Something Wicked Page 12

“And Loz is racist.”

  “A lot of people are.”

  “But it’s wrong!” I could hear myself pleading. I sort of wanted to argue with Ritchie but at the same time I couldn’t bear to. That’s why there was this strange whining note in my voice.

  “Look, I’m not defending what they did, Anna. But they got jumpy, sitting in the Micra for so long. It was, like, bound to happen.”

  “So you’re saying, we’ve got to accept that not everything will work out the way we want it to? There’s bound to be mistakes?” I was struggling to understand.

  “That’s right.” He smiled at me. I was encouraged.

  “It’s like collateral damage!”

  “You what?”

  “Collateral damage,” I repeated. “You know, in war, when the army bombs civilians by mistake, or fires on friendly aircraft.”

  “You’re clever, you,” Ritchie said approvingly. “That’s exactly what it’s like. Brainy Anna.” He dug me in the ribs.

  What I like about Ritchie is that he respects me, see. Some boys are put off if girls come across as clever.

  “I’m still gutted for Donna,” I said. “And I’m not sure Woodsy was right about Mr Singh.”

  “Forget them now, Anna,” he said, and that was when he kissed me. A kiss tasting of the cold outside air, of cigarettes, of Ritchie. I gave myself entirely to it.

  He said afterwards, “They didn’t get us. The cops, I mean.”

  “Yeah,” I said, nestling against him.

  “Nothing and no one can get us.”

  It certainly felt like that, sitting on the bench overlooking Moor Park. Beneath us was a dark blur of trees hiding the boating lake from view. You could just about see the main road, and further in the distance were the tower blocks of Fairfield, and hundreds and hundreds of rooftops. Only we mattered.

  “You’ve got to be one step ahead, you see,” Ritchie said. “If you use your brains, you won’t get caught. You’ve got to have nerve, too. Nerve is important.”

  I was only half listening to him. I was content just tuning in to the rise and fall of his voice. As I did, I was thinking how happy I was at this particular moment in time, alone with Ritchie, the past successfully behind us, the future what we would make it. The consciousness that Ritchie cared for me – that I had a boyfriend – just overwhelmed me. I could have cried from happiness.

  “We’re not like the others,” Ritchie said.

  “So we can just drop them?”

  “Not entirely. We need Loz. Well, his brother. Did you know his brother was a squaddie?”

  “I don’t know much about your mates,” I said, just enjoying the sound of his voice.

  “There’s not much to know. Loz lives with his brother. He moved in with him after he came back from Bosnia – he lifted loads of stuff while he was there – he’s a right criminal. You see, Loz’s mum ran off with some bloke and went abroad. When he was five. He was in care for a time but then when his brother shacked up with this bird, they took him in. Then she walked. I don’t know who’s living there now.”

  “What about Woodsy?” I asked.

  “He lives with his gran and his dad. His gran can’t get out of the flat because of her arthritis. His dad’s a lazy bugger, can’t be arsed to do much else except watch the box with a few cans, know what I mean? Woodsy stays round at Loz’s, most nights. What else? Tanner you know about.”

  Tanner was bullied and beaten up till he was unconscious. That was a year after his mum died. I knew he lived with his aunt and cousin. It was all pretty depressing. When you think about it, it was hardly surprising lads like that went off the rails. I decided not to blame them. And then there was Ritchie himself. His life hadn’t exactly been a bed of roses either.

  It was as if he was reading my mind. “Me and Wendy – we’re going to see him tonight.”

  “Your dad?”

  “That bloke, yeah.”

  “What – I mean, does he know … ?”

  “No. Wendy’s been watching him. She knows he leaves the office around six thirty. We’re going up there and she’s going to have a word.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I just asked simple questions.

  “Where’s his office?”

  “On the Calder Fields Industrial Estate.”

  “Are you scared?”

  Ritchie shrugged. “Not scared. But sometimes I feel as if I could … Anna, I know. Let’s go taxing afterwards.”

  The word thrilled me. I caught my breath.

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  “Why not?” he echoed me.

  We moved off the bench together, almost racing down the hill. Then I had an idea. “Ritchie,” I said. “You know something. My mum’s away this weekend.”

