by Bill James
Harpur and Iles seemed to have finished their chat with the neighbour and moved on towards 126, the woman screaming after them still, about ‘standards’, but they ignored her now. Shale’s attention was pulled away from that scene. He heard a door of one of the back gardens behind him open and then close. Then there was the sound of running footsteps, a minor sort of sound. He thought two people, both in trainers coming towards him. He did not want to be seen skulking here at the end of the lane or somebody might think a burglar casing the street and dial 999. He crossed the road to the betting shop doorway again. That would be all right. Iles and Harpur were facing the other direction and had almost reached Harpur’s front garden.
Shale stood as if reading some notices in the betting shop window and watched a reflection of the end of the lane. Hazel Harpur appeared with the older boy. When they reached the street, they paused and looked down towards the house, part concealing themselves, as Shale had earlier. Iles and Harpur were back inside by now. Hazel and Scott came out into Arthur Street and began to walk away together. They moved quickly, but didn’t run now. Perhaps they thought that would be noticeable.
They turned into the main road. Shale followed. When he went around the corner he saw they had reached a bus stop and waited there. He found another doorway and paused. After a few minutes a double decker bus with a Morton Cross destination sign on it pulled in. Hazel and Scott kissed. Scott stepped aboard the bus, glanced at her and gave a wave. Hazel waved, too. The bus moved off. Hazel came back towards Arthur Street. Shale stayed in the doorway, facing the shop. Once the girl had passed he went to get his car, near here, in a side street. He reached it quickly and after a mile on the main road was able to slot in behind the bus.
Manse thought he must have had great luck. It should be possible to get to Scott when he left the bus near his home. Perhaps they could talk in Shale’s car. He did not understand what might have happened at Harpur’s house. The two had looked as though they wanted to escape, and saw a chance when Harpur and Iles were out examining the cars. Escape what? Why? Did their scour of the street show they knew Scott had got himself into something dangerous? Was the crafty, swift back yard exit a way of dodging questions when the two officers returned? To Shale, that seemed a likely. There could be no question any longer about the boy’s involvement in the trade.
The bus stopped not far from Chilton Park and Scott jumped off and began to walk. Shale parked and left the car. The boy walked pretty fast and Shale had to more or less trot to gain on him. He considered calling out, but this might scare the boy. If he disappeared into one of the houses, that would be the collapse of this operation. He wanted to get alongside Scott and say something at once that would make him feel all right, not scared. Of course, Shale realized the boy would possibly recognize him, on account of his prominence in city commerce. That might be all right, or it might frighten Scott more. Manse must play it careful. He thought he would catch up on him and say something like, ‘This is a friendly call, believe me. I got to speak to you about your safety. I seen you with that girl, Hazel Harpur, and I know you don’t want to upset her by getting hurt or worse. Let’s have a discuss, all right?’ He would keep his voice very gentle.
And then ahead, and approaching Scott Grant, Shale saw a black VW Polo, at least two men in it, and the two up front recognizable at once from the Clio and the bus station, the same fat-necked one driving, the skinny one in the passenger seat, the same or similar dark suits. Jesus, someone must be as eager as eager to get this boy wiped out if they would try it here in Morton Cross, heavy with police heavies. They must of abandoned Arthur Street and the bus station as no use and decided, after all, that Scott had to come and go from his parents’ house and better be done there.
Manse yelled: ‘Scott! Scott!’ and began to run. The boy turned his head and Shale shouted again: ‘The VW.’ He pulled his Heckler and Koch from its holster. The boy looked back up the road. The Polo had almost reached him. This was a classy street, big front gardens behind knee-high brick walls. Scott did a dive over one of these and disappeared, like familiar with gun-fight dodges. But the VW was about to pull in. They’d leave the car and find him. Then, though, the skinny one stared along the street and seemed to see Shale, and seemed to see the pistol. Shale stopped and two-handed, feet apart, aimed at the car.
