White Knight/Black Swan

by David Gemmell

  Once inside the downstairs hallway he relaxed and mounted the stairs. A strange, antiseptic smell greeted him as he arrived at his flat on the first floor. Esther’s door opened.

  ‘Bimbo?’

  ‘’Allo princess, how ya doin’?’

  ‘I’m okay. I cleaned your door.’

  ‘I didn’t know it needed cleaning.’

  ‘Someone smeared dog’s mess over it.’

  ‘Nice. Sorry about that.’

  ‘It wasn’t any trouble. Why would anyone want to do that?’

  ‘Dunno. It’s bin that sorta day. Wanna coffee?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Inside the flat he switched on the wall-mounted gas fire. Esther padded in barefoot and sat on the rug in front of the heat. She was wearing her white towelling dressing gown, and her hair shone from a recent shower.

  ‘How’s the doc?’ called Bimbo from the kitchen.

  ‘He’s fine. We went to a restaurant called Valentinos. It was lovely. We’re going away next weekend to a flat he owns in Sussex. I’ve never been to Sussex. It’s supposed to be beautiful.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, entering with two mugs of steaming coffee. ‘I had a little job there one summer. Place called Hastings. I done the deckchairs on the beach, you know, wandering around and taking the cash if people wanted to avoid sitting on the tar. Nice little number. Friendly people down there.’

  ‘We’re going to Rye.’

  ‘That’s nice an’ all. Cobbled streets. Real class. You’ll love it.’

  ‘You’re soaked,’ she said. ‘Get out of those wet clothes, you’ll catch pneumonia.’

  ‘Nah. The fire’ll dry ’em.’

  ‘Where you been tonight?’

  ‘Went to the pictures. Bleedin’ terrible film. Some bloke mowing down bikers with a machine gun. Packed out the place was. Terrible. Gave me a right headache.’

  ‘It’s what people want, Bimbo. Plenty of action.’

  ‘You like them films?’

  ‘No. But then I see violence all the time at the hospital. I thought you didn’t like going to the pictures.’

  ‘Nothin’ else to do. I used to love the films when I was a kid. They had a telly at the Home. Old black and white thing, with doors on the front. That’s where l first seen Shane, and The Cisco Kid, and Cheyenne. You remember Cheyenne?’

  ‘No. I remember Shane. There was a lovely little boy in it.’

  ‘That’s right. A proper film, proper hero. Never lost his rag, never screwed nobody, and only killed the villains when there was no other way. It all seemed so right then.’

  ‘The world changed, Bimbo.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, sadly. ‘Guess so.’

  ‘Maybe there never was a Shane kind of world. Maybe it’s just pictures.’

  ‘Nah. Can’t believe that. There wouldn’t be no point to nothin’, would there?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘No. Neither do I, really. Don’t mind me, sweetheart. I’m glad you and the doc are hittin’ it off.’

  ‘He’s a lovely man, Bimbo. Kind, strong. Bit like you really.’

  ‘Yeah. I can see the resemblance.’

  She laughed. ‘You know what I mean. Simeon cares.’ She looked up at him and he could see the concern in her eyes. ‘You know what you ought to get? A video. Then you could watch all those old films you like. Might cheer you up.’

  ‘I aint even got a TV.’

  ‘Well they’re not impossible to buy, you know. You just walk into a shop. Are you all right?’

  ‘Sure. Fit as a fiddle.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. You seem … a bit down.’

  ‘Nah. It’s only the film.’

  ‘Would you like me to stay?’

  ‘Now what would your doctor friend think about that? No. You get on back home. Get a good night’s kip.’

  She kissed him on the cheek and left.

  ‘Maybe there never was a Shane kind of world. Maybe it’s just pictures.’ The words echoed round in his mind, and he felt the cold touch of panic.

  5

  Bimbo woke at seven, pulled on his track suit and trainers and set off across the estate. The sun was shining and a light breeze fanned his face as he ran. Today felt like a good day. He did his normal six-mile figure eight and returned to the flat. Waiting outside was one of the young men he had seen with the black sex-show girl.

  ‘You looking for me, son?’

  ‘Yes. I’m Daniel, remember? The church hall?’

  ‘I remember. How are ya?’