  “Is she?”

  “Yeah. Why don’t you come over to mine?”

  “I might just do that.”

  “Bet you can’t catch me!” I cried as I ran off from him. Ever since I was a kid I’ve loved running downhill. I can run pretty fast. I dodged between the trees, confident Ritchie would run after me. Then out on to the path again. Running, running. And then into the children’s playground, not caring what people were thinking, dodging through the swings. And into the bushes. That was where he caught me, grabbed me from behind, and I struggled but he was stronger than me and he pushed me down on to the ground. I protested I’d get dirty. We rolled around together for a bit and I wondered if he was going to kiss me. He didn’t. He just seemed to want to pin me down, and for a moment I was frightened. I could feel the suppressed violence in the hands that held me down. What was happening here? My heart was pounding. I struggled out of his grip, got up and brushed the leaves off us. Ritchie just laughed. Normality was restored. I looked down at myself. Luckily I wasn’t in too bad a state.

  I checked my watch. It was already six.

  “Shouldn’t you be meeting your mum?” I asked. I showed Ritchie the time.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “I’ll come with you. Then we can go off after that. I’ll wait at the top of the estate. I’ll be OK.”

  The truth was, I wanted to be there for Ritchie. I thought this meeting might be difficult for him. I hoped his mum wouldn’t mind.

  Ritchie was still for a moment, considering my offer.

  Then he said, “Let’s go.”

  When we got off the bus, Wendy was there, in jeans and an old sheepskin jacket. She didn’t react at all to my presence. I realised then I didn’t matter to her. She was so focused on her meeting with Ritchie’s dad, that I was at worst an irrelevance and at best a witness.

  “He hasn’t left yet,” she told us. “I’ve been watching the road.”

  There was only one, one-way road going through the industrial estate, near the centre of town. It looped round and all the various businesses and offices were sited along it – modern, anonymous buildings. The bus stop was by the exit road. We turned into it and followed Wendy, who walked ahead of us with determined steps. Ritchie didn’t say anything to me, and I couldn’t think of anything to say to him. He seemed kind of tense, and I guessed he just wished the whole thing was over. If it was me – if I was about to meet the dad who disowned me when I was a baby, I’d feel a mixture of things – I’d be angry, and anxious, but also I think I’d want him to like me – to see me and suddenly realise what he’d been missing. Maybe Ritchie felt those things, but if he did, he wasn’t going to say.

  Eventually we came to a large builders’ yard, with a glass-fronted office looking out over it. There was the BMW in the car park. On the wall above it, the words Peter Duff were painted in white. The lights were out in the office reception. All was quiet. A slight breeze disturbed some dust on the ground. I could see the yard in the distance. It was full of piles of bricks, sacks of cement, other builder’s stuff.

  “Here’s something interesting,” Wendy muttered to Ritchie. “You know Sandra, who used to clean at the pub? She’s working for him now – in his home at Burnham. That’s a coincidence, isn’t
it? It must mean something. It’s fate.”

  Ritchie made some comment I didn’t catch. We were standing just by the exit from the car park. If Ritchie’s dad came out of the office, we’d be able to confront him in an instant. Wendy opened her handbag and took a packet of cigarettes out and handed one to Ritchie. They both smoked in silence.

  Meanwhile I was feeling more and more as if I shouldn’t have come. When Ritchie was with his mum he was different. It was like he only existed in relation to her. He moved and spoke like she did. He smoked in the same way as her. It was like they were tied together by an invisible cord. I wished I was somewhere else. But to go now would be disruptive and disloyal. I knew I had to see this out, even though it wasn’t my story. At least, it wasn’t then.

  Suddenly Wendy clutched Ritchie’s arm. In the same instant I noticed a figure come out of a side door and into the office. A large, burly man in a suit. He stood by a desk and checked some papers. I felt my pulse racing.

  “It’s him,” Wendy said.

  Ritchie stubbed his cigarette out. I tried to back off a little. Then the office door opened and the man turned to lock it. As he did so, Wendy walked into the car park. Ritchie stayed with me. We couldn’t quite hear what happened. But I saw everything.

