South of Volos I brewed tea, and looked at the map. Well off the main road and on the coast was a place at which Alice had indicated a small hotel. Anyone still after me would never imagine I’d pass the night at the end of an eight-mile cul de sac, the perfect place to shake them off my trail.
The road was winding and narrow, goats on the hills and a friendly sea to the right. An old man with a long stick saluted the car, and when I stopped to ask how far ahead the village was he answered in American English that I had only to go on till I saw it, which was plain enough to me.
The hotel, as simple and clean a place as could be found, welcomed me with a room. By five o’clock I was sitting on the terrace, a breeze cooling blue water lapping the stones below, not a cloud from one end of the sky to the other. I had stumbled onto a cushy billet to beat them all, as Bill Straw would have said. Two bottles of icy Fix beer stood on the table, and I could drink away till the time came for supper. The proprietor had promised fresh fish, rice, salad, and his best wine. Over coffee I would light up a Havana and celebrate the good fortune in getting to my first nightstop in Greece.
I would wake from a long night’s sleep to the rusty pump braying of a donkey, and after a leisurely breakfast swim in the briny before heading south to deliver the briefcase, and take up the packages from the quayside beyond Pireus. All was arranged and mapped out, perfect clockwork on the cards. Just one more day to do.
As for the return journey, I would high-tail it up through Arta, board a ship at Igoumenitsa for Italy, and steam up the Adriatic coast to call on Sophie near Ancona. We would tumble each other about for a couple of days, and make enough memories to last every mile of my way back to hearth and home. I didn’t have a home, but why spoil the fantasy?
Never so relaxed, with another guzzle of the delicious Fix, I blessed my luck in having been sent on such an interesting and responsible mission. However much I disliked and distrusted Moggerhanger there was a lot to be grateful about for his confidence in my abilities. Tomorrow I would phone and tell of my complete success, but this evening I’d let him fry, so that I could have my supper and then sleep undisturbed.
A touch of the cramp in my legs from so much driving, I bubbled out more beer to oil it away. If this was heaven I could believe in immortality, except I had no intention of dying yet. A boy came by with newspapers, such a smile that I bought one, though it was all Greek to me. If it weren’t for Moggerhanger having me on a string I would stay at least a week. Let him fume for a few days, anyway, because as long as I got the stuff back he would have no reason to complain. As for his wigging when I did phone, well, my ear hadn’t so far stuck fast to any plastic.
Was I hearing right? “You fucking bastard. We’ve got you now,” someone yelled. How crude the English are when they’re abroad. Some poor wife seemed about to get a pasting from a brutal yobbo of a husband because she’d parked the car too much in the sun. You can’t escape them, I thought, unless you go to the arse-end of Turkey, where they’re afraid to be seen. The scum who can afford to travel these days have no notion of good behaviour.
Reaching for another ambrosial bottle I saw the little black hatchback sitting in its own shadow at the end of the road. Two men came for me in a pincer movement. What sounded like a revolver shot turned out to be a well aimed stone, which splattered beer and bottle over the table. I dived for the gravel, my last useful thought being that I was going to have to fight for my life, and wouldn’t end up in paradise after all.
Chapter Nine.
I’m taking the narrative out of Michael Cullen’s hands, for the moment, because he’s in no condition to write anything, unless it’s his final will and testament. Not only that, but there are happenings that even a picaresque hero can’t be trusted to put satisfactorily on paper. Another thing is that it’s time my own life had another look in because, as will be seen, it has some bearing on what consequently occurred to my erstwhile bastard son.
Mabel told me I could not at this stage write Michael’s story. “Whyever not?” I demanded. “Didn’t Doctor Livesey pull the tale from Jim Hawkins well into ‘Treasure Island’?” This allusion puzzled her, as ought to have been expected, because she’d never read the book, or any other to my knowledge, being one of those who was sent to a good school but came out of the experience more ignorant than before they went in.
