by J M Gregson
‘I am afraid that Mr Carter is quite definite about this. His further instructions were to wish you success with your festival and inform you that he regrets that pressure of work does not allow him to speak to you at this time.’
‘Look, I’ve had quite enough of your damned impertinence! Kindly-’
‘Mr Preston, I am, as you accurately pointed out to me a few moments ago, nothing more than an intermediary. As such, it is part of my duties to protect my employer from unwanted approaches. If you-’
‘Unwanted approaches! I told you, we-’
‘I was about to suggest that if your recollection of the arrangements made and the commitment undertaken is different from Mr Carter’s, you should put your feelings in writing. I shall make sure any written communication from you is presented to Mr Carter. I cannot guarantee that his reaction will differ substantially from the one I have conveyed to you today. Good afternoon, Mr Preston.’
The line was dead, leaving Peter Preston infuriated and helpless. He had thought he would at least have had the small satisfaction of slamming his phone down to end this futile conversation. But the woman had outsmarted him even in that.
Peter went from his study into the bedroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He felt as if he had been dragged through a hawthorn hedge, but there was little sign of disturbance in the face he saw there. His colour was perhaps a little higher than normal, but his gently waving hair was as neatly parted and groomed as ever. His brown eyes were bright; he knew that was the product of frustration and indignation, but the uninformed viewer might have seen them only as pleasantly animated behind the rimless glasses. Wrinkles were inevitable at fifty-five, but anger seemed to have made them a little less prominent.
He didn’t look anything like as ruffled as he had expected to look. That was some consolation, he decided. Peter Preston was unaware of his vanity, as he was unaware of many of the things that other, less talented, people might have noticed in themselves.
Ros Barker was excited. She was humming quietly but continuously to herself. Kate Merrick, the woman who shared her life, could have told anyone who was interested that this was a mark of excitement in her friend and lover. When Ros was at work on a painting, the sound was a sure sign to her sometime model that the work was coming along well, that Ros was pleased with some part of the painting, some effect she had sought for and achieved. And when Kate stretched comfortably in bed and heard Ros humming over the toaster in the kitchen, Kate knew that her partner was pleased with the night that had passed and with the life they lived together.
The source of Ros’s pleasure this morning was much more worldly. She was driving to Cheltenham to discuss the exhibition of her work which was to be mounted there in May. When you were thirty and almost unknown outside the world of art, to have an exhibition mounted at all was wonderful. To have one mounted in Cheltenham was bliss indeed. The local tradition was that there was far more money available in Cheltenham than in Gloucester. Gloucester was an ancient city with a magnificent cathedral, but Cheltenham was the fashionable spa town which the prosperous English establishment chose to visit and where the affluent middle classes chose to settle. There was money available for fripperies like art in Cheltenham, whereas the Gloucester folk were altogether more down to earth. Ros wasn’t at all sure that these distinctions still applied, but she was delighted that her work was going to be on show in a prominent gallery in Cheltenham for three whole weeks.
The owner of the gallery was a hard-headed businessman, with no pretensions to artistic expertise himself. Ros found this reassuring, since she had no idea herself about how best to exploit her gifts to make a living. She needed someone like this man, who would be concerned with the commercial rather than the aesthetic properties of her work. Harry Barnard was that practical presence. His concern was to cover the extensive overheads of his gallery, such as council tax and publicity, and then show a handsome yearly profit. He had already been doing this for twenty years.
Barnard was taking a chance on Ros Barker, though he did not tell her so. It was part of his policy to mount two exhibitions a year by promising but not widely known artists. It helped to keep his gallery in the public eye and secured his position in the artistic press as a patron of the arts, a man who was happy to foster new talent. If he broke even on these two exhibitions, he was content. If he discovered a saleable new painter or sculptor, that was a splendid bonus. He revealed none of this thinking to Ros Barker.
