I really need some help.’
‘And I’m really sorry,’ he replied, as if it was unthinkable to help someone. ‘You’re covered in blood.’
He skirted carefully around me and continued across the bridge with his head down. I spotted an onion-shaped man on the other side of the road carrying a length of timber wrapped in white plastic Tesco bags. The clothes he wore couldn’t have cost more than thirty pounds in total, including shoes. My habit of costing out the wardrobe of passers-by had been ingrained by years of semi-professional browsing. Accent and clothes, my only tools to judge a man; pitiful really.
‘Please, could you help me? I need to find a policeman.’
‘Sorry, darling, I’ve got problems of my own.’
‘I’m in trouble.’
He looked puzzled for a moment, scratching the back of his neck until realisation dawned. ‘It’s a bit early in the evening, isn’t it?’
‘For what?’
He gave me a knowing look. ‘You after business? You’ve got paint or something all over you.’
It took me a moment to realise what he meant. ‘I’m not a prostitute. ’
‘There’s no shame in it, love. It’s like Toys-R-Us.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Working at Toys-R-Us. You know, a profession.’
‘But I’m not. There’s a young woman in my apartment building, and she’s been injured. This isn’t paint, it’s blood. There’s not supposed to be anyone else there, and now she might even be dead.’ You sound hysterical, I thought. Even I wouldn’t trust you.
‘You want to try calling the police, love. Ain’t you got no mobile?’
Thoughts flashed forward. If I called the police they would come to the block and demand to know the identity of the owner. They’d get in touch with Malcolm. He’d complain to Julie, who was already on a knife-edge, and I would be screwed. Which meant, part of me thought selfishly, I would not get paid. I needed the new start and I needed the money.
‘It would only take a few minutes. Please, I don’t want to go back there by myself.’
‘You know what happens to blokes who have a go? Some old dear in East Street got stabbed to death for her phone last week. Seventy-something. What’s the point of surviving wars to get murdered by a schoolkid? You had a fight with your boyfriend?’
‘No, I have a husband. Had a husband. I think there was an intruder. But he may have gone. The main doors aren’t shutting because the power’s off.’ He can’t understand, I realised, because I’m not making any sense.
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m due up the Welsh Centre on Gray’s Inn Road in half an
A stream of cars at the roundabout, their windows closed tight, headlights on, drivers staring through their screens as if watching movies, a few people walking with lowered heads across Lambeth Bridge, one man in a luminous silver slicker. I thought he looked young enough to be a policeman, and broke into a run, my shoulder-bag bouncing against my side.
I hadn’t meant to hit the man so hard in the stomach; the pavement was slick and I found myself unable to stop. I knocked the breath from him, jack-knifing him to the kerb. I told him I thought he was a policeman.
‘That’s what you do to policemen, is it?’ He spat in the gutter and stood upright, clutching himself. A student in his early twenties, he had dropped a plastic-covered file of sheet music into the road. I helped him gather up the pages, but had heard him speak and knew he wouldn’t help. He was the kind who didn’t get involved, the kind who lived in Hamingwell.
‘I need to find one. Someone’s just been assaulted in my building.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Seconds ago I had knocked him over and here he was apologising.
‘You don’t understand.’
‘I’m not a policeman. I can’t do anything.’
‘I really need some help.’
‘And I’m really sorry,’ he replied, as if it was unthinkable to help someone. ‘You’re covered in blood.’
He skirted carefully around me and continued across the bridge with his head down. I spotted an onion-shaped man on the other side of the road carrying a length of timber wrapped in white plastic Tesco bags. The clothes he wore couldn’t have cost more than thirty pounds in total, including shoes. My habit of costing out the wardrobe of passers-by had been ingrained by years of semi-professional browsing. Accent and clothes, my only tools to judge a man; pitiful really.
‘Please, could you help me? I need to find a policeman.’
‘Sorry, darling, I’ve got problems of my own.’
‘I’m in trouble.’
He looked puzzled for a moment, scratching the back of his neck until realisation dawned. ‘It’s a bit early in the evening, isn’t it?’
‘For what?’
He gave me a knowing look. ‘You after business? You’ve got paint or something all over you.’
It took me a moment to realise what he meant. ‘I’m not a prostitute. ’
‘There’s no shame in it, love. It’s like Toys-R-Us.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Working at Toys-R-Us. You know, a profession.’
‘But I’m not. There’s a young woman in my apartment building, and she’s been injured. This isn’t paint, it’s blood. There’s not supposed to be anyone else there, and now she might even be dead.’ You sound hysterical, I thought. Even I wouldn’t trust you.
‘You want to try calling the police, love. Ain’t you got no mobile?’
Thoughts flashed forward. If I called the police they would come to the block and demand to know the identity of the owner. They’d get in touch with Malcolm. He’d complain to Julie, who was already on a knife-edge, and I would be screwed. Which meant, part of me thought selfishly, I would not get paid. I needed the new start and I needed the money.
‘It would only take a few minutes. Please, I don’t want to go back there by myself.’
‘You know what happens to blokes who have a go? Some old dear in East Street got stabbed to death for her phone last week. Seventy-something. What’s the point of surviving wars to get murdered by a schoolkid? You had a fight with your boyfriend?’
‘No, I have a husband. Had a husband. I think there was an intruder. But he may have gone. The main doors aren’t shutting because the power’s off.’ He can’t understand, I realised, because I’m not making any sense.
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m due up the Welsh Centre on Gray’s Inn Road in half an
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