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Callum Jackson had been arrested for assault, theft and vandalism more times than the files could keep track of, and finally they’d sent him down last year. A twelve month stint the management had bemoaned wasn’t in any way long enough, and yet seemingly he was out again, on the loose and on my newly-assigned patch. Great.
My email pinged, and Christine cranked her neck around without any consideration for confidentiality.
From: Central Hub
Subject: Hannah Jackson, 57 East Veil.
Talk about timely.
“See,” Christine said. “What did I tell you? It’ll be kicking off already, you mark my words.”
“Weren’t you on your way somewhere?” I asked, trying my best to maintain a civil tone.
“Meeting preparation,” she said. “Someone needs to make sure these things run smoothly.”
“I’ll see you midday, then, thanks for the heads- up.”
She hovered. “You be careful with those Jacksons, Miss Harding. They’re not to be trusted. None of them. They’re trouble. No, they’re more than trouble, they’re downright dangerous.”
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”
I waited until she was long out of view before I opened the email.
Ms Jackson called today. She would like an urgent visit pertaining to additional security. She advised that if we don’t respond and anything should happen to her property or possessions she will seek compensation via Lawyers-R-US - she’s seen them on the TV. Please respond.
I’d only had the pleasure of meeting Hannah Jackson once since becoming estate manager, and that was for chasing down some rent arrears on behalf of the income recovery team. She’d seemed to know more about the system than I did, exceptionally clued up on exactly what benefits she was and wasn’t entitled to. I doubted she would be bluffing about the compensation threat, she’d bleat about unfair treatment to anyone who would listen, and those idiot firms advertising on daytime TV would be more than happy to hear her out. They love a case against the establishment. They’d probably truss her up in a pastel suit and play a violin soundtrack as she recounted her tale of woe in a testimonial study. I’d have to go out there, the sooner the better.
I looked over to see Christine rounding up the team for her midday meeting, two full hours of her nit-picking and waffling on about how things were so much better in the days of old, before social housing had come under Housing Association control. I could do with getting out of that crap.
Hannah Jackson or Christine White? Who would I rather spend my afternoon with?
I grabbed my coat.
***
The East Veil estate has its own guidelines for tenant interaction. The handbook says no individual visits, strictly pairs only, and I normally stick to it.Normally.East Veil has its problems—as do all London social housing estates—but in the broad daylight of a Monday morning the rules seemed grossly overkill. Maybe the management feared it would be one of us on the Lawyers-R-US testimonials if things went awry. Anyway, if I’d have pulled someone else out of that meeting to go along with me I’d have been shut down faster than a raw-chicken takeaway shack.
I signed out of office with nothing more thantenant visit, perfectly vague. I’d be back in a lickety-split, before they’d even noticed, full of apologies at having to skip Christine’s meeting. Such a tragedy.
I rode the tube down the southern line to East Veil, clipboard in hand and ID badge clearly visible for anyone who cared to look. The place was undeniably depressing: towering blocks of concrete splattered with graffiti, shuttered retail units with kicked-in windows. A couple of kids, who should have been at school, kicked a tatty football around the road and wolf whistled at my rear once I’d walked on by.
“Hey, blondie. Fancy some cock?”
“Posh totty!”
“We love a bit of MILF!”
Sure they do. Little shits.
57 East Veil was at the far end of the estate, a blotch of dilapidation on the fifth floor of tower one. I walked confidently, quickly, with an air of authority I relied on to keep people at arm’s length. Estate manager equals demon to a lot of these people; it means rent arrears visits and spot checks, and the power to issue notices seeking possession.
I’d worked so hard on Haygrove, implementing a whole host of community initiatives and pushing through a load of improvement funding. I’d done well, really well, well enough that I’d been commended with an inter-agency award and given a pay grade promotion. Now they’d given me this place; a whole new community to understand and a whole load of new tenants to build a working relationship with. I was still the enemy here, an outsider from thecouncil, not to be trusted. Curtains twitched and people hushed their conversations as I walked on by, staring with the same hostility I’d had to work so hard to overcome last time around. I’d like to say I wasn’t nervous, but I’d be lying. Christine was right, East Veil wasn’t Haygrove, and for all my bluster I knew it. My pulse raced like a train, a familiar rush of adrenaline fizzing through my veins. This was the adrenaline I craved so badly, but not here, not today.
I picked up pace, zooming through a connecting alleyway to avoid a small huddle of youths, right into the garage courtyard of block one. I was pacing too fast to change my route, already committed to my trajectory. My blood froze to ice as I realised I’d committed to walking headlong into a street fight.
I’d seen scuffles before, it’s part of the job. I’d seen the tail end of plenty of punch-ups between locals at Haygrove, where the contenders would be jeered on by crowds of onlookers. They’d always seemed a bit of a spectacle, more like a stand-off than a genuine fight, but this one was nothing like that.
The two men brawling amongst the garages of tower block one were gunning for blood. There was no shouting, no hysterics, just the low growls of exertion as the fists flew. One of the men was bigger, considerably bigger. He moved on heavy feet, swinging meaty fists with purpose. I heard one connect, a terrible crack, right on the jawbone of the man facing up to him. I forced myself into action, flattening myself into the wall behind while my jittery fingers searched for my mobile.