And the sight of him must of truly terrified them. He would look like a professional, like a police marksman. They might of heard of that deadeye, Vic Calinicos, and ‘holes are where the heart is’. The VW engine roared and the car raced past Shale. He followed it with the pistol but did not shoot. Then he stood for a few minutes, the gun down at his side and inconspicuous, he hoped. He thought the VW might go round the block and try again when them two got their fucking frail nerves in order again. The Polo seemed to have gone, though. He put the pistol back in the holster and walked to where Scott had rolled over the wall. He still lay there, tucked in hard, his hands over his head, helmeting. He looked up. ‘Please,’ he said.
‘This is a friendly call, believe me,’ Shale said. ‘I need to speak to you about safety. I seen you with that girl, Hazel Harpur, and I know you don’t want to upset her by getting hurt or worse. Let’s have a discuss, all right?’ He was breathless but kept his voice very gentle.
‘Discuss what?’
‘They’ll come again for you,’ Shale said. ‘They think you’re upsetting their game.’
‘What game?’
‘You’ve heard of someone called Adrian Cologne? He’ll send more people for you, no question.’
‘Cologne?’
‘You’re working for Tommy the Strong, are you?’
Scott stood. It was a Saturday afternoon and daylight. There’d been nobody around when the VW did its approach and when Shale produced the gun. But now he saw a woman had come from the house at the top of this garden and was standing near french windows. Scott smiled at her and gave the same sort of wave as when he and Hazel parted. ‘You know her?’ Shale asked.
‘My mother. I live here.’
‘Listen, Scott, chuck that sort of life,’ Shale said.
‘Which?’
‘Cologne’s got you marked.’
‘Look, mate, what’s it all about?’
‘You know what it’s about. And don’t give me the fucking mate stuff.’
The woman said: ‘What is it, Scott?’
‘Some crazy muddle,’ he said and walked up the garden to the house.
‘They’ll come for you,’ Shale called.
‘Who is it?’ the woman asked. ‘What’s he saying?’
‘He’s rather confused, if you know what I mean,’ Scott replied.
‘Is he the police?’ the woman said. ‘They’re all over the damn place with their antics.’
Chapter Ten
Ralph Ember had terrific ambitions for himself, his family and his club, the Monty in Shield Terrace. Occasionally, though, such as now, some hellish setback would come. And often these setbacks centred on the Monty, as a matter of fact. This fucking murdered crook he found in the club car park at 2 a.m. would definitely rate as a snag, and Ralph had one of his panics, naturally, on first noticing him. But after about twenty minutes, even a bit less, he achieved recovery. He reached it by concentrating on all the strengths and glories of his and his family’s position, and their brilliant future. And, once this recovery arrived, Ralph began to plan how he would counter the admittedly considerable drawback of what he’d just come across, and then go on to chase his good objectives again. There had been a previous time when a body was left in the Monty yard for disposal by Ember. Ralph had dealt with that all right. He could do it again.
Avoid, avoid permanent collapse. Avoid, avoid despair. If Ralph had a gospel, this must be it. He wanted that principle to guide his life – all his life, every aspect of it. One of the reasons he hated the Godfather films was their message that once somebody went lawless there could be no return to virtue, only a continuing slide into evil. That’s what happens to
Michael Corleone in the films. But Ralph knew he must resist such a cave-in merely because some sod had dumped this defaced villain here. As a boy he’d often heard his mother brand despair as the unforgivable sin since it denied the Lord’s power to save. Although he would not have liked his mother to be present for the discovery of this shot hoodlum on Monty ground, her lesson stuck. All right, Ember did not think much about the Lord these days, but Ember had his own personal reasons for finding despair unforgivable. The end of Godfather 2 showed Michael Corleone seated alone near a lake and looking worn, hard, beaky and degenerate now after all his terrible brutalities. Brown, fallen leaves blow past him, to signify galloping spiritual decay. But Ember considered that his own looks had, on the contrary, improved with time. That definite resemblance to the young Charlton Heston brought even more idolatrous, excited comments from women than previously, quite a few presentable and very, very up for it, even a woman police officer. He believed that, despite some connection with wickedness, a man – a man such as himself – a man could eventually return to full legality and cleanness. This fucking deado – who put him here? Iles? Shale? That was not the main question, though. How to get rid? Only this really mattered.