‘It’s good that you have such variety in your work,’ he told her as they discussed the best spots to display particular paintings. ‘That always excites interest and makes a tour of your work more interesting for the general public.’
‘You mean that I haven’t yet found my distinctive vein?’ said Ros with a grin, recalling a critic’s phrase from his review of an earlier and much more modest display of her work.
Harry Barnard grinned. ‘When you do, make sure it’s one that sells. I’ve seen too many clever artists and sculptors who please themselves and almost no one else.’
Ros enjoyed making decisions with him on which of her paintings would look best where. It was good to have a dose of common sense in her life, from someone who knew what he was doing and how to sell. She remembered asking someone years ago why it had taken Lowry so long to become popular. The answer had been that it was only late in life that he acquired a shrewd and successful agent. The preparations for the exhibition occupied most of her day, but she decided that she didn’t mind that at all. She would return to her studio with a better perspective and a better grasp of the life led by the sort of people who might buy her paintings.
Kate Merrick was already in the house by the time she got back from Cheltenham. Kate worked for three days a week in the local branch of the Cheltenham and Gloucester Building Society. These were the days when she wasn’t, as she put it, ‘part-time model and full-time dogsbody’ for Ros Barker. Ros called from the front door, ‘I’m home from the office, dear. I hope you have the meal ready to serve!’ and was greeted with a cheerful selection of colourful obscenities.
She gave an account of her day and an affectionate summary of Harry Barnard, then noticed the envelope with her name on it upon the mantelpiece. ‘It was behind the door when I came in,’ said Kate. Ros slit the envelope wonderingly and then stared unbelievingly at the single sheet within it.
RESIGN NOW FROM THE FESTIVAL COMMITTEE IF YOU WISH TO REMAIN ALIVE
Sam Hilton pulled the collar of his anorak up around his neck. It was cold by the docks in Gloucester. There was no protection here from the breeze sweeping up the Severn. It had felt quite still as he threaded his way through the older part of the city and down to the ancient quays, but the wind was stronger here, more chilling as the night advanced.
Sam glanced at his watch as he passed under the street light. Ten forty. He had timed it about right. That was the easy part. He flicked again at the collar of his anorak, forgetting that it was already up beneath his ears. It wasn’t the cold that prompted the move. It was the need for concealment.
He felt very exposed beside the old docks. No seagoing ships docked here now to unload at the quays, as they had done for six centuries. The old warehouses were antiques centres and museums now, so that this area was busy by day with a more cosmopolitan clientele than it had ever had. But at this hour it was silent and almost deserted. Sam, hurrying along beside the huge, silent mirror of the water, felt very exposed.
He was relieved to turn on to the narrower thoroughfare he was seeking. He saw the orange lights of the pub windows at the other end of the street, heard the noise growing in volume as he approached. He felt his steps slowing as the sounds increased. It was always like this, he told himself. He always felt nervous at this stage. But it was groundless alarm. Nothing ever happened.
It was easy money, really. You ran a little risk, but you were amply recompensed. He liked to pretend to the world in which he moved by day that he made a living from his poetry. It was a matter of pr
ide, really; people thought you weren’t any good if you didn’t make money at something. No one except a few people who had tried it realized how difficult it was to make real money from poetry. You could be quite successful; you could publish slim volumes, you could even get favourable reviews, without making a living from verse. You needed something else to support you. If it was something secret, so that people didn’t see it and supposed that you were a financial success as a poet, so much the better.
He realized now that he went through these arguments with himself at this stage every time. That was self-knowledge, which was always a good thing for a poet to have. And the next forty minutes would be exciting, with every one of his senses working acutely and every nerve of his body stretched towards breaking point. A thrilling experience, which he would surely be able to incorporate into his verse at some point. The more fully you lived life, the more fully you explored its extreme moments, the more extensive your armoury as a poet became.
Sam Hilton took a deep breath, pushed open the swing door of the pub and slipped into the cavern of noise inside.
