Beau Death

5

No one ever asked why he was called Tank. It wasn’t the name he was born with. And it wasn’t a joke name. You didn’t joke with Tank. But that wasn’t because he was built for battle and crushed everything in his path. Actually he was a small man. He didn’t get into fights at all. The only tank-like qualities he had were to do with his personality. People learned not to oppose him. You didn’t want him coming at you because you knew from one look at him that he had plenty of firepower, not often used, but always ready.

He was the leader, no argument.

He must have picked his name for himself. He picked names for everyone else in the squat and they learned to live with them. In most cases they were a good choice. Like Headmistress.

In what she called her dullsville years, Headmistress had never felt comfortable with her given name. She hated all the informal versions of Margaret. In her schooldays she’d been called Marg, Maggie, Meg, Peg or Peggy, so it came as a relief when Tank decided on her first day in the Twerton squat that she was none of these.

‘Headmistress.’

‘D’you mean me?’

‘You can share with Joke and Cat.’

Simple as that.

He must have discovered she’d done some supply teaching, but it wasn’t mentioned. Later she learned that anyone joining the squat was vetted as seriously as if it was the secret service, so he must have found out. Her main concern at the time had been whether Joke and Cat were safe to share a room with. They were fine. Joke snored sometimes and Cat had a thing about fresh air and wanting the window open even on the coldest nights but if that was a hardship, bring it on. In her goosedown sleeping bag Headmistress was laughing.

Altogether, nine people and a dog had shared the Twerton gaff while it was supposed to be empty and condemned. As Tank, the most experienced squatter, had wisely pointed out, demolition orders are never straightforward if landlords are involved. There is always scope for appeals. He’d done his homework as usual, studied the Housing Act, checked the ownership with the Land Registry, and found that more than one foreign owner had an interest in the same terraced block. Good for two years was Tank’s prediction and he’d been proved right.

Unfortunately two years soon pass. The notice of demolition had been served and the squatters had hung on until the heavy machinery had rumbled up the street. Then they’d boxed up their belongings and got out. Five of them had heard of a squat in Frome and moved off there. The others pinned their hopes on Tank. He made no promises, but he disappeared for a couple of days. All he would say to the others was that he was making searches. It sounded like the jargon solicitors used to justify themselves when people were buying houses.

Headmistress had a friend in Oldfield Park who took pity and allowed her to bed down in her flat for one night on the strict understanding that it couldn’t become a permanent arrangement. She tried to negotiate a second night, but the friend wasn’t happy that Headmistress had brought Tank’s dog with her. That night had to be spent squeezed in with Cat in the back of Joke’s van. Joke gallantly passed the night in the driver’s seat with the greyhound curled up beside him.

Next morning Tank called the three of them for a meeting at the Temple of Minerva in the botanical gardens in Victoria Park. A good choice, because although the building was open on one side it had a roof and they managed to keep dry on a wet summer’s day. Evidently Tank had been sleeping on the wooden bench the last two nights.

‘Found a place,’ he told them straight away.

‘In Bath?’ Cat said.

He nodded.

‘Big enough for all of us?’ Headmistress asked.

‘No problem. You get your own room.’

‘Cool.’

‘Thing is, it’s non-residential.’

Headmistress wasn’t sure if this was good news or bad.

But Cat understood. ‘So we can’t be done in the criminal courts.’

‘What is it — the Pump Room?’ Joke said. Just occasionally there was a clue as to how he came by his nickname.

Tank didn’t laugh. ‘Building work has been going on there since January,’ he said, ‘and they finish today. Total refit. Gas, electrics, running water, heating, all up and working. Toilets and a shower.’

‘A shower?’ Cat said in a squeak. ‘Is this heaven, or what?’

‘The planning permission is for a centre for oriental medicine.’

‘Acupuncture and stuff?’

‘Much more than that. But what they aim to do in there doesn’t concern us because the place hasn’t been stocked yet. The owner lives in Beijing.’

‘One of those Chinese millionaires?’ Headmistress said.

‘How did you find this pad?’ Joke asked.

‘By asking around. Bought a few drinks for the foreman and came to an arrangement. Five hundred to borrow a key for twenty minutes.’

‘Five hundred just to borrow a key?’ Cat said in horror. ‘Where are we getting that much from?’

He didn’t tell her. He said, ‘In the twenty minutes I went down to the key shop and got them to make me a spare.’

‘Is it really worth that much?’ Cat asked.

‘You’ll see tomorrow morning. We move in before dawn when all the neighbours are asleep. And the move has to be slick, slicker than rifle drill. Joke, you come ready with tools to change the lock on the front door, soon as we’re inside. Also a heavy-duty bolt.’

‘I’ve done this before.’

‘That’s why you got the job. Get to it straight away. I don’t want any of you lot roaming the house deciding which room to bag. We’ve all got responsibilities. Headmistress, you can write nicely, I hope. We need a notice this big we can pin on the door saying it’s a legal squat and we didn’t break nothing getting in. The wording is important. I’ll give it to you. Have the thing ready, enclosed in a rainproof see-through bag, right?’

Headmistress nodded and Tank turned to Cat.

‘You want to use the shower, so you can earn the right. First thing, find the meters and write the reading down. The suppliers are EDF and British Gas. As soon as they open and start taking calls, contact them and set up new accounts. We pay for what we use like anyone else, including water and sewerage. Wessex Water have installed a water meter as well. Don’t forget them.’

Cat, like the others, was impressed by the planning that had gone into this.

‘We’re going to be quick and quiet,’ Tank said, ‘but let’s not kid ourselves. The neighbours will know something’s going on. When they come knocking, as they will, we don’t open the door.’

‘We know this,’ Joke said. ‘We’re not daft. We talk through the letter box.’

‘Yeah, but be nice. No telling them to piss off.’

‘I thought it was non-residential,’ Cat said.

‘Our place will be, but the rest isn’t. The people either side will have lived there for years. We’re part of a large terraced block and they’ll very likely panic a bit when they know squatters have moved in next door. Your job — my job, his and hers — is to calm them down. We won’t be playing loud music, lighting fires, dealing in scrap metal, doing drugs, throwing all-night raves, any of that shit. We’re homeless people through no fault of our own, just wanting a roof over our heads and a quiet life.’

Tank had to be serious to make a speech as long as that.

‘Look at it this way,’ Cat said. ‘I don’t suppose the neighbours were too thrilled when they heard about the oriental medicine.’

‘Right.’

‘They ought to be glad to get us.’

‘Yeah.’

‘So where is this amazing gaff?’

‘The best address in Bath. The Royal Crescent.’