I was in an unusually jovial mood on getting out of bed, because a whole novel which had nothing to do with Michael’s was unravelling and reassembling in my head in a very satisfying fashion. Mabel rolled into the warm patch I had left, lying on her back like a Crusader’s lady in a rustic church. Looking at her fondly, I pulled the duvet off as a hint that she should get into the kitchen and make my coffee. When she showed no sign of doing my bidding I opened the curtains and let in daylight to encourage her, but it brought no change to her somnolent posture. My invective was always somewhat tame in the morning, and I said, in response to her murmur that she would like to lie in for another half hour: “You’re so lazy it’s a wonder you don’t have ingrowing fingernails.”
I felt proud of my restraint, human, you might say, not unmixed with some affection towards my darling for bringing it on, which reflection encouraged me to yank away the duvet, lift her flannel nightdress, and place a warm kiss on her resplendent left flank. “Now rise and shine, my lovely Aphrodite.”
I walked out to get my clothes off, and set the bath running to a third full and fairly hot. The steam gave a wholesome iron-like smell due to the ancient plumbing, an agreeably nostalgic odour from those distant days when I was a lad at boarding school.
I sent three plastic union-jack battleships afloat for company, a fleet of Dreadnoughts from Jacky Fisher’s navy. Lowering my body in for a scrub, the displacement set off miniature depth charges, sending the flotilla into rough water. One thing I liked in the morning was to give my head a thorough wash, since my troubles in life had come from that area, and I wanted it to look sparkling clean for the next awkward hand Fate would deal me. Usually I let the shower play there, but this time, thinking to give a treat to such a noble shape, I got on all fours and bent down till it was beneath the tap, in such a position that a forceful rush of warm water could wash away the soap. Finding the process restful—as who would not?—I closed my eyes, the sound blocking off the outside world so completely as to put me back into a somnolent phase.
Now, being tickled in the testicles as a mark of love and affection can be an extremely erotic experience to a man in a big fluffy bed where he may, by the blink of an eye, even invite such a tender caress from his mistress; but when it comes, as it did now, as an unwelcome intrusion and an outrageous shock, the reaction is apt to be catastrophic.
My darling Mabel, unable to foresee the consequences of her fey intention, thought she would return the tender kiss I had planted on her pale delicious flank, not out of malice, you understand, which I could well have seen the point of, but because she imagined such a sensual touch to be the one thing I deserved and required above all others, the utmost she could do to please me at the moment, something which would be vastly appreciated by one such as I. It was rather sad to believe, that after ten years of living together, she knew me not at all.
The upshot of her subtle touch was that the lower back part of my head jerked against the solid metal tap, a distance of a couple of inches or so, but at such speed as to produce the equivalent of a footpad’s bludgeon descending from behind on a dark night in Soho.
The edges of the tap were in no way blunt, but the oval metal hole for the water to rush through was hard enough. After my shout, followed by words which disgraced me for lack of subtlety, the water turned rapidly carmine, so close to crimson in fact that by the time I pulled away I looked as if standing in the water tank of a Roman suicide, blood so copiously pumping from the wound I had to flannel it from my eyes, to make her presence clear enough for the most heartfelt punch of my life into her lower jaw.
&
nbsp; By the time I had mopped my head with a bath towel, and could see halfway properly, it was too late, because she had sensibly run away. Resembling a vampire just back from a lavish breakfast in some remote Transylvanian village, I wrapped the soaking towel around me and followed her into the kitchen, where I intended putting her hand into the microwave.
She stood by the sink, hands locked together and thrust towards me, shedding tears as copiously as my injured head was welling out blood. “Oh, Gilbert! Oh, my darling! Oh, I’m so sorry! How was I to know? I felt playful and loving, and wanted to give you a thrill. Oh dear me! It’s the first time I’ve done anything like that. Oh, my dearest!”
“Next time,” I yelled, “just think beforehand, then try a dummy run on somebody else.” A blow can be given playfully in certain situations, but here was something which called for a serious application of brute force, and seeing as how I had just about recovered from the shock, yet was still to a certain extent under its influence (as who wouldn’t be?) I had time to reflect on, and wind up my strength for, a blow which, though it might not draw such a quantity of life-blood as continued to gush out of me, would certainly have sent her sprawling across the table in the living room.
