David Garston snored in the silence, then Emlyn laughed.
‘I am nearly done,’ Amos said. ‘And what is left?’ He glanced at the man who had played Ridetski. ‘The first death. The unknown death. Andrei Ridetski.’ A gasping sigh from Idwal Morton. ‘Polish Airman, petty thief, photographer, greedy blackmailer – a death from which all else follows.’
I saw MT nod his head decisively. The sweat was beaded on Idwal’s dome.
‘In October 1942, the depths of the war,’ Amos resumed, once again addressing himself to me, ‘Emlyn came home for a weekend’s leave. Marshall Edmunds was on his way to the Middle East. Emlyn returned to find his father richer than of late, but a victim now of an extortioner who had to be eliminated.’ Amos brought his fist down on the table. The lanterns shuddered. ‘Good God, did you all think the damn war was going to go on forever? We must assume that Emlyn overheard snatches of conversation between his father and MT. He was convinced that they would botch it – as they had botched most things in their lives. So he intervened. Here in this foul place then cluttered with illicit merchandise. Twenty four hours later he was on a raid into Germany.’
‘Strike the gong,’ Emlyn murmured.
‘As you heard tonight, it was Mr MT Edmunds who discovered the body and cleaned up the mess.’ Suddenly he swung his baleful stare from me to Emlyn. ‘Here,’ he said, tapping the back of his neck, ‘there is a trigger point, is there not? The noose is purely to occupy the victim’s hands?’
‘If you say so, oh wise one,’ Emlyn replied genially, ‘but you’re still very thin on proof.’
Amos puffed out his cheeks. ‘Proved by silence here and now, wouldn’t you say? Proved by a button or two?’ He fumbled in his pockets and tossed two buttons in the air. They fell together on the table. One of them spun off on to the floor. No one went after it. ‘Tap the wall in the lift shaft as you ascend. Examine the panelling on the cavity wall. You will find loose boarding. Thrust your hand through and you will discover, among other items, more buttons. Where MT concealed the body. From the beginning you see, there was only one question – where is Ridetski?’
MT looked up. His face was blotched and tear stained. The lift was on the move again. David Garston snored. ‘Can this be Garston senior, at last?’ Amos enquired as it came up.
But it was Marshall Trevor Edmunds who struggled through the narrow doorway into the room.
XVII
‘Shit!’ Emlyn said with a laugh. He went over to the lift and there were whispers between them. Mash with his hand on Emlyn’s shoulder. Emlyn clutching at Mash’s sweater. Then Emlyn led Mash into the light, as if guiding a blind man. ‘Come and join the party,’ he said, ‘although you’ve missed some very good stories.’ They stood side by side, Mash towering above Emlyn; the boys caught in the act and all set to bluff it out. Emlyn elbowed Mash and Mash grinned slackly. ‘It is suggested that we’ve buggered the job up,’ he said.
I was nine. In the backyard of number 21 Liverpool Street, high stone walls on two sides, the green door taking up most of the third wall. A sun trap, and it was a hot day, heat coming up at me from the rough blocks of slate that covered the floor of the yard. There was a narrow flower bed where my mother had planted a climbing rose, tiny red blooms that now covered one wall. I was working on a raft – attempting to lash two empty oil drums to planks of wood found on the shore, and not having much success, on my knees there, sweating, the air heavy with the smell of roses. Then the green door was kicked open and Mash came into the yard, the snakes writhing in his hands. ‘This one’s bit me twice!’ he said. Bramble scratches on his bare legs. And there was a great, roaring shout as my father came bounding out of the house. Then the snakes were on the hot, grey slates, and my father’s heel, steel protector flashing, came down on one tiny, darting head, then on the other. Blood on the slates. My father swearing as he bundled Mash into the house. Broken serpents, tails thrashing, at which I stared horror-struck. Then Emlyn appeared in the doorway, grey shorts and a blue shirt, and smiling of course, smiling. ‘Well – what d’you think of that, Philip?’ Spotless grey shorts, neat blue shirt, and smiling, smiling... Pick them snakes up, Mash boy. Go on – pick ’em up. The picture complete.
‘The case is proved,’ the old man said.
Mash wasn’t looking at anybody, his lips moving soundlessly.
‘You’ll know everybody won’t you Mash?’ Emlyn doing the introductions. ‘Our fathers. Old Philip. Say hello to Philip.’ Mash’s lips moving as if he was saying something to himself. ‘And that was Mr Amos Ellyott who spoke just then.’ Say hello to him as well.’ Emlyn gave Amos a quick, stiff bow. ‘And that’s Davy Garston having a kip. And that’s Mr Mystery, a wide boy if ever I saw one.’
