' John — ' Jenny swayed suddenly.
'Or, then again, maybe it was poor old Johnnie they wanted in the first place, an' not me. I don't rightly know, you see, Lady — '
'For God's sake, Reg!' As Ian caught her arm the full impact of what Buller was saying hit him: they were back in a nightmare again.
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'Oh aye.' Buller was unrepentant. 'There's an easier way of breakin' the news, is there? Now that it ain't me?'
'I'm all right.' Jenny's face was white again, but her voice was steady as she shook Ian off. 'What happened, Mr Buller?'
'You don't know . . . anything, then?'
She shook her head. There was just the rumour . . . that it was you, Mr Buller. A man in the crowd outside said so . . .'
'An' you didn't wait around?' This time Buller sounded more understanding. 'Well, I can't say I blame you.' He nodded to Ian. 'I could use another drink, lad — with a chaser this time, if the bar runs to one. An' whisky for choice.'
John Tully was dead: Ian's relief at seeing Buller alive seemed like a dream already. Buller alive was John Tully dead: that was the appalling reality he must accept, now.
And, more importantly, he had to get Buller a drink.
'I didn't wait to ask, neither.' Buller shook his head, after reassuring himself that Ian was moving. 'They've got clever young coppers trained to remember people who ask questions, when there's a crowd outside . . . An' I ain't got any real friends in the Met, now — not that wouldn't shop me, to get promotion.' He shook his head again, as Ian clinked the bottles while trying to watch him while looking for something better than 'gnat's piss'. 'But, as to makin' a mistake . . .' He sniffed derisively. '. . . I took the BMW last night, to drive up north. An' John — 'e 'ad my little Metro, with the "Disabled Driver" sticker — they don't clamp that so dummy2
quick, in case the newspapers make a scandal out of it. So we always swap when I go out of town.' Buller's expression hardened. 'An' when I was probably somewhere else, an' 'e was up to something . . .'e used to leave 'is credit cards at
'ome, an' carry only cash-money — losin' cash isn't a problem, they just takes it off you, if they've a mind to ... But
'e'd have my calling cards on him, maybe. And those premises are in my name, too ... if it happened there, that is.'
'Here you are, Reg.' Having put the glass and the opened bottle on the corner of the table, Ian just had time to move Mitchell's half-drunk whisky alongside it, for want of anything quicker, if not better, before Reg Buller looked at him. 'You're saying . . . they got the wrong man?'
Buller swept the smaller glass up, and drained it. And then poured the 'gnat's piss' carefully. And then looked at him over it. The wrong man — ? Maybe the wrong man. Or maybe not the wrong man.' He sank half of the piss. They got John Tully, is what it looks like. And, with all his faults . . . which were many . . . Mister John Tully wasn't a bad bloke.
Because ... if he didn't pay twenty shillings in the pound ... at least he paid fifteen of 'em. Which is better than most.' He shifted from Ian to Jenny as he swallowed the rest of the piss. 'So now we owe for him, as well as that one of yours, Lady — '
This time it was a genuine knock at the door, not a ghostly scratching.
'Come in!' Jenny reacted more quickly this time, recognizing dummy2
the knock.
'Madam!' Abdul took them all in almost as quickly, half-smiling first, and then smiling hugely as he saw Reg glass-in-hand. 'Mr Buller — you know Mr Buller — I know Mr Buller: I am not wrong, to admit him?'
'No — yes, Mr Malik.' Jenny brushed at her hair. 'Can we have three of your special take-aways, Mr Malik, please.'
'An' then your special "get-away" to go with 'em,'
supplemented Buller.
'Please?'
'Back-way. Out-the-back — an' then scarper . . . vamoosh
— ?'
'Ah! Tradesman's entrance? Fire escape? Both in passage —
at the side, Mr Buller — council regulations: orderly damn departure, no panic, one minute.' Then the little man stared at Buller. 'But then you go out the front again.' The stare became a frown. 'Nothing out front, my cousin says. But I send him out again, maybe — '
'No.' Buller shook his head. 'What's out back — gardens?'
'No gardens.' Matching shake. 'Back-yard — back wall. Damn great high back wall, broken glass on top. No back-way, Mr Buller, sir.'