  He turned, caught sight of Wendy and flinched in surprise, maybe even terror. He was a big man, receding hair, jowly face, but most definitely Ritchie’s dad. The eyes were the same. Wendy was talking to him intently. He was standing stock-still. I could tell he wanted to get away but couldn’t see how to. Then he decided to make for his car. Wendy followed him and got between him and the driver’s door.

  “Craig!” she called.

  Ritchie left me then and went over to his mum. I didn’t know whether I should follow him or not. But I did anyway. The truth was, I wanted to see what was going to happen. I had to see what was going to happen.

  “Craig,” Wendy said. “This is your father.”

  Peter’s eyes locked on to his son’s, and in that moment I knew he’d acknowledged him. A shiver went through me. I could see fear in his face, fear and confusion.

  “I’m not asking for much,” Wendy said, breaking in. “I just want to hear you say Craig is yours, and treat him as you do your other kids. Give him the things you give them. Look at him, Pete, look at him. Your own flesh and blood. Admit it. Pete, look at me. Remember what we used to have, Pete.”

  She scared me more than ever, Ritchie’s mum. You could tell she’d rehearsed all this. She was so intense, you felt drawn into her world. But there was something pathetic about her too. She reminded me of those women you get on Oprah or Jerry Springer, living so intensely in their own dramas they don’t see how ridiculous they’re being.

  It’s quite easy to see what people are thinking by looking at their faces. I saw Peter look at Wendy with something like disgust. When he looked at Ritchie, he was bothered. But Ritchie’s face was unreadable, even to me.

  “This is harassment,” Peter said. “If you don’t go away, I’ll call the police.”

  “I dare you,” Wendy said. She put a hand on his arm. He pushed it roughly away. I could hear my heart thudding in my chest. I hoped there wasn’t going to be violence.

  “Leave her alone!” Ritchie shouted.

  It was turning ugly. I knew it would. I held my breath.

  “Craig – keep out of this,” Wendy said. “Peter, listen to me. You can’t turn your back on the past. You know how you felt about me. We’re your real family. But I don’t want a lot from you. I just want you to look after your son. Tell him – tell him you’re his father. Tell him you’ll support him. Do it.”

  Peter’s face was like a mask now. I could tell he’d had time to think, to collect himself. He wasn’t going to give in. Whatever feelings Ritchie had roused in him had been totally extinguished. He spoke to his son now, as if he was a stranger, or like he was an apprentice in his yard or something. “Be a good lad and take your mum home. If you don’t, you’ll give me no option but to call for the police.”

  Ritchie’s dad shot me a sidelong glance. At that moment I thought that adults are such hypocrites. They’re always telling us to be honest and confront things and work hard and keep to the straight and narrow, but here was this man being such a louse.

  Ritchie’s face was white with anger. In the nick of time Wendy placed a restraining hand on him. “He’s not worth it, Craig. Don’t get yourself into trouble. Peter, you haven’t heard the last of us. We’ll be back. You know you can’t get rid of me that easily.”

  Peter took his mobile out of his jacket pocket and began to dial a number.

  “You coward!” she taunted him. “You’re frightened of me and two kids?”

  Peter spoke into his phone. “Mike? Sadiq? I’m having a spot of bother here. Yeah, in the yard. If you could come over.” Then he disconnected.

  “Mr Big can’t fight his own battles!” Wendy laughed at him. “Come on, Craig. There’s no point hanging around now. There’ll be other opportunities.”

  She turned on her heel and Ritchie followed her. We three marched out of the car park and along the road. Then Ritchie stopped by a wall. He hunched over and began to retch. I felt so sorry for him. But he was OK. He wasn’t sick or anything. Finally he collected himself, only he was white as a ghost. Wendy hadn’t noticed him stop at all. She was ahead of us, muttering to herself.

  When we got to the main road I noticed Wendy’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were glittering. “Shall we go for a drink?” she asked us.

  Ritchie said, no. He told her he was going to take me home. She was so wrapped up in herself she didn’t seem to mind. So they said goodbye. Ritch pulled me roughly along the street. He was full of a sort of pent-up fury, and he scared me. I turned to see his mum lighting another cigarette. Soon we were at the bus stop.

