White Knight/Black Swan

by David Gemmell

  Stepney ignored him. ‘Reardon is convinced you made him look foolish. So he decides to punish you, and puts you from his mind. A few blows, a little lost pride, and Bimbo Jardine would once more have been safe. But no! Bimbo Jardine will stand tall. He will not run. So, next time there will be four men, or five, or ten. And where does this get Bimbo Jardine?’

  ‘I dunno, Step. I can’t even tell you why I’m stayin’. I don’t know meself. Maybe I should go back and talk to Mr Reardon again.’

  ‘To what purpose? Did you not apologise? What else can you say?’

  ‘But it’s all so stupid.’

  ‘Of course it is stupid. And Reardon is now in danger of making himself look truly ridiculous. I have a little place in Norfolk, a small cottage I go to sometimes. You are welcome to stay there for a few weeks, until this blows over.’

  ‘You think it will blow over in a few weeks?’

  Stepney sighed and shook his head. ‘Let us continue our game.’

  Stepney introduced a Knight into play and the match commenced. Bimbo played better than he had before, but lost easily.

  ‘You are getting better,’ said Stepney, reaching over and patting Bimbo’s shoulder. ‘You made me think once or twice. But still you react. Your play is passive. Still, we have a little time to work on it.’

  Bimbo grinned. ‘I enjoyed the game. Helps take your mind off things. Still, I could murder a cuppa tea.’

  ‘We will go upstairs,’ said the old man. Bimbo stood and began to walk towards the shop door. ‘No, not that way. Follow me.’ He led Bimbo to a narrow door at the rear of the shop, which opened to a stone-wall-enclosed yard and a rickety fire escape. The two men climbed in the darkness until Stepney reached a window which was locked. The old man took a penknife from his pocket and slid the blade under the latch. The window had not been opened in years and was stiff. Bimbo forced it and they climbed inside.

  ‘Forgotten your key, Step?’

  ‘Come here, Bimbo,’ said Stepney, moving through the darkness of his rooms and stopping at a window overlooking Station Road and the front of the shop. In the shadows opposite stood three men. Two more were lounging by a telephone kiosk.

  ‘There will be others,’ said Stepney. ‘At least three, perhaps four, in the alley behind the shop. They are waiting for you.’

  ‘How’d you know they were there?’ asked Bimbo. ‘I never ’eard nothin’.’

  Stepney pulled down the blind and switched on a table lamp.

  ‘Do you ever listen to me?’ he asked. ‘I know the way Reardon’s mind works. He is a jungle animal, and, as such, entirely predictable. The present gang will wait most of the evening. Then they will go for fresh instructions. Reardon will be furious. Next, he will have men near your home. Maybe even in your home. But,’ he shrugged, ‘that is a problem for another day. Put on the kettle.’ Removing his waistcoat, Stepney donned an old fisherman’s sweater.

  ‘You losin’ weight, Step?’ called Bimbo from the kitchen area.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘You aint got much to start with. You eatin’ all right?’

  ‘As a horse. Do not fuss. You can sleep on the Chesterfield. I will fetch you some blankets.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll get off home.’

  ‘You are intending to fight that gang?’

  ‘Nah. I’ll nip over the station wall and cut along the tracks. It’ll be all right.’

  ‘Think for a moment. As long as you are here they must stand out in the cold, becoming uncertain, and even … God willing … a little afraid. Let them suffer. And keep an old man company for a while. This has not been a good day for me.’

  ‘Business bad?’ asked Bimbo, bringing a cup of tea to the old man.

  ‘No. But I made a trip today, and I have heard better news. I went to the hospital in Fulham Palace Road. They tell me the cancer in my lungs will kill me soon.’

  ‘I dunno what to say, Step. Honest I don’t.’

  Stepney smiled and put aside his tea. ‘We will have some Armagnac, my friend. In fine balloon glasses. I shall bore you with the story of my life.’ He moved to an ancient dresser and poured the spirit into two glasses, passing one to Bimbo. Then he switched on an old gas fire and settled back into his armchair.

  ‘You aint never borin’, mate. Never. But tell me what the ’ospital is planning?’