'Back-way over bloody wall, mate.' This time Buller nodded.
'Got a ladder, then? An' a bit of sacking — ?' He grinned at Jenny. 'No problem.'
'Big problem.' Mr Malik shook his head. 'Other side — damn dummy2
railway line, Mr Buller.'
'Railway line? Fine! They keep telling us we should use the railway more often.' Buller sank his big nose into his glass.
'An' I got the car over the bridge down the road, by the cutting. If no one's nicked it.' He returned to Mr Malik.
'Ladder up the wall. An' plenty of sacking on top, over the glass, mind you . . . An' plenty of hot lime pickle an' chilli pickle with the special. An' some eatin' irons, just in case —
an' six bottles of Tiger, my lad. With an opener ... an' all on the Lady's slate — got that?' He advanced on Mr Malik as he spoke, shepherding him towards the door. 'Orderly damn departure — no panic — five minutes from now — ack-dum an' pip-emma — an' then no nasty questions for you, after . . .
see?'
As the door closed on the little man Reg Buller was already heading for the bar again. 'It's a nice motor, the BMW — very easy to drive.' He delivered this intelligence to Ian, over his shoulder. 'So you can drive it, then.' He studied the stock.
Troubles enough we got, without me bein' stopped by some little nipper in blue in the line of duty when we're doin' a bunk, before we can ditch it.' He cocked an eye at Jenny.
'They'll 'ave the number out soon enough. But I reckon we're safe until morning. An' you got your passports and Eurocheques with you, like always? You 'aven't changed your rules, since last time? 'Cause I don't want to 'ave to put those whiskers on again, an' chance my arm going back to your place, I tell you!'
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Ian looked at Jenny unhappily as he heard the odds being so casually raised through the roof in this appalling mathematical progression.
'Are you proposing that we flee the country, Mr Buller?' Even Jenny sounded a bit shaky at Buller's clearly implied proposition.
'Well, you don't want to stay to face the music, do you?' Self-released from the necessity of having to drive his — or the late John Tully's — 'nice motor' while far over the limit, Buller was helping himself to another beer and another chaser. 'You don't think that Mitchell's goin' to let you play games do you?' He poured the beer expertly, with a steady hand. '"P. L. Mitchell" — Doctor Paul Lefevre Mitchell, as ever was — "one of our foremost young military historians", no less — ' he held up the glass for inspection, and sniffed.
And then drank. And then looked at them both. "Ow the 'ell did you let him get on to you, then?' The look became accusing.
The look stung Ian. 'Mitchell saved my life this afternoon, Reg.'
' 'E did?' Another drink — another sniff. 'Or was 'e like the man who saved a maiden from a fate worse than death — 'e changed 'is mind?'
That was the maggot in the apple: it all depended on whether Mitchell was telling the truth. 'Does the name "MacManus"
mean anything to you, Reg, "Paddy MacManus" — ?'
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'Never 'card of 'im. But then I never 'card of Dr Paul Lefevre Mitchell 'till this morning. So that don't mean anything. So ...
who's he then, when he's at home? MacManus?'
'He's a contract killer, Mr Buller. Ex-IRA — ?' Jenny had seen the maggot too. 'So Paul Mitchell says.'
'Does he, now? Well ... he should know, I suppose.' As tell-tale as the maggot was Buller no longer dropping his aitches: the seriousness of their situation and the drink together reverting him momentarily to h
is more educated self.
'Mitchell . . . mmm . . .'
Ian looked at Jenny. 'He's a historian ... as well as—?'
'Oh, yes.' Buller fielded the question. 'And he's done time in Ireland, in Dublin. Watch by the Liffey — "A history of the Irish Guards in the Great War" . . . and I'll bet he wasn't just researching the Guards when he was watching the Liffey.' He looked at Ian. 'And then The Forgotten Victory — same war, but a different river. The Ancre, in France. But you can look at that in the car — and that's £14.95 on your bill, too.
"Necessary expense", that comes under. I had to buy the hardback.' Buller's features creased. 'How d'you think I recognized him? It's got his picture on the back flap. "P. L.
Mitchell", it says, for all to see.'