  ‘Okay. Your friend Adrian gave me your address. Hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Depends on why,’ said Bimbo, wiping his sleeve across his sweat streaked face.

  ‘Miranda’s got a gig tonight. Private house in Ealing. Big place. She wants you to be there.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘You know, look after her.’

  ‘I dunno, son. It aint my game. I only done it for Ade cos he’s a mate.’

  ‘There’s fifty pounds in it, Mr Bimbo. It’s just that Miranda is worried. She accepted the job just after we did the church hall gig. There was this man, big chap, rings on every finger. He made the offer.’

  ‘Yeah. I remember him. He’s trouble, son.’

  ‘That’s what I think. Will you come?’

  ‘Why don’t she just send the money back and call it off?’

  Daniel shrugged. ‘I guess she’s got principles.’ Bimbo laughed aloud.

  ‘Okay, son, you said that with a straight face. What’s the score tonight?’

  ‘She’s going to do a straight strip-tease for a small party, about twenty, and then one of them gets to … you know.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. And she’s worried about a gang bang. What’s the fee?’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty. She’s already had a hundred.’

  ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, Miranda and I will pick you up around seven. Is that all right?’

  ‘Sure. But you tell her this is a one-off. I don’t like sex shows.’

  ‘How come you’re agreeing then?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘I’m broke,’ admitted Bimbo. Leaving the youngster standing, Bimbo walked into the hall and up to his flat. He showered and dressed in a white sweatshirt and jeans and walked back to the High Street where he waited for a bus to take him to the town hall. It was one of those newfangled one-deck buses where the driver took the fare. Bimbo didn’t like them at all and sat at the back, his good mood evaporating.

  The town hall was big and ugly, built during the middle Victorian era, and now stained by a century of filthy air and generations of loose bowelled pigeons. He mounted the stone steps and followed the sign to Reception. A middle-aged man was sitting behind the mahogany topped counter. He was extraordinarily thin with bright blue button eyes and a trimmed moustache. He looked at Bimbo and sighed.

  ‘Do you have an appointment with someone, sir?’ The voice was world weary, and his tone suggested that it would be a minor miracle if Bimbo actually had an appointment.

  ‘No. I wanna see somebody about a swan.’

  ‘Your swan, sir?’

  ‘Do I look like I keep swans?’ Bimbo took a deep breath, struggling to contain his irritation.

  ‘Then whose swan is it?’

  ‘It’s one of yours. Down the park.’

  ‘Being a nuisance, is it?’

  ‘How can a swan be a bleedin’ nuisance?’

  The man sighed. ‘What is it about the swan that brings you here?’

  Bimbo cleared his throat, his face reddening. ‘Well … it’s lonely, innit? Its mate got shot a coupla years ago. It’s on its own.’

  ‘Lonely swan, right. Don’t think we’ve got a department for that, sir.’

&n
bsp; Bimbo leaned forward and fixed the man with a cold stare. ‘I tend to be an easygoing bloke, mate. Even when I meet arseholes like you. Now I’m goin’ to ask you a question, and then I’m gonna do one of two things. I’m either gonna walk away, or I’m gonna ram your fucking face on that counter. Understand?’ The man swallowed hard, then nodded. ‘Good. Who do I see about swans?’

  ‘Go down the hall, turn right, and go up the stairs. Second door on the left. Miss Owlett. Parks Department.’

  ‘Ta. You bin a big help.’

  He followed the directions and tapped at the door. There was no answer. Turning the knob, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. A young woman was sitting at a leather topped desk, writing with a smart black Parker fountain pen. Her long brunette hair was drawn back into a severe pony tail and she wore no make-up. She glanced up.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, her voice crisp, the words spoken at speed. Her pen remained poised over the writing pad. Bimbo sat down. As he did so she slowly screwed the cap on the pen and laid it on the desk beside the pad.

  ‘It’s about the black swan in the park.’

  ‘Which park?’

  ‘Your park. Up the road by the bus depot.’

  ‘We have five parks,’ she informed him, ‘but yes, I know which one you mean. Is the swan causing a nuisance?’

  ‘I just had this with the bloke downstairs. You get a lot of people complaining about swans do ya?’

  ‘No, actually. That’s one thing people rarely complain about.’

