“It’s done your ego a lot of good,” said Jerry. “You’re your old cocky self again.”
“Thanks. I feel cocky. Yes.” His grease-stained fingers explored a waistcoat pocket for a match. He lit his joint. “I just wish they’d bring back the money system. All this fucking bartering’s getting beyond a joke. Half our wages rot before we can eat them and we can’t trade them because nobody’s got the kind of stuff we need.”
“I don’t know what you want.”
“Cheap tat, of course. And weapons. Just like the old days. Colour tellies. But don’t worry. This gig’s free.”
“We’ve got a few new drugs.”
“Nar,” said Mo. “We’re not into drugs any more. Well, not at the moment, anyway. We’re into beer.”
“You don’t mind me…?”
“Smashing. It’ll be like the Friendly Bum days. You remember?”
“My memory isn’t what it was.”
“It’s a fucking opium den now. For the tourists.”
“I’ve been staying away from the centre. My work…”
“Oh, sure.” Mo was suddenly embarrassed. Hesitantly he offered Jerry the joint.
Jerry enjoyed a drag. He went to sit on the ledge of the open window, looking towards Blenheim Crescent then up into the sharp blue sky. “I think we should see an improvement, soon. It’s a bit early, though.” He cocked an ear to the east, detecting a whine. He smiled. “They’re here, at last.”
Mo joined him at the window as the first black wave of Starlifters shrieked in at minimum altitude, banking slowly until they had located Heathrow.
“Far out!” said Mo in delight, as soon as his voice could be heard. “Those jobs carry over a hundred and fifty troops apiece. There are thousands coming in. Oh, it’s all going to liven up! The Yanks are back!”
Jerry moved to the intercom. He must warn his staff to be ready for the extra volume.
10. RAPIER, ULTRA LOW-LEVEL AIR DEFENCE SYSTEM IN SERVICE WITH THE BRITISH ARMY AND RAF REGIMENT, ORDERED BY THE IMPERIAL IRANIAN GOVERNMENT, LIGHTWEIGHT, DIRECT-HITTING MISSILE, HIGH KILL-TO-ENGAGEMENT RATIO, OPTIONAL “ADD-ON” BLINDFIRE UNIT, OUTSTANDING COST-EFFECTIVENESS
Jerry rubbed more of the dye into his skin, regretting once again that his machines simply weren’t up to handling his own problem. It was high time that they were overhauled, anyway, since the convent had been placed off-limits to all advisory forces: though it had only been civilian auxiliaries who had been coming in the first place; patronising the clinic now counted, on General Cumberland’s orders, as fraternisation with hostile personnel.
Jerry couldn’t complain. It meant he could expand his own activities if he wished. In the meantime the money system had been reintroduced, Koutrouboussis had been paid back and was receiving an excellent dividend; Jerry was no longer beholden to the Greek who had, on his own initiative, formed a consortium together with his younger brother Spiro, to exploit the Cornelius patents worldwide, offering Jerry a flat commission on every client, including those who wished to change nationalities as part of their transmogrification. Jerry intended to take more of an interest in this international aspect of the enterprise now that the original clinic was running so well. Spiro, by mutual consent, would act as chief liaison man.
When he had finished with his face he picked up a tangled sheaf of traumograph printouts, leaving black smudges on the semi-opaque paper, and crammed them into one of his desk drawers. He was wearing a white German suit, black shirt and no tie, as part of his current disguise. His hair was bleached bone white. For the moment, too, he had discarded his needle gun and wore the more comfortable vibragun which, he felt, was a trifle better in tune with the zeitgeist. Currently, he felt, the world could accept any ambiguities so long as he retained a certain dramatic resolution to events.
He left the office and strolled through his pale blue corridors, amiably greeting his nuns, nurses and doctors as he passed them. Most of them had already made preparations to leave for the country; only a skeleton staff was to be retained in London.
His Phantom VI was already at the gate, its motor running. He stepped into the driving seat and drove up Westbourne Park Road, turned right into Kensington Park Road, heading for Notting Hill and beyond.