  ‘I am too old for the harsher treatments, they tell me. And anyway the cancer is well advanced. But I am seventy-seven. I have had a good run, as they say.’

  ‘Can’t they cut it out?’

  ‘No. It is at the centre, and spreading into both lungs.’ Suddenly he grinned and raised his glass. ‘Good health!’

  ‘Yeah.’ Bimbo sipped the fiery liquid, not enjoying the taste.

  ‘Do not look so sad. I am not going to die tomorrow – at least I hope not.’

  ‘But you don’t even smoke or nothin’. It aint right.’

  ‘There you go again! Right! What is right? Life is a lottery. Only the strong, or the lucky, continue to smile. Outside Stalingrad I was trapped in a burning Panzer. No way out. My comrades dead. I was ready to join them. But the Russians fired again, blowing the turret clean away. I scrambled clear. Two hundred thousand men disappeared in that battle. But not Heinrich Stolz. I was very tough. And I was lucky. I shall not complain to the Almighty merely because my time has run out.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m bleedin’ sorry. How long?’

  ‘I will be lucky to see Christmas. About eight weeks.’

  ‘You got any family?’

  Stepney pushed himself from the chair and opened a small cabinet. From it he took a silver framed oval picture. He handed it to Bimbo, who saw a young woman with long dark hair and a radiant smile.

  ‘Your daughter?’

  ‘My wife.’

  ‘She was very pretty.’

  ‘She was beautiful. She was also a Jewess. She died in Ravensbruck.’

  ‘Must have hit you pretty hard.’

  ‘You do not understand. Ravensbruck was a death camp for Jews. I sent her there. I informed the Gestapo.’

  ‘Jesus, Step! Why?’

  ‘For nearly half a century I have asked myself the same question. I have no convincing answer. I was a fervent believer in a god among men; a giant sent to liberate my people. I did not know she was of Jewish stock when we married. And when she told me I felt betrayed. Sullied. I was young, and proud, and very stupid. In those days we were told the camps were work places. “Work for Freedom” was emblazoned on the gates. Only later did I really know. But I guessed.’

  ‘You didn’t mean to kill her then?’

  ‘God, no. But my intentions count for nothing. As the Bible says, “By their works shall ye judge them.” One day, in a village four days into Soviet territory, I was ordered to assemble a firing squad. I did so. The entire village was surrounded and all the men, women and children herded into the central square …’

  ‘I don’t want to hear all this,’ said Bimbo, but the old man was staring ahead, his eyes distant, his mind locked in the past.

  ‘We mowed them down with machine guns, and had to walk among the bodies finishing off the wounded. And I did it. Coolly, dispassionately. Mostly the survivors were women and children. I shot them all. All.’

  ‘I think you ought to talk about something else.’

  ‘Tonight there is nothing else. Verstehen? Tonight the ghosts walk. They know I am close. They wait for me. When the allies overran Germany I escaped to Switzerland with false papers. I lived there for five years. Every day I watched for the hunters. But they never came. Eichmann they hunted down. Mengele they searched for. But Stolz was only a little murderer. His souls were measured in hundreds.’

  ‘You aint a bad man, Step. I know you.’

  ‘You know nothing. You are a trusting soul, Bimbo, and I bless
the day you came into that cafe and watched me play chess. But you do not know me. Not at all. God has given me nearly fifty years to atone for my crimes, and in all that time I have done nothing for anyone. A wasted life. And when I die there will be no one at the funeral. An empty church and a priest who will bury me under a name that is not my own.’

  ‘I’ll be there, Step.’

  ‘This I know. I do not deserve you, Bimbo.’

  ‘You want another game of chess?’

  ‘No. I think I will sleep now.’

  Bimbo waited until the old man was snoring softly, then he covered him with a blanket and turned off the fire. Silently Bimbo climbed out of the window and down the fire escape, scaling the station wall and walking unseen through the rail yard.

  Beyond the gates was an alley, with two broken street lamps. Bimbo stepped into the darkness and stopped, listening. For some seconds he heard nothing. Then a match flared some twenty feet away and a cigarette tip glowed fiercely.

  Bimbo crept forward. Two men were sitting on a low wall. He retraced his steps, moving back into the rail yard. Vaulting a low fence he scrambled down to the rail line and began to walk along beside the tracks.