  “Do you want to talk?” I asked him. I thought it might be a good idea if he off-loaded to me.

  “No point,” he said. “No fucking point. Let’s go taxing.”

  “Are you sure you—”

  “I said, let’s go taxing.”

  Just then the bus came into view. I thought maybe it was for the best – Ritchie needed to distract himself. He needed time to come to terms with what had happened. And nothing takes your mind off all your problems like taxing does.

  Soon we were on the bus, on our way to our next heist.

  When we arrived at Princes Street, the upmarket end of the town centre, the streetlights were on and it was night proper. Ritchie said Princes Street was where the money was, and that’s where he wanted to be tonight. Me too – I love going out at night – the lights, the buzz, the dark alleyways, all those people, all those different lives. We were where the action was. We strolled up and down, past all the restaurants and wine bars. Pizza Express, J D Wetherspoons, Café Rouge, Bar 38. All these chains, all on the make. Lots of people all dressed up to the nines, self-consciously enjoying themselves. I got glimpses of people perusing menus, waiters carrying half-eaten meals away – I mean, it’s obscene, don’t you think, the way people play with food when there’s famine in Africa and places? I saw women posing, throwing their heads back, laughing. Men talking to impress each other, leaning across the table, gesticulating. Young men, middle-aged men – I thought, I bet this is where Ritchie’s dad goes out to eat. We watched them all, all those people, knocking back their drinks, getting out of their heads. They thought they didn’t have a care in the world. Little did they know that we had the upper hand. We were in charge here.

  We went into Dunne Street, where there were some pretty swanky pubs and clubs. There was a notorious, exclusive membership-only club where a very well known celeb was caught with a prostitute. I asked Ritchie, if it was so exclusive, how come she got a membership? A bouncer stood outside it.

  I was beginning to wonder what Ritchie had in mind. On the bus, we hadn’t made any definite plans. I watched him casing each joint, his eyes scanning the territory, looking for something. I realised the
n that part of what I loved about him was exactly that – I didn’t know what he was thinking. He was unpredictable. He made me live on the edge, and the edge was the best place to be. It was like walking along a precipice – you needed every iota of nerve, every bit you possessed. I wondered how long we could go on for. I didn’t want it to end, but I guessed one day it would. I fought a feeling of bleakness that threatened to swamp me. I wanted to savour every moment of tonight. And it turned out to be our best night ever.

  We turned into the next street, past a basement Italian restaurant and a couple more bars. I noticed a silver BMW sports car. I pointed it out to Ritchie. It had one of those irritating personalised numberplates. This one read DAN 4711. Then I saw something else.

  “Bastard,” I said. He’s parked in a disabled spot. I bet he’s not disabled!”

  OK, so I know you can be rich and a cripple, but still! We walked over to the car and I looked for an orange disc, the sort with the clock where you set it at the time you arrived. Nothing. There was nothing in the car, either, to show the driver or a passenger was disabled. On the back seat was a pashmina and a bag from Bank, sealed at the top. These guys had just been shopping.

  “Doesn’t it make you sick, Ritchie?” I said.

  He didn’t reply. He didn’t hear me. He was on the other side of the road. I was puzzled. I crossed over and asked him what was up. He hushed me and pulled me away. Once we reached the corner of the street he said, “Look at the couple sitting at the table in the bar with the red window frames. You’ll see the bloke keeps looking at the BMW.”

  We wandered past on the other side of the road. Because it was dark outside and the restaurant was well lit, it was easy to see the diners. I immediately picked out the couple Ritch had been talking about. Table by the window, steel bucket with a bottle of champagne sticking out the top, two huge wine glasses, blonde bimbo type of female who kept shoving her hair behind her ears, bloke yakking on, boring her, most probably. And, yeah, he kept eyeing the car. There was no doubt in my mind at all that the car was his. He was checking for traffic wardens.

  When we got past, Ritchie said, “The second he sees a warden, he’ll be out there, pleading innocence. Or offering them a bung.”