To my everlasting regret the doorbell went loud and clear, and with an agility I had never seen in her before, she sprang away from her Nemesis to answer it.
The pain in my head was biting, and I prayed she would come back before I fainted, so that I could continue where I left off. The towel around my waist barely soaked up blood running down my shoulders and chest, so I took a couple of tea towels from the drawer to carry on swabbing.
Mabel said in her huffiest tone at the door: “You can’t come in. He isn’t dressed yet. Write a letter, and make an appointment. Oh no you don’t. Keep back!”
Considering the peril she was well aware of having in store, her remarks showed character of a high order, when to stop whoever was coming in would save her from immediate retribution. Perhaps she thought it best to get the pounding over with, and not have worse to look forward to when I would be feeling somewhat stronger. In the meantime I padded my bloody footprints across the living room to pour a large brandy.
Whoever it was must have pushed by her. A man with the longest arms I had ever seen stood in the doorway, six feet tall and well built, his smile of nonentity showing a row of crocodile teeth, one of which was missing. “Are you Mr Blood?”
I was quite sharp with him. “What the bally hell does it look like?”
He stepped forward so that Mabel, comprehending the situation more quickly than I was able to at that moment, took the clutch of red roses from his large hands before he thought to let them go willingly. “Sidney Blood,” he said with delight and surprise. “So I’m meeting the real Sidney Blood at last.”
“My dear chap,” I said, “you couldn’t have found him painted a more characteristic colour. It’s a red letter day for you. I was in the bathroom cutting up an income tax inspector, who came in during the night claiming a hundred thousand pounds arrears of tax. It was sad, really. He pleaded for his life, told me he had children to consider. As if I cared. Cut and thrust. I was demented. No mercy. Cut and slash.” I swigged off half my brandy. “You’re not from the tax office, are you? And if not, who might you be.”
“Kenny Dukes, sir, Mr Blood. I’ve read all your books. I read them over and over again. You’re a genius. I’ve wanted to meet you all my life.”
I turned to Mabel, feeling more human at a fan appearing so early in the day. “Get my dressing gown, and another bath towel for my head. I’ll deal with you later, you stupid playful bitch.”
Kenny Dukes smiled, presumably on hearing sentiments to be expected from Sidney Blood. “You’ve not only made my day, sir,” he said with his diabolical bottom dog lisp, “but a whole years of Sundays as well.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Mr Dukes. You’ve made a contribution to my day as well, so sit down and join me in a brandy.”
“Oh, sir, I couldn’t.”
“When I say sit down, Mr Dukes, you do so. I was a major in the army, and stood no nonsense from the other ranks. Don’t let the fact that I’m covered in blood put you off. I saw far more than this in the War.” I encouraged him further by giving him a half-pint glass of brandy, of which he immediately sent a good part down, his Adam’s apple wiggling as if a couple of amorous cockroaches within were going at it like billy-ho to keep the species on the march. When I asked what he did for a living—such information always useful for my books—he looked me solidly in the eye: “I’m a criminal, sir.”
I flaked half-dried blood from my fingernail, to hide my joy at his artless revelation. “And I’m a novelist, so that makes two of us.” I called into the kitchen for Mabel to bring us breakfast. “We’ll start with porridge.”
“Mine’s a proper trade, sir.”
“Is it, then?”
He emptied his glass. “I’ve been at it a long time.”
“I suppose you served an apprenticeship?”
His eyes, from a sort of phlegmy blue, came even more alive. “Oh yes, sir. I went to a lot of places, but I haven’t been inside for a long time.”
“Why is that?”
“I got good, didn’t I?”
“I assume you’ll have breakfast with me?”
“Oh yes, sir. It would be a privilege.”
“Good at what, though?”