  A half-hour later he was walking warily through the courtyards of Ironside Towers. A few youngsters were still hanging around in the shadows, or sitting on the stairs, and he could hear the faint sounds of pop music drifting from a distant party. He stopped and scanned the road outside his flat. From here he would have to walk out on open ground, cross the road and mount the steps. Now would be the time, should any of Reardon’s men be on hand. He waited for several minutes, leaning against a wall, but there was no sign of movement in the street opposite.

  ‘Well come on, son, you can’t wait here all night,’ he told himself. Swiftly he walked out into the open, crossing the road. His heart was hammering as he mounted the steps. A figure moved out of the shadows. Bimbo spun, grabbed the man by his jacket and slammed him into the wall.

  ‘It’s me, Bim!’ screamed Stan Jarvis. Bimbo’s huge fist froze.

  ‘Sorry, Stan, but it’s bin one of them days.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. After you turned over them scumbags l did some checking around. You got on the wrong side of Reardon. But why don’t we talk inside? I got your gear. Come on, give us a hand.’

  Bimbo carried the television upstairs while Stan brought the video recorder. Once inside the flat Stan moved around, searching the walls of the living room. ‘Where’s your aerial point?’

  ‘I aint got no aerial.’

  ‘What’s the point of buying a piggin’ TV without an aerial?’

  ‘Never thought about it. Anyway, I only want to watch the video.’

  While Stan set up the machinery, Bimbo made some coffee.

  ‘Come here!’ called Stan. ‘I got a surprise for you! Bimbo wandered out and sat down before the television. Suddenly a movie started. It was High Noon with Gary Cooper.

  ‘I wanted Shane,’ said Bimbo.

  ‘That’s what makes it a surprise,’ said Stan, grinning. He froze the picture and switched off the recorder. ‘I’ll get the other one at the weekend. Seriously though, Bim, you need a hand with this Reardon?’

  ‘Nab. I don’t wanna see no bricks through your windows. But thanks anyway, mate, you’re the first to offer.’

  ‘Us cellmates oughta stick together.’

  ‘I’ll give you a shout if it gets too rough. But I reckon it might blow over. You know, just like with Pearson in the nick. And he was a bleedin’ killer. Remember?’

  ‘I remember,’ said Stan. Pearson was the tobacco baron, and his word was law inside. Even outside. Men who had upset him would, even on release, find their lives full of constant fear. Once a young Italian had been found hanged in his cell after publicly refusing Pearson’s advances, and ridiculing him. ‘Pearson tried it on with Adrian, and you stood up for him. Saw the bastards off.’

  ‘And nothin’ happened did it?’ said Bimbo. ‘Pearson never had me topped or nothin’, did he? And he was worse than Reardon.’ Stan drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

  ‘He would have, Bim. But Ade went in and gave him what he wanted.’ Bimbo sagged back in his chair, and rubbed at his tired eyes. Everything was so wrong, so crooked and vile.

  ‘I never knew that. Why didn’t he tell me?’

  ‘Because he didn’t wanna see you dead. But it don’t matter. What I’m sayin’ is Reardon’s the same as Pearson. It’s shit or bust, Bim. You’ve got three choices. Leave, and don’t come back. Sit tight until they take you apart. Or hammer the son-of-a-bitch!’

  ‘’Ammer him? You been watchin’ too many of your movies. He’s got about thirty men on his payroll And on top of that there’s …’

  ‘Jackie Green,’ said Stan. The name hung in the growing silence.

  ‘Yeah. Him,’ said Bimbo. ‘I can’t, Stan. I aint no army. I wouldn’t know what to do. I don’t even want to know, neither. I just wanna be left alone.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Stan, rising. ‘I gotta go. I’m meeting Rose down the Barley. But, if you need me, just give a shout. By the way there’s some posters for you in the video box.’