  ‘I’m glad to ’ear it. Well I aint complainin’ either, love.’

  ‘I am not your love,’ she snapped. ‘Or your darling, or your sweetheart. Now get to the point, I’m rather busy.’

  Bimbo leaned back and took a deep breath. ‘The swan needs a mate. She’s buildin’ a nest, and that aint natural. She’s lonely, see. Vandals shot the male bird a coupla years ago, and all her cygnets.’

  ‘The bird is lonely? Are you some sort of expert on swan psychology?’

  ‘No, I’m not. But I’m pretty good at people. Good enough to know when I’m wasting me bleedin’ time.’ He stood and left the room, closing the door quietly.

  Inside Liz Owlett picked up her pen and returned to her notes, and the costings at the Refuge Centre. Forty women were living there at present, without a council grant. But then who cared about battered wives? Or mistreated children? Liz was tired. She capped her pen and pushed her back into the deep leather chair. She could have got the cash for the centre, but then the press started bleating about money for lesbians, and the loony left. The grant was a dead duck then. Sure Pam Edgerley was gay. So were half the committee. But that didn’t negate the need for the refuge. Pam would be in soon, and Liz had no good news for her. She swore. Moving to the desk by the window she plugged in the kettle. All over the area women were being maltreated by vicious, sexist bastards like … like the brute who’d just been in.

  God, the way he had called her love.

  Calm down, Owlett, she told herself. You’re being ridiculous.

  The door opened and Pam Edgerley walked in. She was a shade under six feet tall, with short dark hair, highlighted by natural grey. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans and a chunky rust-coloured sweater.

  ‘The news is all bad,’ said Liz, swiftly. ‘You want some tea?’

  ‘Cheer up, Liz. We didn’t expect to win. We had a donation of £250 this morning.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Richard Kilbey. He invited me to talk at Meeting Point – it’s the church women’s group. They had a fund raising jumble sale for us. Nice man, Richard.’

  Liz grinned. ‘He probably gets his wife to dress up as a schoolgirl and beats her with a cane.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Pam, smiling. ‘Why so down?’

  ‘The grant mostly. But I’ve just had a man in here gave me a wonderful counterpoint. I’m working my guts out to raise funds for a vital project and he wanted me to waste my time on a swan. I mean a swan, for God’s sake!’

  ‘What’s the matter with it?’

  ‘Oh you’ll love this. It’s lonely, he says. Needs a mate.’

  Pam sat down and sipped her tea. ‘Why does he think it’s lonely?’

  ‘He says it’s building a nest and pining for its dead mate.’

  ‘How sad.’

  ‘Sad? Pam, be serious.’

  ‘I am being serious. Beautiful things, swans. You know they mate for life? My father told me of a swan whose mate died. It refused to eat and starved itself to death. What will you do?’

  ‘I think the world’s gone mad,’ said Liz.

  ‘It will,’ said Pam, ‘if ever we stop caring about lonely swans.’

  Bimbo left the town hall and caught a bus back to the estate, arriving at Maple Road just as Sgt Don Dodds pulled up in the yellow and white Escort. Bimbo sat back on the low wall outside the building and waited as Dodds walked over. The sergeant’s uniform was neatly pressed, with not a mark of dust or dandruff, and his buttons shone like polished silver. Immaculate. Bimbo was always impressed by Sgt Dodds.

  ‘I want to talk to you, Bimbo, so invite me in for a cup of tea. You’ll get yourself a bad name talking to coppers in the street.’

  Bimbo nodded and led the way inside and up the stairs. A large cod lay on the mat outside his door, a skewer through its eyes.

  ‘Like fish, do you?’ asked Dodds.

  ‘Somebody’s been playing silly buggers,’ said Bimbo, picking up the fish. As he lifted it the slit belly flopped open and a dead rat slid to the floor.

  ‘Nice,’ said Dodds. ‘Check the rat. It could be like one of them Russian dolls, you know, getting smaller and smaller.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Bimbo, picking up the remains and carrying them to the rubbish chute. The smell of the fish hung in the air and Bimbo opened the door of his flat and walked to the kitchen. He scrubbed his hands and plugged in the kettle.