As Ralph saw things, once this immediate problem had been handled, he could continue his move into full respectability by carefully using the profits of certain criminal episodes in his life to secure recognized worth and greatness. You bought your way to honesty. This, surely, would chime with church teaching – the making of good from bad, recalling the conversion of Saul of Tarsus. In Ember’s opinion, several of the most distinguished, titled families in Britain and abroad had reached their position by this method. Consider the tainted ancestors of many earls and so on in the House of Lords. What was it Lord Kinnock called them – before he could get the robes on and become one himself? Brigands. And remember that record-breaking crook, Joe Kennedy: ambassador, father of JFK, Robert and Edward, and patriarch of an unquestionably top, current US dynasty. Ember despised the formula, box-office moralizing of Godfather 1 and 2, and possibly 3, though he’d never been able to get through that sequel.
Ember would triumph, he and the family. He knew it. Despite this unfortunate fucking blip in the Monty car park now, tonight, the club, under his care, was sure to gain a new, brilliantly worthwhile character. As to the family, his two daughters attended their select private school which seemed reasonably safe, despite the deplorable Chilton Park agitation so close. He regretted – resented – that the school had chucked Latin and Greek, and taught Classical Studies in English now, but knew this to be a general, feeble and disgusting trend. Ember had protested to the head, in vain. At least Michael Corleone in Godfather prized his children. Ember would admit this. Then, looking at his own development, Ralph – seeking intellectual challenge – had begun that mature student degree at the local university. For the present, he’d suspended this because of business demands. However, he did mean to resume.
Above all he intended improving the status and membership quality of the Monty. Simply, he wanted to get a renown for it so nobody would even think of dumping a mutilated corpse on club land. It would be too much at variance with the new eminence of the Monty, inappropriate. As well as Godfather, Ember also detested those greasy failure tales he’d met on his university foundation course, such as the Icarus legend about a boy who tries to fly, goes too near the sun and falls because of melted wings; and that novel, The Great Gatsby, which suggests the so-called ‘American dream’ of success can only be founded on crookedness: this must be where Godfather 1 and 2 got their smug pessimism from. Ember thought everyone should, as it were, fly for ever upwards. He thought everyone should have fine dreams. He did.
Admittedly, these dreams could sometimes spatter into pieces. Certainly, after this very bad find on the premises – all right, not inside the building itself, but definitely on the premises – yes, after this very bad find on the premises, Ember did begin to fear he would never get his club up to the same distinction as, say, the Athenaeum in London, or even the Garrick or Boodle’s. That had always been one of Ember’s major aims, and this terrible encounter, solo, in the middle of the night could only be a harsh upset, he would not dispute it – if he allowed it to be. Such an event might in an almost heartbreaking way undo so much of his constant, devoted, fruitful work: through good, constant patrols of the lavatories and odd corners by staff, Ember believed he prevented pretty well all drugs use or dealing in the club; and he could almost always make sure that no violence at all – or, at the worst, only limited, non-knife, non-firearm, quickly squashed violence – yes, he could make sure no violence started in the numerous Monty celebration junkets for acquittals, wakes, long-stretch releases, paroles, christenings, overturned guilty verdicts on Appeal, weddings, bail wins or victorious gang turf battles, however big and spun-out the party.
But then came this bloody sick discovery, this bloody sick situation, which Ember could not possibly have guarded against. Nobody could have. Sometimes – in spite of his mother and his own inner light – he did feel himself dropping towards what he’d admit could only be termed despair and, of course, panic. After shifting this fucking wreck he’d have to burn all the clothes he wore for it, and shoes. It seemed clear to Ralph that this kind of crisis would hardly ever happen, if at all, in major London clubs.