  ‘Thanks, Stan.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, just pay me,’ said Stan, grinning. Bimbo handed over the £100 and watched from the window as Stan drove away in his red VW Golf. The man was a diamond, but Bimbo didn’t want him involved in this business. He settled down with a cheese sandwich and watched the first half of High Noon, but then he remembered that Gary Cooper had also died of cancer and his thoughts drifted. He switched off the machine and sat quietly, thinking of Stepney. He liked the old man, and he didn’t much care about his past. But – Jesus! – to have your own wife topped. And to kill women. It didn’t seem possible that the gentle old chess player could ever have done anything like that. Bimbo pushed the ugliness from his mind and pulled the rolled-up posters from the video box. There were three in the roll. The first was Winnie the Pooh. He stuck it over the fireplace using an old roll of Sellotape. The second was from Casablanca, picturing Bogart and Bergman. This he put in the alcove by the far window. But the last was Shane. Bimbo spread it lovingly across the carpet. Alan Ladd stared back at him, while Jean Arthur stood arm in arm with Van Heflin. Beyond them were snow-capped mountains and endless prairies.

  He carried the poster to his bedroom and carefully positioned it on the wall, where he could see it as soon as he woke.

  Back in the living room he restarted High Noon and watched the marshall do his duty. The man in Debenhams was right. It was a great film.

  Later, as he lay on his bed staring at the moonlit Shane poster, he found sleep impossible. It disturbed him, for sleeping had never been a problem. Even after his first arrest he had gone to bed in the locked cell and slept like a baby. He’d just put his head down, and dropped off the world. But not tonight. Events flowed through his mind. Adrian giving in to Pearson, Miranda taking the money, Sherry, desperate and broke, Wilks unconscious in the rain, Stepney, alone and dying …

  And Jackie Green. Above them all, like a spectre, there was Jackie Green.

  It took a long time for Bimbo to realise why he could not sleep. He was experiencing an emotion he had never known before.

  Fear.

  The next two days passed without incident, but on the Saturday afternoon, as Stepney was closing his shop, two men entered. The old man judged them in a glance and slowly made his way to the rear of the shop. He sat behind his oak desk and waited. One of them flipped the sign to ‘Closed’ and locked the door, then they walked towards him. Both were tall and well built, though one was running to fat. Their faces were flat, their expressions cold.

  The fat one sat down on the edge of the desk staring with naked contempt at the elderly dealer.

  ‘You’re friendly with Jardine, aintcha?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Stepney.


  The second man sat back in a Regency chair, a faint smile contrasting with the malice in his eyes.

  ‘Well, that’s gonna cost ya,’ he said. ‘Still, all you Jews are loaded. So I guess you won’t mind.’

  ‘How much?’ asked the old man.

  ‘I like a man what gets straight to the point. Didn’t I say that, Gary?’ he asked the fat one, who nodded. Turning to Stepney he smiled. ‘See he don’t understand you Yids. I told him. You always know where your bread’s buttered. Now, this is the score: We bin told to turn your place over. And we’ve got to do it. After that you pay one hundred notes a week. If business is bad we’ll send a man in to go over the books. We aint gonna break you. You can help yourself by moving some stuff for us. That’ll earn you a few bob. Understand?’

  ‘Of course. You will have some stolen items that I can move through my contacts.’

  ‘Exactly. But – since you helped out Jardine – you gotta be punished. What we’ll do is this: You tell us the sort of stuff you wouldn’t mind gettin’ broke, and we’ll break it. Then we can go back and say we done it right, and you won’t be too put out. Couldn’t be fairer could we?’

  ‘It is very reasonable,’ said Stepney. ‘You are a man of intelligence. But what of my friend Bimbo?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Are you not here to request that I invite him to my shop at a time convenient to you?’

  ‘You see, Gary, what did I say? That’s why they all get rich.’ He swung back to Stepney. ‘I’m beginnin’ to like you, old man. I could almost forget you’re a Yid. Yeah, you’re right. If you do that for us, we won’t even smash the shop, and the first week’s money gets waived.’

  ‘He’s takin’ all this a bit calm, aint he, George?’ said the fat one.

  ‘Now you mention it, he is.’

  ‘I shall be honest with you, gentlemen. I am sure you will appreciate candour. I have been told that I have only a few months to live. I have cancer in my lungs. Therefore I have little to lose. You can destroy my shop, or break my bones. But you cannot hurt me. Would you like some tea?’ The two men exchanged glances.