Clifford had a job as a nightsweeper. He drove a machine called a Johnson Large. It was basically a heavy-duty lorry chassis, with twin engines and all the other extras added on. It was a nothing job really, but it suited him.
The cab had a sound system, and he’d take in some CDs: Hendrix and Mahler maybe one night, Eminem and Wagner another. Sometimes he reverted to FM radio. When the Christian station was on air, he often tuned in.
His shift began at eight. The early part was usually quiet. Things would get thrown at him — beer cans, condoms, underwear — and kids would climb onto the rear of the machine or lie down in front of him, playing dead. Then there were the pranksters who’d try to get a free shoe-shine on the rotating brushes. The trick was to look ahead, read the people and, if necessary, lift the brush gear and drive on a hundred metres or so.
Clifford would take a break around midnight. The other drivers used to go back to the depot, but he preferred to stay away. The foreman once asked him why. “Because I know they’ll all be mouthing off,” he told him. “And I don’t want to hear that bullshit.” Instead, Clifford would often drive up to Primrose Hill and find a quiet spot to wind down and take in the neon view of the city. Tourists would pay good money to see that view. He could have it 24/7 and receive a regular cheque for his trouble.
After midnight, things would crank up somewhat. Clifford’s route took him through some rough streets around Kings Cross, no-go areas for the Old Bill, but no-one bothered with him in the Johnson Large. He’d have a grandstand view of the pimp, hooker, junkie scum.
Five girls were murdered there in his time in the job. The work of a serial killer, the police said. It didn’t deter the others though from plying their trade. They’d often try to flag Clifford down. “Looking for company?” they’d say. He might pull up and let one into the cab on occasion. They’d share a joint. And he kept a small mattress in the back. Nothing fancy, but it did the job.
On this occasion, early morning tiredness had set in, and he was looking for a place to get out and stretch his legs. Turning left out of Killick Street, his headlights picked out a lone figure huddled in a shop doorway. As he slowed, she looked up and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. He drove on a short distance before cutting the engine and all the lights.
Not long after, another set of headlights appeared from the other end of the street. It was a red Vauxhall Corsa. When it reached the girl’s doorway, it pulled up and sat with the engine running. Then the tyres gave out a little screech as it sped away.
Clifford waited for a while then climbed out of the cab and walked back towards the doorway. As he got closer, he could see her. She was early twenties, with cropped blonde hair, and she was squatting on a suitcase with her face in her hands.
She didn’t hear him coming. When she saw him, she made a move for the street, but there was no way out. He was blocking the doorway. “What do you want?” she asked him.
As she grabbed up her case and clutched it to her chest, he noticed it had split open. The contents were spilling onto the ground. “It’s okay,” he said, holding up his hands. He pointed to the Johnson Large parked down the street. “I’m the street sweeper.”
It took a moment or two for her to relax her grip on the case. He was a public servant; that used to win their trust every time. He asked what had happened to her case, but she shook her head. He offered her a cigarette. She hesitated at first before taking one, and he could see that her hands were shaking. “Don’t worry,” he told her. “I’ll fix it for you.”
While he carried out a temporary repair using some duck tape and a Stanley knife he always kept with him on the job, she started to open up. It turned out her name was Sabina, she was Romanian, and she’d arrived in England three days ago. She looked all in. “When did you last eat?” he asked her.
“Yesterday, yesterday morning.”
“You must be hungry. You want some breakfast? There’s a place near here." She frowned, so he said, "Don’t worry. I’ll pay.”
“Why?” she said, and her face hardened. “Why you pay for me?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, it’s just, I have a daughter, myself. Around the same age as you. In Germany.”
“Yes? What’s her name?”
“Suzanne. Suzie.”
She wanted to know more about the daughter, and Clifford was happy to oblige. After that, Sabina agreed to let him take her to an all-night snack bar down by the canal. On the way he asked her what had made her come to England. “Life in my country is very difficult. Is impossible to find job. And if you haven’t job, you haven’t money, so you must live at home with your family, even when you’re married.”
Clifford bought them breakfast: toasted fried bacon and egg sandwiches and steaming cups of tea. Sabina was ravenous. As she ate, the colour rose in her cheeks.
When they’d finished, they sat in the cab, smoking cigarettes, and she told him her story: She’d arrived at Heathrow with only a hundred pounds — a gift from her grandfather — and a permit to work as an au-pair for a family in Hammersmith.
She lowered her voice. “But I didn’t go to Hammersmith. My idea was to find job in restaurant. One friend in Romania told me I can make good money as waitress. She gave me address of hotel, in Kings Cross. She said it’s clean and not expensive. So I went there. I paid them eighty pounds for deposit.” She let out a breath. “But then they said I must do other things.”
“Other things?” Clifford held her gaze.
“Yes.” She turned away. “Making sex with men.” Pulling on her cigarette, she held the smoke and let it stream out. “So I ran away from that hotel. But my suitcase broke, and I couldn’t carry it any more, and I didn’t know what to do.” She took a crumpled ball of tissue from her coat pocket and dabbed her eyes.
"So what are you going to do now?” he asked her.
She shrugged and shook her head.
“Why don’t you go to Hammersmith? At least for a while, anyway? You’d have a place to stay, and you could earn some money.”
Before she could answer, a black Mercedes saloon pulled up behind them, and two men got out. One was well-built, in his thirties, wearing a black leather jacket. The other one was smaller and older. He had on a dark business suit under a camel-haired coat. When Sabina saw them, she dropped to her knees. “Those men,” she whispered. “From hotel.”
The bigger man walked on a short distance before turning to face the sweeper while the ‘suit’ came round to driver’s side of the cab and gestured for Clifford to open the window.
Clifford did nothing at first. Finally, he glanced down at the girl, cowering in the footwell next to him, and, reaching forward, turned the key in the ignition. Then he gunned the engine and drove the sweeper forward.
At the last moment, the man up ahead tried to jump clear, but not all of him made it in time. Clifford could feel the impact vibrate through his hands on the steering-wheel.
After that, he drove around for a while to make sure he wasn’t being followed and got back to the depot for the end of his shift at five. Sabina was grateful to him. She even asked if she could stay at his place for a while. “No, it’s best you go to Hammersmith,” he told her.
So after he’d tipped the sweeper and got cleaned up, he gave her a lift there in the Jeep Cherokee he drove back then. The last he saw of her she was standing at the front gate of the family’s semi, smiling and waving him goodbye.
Sabina was basically a decent kid. She had no idea, of course, who it was had helped her out that morning. As far as she was concerned, Clifford was a regular street sweeper. But then, she was never in any danger from him. Not really. She wasn’t like the others.
RAYMOND CARVER