“Nicking things. And GBH. I knock people about. Cut ’em up. I do it so quick they don’t know it happened because I’m a long way off before they feel the blood. Another thing is, if I get witnessed, Lord Moggerhanger puts his mouthpiece Arnold Killisick on the case. The beak loves me by the time Mr Killisick’s finished saying what a good lad I am, and that nobody as innocent as me should even be in the dock. Mr Killisick brings my mother up in a Rolls Royce to sob at the beak how I take her to church every Sunday. She tells him I sing like an angel in the choir, and serve tea to lads at the youth club to stop them turning into juvenile delinquents. By the time she’s finished I’m crying as well. And the beak don’t send me down, see?”
“It sounds as if you live in a criminals’ paradise.”
“I do, sir. In this country you can get away with anything. One of the beaks had been a social worker, and he let me right off. I didn’t even get fined. He gave the police a right bollocking.”
“As long as your mother stands by you.”
“Oh, she does. She’d do anything for a box of chocolates. Loves the ride through Streatham with all the neighbours looking on as she waves from the Rolls Royce like the Queen.”
His mention of Moggerhanger reminded me that three years ago the latter had asked me to ghost his autobiography, and paid a generous advance, but my stomach turned, yes, even mine, over the material that came to light. So I pulled out of the contract, much to his annoyance, and I still haven’t returned the money. I wondered whether this call by one of his henchmen wasn’t a ruse to extract it from me, though I couldn’t imagine it, because even he would be wary of getting on the wrong side of Sidney Blood. “You said your employer was Lord Moggerhanger?”
Kenny’s eyes gleamed. “I’ve been in his employ nearly twenty years, and I’ve never known a gaffer like him. He’s lavish. He looks after his own, he does. Treats me like a dog, but he’s a real gentleman. I’m not working today, though, so I’ve come to see you.”
“I’m happy you did, Mr Dukes, despite the awkward moment, with all this red paint over me.”
“You can’t kid me, sir. I can tell blood when I see it. Nobody better. It’s what I expected from Sidney Blood the great writer.”
It was like having a giant in the flat, and if he’d had one eye I’d have called him Polyphemus. “What would you like to know, then, Mr Dukes?”
“Not Mr Dukes.” His tone was close to that of a pansy simper. “You can call me Kenny, Mr Blood.”
“What about Kenneth?”
A big hand spread across each kneecap. “That wouldn’t be right, would it? My full name’s Kenilworth, and if the old man hadn’t been murdered already I’d have done him in myself for giving me a monicker like that.”
“All right, Kenny.” But Kenilworth as a name would meld well into my next Sidney Blood saga. I was invariably inspired on meeting one of the genuine lower orders. “And I’ll allow you to call me Sidney.” Wanting to keep the oaf tame, I contemplated turning him onto Mabel, to make up for the pain still banging around in my head.
“Thanks very much, sir—Sidney.”
I asked how he had found where I lived.
“Michael Cullen works for Lord Moggerhanger, don’t he, and he told me, or as good as did. He thinks I’m an ape who knows nothing, but he said you used the name Blaskin, so I looked it up in the phone book.”
“A brilliant bit of detective work.”
“Nar, it was fucking easy.”
Mabel busied herself setting the table, still too terrified to look at me. “Shall I change your towels. Gilbert dear?”
“Don’t use my middle name, you crazy moll. You know it’s Sidney.” For Kenilworth’s delectation I made as if to give her a bang across the head, which she easily avoided, as for once I hoped she would, while Kenny, at the prospect of violence, and especially to a woman, looked as happy as a baby with two rattles. “And don’t burn the scrambled eggs,” I told her. “As for changing my towels, you can do that a little later. The fact that my period hasn’t finished yet should be obvious to the meanest intelligence.”
He was unable to look at me too closely, understandable I suppose in someone who had never seen a genius before, his fried-egg eyes observing Mabel’s back as she went into the kitchen. I popped three aspirin with my brandy to quell the headache and, as is usual with extreme measures, the effect was beneficial. Or perhaps it was Kenilworth’s admiration that lifted my morale high enough for pain to float into insignificance—not to mention wafts of bacon and coffee from the kitchen.
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