‘Donald Thompson,’ the stranger said. He brought one hand on to the table. It held a flat, black automatic.
‘Mash!’ One word of command from Emlyn and Mash lunged forward and there was a great shout from Thompson as his chair tipped over backwards. The lamp at the end of the table was rocking. Mash had the gun in his hand.
‘Drop it in my pocket,’ Emlyn said. Thompson, out of breath, scrambled back on to his chair. ‘My God, all this excitement’s got my sinuses going.’ Emlyn tapped his pocket. ‘Good boy, Mash. Mr Donald Thompson doesn’t look like a policeman to me, Mr Ellyott. Though they take all sorts nowadays, don’t they?’
‘Nobody took a gun off me before,’ Thompson gasped. ‘Not from the front...’
Emlyn sniffed. ‘Destroys your sinuses the smell of gun oil. Mind you, Mash, old Philip may also have been issued with firearms – but old Philip isn’t the type to flash it around, is he?’
‘Emlyn!’ A groan of despair from Idwal Morton.
‘Sorry, father.’ And Mash standing there, a protector ready to obey. Oh Christ, it was a world of strangers. Mash’s lips moving. A poem to say like a prayer. A private poem that could mean different things to different people. My tongue was stiff and dry in my mouth.
‘Emlyn – in the name of God!’ Idwal Morton’s face filmed with sweat. He was clutching at the edge of the table, the bone of knuckle white and shining.
‘We’re upsetting people, Mash. Time to dive out.’ Emlyn smiled at Amos. ‘The story finished? I take it you haven’t got powers of arrest?’
‘There is nowhere for you to go, Emlyn.’
‘The Inspector on the right track at last? Haven’t you led that man a dance! And him such an incompetent old fart, too! Close, is he? The cavalry on its way?’
‘Nowhere for you to go,’ Amos said again.
‘Me and my big pal here? Nowhere to go? Nobody’s got anywhere to go – that’s the point, old boy!’ He grinned at me and drew closer, standing behind Idwal. ‘Whole fucking thing got out of hand, my old friend eh? Anyway – did I tell you I’ve got an audition with that band, Philip?’
I didn’t answer him. Couldn’t answer him.
Emlyn with a hurt expression on his face. Oh, God. I forced myself to look away. ‘To the stairs, Mash boy,’ he said. ‘Get away time. Must be years since we climbed down from here in the dark.’ That old, rust-bitten fire escape. Mash shambled over to the stairs. ‘Time to say goodbye to the boys, Philip.’
Little Emlyn. He’d always had the ability to make you feel you had betrayed him. Even now.
‘Ah, well. With apologies all round.’ He touched Idwal’s shoulder, and Idwal winced. He went running to the foot of the stairs and two of them, pushing each other and laughing, went scrambling up. We heard the door slam shut. Then MT was on his feet, bawling out a long, anguished protest, and Idwal Morton slumped forward on the table.
Inspector Marks came up the lift. It was a long time before he had sufficient men to batter down the door at the head of the stairs. ‘Nobody up here,’ someone called down. ‘No signs sir.’ The policemen came out of the lift, all of them strangers. Everywher
e strangers. I helped to lift Idwal Morton on to a stretcher. An ebb and flow of men in the room. Lanterns everywhere. George Garston had made it at last. He was kneeling at David’s side.
‘We had to betray them by silence,’ MT said. He was still sitting at the table. ‘We realised it was what you intended for us to do, Mr Ellyott.’ He should have spat in the old man’s face, I thought. ‘We never planned to kill anybody. Emlyn got it wrong.’
Inspector Marks had islands of red in his face and he was all belligerence. ‘I’ll have you know this man,’ he cried, finger stabbing at Amos, ‘is an imposter! He is not the great criminologist! Oh, no – he is only a distant cousin of the man!’ He choked on the words. ‘He is a writer of fiction, nothing more – for the blood and gore magazines, and story books for boys!’
No one took any notice of him, least of all Amos Ellyott. ‘My last problem was who found Ridetski; who concealed his body,’ he said to MT. ‘And it was you alone, and you kept the secret.’
MT Edmunds stood to attention. ‘It was my duty,’ he said in a ringing voice. ‘They were fighting for their country.’ MT by name but not by nature. He shook hands first with me, then with Amos’s bodyguard, then with the old man. He had always been a great hand shaker, and now he looked around wondering if he had missed anyone out, but nobody else seemed to want to take him on. With Stubbs at his side he marched out of the room to the top floor of the Market Hall, now lantern lit, arms swinging.