He arrived in Church Street just in time to see a silver Cadillac disappearing into Holland Street. The area was otherwise deserted of cars, although a few M-75 armoured personnel carriers were parked here and there, their crews lazily giving his Phantom the once-over as it went by. He turned into Kensington High Street and parked outside Derry & Toms which he had acquired only recently in the deal granting Koutrouboussis full control of European exploitation rights on his father’s original patents. Jerry disembarked and entered.
Within, the department store was hushed as usual: middle-aged women moved slowly from counter to counter; murmuring assistants in dove-grey uniforms addressed them respectfully. When reopening the store Jerry had made it clear to his staff that only a certain sort of customer was to be encouraged. He had always been very strong on tradition.
He took the lift to the sunny tranquillity of the roof garden and crossed a few feet of crazy paving to enter the restaurant whose wall, facing the gardens, was completely of glass. He was keeping an illicit rendezvous with Captain Hargreaves. He sat at his usual table, completely alone, for the restaurant had not begun to serve lunch, watching the pink flamingoes wading about in the tiny rivers and fountains, listening to the whistlings and chirrupings of the less flamboyant birds in the foliage.
Any intimations of trouble which he might have had during his drive here were now dispersed. He relaxed and looked over his shoulder to see Captain Hargreaves, very smart in tailored olive fatigues, come through the plate-glass doors. He stood up, smiling. He pulled back a chair and Captain Hargreaves sat down.
“Thanks. I got that stuff for you. Gnatbeelson’s alive and in London.”
Jerry resumed his chair. He frowned. “What about his memory?”
“It’s a typical case of amnesia—of the sort you described to me. He believes his name to be Beale. And, as you guessed, he’s taken a job in a library.”
“The books are there?”
“At least one copy of Time Search.”
“Then it’s conclusive.” Jerry leaned forward and slid a friendly fingernail along the inside of Captain Hargreaves’s thigh. “Do you want lunch now?”
Captain Hargreaves’s hand fell on Jerry’s. “Afterwards, I think.”
“There might not be time. They know where I am—or should do.”
“I’m not too hungry.” The captain reached into a large satchel and drew out a piece of paper. “The address.”
Jerry tucked the paper down inside his holster, rising slowly. “Give me a moment. I’ve got to change my clothes. I’ll join you in the Dutch garden, if you like.”
“Okay.” Captain Hargreaves stood up, kissing him on the cheek. “You’ll be quick?”
“Don’t worry.”
But he was frowning as he went through the back of the restaurant into the cloakroom and began slipping into the costume he kept there.
There was no doubt about it, he thought. Things were looking black for the English assassin.
EARLY REPORTS
Editors: Hitler stopped too soon! He should have gotten rid of the Ginzburgs and the Borosons and a lot more like you. Indeed we should have a Hitler in America to rid the country of the merchants of filth, pervertors and corruptors of morals, and muckrakers!
—Mrs John W. Red,
Memphis, Tennessee;
letter to Fact, Jan/Feb 1965
Contrary to the national trend, crime decreased in the Notting Hill area last year.
Kensington Post, 8 January, 1965
The one thing you can say about Hitler is that he was a damned sight more pro-British than M. Pompidou.
—Kingsley Amis,
Speakeasy (BBC Radio), 18 July, 1971
Even in these enlightened days cancer continues to be a disea
se evoking dread and horror in the general public. Perhaps because of this peculiar emotional response to cancer, quite unlike that seen with other diseases, there has always been a fringe of unorthodox practitioners specialising in unusual treatments to lead to dramatic “cures”.
—M.A. Epstein,
Times Literary Supplement, 16 January, 1976
TUNING UP (3)
“I feel like a right ponce.” Jerry climbed gingerly into the large rowing boat, seating himself in the stern, glaring miserably at the misty lake. The boat’s name was on the backrest behind him: Morgana le Fey. He arranged the skirt of his lilac jacket around him; he plucked at the knees of his lilac flares to reveal daffodil socks, daffodil cuffs; he was cold.
“Well, I think you look lovely.” Karen von Krupp unshipped the oars, handing one pair to Miss Brunner, one to Una Persson. “Doesn’t he?” she asked the others.
“Lovely.” Una Persson’s back was to him but Jerry could imagine her expression. Miss Brunner, in russet Ossie Clarke battledress with matching boots and bush-hat, was silent. She seemed to think that Doktor von Krupp should be doing some of the rowing.