There was more to it than that. More in Buller's face than he could read — and more in everything Buller had said and done since he'd arrived. And more, not least — more most —
in his insistence on their using the 'back way' to leave the Taj Mahal.
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'"P. L. Mitchell", Reg—?'
'Funny that — putting his picture in.' Buller nodded. 'Like . . .
careless? But then, they're all a law unto themselves, they are, in "R & D". They make their own rules, it seems.'
'He's supposed to be finding a safe house for us at the moment, Reg.' Jenny had also been reading the signals. 'He said we weren't safe here.'
'He did?' Buller almost seemed preoccupied. 'Well, I'd say he's right there. If I thought of here . . . when you didn't go to your dad's place — as maybe you ought to have done . . .' He crossed over to the door and applied a big blunt finger to the bell, leaning on it unmercifully. 'He couldn't have touched you there.'
Ian didn't look at her. 'What d'you know about Mitchell that we don't know, Reg?' But then he looked at her. 'Or what do you know, Jen?' He struggled for an instant with his own knowledge. 'He's a colleague of Audley's — or maybe a friend, even?'
She was staring at Reg. 'He's up-and-coming — isn't he? Jack Butler and St John Latimer . . . isn't he one of their blue-eyed boys?' Now she turned to Ian. 'I rather think we should be flattered — or, you should be, anyway, darling: they put one of their top men on your tail today.'
' Huh!' Buller chased down the last of his beer with one hand, and then stabbed the bell again. "Top Gun" is more like it, Lady! Come on! Come on!' He edited his face as he returned dummy2
it to them. 'You'd think little Abdul 'ud be glad to see the back of us!' He gave Ian a mildly inquiring look. 'An' what
'appened to this Irish bloke — Paddy MacWhats-it — ? Did you actually set eyes on 'im, then?'
'Yes.' Where Jenny sweated, he felt cold, contrariwise. And now he was freezing. 'But only at a distance — '
'An' now 'e's playin' 'is Irish 'arp — like on the Guinness labels — ?' The inquiry became harder. 'But you don't look that scared, I must say!'
The door opened before Ian could reply, just as what Reg Buller was plainly implying and what had actually happened at Lower Buckland began to diverge confus-ingly, and Buller himself sprang away from it to one side, with surprising agility.
'Madam — ' Mr Malik addressed Jenny, and then flinched from Reg Buller as he became aware of him ' — Madam —
you come, eh?'
'We come.' Buller gestured at them both. 'Double quick, we come!' And double-quick, they came, with Reg Buller's urgency transmitting itself to them, into the warm happy curry-smells on the landing, and round the banisters, and down the stairs.
'Your coat, sir — your hat . . . your — ' The false whiskers baffled Mr Malik ' — Mr Buller, sir — !'
'A lady'll come for them — ' Buller was already pushing them
' — which way — the back-way — ?'
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'The lady's coat — it is raining — damn cats-and-dogs — '
The little man shouted something in his own language, suddenly no longer despairing but commanding.
One of his smaller waiters, who had been smiling encouragingly at the bottom of the stairs, stopped smiling and began to search feverishly among the coats hung above him.
'Your dinner, sir — ' Another waiter presented Ian with two large plastic bags, one after another, with a similar smile firmly in place. 'Three extra-special — double hot lime, double chilli — ' He offered the bags to Ian ' — you come this way, please — '
'Where's the beer?' From behind Reg Buller had sorted out his priorities, grabbing the bag which had clinked from Ian.
'Lady — just take the next coat — they're all the same — '
Ian lost the rest of the exchange as he entered the kitchen, half in a daze as its heat and steam and concentrated smells-and-sizzling overwhelmed him: and bright light and stainless-steel and great bowls and frying pans — and there was a door open down the end, offering escape — but what was he escaping from — ?
'Go on, Ian lad.' Buller's voice shouted from behind him, urging him forward down the aisles between the huge tables and the cooking ranges, even as the question answered itself, but then still left itself unanswered: he was running away from Paul Mitchell — from Paul Mitchell, who was worried about his safety — ?
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He issued out of the kitchen, past a series of rough-painted doors into a small yard lit by a single bulb which seemed all the dimmer for the huge canopy of darkness above it. A thin drizzle shimmered in the yellow light, far removed from Mr Malik's cats-and-dogs' rain.