‘You are an impostor, Mr Ellyott!’ Inspector Marks resumed his attack. ‘We have lost them because of your bloody interference!’
‘Try not to be an idiot all the time, Marks,’ Amos said. ‘It was beyond your reasoning. My case from the start.’
Marks pawed at his face, shaking with anger. ‘You held an unauthorised tribunal. An offence...’
‘Say nothing, dear fellow,’ Amos replied blandly. ‘Say nothing. You’ll be a Superintendent in six months.’
The Inspector went pounding to the stairs. Not for any special purpose, I felt – simply to get away from Amos. Thompson looked admiringly at Amos, ‘I used to drive for Mr Ellyott you know, marvellous man.’
The policemen milled past us, most of them going up on to the roof. Amos gave out a long, shuddering sigh.
‘What can they hope to find there? Oh, God, I am past weariness. Such an amusing boy – but flawed, I fear.’ He lit a cigarette and shocked me by offering me one. ‘I had to move the young lady and her family from their home, you know. Under great protest, naturally. But there was no other way. Emlyn called there not long after they had gone. And of course I had to keep him away from you.’ He sighed again. ‘You know, he was most co-operative, most concerned for my welfare – Philip – you knew, didn’t you? You’d worked it out. Was it too unthinkable?’
George Garston went past the table, propping up David, who had a scarecrow grin on his face. ‘I will say good night to you, then,’ he said. ‘What a terrible business, isn’t it?’ Amos ignored him.
‘Poor Mrs Edmunds. Such false assumptions. Seeing a wheelbarrow, spades and cement at the Tower, she drew a false conclusion.’
Inspector Marks came stamping back. ‘Do you intend to stay the night?’ he roared at us. ‘I want you all in the station. Now!’
Amos talked all the way along the top floor of the Market Hall, down the stairs. ‘George Garston – the lesson in survival. Do nothing. Leave well alone.’
Outside my father’s shop he gripped my arm. I shrugged him off. ‘I was about to explain,’ he said testily, ‘that the young lady was a long, long time telling me what had caused him to leave the cinema so early. Yet another false assumption, Philip. You see – some chocolate she had in her handbag had melted, and as she offered a piece to Emlyn it fell in his lap – and she reached for it. And he was away instantly, obviously taking it to be a sexual advance! She was honest enough to admit that it could have been taken as such.’ The fog was solid, packed tight at the gate of the Hall. ‘He occupied Marshall. There is no other word for it.’
‘Why don’t you shut the fuck up?’ I said and Thompson went tut, tut.
Amos carried on. ‘And when Marshall had him by the throat he knew everything about himself.’ Not then, I wanted to say. A hell of a long time before. A boy with vipers in his hands. But I couldn’t tell anybody, least of all Amos Ellyott, something that had hidden itself in my memory.
We walked out into the fog. A smell of burning in the streets. The sirens in the estuary called to one another like beasts out of ancient time. ‘Where would they head for, Philip?’ The nagging old voice in my ear.
The fog would be especially thick on the dune. ‘You know as well as I do,’ I told him. There. To play at sailors.
Not until first light were they found. Emlyn was face down on the black mud. His neck was broken. Mash was asleep in the Ariadne’s cabin. Summer’s face now clouded and dark.
XVIII
When it was all over, everything said, judgements passed, I went down to the Ariadne on a late spring day with a can of paraffin and set light to her. With Mash away in a place that would, I hoped, have a rhythm to its day not unlike that of the army’s, the boat was mine, and only fire seemed right for her. Ceri, also home for the weekend, joined me on the dune; stood silent at my side to watch. It was no go for us. Now we could only meet to mess about, kid each other, although I wanted it to be otherwise, guessed she might too.
A hesitant fire at first, but once it had hold the Ariadne blazed there on the mud, dissolved before our eyes in great tongues of flame, her timbers exploding. Out of the town the children came running – Robert Owen, Sian Thomas, Captain X among them – and they danced around her for a while, then crowded close to us, turning now and then to me as if an explanation were due for so loud, so violent a burning. Laura and Will Wilkins had also arrived, as had Amos Ellyott, but he stayed to one side, the man apart, sensing more ambiguities, I was certain, in this final, boyish act. I doubted if he would be thinking, as I was, of the day of MT’s sports day, when the children were like skaters on that sodden track, and Emlyn and Mash out with the towels, and the shrieks, and the legs flying, and the laughter, and the searches in the long grass for the ones who had got lost.
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The Old Surgery
Napier Street
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This ebook edition first published in 2012.
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© Mari Stead Jones
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Say Goodbye to the Boys Page 19