“My dear friend. You must perform for me one great favour. A favour for which I will be forever indebted to you. You see now my situation, my beautiful clothes, my pearl white skin, torn and soiled. My friend, you must go to my office. No please, listen. Go to my office, here are my keys. Open the bottom right hand drawer to my desk and remove the little package. Bring it straight to me. Do not concern yourself with anything else you might find. Do not speak of this with anybody. Do this and I will be forever in your debt.”

I left him there in the ambulance, the dapper little man with whom I shared an anonymous city block for workplace. I realized now I knew nothing substantive about him. Apart from his first name, Georgio, and his appearance, fussy and overdressed, his irritating mannerisms, his relentless public preening of himself, I would be hard pressed to describe him to a policeman. The sudden thought had a sobering effect on me, and I started to dwell on what I had agreed to. No, I reflected, I had no need to justify my decision. I acted as anyone would, to a friend in need. Yes, but exactly what need, I brooded.

He worked from a small dingy office basement, quite different to what I had expected. No secretary, no colleagues, no poignant family snapshots or personal brick-a-brac. In a corner of the room on top of a filing cabinet, stood an old wooden tray with an emerald green china cup and gold rim, its matching saucer beside it. A faded aroma of roasted coffee beans registered as I routinely documented the scene.

On his desk were various letters received, mainly handwritten and unopened. A few neatly wrapped small brown packages addressed in classic copperplate handwriting stood neatly lined up ready for posting. I glanced through his waste bin; just neatly opened envelopes with the stamps cut off.

I opened the bottom right drawer and stepped back in a silent gasp. Underwear, female, black silks, seething scarlets, delicate pinks, seductive sky blue, pristine whites, chiffons and lace. I pulled the drawer out angrily and banged it on the desk, hoping vaguely the package would surface without the need to rummage through the contents. I found it eventually, at the back, a tiny package by any standards. Hardly big enough for the identity it carried, Miss B, written in faded but impeccable copperplate.

I turned it over in my hands. Surely not drugs or the traffic of spies? Not underwear either. I turned it over again. A muffled scuffle outside the door brought me rapidly to my senses. For a moment all was silent, then I fancied I heard a metallic click. The door burst open with an almost rehearsed predictability.

There are a multitude of descriptions of what thoughts are supposed to pass through one’s mind, when the time comes. I stood motionless, without plan or explanation, escape route or weapon, managing only to slip the tiny package into my jacket pocket. I gripped the sides of the drawer while I waited for the inevitable. Whoever it was, seemed in no great hurry. First a distracting wheel, then a handle followed by the remainder of a trolley. Finally a short, rotund tea lady in white overalls, wheezed into the room.

“Ere. Wot’s going on? Who are you? Where’s my Mr. G?”

“He’s not well, he gave me his keys and asked me to collect something for him,” I replied.

“Oh well, that’s alright then, isn’t it? Asking a friend is alright. Not that I’ve seen many of his friends. In fact you’re the first. Still. Ere, he’s not in a bad way, is he?”

“I’m not very sure,” I lied. “Do you know him well?”

“Oh yes, him and me, get on like a warehouse on fire. Mind you, he’s a secretive one, I’ll grant you that. All these skimpy bits,” she said, eyeing the drawer contents. “Thinks I don’t know, bless him. That’s why I like to make a bit of a cufuffle when I come in, give him chance to get straight, like.”

“I imagine he might find that useful,” I said, very conscious of my own pounding heartbeat. “Now that you are here, I wouldn’t mind a good strong cup of tea myself, Beryl,” I said, eyeing her ID badge. “Is that what he normally drinks?” I said vaguely.

“Ere, you’re a quick one, you are. Yes, he likes his tea, good and strong, like yourself. And a nice little chat. Tells me about his homeland, and his life. Had a wife once, you know. Died young. Lonely I’d say, lonely as the clouds. All those lovely clothes he wears an’ no one to go wiv anywheres. I try sometimes to help, only he clams up. Well, I can’t stand here gossiping all day long, I’ve got customers to look after, bless them. Tell him, we hopes he gets better soon. Nice to meet you,” as she shuffled towards the door.

I have always prided myself in a modest understanding of the human psyche. I have noticed in life, that sometimes otherwise very intelligent people make the most elementary mistakes. Sometimes, one can be too subtle. I take positive steps not to be. I like to think I can help when called upon.

“Beryl, he also asked me to give you this.” I held out the tiny package in my palm. “He said he would most dearly have liked to give it to you personally, if he could.” He’s actually not very well at all, I’m afraid, Beryl, recovering from an accident at Charing Cross hospital.

“Oh Lord,” she sighed, though whether from the shock of the accident or the gift, I could not guess. She sat down precariously on the office chair beside the desk. “Oh Lord,” she repeated. She unwrapped the little package and lifted the tiny lid. Inside, in a tiny sea of black velvet, was lodged an exquisite diamond ring. Platinum I’d say, with a single inlaid blue diamond, sparkling in a fierce shower of iridescent colour.

“I’ll leave my trolley here, if you don’t mind. Now young man, I’ve things to do. Would you mind taking me round to the hospital, quick as you can”

“But what about your other customers,” I said, sobering rapidly.

“They’ll have to wait, bless them,” she said. “They’ll just have to wait, till this afternoon. I’ll see them alright then.

“Anyways,” she said, “there’s always Betty. But she only does fresh coffee.”

Godfrey Powell Wed 4/11/98