WHITE KNIGHT/
BLACK SWAN
DAVID GEMMELL
GOLLANCZ
LONDON
CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
AFTERWORD
Also by David Gemmell
Copyright
White Knight/Black Swan is dedicated with great affection to Tony Fenelon, Acton’s ‘Mr Chips’, who never gave up on a kid because he had rough edges, or a bad family background.
And to Roland Woodward, Peter Chilton, Tom Hodd, Brian Flower, Ray Scott, Peter Phillips, Tony Brown, Richard Allen, Robbie Fairman, Jim Lally, Michael Ort, and Valerie Ballard, some for the trials of friendship, some for the gift of enmity.
And to Guiseppe and Laurette Bertolli for the sheer perfection of the Sundial.
1
The big man in the torn track suit top watched the black swan building her nest on the island at the centre of the pond. Two years ago vandals with air rifles had killed the swan’s mate and all four of her cygnets. She had also been shot in the head, and her right eye was now blind. To the man called Bimbo the eye was deeply beautiful, for it was grey and shimmered like a pearl set in the bird’s ebony face.
Now, as the mating season neared, the swan once more built her nest. A pointless exercise, made more sad by the fact that she would also sit on her sterile eggs, keeping them warm, and waiting for them to hatch.
High above, the clouds drifted in a light breeze and the sun broke clear. Bimbo opened a brown paper bag, taking out a small granary loaf.
‘Hey, princess!’ he called. The swan ceased her work and waddled gracelessly to the waterside, becoming majestic as she breasted the water. The big man rose from the park bench and walked to the two-foot-tall iron fence, watching her glide through the reeds and turn, in order to see him with her good eye.
‘There’s my girl,’ he said, softly, tossing chunks of bread to the water. Several ducks torpedoed in but the swan scattered them with arrogant ease.
‘Hello Bimbo,’ said a little girl in a Spiderman track suit.
‘Hello darlin’, where’s yer mum?’
‘Wiv Simon at the swings. Can I frow some bread?’
‘Yeah.’ He handed her the remains of the loaf, but the swan moved away and Sarah fed the ducks that swarmed in. With the feeding over, Bimbo returned to the bench and glanced back along the north path to the outer gates. It was empty. Still, it was early yet, he thought.
Sarah joined him and he ruffled her short, mousy hair.
‘Aint your ’ands big, Bimbo?’
‘Yeah. Bunches of bananas,’ he said, grinning.
‘I was seven, Sunday.’
‘Happy birthday. Did you get some presents?’
‘l got a doll from me mum, and a packet of Maltesers from Simon. But he et them.’
‘It’s the thought that counts, sweetheart.’
‘Your princess is building a nest again.’
‘l know.’
‘Is she going to have babies?’
‘No, darlin’.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘There’s gotta be two of them. Husband and wife. Mummy and Daddy.’
‘I aint got a daddy.’
‘It’s different with swans,’ he said, lamely.
‘Why do you call her Princess?’
‘Dunno. Seems to fit though, eh?’
‘ls she a real princess? Like magic?’
‘No. She’s just a bird.’
‘She’s got a magic eye. All grey and foggy.’
‘Yeah,’ said Bimbo, glancing up to see Sarah’s mother walking along the broad path, a sturdy five year old beside her. Bimbo stood and opened his arms. Simon squealed, tugged clear of his mother’s hand and raced towards him, shrieking with delight as Bimbo tossed him into the air, catching him expertly.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ said Sherry Parker, sternly.
‘How ya doin, Sher?’ said Bimbo, gently releasing the boy.
‘No point complainin’ is there?’
Bimbo shrugged. Sherry was short and dark haired, her face still pretty despite the harshness the last few years had brought. Her eyes were tired, her complexion pale, her body becoming overweight, her shoulders round.
‘You’re doin a great job with the kids,’ he said. ‘Pair of diamonds.’
‘Yeah. Real diamonds,’ she said. ‘Come on you two, time to go.’
