‘I don’t suck up to anyone,’ I told Tibbs. ‘Why don’t you go and have another drink? Not that you need one.’
I made to move past him but he put his free hand on my chest. The other hand held a beer bottle by the neck.
‘I heard your mob has been babysitting that murdering Paki bastard,’ he said.
I stared at his friends again but they were not going to do me any favours here.
Then Ray Vann was there, staring at me as if we had never met.
I thought I recognised some of the others from the jump-off van but it was difficult to tell now they were not in PASGT helmets and Kevlar.
‘Ahmed Khan didn’t murder anyone,’ I said deliberately.
‘Come on, Jesse, have a drink,’ said one of his companions. They eyeballed me evenly. It did not feel like we were on the same side tonight.
Tibbs’ gaze slid away from me as his mouth twisted with fury.
‘Hey,’ I said, getting his attention again. ‘Did you hear me, pal? That old man didn’t kill anyone. He didn’t kill the people who died when the helicopter came down and he didn’t kill Alice Stone. So don’t waste your feelings on him. Save it for someone who deserves it.’
Tibbs’ friends were putting their hands on him.
He furiously shrugged them off.
He tapped his beer bottle against my chest.
‘I’m warning you,’ he slurred, and I suddenly saw just how drunk he was. ‘You tell me where that safe house is – you tell me where West End Central are babysitting this scumbag – because I’m going round there tonight …’
‘Tibbs,’ Jackson said, appearing by his side. ‘Jesse. Shut it.’
‘Why do you always have to watch his back?’ Tibbs demanded.
I shook my head. ‘Why do you hate that old man?’
‘Are you fucking shitting me?’ Tibbs screamed. ‘Because he raised those evil bastards! Why do you give a toss about him?’
‘Because he’s an innocent man.’
‘Innocent? You really believe that?’
‘His sons were poison. He drives buses.’
I pushed past him. His friends half-heartedly tried to restrain him but Tibbs came after me, shouting abuse.
I was not going to do anything unless he put his hands on me.
And that was what he did, his palms slick with sweat and lager on my shoulders, one of them still holding that bottle as he pulled at my T-shirt.
And that was all a bit silly.
He should have just hit me from behind with his bottle.
With his hands on my shoulders, Tibbs was wide open. I half-turned and hit him with a short left hook to the ribcage and he sank down on one knee like someone who had never felt a body shot before.
A wave of sickness and sadness washed over me.
I did not want to fight this man but I knew I might not have a choice. I waited to see if he wanted to take it further.
But he just rubbed his aching ribs as he slowly got to his feet.
‘Next time,’ he said.
‘Next time you better bring your gun,’ I said.
I walked back to West End Central.
There were tourists at the end of Savile Row, photographing the outside of number 3, where the Beatles played their last ever gig on the rooftop in 1969, grinning and making peace signs and excited at the proximity of the ghosts of John, Paul, George and Ringo.
I watched one of the tourists pay their rickshaw driver.
George Halfpenny thanked them in Mandarin.
‘I heard that you closed down Borodino Street,’ he said.
I shook my head.
‘We opened it up,’ I said. ‘We opened it up for the people who live there. Your adoring fans are going to have to catch you at some other venue.’
‘I don’t have fans. Just some people who listen to what I have to say. Why does that bother you so much?’
‘I’m afraid some of them haven’t read as many books as you have, George.’ I indicated his rickshaw. ‘Are you free?’
‘Are you making fun of me?’
‘No.’
He looked at the Chinese tourists.
‘Where you going?’
‘Bar Italia,’ I said. ‘It’s on Frith Street.’
‘I know where the Bar Italia is,’ he said.
I eased myself into the back of his rickshaw.
George Halfpenny stood up on his bike and put some beef into it, transporting me to Soho with real professional pride, as if he wanted to show me that he was far more than a rickshaw driver, far more than a coolie for tourists, as if he wanted to prove that his muscle and sinew and animal strength had been built up over the course of a thousand years.
15
It was still early on Sunday morning when Stan and I strolled across Victoria Park, the time when there was nobody around apart from the serious runners and the dog walkers who rose at the same time whatever the season. Stan sniffed the air with interest, but there was a hint of suspicion in his huge round eyes. These were not the scents of his usual Sunday walk on Hampstead Heath.
It was a short walk from Victoria Park to Borodino Street where a few stray petals were the only reminder of the sea of flowers that had been laid for Alice Stone. But there were no crowds, no reporters, no photographers and no police. Perhaps the press was all waiting at the bus station where Ahmed Khan was going to work the Sunday shift. Yes, that was the money shot for the morning news.
Stan and I walked the length of that small road, my dog delicately sniffing every lamppost and garden gate before cocking his rear right leg and leaving his mark. He still had one leg cocked in the air when Ahmed Khan came out of his house wearing his London Transport bus driver’s uniform and carrying a lunch box. His wife, Azza, and granddaughter, Layla, stared at me over his shoulder.
Mrs Khan tugged at her hijab, gave Layla a push backwards and shut the door behind him without a word.
‘Morning, Arnold,’ I said.
‘They make you do this?’ he said. ‘They make you watch over me?’
I indicated Stan. ‘Does he look like a police dog to you? It’s my day off. I’m just checking in on you. Seeing how you’re doing.’
In truth there was a part of me that had not believed that he would leave the safe house and return home. I did not believe that anyone would so blithely ignore an Osman warning. I did not believe that anyone could be that stubborn, stupid and brave.
‘It’s not necessary,’ he said.
A police car turned into the street. It slowly passed us, two faces turned towards us without expression, one white and one black, bleary with lack of sleep, clearly at the tail end of the night shift, and then accelerated away.
‘They come every few hours,’ he said. ‘Just drive past and do not stop.’
‘I’m surprised they come as often as that,’ I said. ‘Is it good to be home?’
He gestured at the little front garden. The torn plaster, piles of brickwork and ripped-out floorboards.
‘They have destroyed my home,’ he said.
I felt something harden in me. ‘Blame your sons,’ I said.
‘I don’t blame anyone.’
We stared at each other in silence.
‘What do you want from me?’ he said.
‘I was going to drive you to work. Victoria Bus Station, right?’
‘Don’t you have a family that needs you on a Sunday?’
‘I have a seven-year-old daughter. But she’s a very popular little girl. She gets invited to lots of parties and social events. She’s doing her own thing. I’m just here to provide a taxi service.’
There had been a sleepover with Scout’s Australian friend Mia last night and today Mia’s mum was taking the pair of them to an eighth birthday party at the Everyman cinema in Hampstead. I found that I was smiling with pride that my daughter was in such demand.
‘Come on, Arnold,’ I said. ‘I’ll drive you to work. My car’s parked just by Victoria Park.’
He shook his head.
‘I don’t need a lift,’ he said. ‘I will get the tube. Thank you – I know you are trying to be kind. But I just want life to go back to normal.’ He hesitated, as if understanding that was asking a lot. ‘My colleagues at work – I want to see them. I told you before – I had to win their acceptance when I first came to this country.’