Everything was suddenly very bright. Everything was noisy and glaring, when he wanted quiet and obscurity. It was some time before he could get his order accepted at the bar; he felt as if every eye in the room must be upon him in his isolation. Everyone else here seemed to be part of a noisy group, whilst he waited solitary and silent for the barman. Even the raising of his arm to secure the busy man’s attention seemed a gesture to excite the interest of every curious eye in this brilliantly lit place.
It was not so, of course. As he was served, he saw that one of the noisiest groups, a set of girls on a hen night, were making their erratic way towards the exit, calling final crude sexual insults to the male group with whom they had been verbally fencing for the last hour. Sam took his pint of lager from the bar and slid gratefully into the alcove the women had lately occupied. The smells of cheap scent and the echoes of cheap language seemed to linger here, but as soon as he sat down he felt much better.
He was less conspicuous, for a start. He realized now that he had never really been the centre of attention, even when he had been standing alone at the bar. The people here were preoccupied with their own concerns, not him. And by this time on a Friday night, many of them had drunk quite a lot. Alcohol didn’t improve your perceptions. Moreover, he had chosen the right clothes. There were several others as well as him in dark blue anoraks and well-worn jeans. Not exactly a fashion statement, but that was the last thing you needed if you wanted to be inconspicuous. With his average height and slight frame, he was better fitted to go unnoticed than most men. He had sometimes resented that, when he’d been a teenager, but here it was a decided advantage.
He sipped his beer, tried to look relaxed, and watched the hands of the pub clock creep round towards eleven. Pubs didn’t have to close at eleven, or any other set time, now that the licensing laws had been amended. This one was open until eleven thirty on a Friday, but eleven was the time he had agreed. He grinned hastily at the crude invitation to join her group that a girl on her way back from the toilets offered, but didn’t otherwise respond. Company might have helped to conceal the purpose of his visit here, but it was the last thing he needed with the time of his meeting approaching.
The pub clock was three minutes fast, as they often were, to encourage people to respond to invitations for last orders and injunctions to drink up. When the fingers on his own watch pointed precisely at the hour, Sam Hilton downed the final half-inch of lager at the bottom of his glass and slipped through the door with the sign above it which read ‘Gents’ Toilet’. They’d got the apostrophe right, he noted approvingly; when your life was shaped by words, you became prissier than the most pedantic schoolmarm.
He stood for a moment in the corridor outside, than went past the door clearly marked ‘Gentlemen’. He moved on to the last door on the same side of the passage, which he knew led outside. The cool of the air struck immediately through the thinness of his jeans, but the isolation was a relief after the rowdy hilarity he had left. In this enclosed space, he couldn’t feel the breeze he had felt on the quay, but he saw it moving the clouds across the patch of sky he could see above him. He caught a glimpse of stars between the clouds, but had no sight of the almost full moon he knew must be present beyond the high wall on his right.
He waited only three minutes, but it felt much longer than that, as he fought to control the tenseness gathering in his limbs. Then the door he had used himself opened briefly, revealing for an instant a shaft of orange light from the crowded world of the pub. His eyes were used to the darkness now, yet he saw no more than the dark shape of a man, appearing bigger and more threatening as it moved nearer to him. He didn’t say anything; he’d made that mistake before. You waited until you were spoken to by this man.
The new presence glanced back towards the door he had just used, waited whilst the silence dropped back over them like a blanket in the darkness. Then, ‘You shifted what you took last time?’ He didn’t use names; Sam knew neither the surname nor the forename of this man he had already met four times like this.
‘Yes. No bother.’
‘You want the same again?’
‘No. I want twice the coke and twice the Rohypnol. The horse can stay the same.’
‘Coke’s no problem. I can only do you the same Rohypnol as last time. Same price for the coke. Rohypnol’s up twenty.’
‘Can’t you do any more? I can move it easily enough.’