‘Can’t we stay for a while, mum?’ pleaded Sarah.
‘No. Mrs Simmonds is coming round.’
‘Nice to see you, Sher.’
‘Was it? You still with that pig Reardon?’
‘Yeah,’ he answered. ‘It’s a livin’.’ She nodded, and he looked away, embarrassed .
He watched them until they reached a bend in the path, then called out to Sarah, waving her back. She sprinted to him, her thin arms pumping. Obligingly he tossed her into the air. Then he knelt beside her and produced a £10 note from the back pocket of his faded jeans.
‘When you get home you give this to your mum. All right?’
‘Can I buy sweets with it?’
‘No. That’s grown-up money, that is.’ He delved in the pocket of his track suit top and gave her a fifty pence piece. ‘That’s sweets money for you and Simon.’
‘Thanks Bimbo. Why don’t my mum like you?’
‘Cos she’s got good sense. Go on. She’s waitin’.’ Sarah swung away, and then looked back.
‘Simon says that Bimbo’s a funny name for a man. Is it your real, true to God, name?’
‘Nah. It’s John. But when I was about your age I used to go and watch this cartoon. Fell in love with it, like. Dumbo, it was; all about an elephant. So the other kids started callin’ me Dumbo. But I didn’t like it. Then they changed it to Bimbo.’
‘And you liked that?’ asked Sarah, giggling.
The big man smiled. ‘It means somethin’ else now, sweetheart. But back then it made me … different, you know what I mean?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘And Simon says it means a woman with big tits!’
‘Sarah!’ shouted her mother. ‘Will you get a bloody move on?’ The child pulled a face, then grinned at the man before sprinting away.
Bimbo’s smile faded as he returned to the bench. He and Sherry had been in the same class at school, two desks apart. All the lads fancied her. But it was well known that, as a good Catholic girl, she didn’t screw. It made them fancy her all the more. Bimbo was no different. But girls always seemed to go for the slim, athletic type. Not bloody giants with big, ugly faces. And, like all the kids from the Home, he had nowhere to take girlfriends, except the hut at the back of the Rec. Two years after he’d left school he heard that Sherry had married that scumbag Wilks. He was now living with a barmaid on the estate and Sherry was struggling to bring up the kids on her own. It was Bimbo’s dearest wish that Wilks would get on the wrong side of Mr Reardon. Just once.
Another hour passed and the distant factory hooter sounded. Bimbo rose and walked to a covered, white-painted seating area. He leaned against the wall and watched the gate. A tall, broad-shouldered man in blue overalls entered the park. Bimbo moved back out of sight. The man was whistling as he walked. Bimbo judged the moment of his arrival and stepped out, grabbing the man by the shoulder and spinning him into the building.
‘You bin a naughty boy, Tony,�
� said Bimbo. The man hit the far wall, steadied himself then drew a flick-knife from his pocket. The blade clicked into place.
‘Don’t be a prick, son,’ said Bimbo, moving forward.
‘I’ll cut you, you bastard.’
‘You said you’d have the money by Thursday. That was yesterday,’ said Bimbo, still closing.
Suddenly the man lunged. Bimbo grabbed his arm and twisted it. There was a sickening crack and the knife fell from his fingers. He slid to his knees.
‘You’ve broken me bleedin’ arm!’
Bimbo shook his head. ‘You aint never gonna learn, are you, son?’ He held out his hand. The man scrabbled at his pocket and produced a tightly rolled bundle of notes. Bimbo took them, removed the elastic band and slowly counted them. ‘You’re twenty light.’
‘I’ll have it Monday. But leave us with something, Bimbo. There’s a game tonight.’
‘There always is. Monday. And don’t make me find you this time. Be at the Stag around seven.’
‘Seven. Right.’
‘I should get to the hospital, son, and have that plastered up.’
Tony’s face was grey, but he nodded and Bimbo helped him to his feet, watching as he stumbled away, clutching his arm to his chest.
