and he put on a different record.
His choice of track had the opposite effect. The girl flounced off in a huff, and disappointment washed over him.
It would have been nice to see her smile.
Helen tried to forget about the annoying stall-holder. Ahead of her, Fay was chatting to the fishmonger. Although she wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying, it was obvious from the way the vendor gesticulated that they were talking about preparing fish.
The anger she hadn’t quite managed to quell rose again. It wasn’t right that Fay could stand there and talk about something so trivial when the crime she’d committed was anything other than mundane.
‘Are you buying or just fingering my goods?’ said a lilting Caribbean voice behind her.
In her attempt to stop Fay from noticing her, she’d used a strip of fabric from a nearby stall as a makeshift curtain to hide behind.
The owner, a Rastafarian with greying dreadlocks and a cap in the colours of the Jamaican flag, was frowning. ‘It’s silk, you know.’
Viscose more like, she thought and smoothed down the fabric to get rid of any creases. ‘Sorry, I was just—’
‘Following old Fay, yes, I saw. What might you be doing that for?’
‘I’m not following anyone. Why do you think that?’
He tapped his nose. ‘You don’t fool me, girl. I seen you ducking and diving like you up to no good. You’ll make a lousy spy.’
‘I’m gutted.’
He laughed and revealed a stunning set of even teeth. ‘What you want with her?’
Helen gave up pretending. There was obviously no getting around this guy, and she didn’t want Fay alerted. ‘Information,’ she said.
‘Don’t we all, my love, don’t we all? If you want information, Winston’s the person to see.’
‘Who’s Winston?’
‘That’ll be me.’
‘Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind.’ She turned around, but Fay was gone. Without being too obvious, she glanced down both sides of the narrow market. Fay had either finished her shopping or realised she was being followed and given Helen the slip. She muttered a curse. She knew where Fay lived but people were safer in their own houses. She wanted Fay exposed and vulnerable, as her mother had been, when she confronted her.
The Jamaican trader was watching her with wry amusement. Helen drove her fists deep in her pockets before frustration got the better of her.
‘You sure I can’t help you with something today?’
‘No thanks.’ Swallowing her frustration, Helen headed in the direction of the main road. She figured Fay would have to go home at some point.
When she reached the market gate, she nearly collided with her prey and had to duck aside again to avoid being seen. Fay didn’t seem to notice, and Helen managed to stay behind her, stopping when Fay stopped to look at a shop window. Away from the buzz of the market Fay had somehow returned to what she’d been like before, just another hunched over, poor London pensioner. Helen almost felt sorry for her.
Almost, but not quite.
Turning into her own road, Fay was stopped by a beggar. Over the din of the traffic Helen could just about make out their exchange.
‘I don’t have much,’ said Fay, ‘but you can have a bag of apples.’
She handed him a brown paper bag from her shopping trolley and he smiled deliriously, like a small child who’d just been given a huge treat.
Fay left and Helen followed her again but was also stopped by the beggar. He was surprisingly young, perhaps about her own age, although life hadn’t been kind to him. His head bobbed up and down continuously and so did his right arm, which he was holding up like a dog begging at the table. Under the other he clutched the bag of apples, and he reeked of old dirt and urine. Helen drew back in disgust.
‘Spare some change, please?’
India had desensitised her to beggars because there were so many of them, and she’d developed an ability to see right through them as if they weren’t there, weren’t talking
His choice of track had the opposite effect. The girl flounced off in a huff, and disappointment washed over him.
It would have been nice to see her smile.
Helen tried to forget about the annoying stall-holder. Ahead of her, Fay was chatting to the fishmonger. Although she wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying, it was obvious from the way the vendor gesticulated that they were talking about preparing fish.
The anger she hadn’t quite managed to quell rose again. It wasn’t right that Fay could stand there and talk about something so trivial when the crime she’d committed was anything other than mundane.
‘Are you buying or just fingering my goods?’ said a lilting Caribbean voice behind her.
In her attempt to stop Fay from noticing her, she’d used a strip of fabric from a nearby stall as a makeshift curtain to hide behind.
The owner, a Rastafarian with greying dreadlocks and a cap in the colours of the Jamaican flag, was frowning. ‘It’s silk, you know.’
Viscose more like, she thought and smoothed down the fabric to get rid of any creases. ‘Sorry, I was just—’
‘Following old Fay, yes, I saw. What might you be doing that for?’
‘I’m not following anyone. Why do you think that?’
He tapped his nose. ‘You don’t fool me, girl. I seen you ducking and diving like you up to no good. You’ll make a lousy spy.’
‘I’m gutted.’
He laughed and revealed a stunning set of even teeth. ‘What you want with her?’
Helen gave up pretending. There was obviously no getting around this guy, and she didn’t want Fay alerted. ‘Information,’ she said.
‘Don’t we all, my love, don’t we all? If you want information, Winston’s the person to see.’
‘Who’s Winston?’
‘That’ll be me.’
‘Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind.’ She turned around, but Fay was gone. Without being too obvious, she glanced down both sides of the narrow market. Fay had either finished her shopping or realised she was being followed and given Helen the slip. She muttered a curse. She knew where Fay lived but people were safer in their own houses. She wanted Fay exposed and vulnerable, as her mother had been, when she confronted her.
The Jamaican trader was watching her with wry amusement. Helen drove her fists deep in her pockets before frustration got the better of her.
‘You sure I can’t help you with something today?’
‘No thanks.’ Swallowing her frustration, Helen headed in the direction of the main road. She figured Fay would have to go home at some point.
When she reached the market gate, she nearly collided with her prey and had to duck aside again to avoid being seen. Fay didn’t seem to notice, and Helen managed to stay behind her, stopping when Fay stopped to look at a shop window. Away from the buzz of the market Fay had somehow returned to what she’d been like before, just another hunched over, poor London pensioner. Helen almost felt sorry for her.
Almost, but not quite.
Turning into her own road, Fay was stopped by a beggar. Over the din of the traffic Helen could just about make out their exchange.
‘I don’t have much,’ said Fay, ‘but you can have a bag of apples.’
She handed him a brown paper bag from her shopping trolley and he smiled deliriously, like a small child who’d just been given a huge treat.
Fay left and Helen followed her again but was also stopped by the beggar. He was surprisingly young, perhaps about her own age, although life hadn’t been kind to him. His head bobbed up and down continuously and so did his right arm, which he was holding up like a dog begging at the table. Under the other he clutched the bag of apples, and he reeked of old dirt and urine. Helen drew back in disgust.
‘Spare some change, please?’
India had desensitised her to beggars because there were so many of them, and she’d developed an ability to see right through them as if they weren’t there, weren’t talking
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