‘Use it yourself, do you, you randy little sod?’ A flash of teeth in the darkness showed the burly man was grinning. He corrected this lapse into the personal as suddenly as it had arrived. ‘No can do, my friend. Everyone wants the date-rape drug. Sign of the times, son.’
‘All right. I–I thought the coke might be a bit cheaper, if I doubled the order.’
‘Preferential rate for the learner-dealer, that was. You now need to double the quantity to keep the rate the same, which is what you’re doing. Sellers’ market, son. Take your custom elsewhere, if you can. You won’t beat our rates and our quality.’ He allowed a harder edge to sharpen his words. ‘You’d be very foolish to try that, mind you.’
‘I’ve no intention of going anywhere else! I wouldn’t know how,’ said Sam hastily.
‘Wise lad. I’ve got what you say you want here. You got the money?’
‘Yes.’ Sam glanced round furtively, but it was no more than an instinctive reaction as he brought out his money in this silent place.
Three hundred pounds. His supplier flashed a pen-torch briefly and expertly over the fifties and twenties on the low wall, ‘Another eighty, lad.’
Four more twenties, new and crisp, were slid across. The man felt into the deep pockets of the long coat he wore, produced the packages of coke as though he had had them ready, as though he had anticipated this doubling of the order, though Sam knew he could never have done that. From some other section of that all-concealing garment, he produced the Rohypnol and set it on top of the neatly packaged cocaine. ‘Quality as previous: the best. We only supply the best.’
‘I know that. I’ve no complaints.’ Sam Hilton wanted to be on his way more fervently than he had wanted anything in his life.
‘Glad to hear it son. Remember that and don’t sell too cheap. Want you to have a good mark-up. Don’t want you to become the sort of dealer who has to sell to feed his habit. They don’t last long, that sort.’
It was the nearest thing to advice he ever offered. He looked unhurriedly round at the high wall between them and the outside world, at the cloud scudding across the small patch of sky above them, at the hostelry with its muted noises which they must both re-enter. ‘Usual arrangement, son. You go first. I follow in two minutes, unless I hear anything to suggest I shouldn’t do that.’
Sam Hilton didn’t hesitate. He thrust his new supplies into the pockets of his anorak and slipped without a backwards glance through the door and back into the busy hostelry. The pint and the
coldness of the yard were insistent in his bladder. He needed urgently to turn into the gents and discharge its contents into one of the urinals. But he needed even more urgently to be away, to be out of the pub into the darkness outside, and then back to the street in the centre of the city where he had parked the old Focus.
Thirty minutes later, he was back in his flat, peeing at last for what was surely the longest ever time into the lavatory bowl, groaning the exquisite pleasure of his relief. The profits when he sold this stuff on would be good, even ridiculous: almost a forty percent mark-up on even the excessive rates he was sure he had paid. And tomorrow, or at least on the next day or the day after that, the strain of acquiring his supplies would not seem so great.
But at this moment the price of being a poet seemed almost too much to bear.
SIX
Christine Lambert was surprised by the phone call. The caller wasn’t unexpected; when you were on committees, it was quite usual for the chairperson to ring you up about committee business. What surprised her was that Marjorie Dooks sounded uncertain, even vulnerable; she had never encountered that before.
‘Mrs Lambert? Are you on your own, Christine? Something has come up. I don’t quite know what I should do about it. I’d welcome your advice.’
‘Of course. I’m happy to say what I think, if you believe it will be any help.’
‘Thank you. Not on the phone, though. Could I come round and see you? I think that would be better than you coming here. During the day. Today, if possible.’
The staccato phrases were fired off as if Marjorie was thinking on her feet. That was a shock to Christine Lambert, who was used to the formidable Mrs Dooks being so measured and prepared.
‘I’ll be happy to give you whatever help I can. Perhaps I should say that although my husband hasn’t agreed to appear on the platform with David Knight yet, I’m fairly confident that-’