Bimbo wandered back to the pond. The black swan was sitting on her new nest, partly hidden by the bushes.
‘See ya, princess,’ said Bimbo.
Bimbo didn’t much like the High Street any more, not since all those Asians had opened their shops and deli’s and Tandoori take-aways. He had tried to explain it once to Esther, back in the early days. ‘You’re a racist!’ she had said, spitting out the word like it tasted lousy on her tongue. Bimbo thought about it a lot after that. Maybe he was. But he didn’t like people chipping away at his memories. Old Mr Booker’s sweet shop was long gone, and, instead of Mars bars, the shop now had mangoes outside and a sweet, spicy smell wafted from the interior. Bimbo had liked old Mr Booker. Not that he didn’t like the Singhs. Always smiling them people, and you could shop there at night. But Booker’s was history. All the kids went there for paper rounds and their first, real, honest to God pocket money.
And Mr Reardon liked the Asians. They knew how the world worked, he said. They never quibbled about paying their way.
Bimbo made his weekly collections from the Six Bells and the Barley Mow and stopped at the Eel and Pie for a mug of tea before heading for the Anchor. The pub was crowded and a juke-box was playing Sinatra’s Strangers in the Night. Bimbo eased his way to the bar and beyond to the narrow corridor which led to MacLeeland’ s office. Mac was sitting at the small desk, holding a phone to his ear. He waved Bimbo to a seat.
‘No, I’ll be home around eleven. No, eleven. Then leave it in the microwave. Jesus! What do you expect me to do? We’ll talk later. Yes, I’ve got the pills. See you. No, I’m not being snappy, but there’s someone waiting for me. See you later.’ He replaced the phone and leaned back. Bimbo stared at the fat man, wondering how he could still be alive. Two heart attacks and a mild stroke, and yet MacLeeland still drank like a fish, and smoked sixty cigarettes a day. Grossly overweight, and permanently bathed in sweat, even in winter, Mac was a living monument to man’s progress in the late twentieth century.
‘You’re looking fit, Bim.’
‘Can’t complain. How you doin’, Mac?’
‘Bloody rat poison they’re giving me now. Warfarin. Can you believe it? “Take it easy, Mac. Rest, Mac.” What the fuck do they expect me to do? You know anybody who works for Mr Reardon who takes it easy? Now we’ve got the spades kicking up rough on the estate. That Silver has started his own racket! Pimpin’. Bleedin’ American idea. Six girls he’s got. Calls them his “String”. And there’s a tough crowd moved in down the Bush. Gonna have trouble with them. On top of that the old Bill are always sniffin’ around. Take it easy?’
‘I saw Tony.’
‘I heard. You broke his arm. That’s good. Flash git.’
‘I didn’t mean to break it.’
‘We won’t say nothing about that. Mr Reardon is very pleased with you.’
‘He had a knife, see. And I grabbed his arm. It just bent.’
‘Spare me the details. Get the cash?’
‘All but twenty. He’ll have the rest Monday.’
‘You believe that?’
Bimbo shrugged.
‘We’ll see,’ said Mac. ‘Any other problems?’
‘Nah.’ Bimbo took the day’s collections from his track suit top and handed them to the fat man, who counted the notes swiftly, then returned ten £5 notes to Bimbo.
‘You staying for a drink, Bim?’
‘Nah. I’m off down Stepney’s. He’s teaching me chess.’
‘Chess? Why?’
‘Why not?’
‘What’s it good for?’
‘It don’t have to be good for nothing, Mac. I just like the old man’s company.’
‘You watch it. He’ll have you down for a bar mitzvah or something.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘Some Yid festival. Aint given him no money have you?’
‘Why should I give him money?’
‘He’s a Jewboy. He must want something from you. And it can’t be a chess partner.’
‘See you, Mac. Take care.’
‘Take rat poison, more like. Enjoy your game.’
Bimbo stepped out through the rear door into the cool of the night, and walked away from the tinny sound of the juke-box.