“I wish you’d all stop taking the piss out of me. I’ve had a hard time of it.” Moodily, Jerry tugged at a tiller line. “Who’s going to shove off?”
Karen von Krupp signed to Mitzi Beesley; Mitzi was to remain on the bank as lookout until they returned. She pouted and swung her customised Winchester .270 over her shoulder, lifting her white Dorothee Bis skirt to her thighs so that she could wade into the shallows, feet protected by Paulin espadrilles. The mother-of-pearl in the rifle’s stock clashed a trifle with her skirt as the butt bounced against an angry bottom and Jerry felt her heavy breath on his head as she shoved. The boat shifted a little in the shingle. Mitzi pushed blonde Marcel-waved hair back from her face and tried again. Gradually her face grew almost scarlet to match her horrible Maple Red Max Factor mouth. Karen von Krupp rocked the boat at the other end. Suddenly they all slid out into the lake and Mitzi waved her arms, barely recovering her footing. Petulantly she waded back to the shore and swung the Winchester into both hands. She kept her spine displayed to them. She wasn’t much for vocalising her displeasure. In reply to Mitzi’s gesture Doktor von Krupp wrapped her dove-grey C&A trench coat more firmly around her large body. “That way,” she said, gesturing beyond the reeds in the direction of the island, a dim outline, already being obscured by the thickening mist, in the middle of the lake. “Are you sure you know how to steer, Jerry dear?”
Jerry dragged the line hard over so that the boat moved suddenly to starboard.
“We don’t need demonstrations from anyone else today, Mr Cornelius.” Miss Brunner was panting. “I think we’re sitting the wrong way round, by the way.”
Una Persson had first pointed this out when they had entered. But she remained as patient as ever. Una wore her usual lightweight khaki under an open black maxi-coat; though the coat tended to hamper her movements, she was evidently reluctant to remove it. Crouching, she turned herself carefully so that she was looking up at Jerry. She winked grey eyes, first one, then the other, and sat down again, taking hold of the sweeps. Behind her, Miss Brunner swivelled, much more awkwardly, her legs held by her red-brown midi. Her long bottom struck the seat somewhat heavily and the boat responded dramatically, rocking from side to side, shipping a little water to port. “I don’t think much of this thing’s construction,” she said. Then they were rowing again.
“Let’s try to keep the same rhythm this time, shall we?” Miss Brunner hissed as one of her oars reared from the water, weed dripping from its blade.
The morning was very misty. They moved through a strip of clear water between thick reeds, not yet on the lake proper, but already the heavily wooded bank was invisible. Some ducks flapped low over the grey surface, as if trying to keep below the mist-line. A light drizzle formed rather than fell around them. They rowed into shrouded silence, their own sounds muffled.
“You’re the only one of us familiar with the island, Herr Cornelius,” said Doktor von Krupp. “You’ll have to keep us on course.” She picked up the Remington 700 Mitzi Beesley had loaned her and placed it carefully across her knees. Both Miss Persson and Miss Brunner were armed with identical Smith and Wesson .45 revolvers. Jerry had a heater on one hip, his vibragun on the other hip and his needler under his armpit, but none of these gave him much sense of security.
“I hope we bloody find something after all this.” Miss Brunner had caught another crab. Una Persson leaned on her oars as she waited for the woman to start rowing again. Jerry was glad of her friendly, resigned face, even though it had been Una who had tipped the others off about the island (but it had been Mitzi Beesley who had tracked him down to where he had hidden his naked body in Gaping Gill pot on Ingleborough in the West Yorkshire Pennines, and Miss Beesley and Karen von Krupp who had dressed him in this outfit before he had had a chance to revive; he was still not quite sure what was going on). Una seemed somewhat regretful. She wiped the clinging moisture from her cheeks with the back of her hand—a mixture of mist and sweat. It was playing hell with the others’ make-up.
The boat began to move again. Jerry couldn’t remember what they were looking for on the island. He knew that something important had happened there once, perhaps to him, perhaps in his childhood, and he could certainly remember the stone barn very well (he had always been curious about the function of the place), but the rest was mysterious. “There was a sun once,” Miss Brunner had said, just as he had woken up. Or had she said “son”? He glanced into the water, seeking the source of the bad smell, like dead fish. Terror blossomed in the back of his brain. He tried to speak but could not. He searched the cold mist. There was no escape.
