He hopped off his stool and patted me on the back. ‘You did a good job, boyo. Just think on that and let the rest slip into the dustbin, eh?’
‘Sure,’ I said, as convincingly as I could. I watched him depart, his raincoat flapping behind him, causing eddies in the thick tobacco fug.
I knew that David was right. But he was Mr Uncomplicated Llewellyn with a loving wife at home to cushion the slings and arrows of his profession. I’d got a dingy empty flat and a small half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker.
Then a thought struck me.
The phone rang for a very long time and I was just on the verge of replacing the receiver when it was answered.
‘Hello,’ said a quiet voice. It was hesitant and apprehensive.
‘Max, it’s me, Johnny.’
‘Oh, Johnny.’ The relief was tangible down the line. ‘How are you?’
‘It’s over, Max. The whole thing’s over.’
‘Oh, Johnny, that’s wonderful.’
‘Max, I was wondering …’
‘Yes?’
‘I really don’t feel like being on my own tonight. I sort of wondered if …’ At this point I ran out of steam or courage or nerve or something and just let the half-spoken sentence dangle in the air.
Max giggled. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Come round, right away. We can have tea and toast. You can tell me all about it and I can soothe your fevered brow.’
I grinned. ‘Thank you. That’s wonderful. I can’t remember a time when my fevered brow was in such need of soothing.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
* * *
That same night in a scruffy bar near Euston Station, a man sat by himself at a corner table nursing a bottle of Guinness. His face was in shadow, but any keen observer could see that he was crying. Tears gently rolled down his cheeks, hanging briefly on his chin before dropping down on to his shabby overcoat.
The man was Gilbert Manville. But strangely these tears were those of happiness, a state so foreign to him that when it had surprised him, the only reaction he could muster was to cry. And he had been crying on and off for two or three hours. It simply was that he couldn’t believe his luck. He patted his coat to check that his wallet, his bulging wallet, was still there and still as plump.
Earlier that day he had been called in by the BBC to be told that the Charlie Dokes show had been cancelled and so his services were no longer required for this programme; but then he had been offered a featured part on ‘All at Sea with the Navy’ a new forces programme due to air on Sunday nights and a supporting role in a detective serial. These jobs would effectively double his income. With this good news in mind, how could he not risk a fiver on a horse called Navy Boy with odds of 25 to 1? Miraculously – miraculously to Manville – it had won and he had been able to fill his wallet with crisp notes to the tune of £125. A fortune.
Father Christmas had come early for Manville. And, more importantly, Margaret could stay at the sanatorium. He’d rung her immediately and they had both cried over the phone.
He took a final slug from the Guinness and decided to go home. He had a busy day tomorrow. He was going to tidy up his flat.
THIRTY-NINE
* * *
Two weeks later. Saturday. The scene is Regent’s Park. There are three figures on the landscape: a man, a woman and a young boy who is racing ahead of the grown ups as he flies his new kite – an early Christmas present. For all the world this trio looks like a family on a day out in the park.
The man is me, Johnny Hawke, happy and contented, a rare state for this one-eyed cynic; the boy is Peter, fully recovered from his encounter with the River Thames and full of beans once more; and the girl is Max, who is squeezing my hand with affection as we watch the animated antics of our energetic friend. From time to time she pulls me close to her and gives me an affectionate kiss on the cheek.
As I say: for all the world this trio looks like a family without a care in the world on a day out in the park.
By the Same Author
THE VEILED DETECTIVE
FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
COMES THE DARK
WITHOUT CONSCIENCE
Copyright
© David Stuart Davies 2009
First published in Great Britain 2009
This edition 2011
ISBN 978 0 7090 9529 3 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7090 9530 9 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7090 9531 6 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7090 8864 6 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of David Stuart Davies to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
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