During visits to the capital, Ember had several times been over to get the authentic atmosphere of the Garrick in Garrick Street, the Athenaeum in Pall Mall and Boodle’s in St James’s Street. It could only be from outside, of course, just to absorb the look of the places, admire the architecture and tall doors, and observe comings and goings. He did not actually belong to any of these London clubs, and the tall doors had doormen. He knew he probably never would belong to any of these clubs, nor the Reform or the Carlton or White’s. Ember had heard it took six years for a membership application at the Garrick to be processed and anyone wanting to get in had to be recommended by one or more current members. The long waiting list proved that to belong to the Garrick gave what was termed ‘social cachet’. He didn’t know a member in the Athenaeum, Boodle’s or the Garrick, nor the Reform or the Carlton or White’s, and he couldn’t just approach on the pavement a member coming from one of these clubs and ask him for sponsorship. This would not be the way matters were handled at all. It would seem pushy.
Just the same, he liked the idea of both the Garrick and the street being called after a famed British actor from centuries ago, David Garrick, giving his memory double respect. As a result of this long connection with the theatre, Ember understood that many present Garrick members came from the arts, meaning not just the stage, but literary and media figures, such as Lord Bragg, and the BBC’s interviewer, Jeremy Paxman, apparently let in at a second attempt. Ember’s club definitely had nobody like this, yet. If Jeremy Paxman applied to the Monty, Ember would undoubtedly try to see he did not get blackballed again. Ember had sent out information about his club to local media and arts people, such as editors at the evening paper, the museum’s pictures curator and television executives and presenters, but without take-up. If you had an address like the Athenaeum’s – Pall Mall – it would probably put you ahead of a club in Shield Terrace. Not long ago he had seen in one of the papers an announcement about a dinner held at the Athenaeum to celebrate the ‘Immortal Memory’ of the Scottish poet, Robbie Burns. One of the main guests made a speech in which he ‘Addressed the Haggis’. And another proposed a toast to ‘The Lassies’. Then a woman replied on behalf of ‘The Lassies’. Ember wondered whether he’d ever be able to get something like this going in the Monty. Not many present members would have heard of Robbie Burns. Although Ralph knew where to send for a haggis, he couldn’t think of anyone who would agree to talk to it playfully but properly, not even when pissed. And some of the women who came to the Monty would get awkward and foulmouthed if anyone called them lassies.
The Athenaeum possibly included some people from the arts, like the Garrick, and they o
bviously knew about Burns, but mainly the Athenaeums was major civil servants, academics, bishops and business leaders. Boodle’s, from right back in the eighteenth century, would feature many very upper class names, some titled, on their list, and Ember, pacing back and forth to keep warm opposite the entrance for a couple of hours each time one February, had twice watched members wearing what were obviously first class shoes, off most likely individual lasts, going in and leaving.
So far, nobody with a title belonged to the Monty, but for a long while it had been one of Ember’s dearest aims to make the social rating and general quality of membership and facilities equal to those of any top, renowned London establishment. He believed that when this happened he, personally, would move up socially and morally with the club. He, also personally, would reach legality and distinction. He would not sit sad among fucking dead leaves symbolizing his fall, thank you. Somewhere he had come across a line by some thinker or writer: ‘Behind every great fortune is a great crime.’ Although this sounded something like The Great Gatsby’s sermon, Ember thought the quotation slightly different and felt bucked. It gave a fruition promise to crime.
The Monty had a fine mahogany bar and panelling and genuine brass fittings which Ember made sure truly shone always. These fittings said one thing – class. He felt pretty sure there would be plenty of mahogany in the Athenaeum, not Formica. Naturally, people joked about the metal shield fixed to a pillar and protecting Ralph from gunfire: ‘Shield Terrace, so get Ralph a shield.’ Ember would have bet that none of those London clubs needed such a defensive screen, and he hoped to dispense with the Monty’s once he changed its tone. The Monty’s membership had no particular flavour as, for instance, the Garrick’s did. Ember recognized that the Monty could be said to be more general.