Hairy London by Stephen Palmer Page B

then he looked at the lad and found himself shocked at the violent treatment he had meted out, which must be no better than that of the masters who beat boys with sticks. He took a step back. He shook his head. He did not know what was happening to him.
    “Tyko,” he muttered, “I must apologise. I am truly sorry. You rather caught me off guard, eh? Stand up lad, and we shall walk on to Islington. At the very least I shall get you to safety tonight.”
    “It’s safer on the streets than in the johnny cab, sir.”
    Velvene found himself silenced. There was no arguing with the boy. His honesty was like a shield against which blandishments had no effect. “Follow me anyway,” he said, “and we shall see what we shall see.”
    “Are you sure you haven’t got any food? I feel sick now.”
    An unfamiliar sensation settled upon Velvene. It was, he realised, guilt.
    A few hundred yards down the road Velvene saw a Chips & Fishes bar, but it was shut because of the hairy situation. With the holster of his knife he rapped on the door, until a window opened above the bar and a man leaned out.
    “What yer want? Can’t yer see we’s closed?”
    “My good man,” Velvene replied, “I will give you six silver spongs for two portions of your finest.”
    “Be right dahn, sir.”
    Ten minutes later they were eating out of yesterday’s newspapers. Tyko said, “Do we have to go to the johnny cab? Why don’t you believe me?”
    “Your story sounds too incredible to be true,” Velvene replied. “I have never been to this district of London before, let alone to Islington, so this is something of a new experience for me. I am hoping you were lying.”
    Tyko shrugged. “It’s all true,” he said. “Wish it weren’t.”
    They carried on through light blonde hair down York Way, arriving half way through the night at Pentonville Road. Exhausted, they found a doorway choked with soft brown hair, in which they slept, like dormice in a nest.
    Dawn. Velvene woke up, alerted by a noise. A small hand rummaged inside his rucksack. He reached out and grabbed it. “You do not want to be a thief,” he said. “Believe me, it causes problems.”
    “Sorry, sir. I wasn’t going to mick anything.”
    “Is that so, eh?”
    Tyko shrugged. “I’m going to lick the fish grease off my fingers for breakfast,” he said.
    Velvene stood up, then pulled Tyko to his feet. “Come along. This morning we shall see what this house of yours is really like.”
    They made their way as best they could along Pentonville Road, until Tyko stopped by a postbox and with a trembling arm pointed. “There it is sir. Please don’t let’s get any nearer.”
    “I cannot see it well enough from here.”
    Velvene walked on. The building was tall and black, with high walls in which small windows twinkled. Rotting brown doors pierced the lower sections, and by one a sallow faced, burly man stood. He wore the dirtiest clothes Velvene had ever seen.
    “Good morning to you,” Velvene said. The man stared at him, silent, brooding. “Is the name Tyko Matchmaker known to you?”
    At once the man stood alert. “Yes it bleedin’ is. Where is the runt?”
    “Well–”
    The man grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall. Taken by surprise, Velvene felt the breath expelled from his chest.
    “Where is ’e?” the man demanded.
    Velvene glanced back at the postbox, hardly able to breathe. The man dropped him and charged through street hair to the postbox, grabbing Tyko from his hiding place. Tyko shouted and struggled, but he was caught.
    Velvene, still shocked, found himself frozen, unable to act. This was all too strange, too alien. He felt lost. But when the man closed he stepped in front of him and said, “Is there really any need to be quite so harsh–”
    The man struck him in the face, then moved on, throwing Tyko as if he was a bag of corn into the building.
    “What are you going to do with him?” Velvene asked.
    “Flail ’im ’til