Why shouldn’t he learn to play chess? What made it so bloody funny? Stepney said millions of people played chess in Russia. Like a national sport. What was so sodding clever about kicking a leather ball around a park? Or killing yourself in some poxy office behind a pub taking rat poison?
He strolled through the estate past the graffiti-stained walls and the lounging groups of black teenagers, and on towards the station and the row of shops beyond the rail bridge.
Only at night did the town seem the same as ever, the old terraces and the narrow streets. As long as you didn’t look up at the tower blocks, or read the newspaper reports about muggings and violence.
‘Good evening, Bimbo,’ said Mr Singh.
‘How ya doin’?’
‘I am very well. But my shop window was smashed last night. May I walk with you? This estate makes me nervous and I am visiting a friend.’
‘Sure.’
‘I think the neighbourhood is deteriorating. So much violence and hatred,’ said Mr Singh.
‘Aint it the truth,’ said Bimbo.
‘What is the matter with you, Bimbo?’ asked Stepney, his Bishop sweeping down to remove the white Queen. ‘Why you don’t relax?’
Bimbo glanced up from the ornate board into the old man’s face.
‘Dunno, Step. Funny sorta day.’
‘You must relax, in order to play. Let the body tension ease so that the brain can work.’
‘Yeah? But what’s the good of it? Chess, I mean.’
Stepney eased his slight frame from the high-backed chair and moved to the small workshop. He plugged in the kettle and lifted two mugs from a pine shelf. He was over seventy, bald and sparrow-boned with rounded shoulders.
‘The good, Bimbo? Chess is life. Conflict. The overcoming of one’s opponent by stealth and cunning and force. It teaches you to think. You want tea?’
‘Life don’t work to rules. You make your own, or the other bloke does. And in chess everyone starts out equal. Life don’t work like that neither.’
‘This is so. And yet each man lives to a set of his own rules, and that makes each man the victim of his own predictability. Study his rules, know his life, and use your knowledge to conquer.’
‘Conquer what?’
‘Your enemy. That is what we were discussing, was it not?’
‘I
thought we was talking about chess.’
Stepney chuckled and added warm water to the old silver tea pot, swishing it around the base. ‘Your generation is soft, Bimbo. Everyone seeks to hide from life. It is always the other man’s fault, or the fault of society. You have forgotten that man is an animal. To survive and prosper he must be strong. He must conquer his enemies.’
‘That can’t be right. Like … say … unemployment. That’s got nothin’ to do with conquering people.’
‘It has everything to do with it. Milk or lemon in your tea?’
‘Milk, ta.’
Stepney handed him a mug and lowered himself into his seat. ‘If there is one job and ten applicants who is chosen? The best one. Verstehen? He has to conquer the other nine. Down it always comes to strength, either of the mind or the body.’
‘Maybe we should be partners,’ said Bimbo. ‘You got the brains, and I once turned a Volkswagen over for a bet.’
‘If I needed a partner’, said the old man, ‘it would be you.’
‘I was only joking.’
‘I was not. You would like another game?’
‘We aint finished this one yet.’
‘It is mate in three. But you are getting better.’
‘It just takes me longer to lose.’
Stepney chuckled and shook his head. ‘You British won the war this way. By taking a long time to lose, you won.’
‘Don’t start on history. I was never no good at it.’
Bimbo sat back and stared at the small room, with its cluttered shelves and bric-a-brac, musical mugs, telescopes in brass, and tiny porcelain figures, depicting Chinese or Japanese warriors. By the far wall, beside a narrow window, was a bookcase, filled with tomes on antiques or chess.
‘You ever bin married, Step?’
‘Once.’
‘What happened?’
‘Death is what happened,’ said Stepney, bleakly.
‘Long time ago, was it?’
‘It was yesterday, Bimbo. Just yesterday.’
‘I’m not with ya. I saw you yesterday.’
‘It does not matter. Why have you not married?’
White Knight/Black Swan Page 1