west london tales 3

The concierge is a short silver haired dapper Spaniard called José. In his booth there are pictures of Muhammad Ali, other boxers, and José in Spain cradling a small child. José’s hours are something like 2 to 11, five days a week.

José’s always worried. When G moved in, he thought they might have relaxed Hispanic conversations. But José wants none of it. He nods, rather than greets. His eyes bore in on the visitor. No one gets past him. All to the good in a concierge.

At ten o’clock on a chilly November night, José was out on the street, wearing his blazer, looking agitated. Across the street, at the head of the path across the tracks, was a group of half a dozen hooded figures, poised on bikes. They were lined up on one side of the road, José, brandishing his mobile phone, on the other.

The kids didn’t do much. They didn’t have to. They intimidated through mere presence. G observed them from his window. People coming past them up the path walked at double speed.

One of the hooded walked ten metres down the path and crouched. A few moments later a small bonfire was ablaze.

Seconds later the first police car arrived. The kids, like a herd of bison scenting a lion, peered from the pedals of their bikes, then turned and dashed down the path, past the bonfire.

The police car slid to a halt. José was there, in the road, mobile in his hand, gesticulating. A shirt sleeved policeman climbed out of the car. He strolled down the path, in no hurry. José buzzed around the scene. A second policeman stamped the bonfire out.

The fire engine arrived moments later.

The kids had gone.

Within ten minutes, the officials had left the scene. Calm was restored to the night.

Another shift was almost over.

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