The three women were all staring directly at him, each lost in her own thoughts, as the boat moved on through the Grasmere clouds.
He looked down at his hands; he realised for the first time that they had turned a funny colour. The pain in his spine made him want to bend double, to go on all fours. He grunted. His nostrils shivered. A small primitive noise formed in the back of his throat.
“Oh, God,” said Miss Brunner. “It’s starting again.”
DEVELOPMENT
Poor Gauchelin was much alarmed by his experience, but as time went on—at any rate in France—the Hunt lost some of its terrors, and the wailing procession of lost souls turned into a troupe of comic demons who flew merrily through the air to the sound of song and of tinkling bells. Nor did it always remain a mere nebulous, ghostly phenomenon. I have suggested, elsewhere, that the mummery probably originated as a miming of a Wild Hunt led by a certain Mormo, a child-devouring ogress of Greek origin, not unlike Perchta, the mythical patroness of the Perchton. That the Harlequin-Cornelius troupe was also sometimes mimed is suggested by the fact that it makes a partial appearance in Adam de la Halle’s Jeu de la Feuillée, which, as we have seen, had for its central theme the entertainment of fairies by the citizens of Arras. “Already I hear the Harlequin-troupe approaching,” cries Croquesot (Biter-of-fools), “a little bearded man”, who having cheerfully enquired of the audience whether his “hairy phiz” doesn’t become him well, proceeds to woo the fairy Morque on behalf of his mighty master Cornelius, the Harlequin, who, though still supernatural, has obviously developed into a more substantial and more comic figure than his ancestor, the demonaic leader of lost and wandering souls.
—Enid Welsford,
The Fool, ibid.
The jingle-cap is such a great grinner,
He will dance for you, not well, but with vigour,
His jingle-head full of coloured beads.
—Maurice Lescoq,
Posthumous Poems
Triomphe et que l’envie en crevie de depir,
Brave Arlequin queton nom plein de gloire
Soit, pour test faits, ton bel esprit,
A l’avenir en lettres d’or ecrit
Dans la temple de la memoire.
The Stage’s Glory, ibid.<
br />
FAIRY BENIGNA: Poor Afric’s children sigh for liberty.
Alas! That task was not reserved for me.
Furibond; or, Harlequin Negro, Drury Lane, 1807
NOTTING HILL DOOMED TO BE RACIAL BATTLEFIELD
The 1962 Commonwealth Immigrants Act came immediately after the racial troubles from campaigns against immigrants from the West Indies, Africa and Asia. One of the centres of racial violence then, and earlier, was Notting Hill; indeed this area’s name is now almost synonymous with racial prejudice … Notting Hill seems doomed to be the battlefield of racial discrimination: the Government’s White Paper will not stop the battle. But sense and responsible reaction from the people against whom legislation is directed should at least let us know what the causes of the war really are.
Kensington Post, 3 September, 1965
1. SEVEN YEARS FOR BANK-RAID VICAR
From Sumatra it wasn’t too hard to get back to Sandakan and something like sanity, though the sari could not safely be abandoned until he could look down on his yellow palace, last remnant of a great personal empire, his inheritance, in the dark green hills above the desert harbour. Quite a lot of jungle had grown around the building since he had last visited it; trees and architecture were rounded, their contours softened by the hazy light, seeming to merge, and in the distance were the great blue and purple mountains of the island’s interior, the “real Borneo” as Major Nye had once termed it. To see if there were any signs of danger Jerry flew twice over the red and grey town. There were a few steamers at anchor against the broken concrete of the quays; some were already sinking into the emerald water, others were entirely discoloured by rust. On the quay he saw three isolated figures looking up at his giant Dornier DoX flying boat. Perhaps they recognised the sound of the twelve Curtiss Conqueror engines spluttering and misfiring around him as usual. He flew out to sea towards the Philippines, to make a wide turn so that he could begin his landing approach. He now wore a white one-piece flying suit, trimmed with ermine, gold-trimmed goggles and a white kid helmet. He had always been expected to show a little face in Sandakan.
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