  Dodds carefully removed his cap and laid it on the table. ‘Life’s taking a nasty turn, son.’

  ‘I aint complainin’.’

  ‘Fallen out with Reardon, though, eh?’

  Bimbo stepped into the living room with two mugs of tea. Dodds accepted one of them, blowing at the surface before sipping it. ‘You didn’t answer me, Bimbo.’

  ‘Nothin’ to say, Mr Dodds.’

  ‘Nice cuppa, son. Teach you that at the Home did they?’

  ‘Nah. Borstal. They was strong on tea in Borstal. Whaddya want?’ he asked, suspiciously. Dodds shook his head.

  ‘I’m not here to get you to grass – not that I wouldn’t, but I know you’re not the type.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘Because I hear things, son, and I don’t like what I’m hearing. You’ve got on the wrong side of Reardon. Now Roache and Taggart are talking about the wonderful rearrangements they’re going to make to your face. Get the picture?’

  ‘And you’re worried about me, I suppose? Well you aint my fucking mother. You’re the fucking Filth!’ snapped Bimbo.

  Dodds’ eyes narrowed and he pushed himself to his feet. ‘Don’t you get cocky with me, son! If I wasn’t worried I wouldn’t be here.’ Bimbo nodded. He liked the sergeant and felt ashamed of himself. It was always the same, when angry. Like with the Cypriot waiter, calling him a dago, or with the black bloke on the estate, using the term ‘jungle bunny’. No way was Dodds ‘the Filth’. No way. Bimbo sighed then looked into Dodds’ angry eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Dodds. It’s bin a bad day.’

  ‘It’ll get worse,’ said Dodds, barely mollified. ‘I’ve been a copper since you were soiling nappies. I’ve seen all the scumbags – generations of scumbags. They’re all the same, Bimbo. They all think they’re Jack the Lad, and they’re all the bloody same. After a while you know just what they’re going to do. Take Reardon. First he mak
es you high profile. He bars you from the pubs. That makes you interesting. Everybody looks and says, “I wonder what’ll happen to Bimbo now?” Then he starts messing around in your life. Like the fish and the rat. Then maybe it’s your mates. And finally, when just about every bastard in the manor knows he’s after you, he’ll have you turned over. Badly. And I mean badly.’

  ‘He’s got no reason.’

  ‘Bollocks – if you’ll pardon the French. I didn’t come down with the last shower of rhubarb, son. You turned over Reilly. Broke his fingers. Don’t insult my intelligence by denying it. Anyway I’m not here to book you. But Reilly’s got no credibility now and Reardon’s Shepherd’s Bush operation is down the toilet. He’s got to turn you over. Can’t you see it?’

  ‘We’ll just have to wait and see,’ said Bimbo.

  ‘Wait and … ? Give me one good reason why you can’t leave the manor.’

  ‘This is where I live. Aint nobody runnin’ me out.’

  ‘Not even Jackie Green?’

  Bimbo looked away. ‘Why mention him?’

  ‘Did you back down for him? Out at Reardon’s?’

  ‘What if I did?’

  ‘I’m not blaming you, son. So would I – even without the hernia. But you’ve got a reputation as a hard man. Now a lot of little toe-rags might start thinking they can cut you down a peg or two.’

  Bimbo’s smile was genuine. ‘They’re always welcome to try, Mr Dodds.’

  ‘There’s an old saying, Bimbo, “Never a horse that couldn’t be rode, never a man who couldn’t be throwed.” Bear it in mind, son. You’re not Superman. And you’re not made of steel. You still dating that black nurse?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Nothing, son, except you’d better watch out for her. She’ll be on the list. And that gay filth peddler. And probably the old Jew by the station. Trust me, Bimbo. And warn them.’

  ‘It’ll blow over, Mr Dodds. You see if it don’t. I made a mistake. I said I was sorry. If Roache and Taggart are lookin’ for me they’re probably doin’ it off their own bat. No one’s gonna get silly over a misunderstandin’ .’

  ‘Pity you can’t get that brain of yours to do a few press-ups,’ said Dodds, wearily, putting on his hat and making for the door. ‘When you go out, watch yourself. Don’t relax. Don’t trust anybody. Especially invites to out-of-the-way places. Even from old mates. You understand me?’