Then he saw the 'damn great wall': it was certainly well-furnished with broken glass set in concrete, but otherwise it had been even more exaggerated than the weather, being only waist-high to the waiter who was even now draping sacks over the jagged glass topping it. Behind it, through a thin screen of bushes, he could see the lights of the houses backing on to the opposite side of the invisible railway track.
'This is ridiculous, Mr Buller.' Jenny caught his own unspoken thought exactly. 'Why do we have to go grubbing around in the dark out there — ?' She waved at the wall and their latest grinning waiter, whose white teeth shone yellow in the light of the single bulb on the side of the house above them. 'What's so terrible out there in front, for God's sake?'
'You tell me, Lady.' Reg Duller sounded cheerfully unrepentant. 'I've been up the street once all the way, with my kind lady-friend on my arm, an' kissed her goodnight at the bottom, whiskers an' all. And then come half-way back, an' Abdul tells me you've got company — company I don't care to meet just yet. So I did a bit more walking an' window-shoppin', till Dr Mitchell removed himself — ' He stopped suddenly. 'How did you know it was me?'
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''It's the way you walk.' She shook her head irritably. 'But he's gone, Mr Buller — Reg — ' She scowled at him in the drizzle, the first strands of hair already dampened against her face. '
— for God's sake, Reg!'
'As 'e? Or is 'e just waitin' for you to run?' Buller was role-playing again. 'Though o' course, the blokes down at each end of the street now, parked in their cars on the double-yeller lines, bold as brass — they may not be 'is blokes, I grant you. They could be local villains waitin' to do a job? Or villains at one end, an' plain-clothes lads at the other, waitin'
to nab 'em? An' you want me to go an' arsk 'em, do you?
'Cause, I tell you, I ain't goin' to — ' He pointed into the darkness, clinking the bottles in the bag in his other hand as he did so ' — 'cause I'm goin' over the wall, is where I'm goin'.' He swung round, clinking again. 'We won't be needing your ladder — just that box'll do, my lad!' He nodded at the wooden box which had been conveniently positioned below the sacking.
'Oh no! Ladder damn necessary!' Mr Malik skipped past them to the wall and on to the box, and addressed the darkness on the other side in his own language.
'What — ?' Reg Buller strode forward and peered over.
'Bloody hell!'
'Walls have two sides, see?' Mr Malik addressed Ian this time. 'This side — little wall. Other side �
� damn great wall.
All the same wall, but you break your neck jumping it, if not careful. Ladder damn necessary!'
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'Right then!' Buller drew back and gestured towards Ian.
'Over you go. There's a little bloke down there holding the ladder, so don't drop on him, eh?'
Going over the wall was uncomfortable and awkward, even with only one bag. But the other side was purgatory, one-handed on the slimy-wet rungs, brushed by sodden branches
— the 'bushes' he had observed from above were in fact the tops of fair-sized trees — in almost total darkness ... or, almost total darkness twice frighteningly broken by the passage of trains, each of which turned the dark into a nightmare of noise and light through the foilage. And the bloody ladder seemed to go on for ever: if anything, the little man had understated the size of his great wall.
But then, to make him feel feeble and effete, Jenny came down after him like a cat, in half his time. And even Reg Buller made light of his descent, only worried for the safety of his beer.
'Well, that's blown away the cobwebs!' Buller puffed slightly as he turned to the attendant waiter, whose white coat belied the darkness. 'You do this often, do you?'
'Please — ?' The single word sounded curiously unlndian: second generation London-Indian, different not so much because of its pronunciation as for its simple politeness . . .
'Never mind, lad. We got down. Now, how do we get out? Are those lights I can see up there the ones on the bridge?'
A sniff came from Jenny's direction. 'Now you ask!'
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'Don't fret, Lady. I've been alongside more railway lines than you've 'ad 'ot dinners — as a nipper and as a copper, chasin'
nippers. There's always ways in, an' there's always ways out.'
Buller drew in a breath. 'Well, lad.'
'Oh yes, sir. Those are the bridge lights, sure. You just follow the wall — you take my little torch, okay? People throw junk
— very dirty people — and you maybe trip, see? But no difficulty . . . just the rubbish.'
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