by Bill James
But, God, on that very recent session, she had become so reproachful and heavy about a couple of shots at some fucking ancient beardie in the Blake. Yet, surely the point was, at the time when the poet and artist was doing all his works, including Tyger, Tyger, Loam’s ancestral family must have been around and already a considerable entity on account of the bulk tea? So nobody should expect Gordon Loam to show a kind of silly reverence for that illustration; some respect, possibly – and he’d admit it broke down momentarily during the salvo – yes, proper respect, but not quaking idolatry, for heaven’s sake. Ember’s Marriage Of Heaven And Hell wasn’t an original, was it – just a print? You could probably buy such copies by the hundredweight.
Anyone would think from Judy’s tut-tuttiness that he’d massacred half The Monty membership. OK, there was damage – though very treatable damage – to the William Blake print, print, fucking mere print, and ricochets causing glass splinters to zoom very briefly. But nobody was actually hit and hurt. Did anyone lose an eye or even a tooth? No. Did any woman member need to have Worcestershire sauce bottle shrapnel dug out of her tits under general anaesthetic? No, again.
Although some Worcestershire sauce got freed from the bottle, it smeared only one T-shirt and the surface of a pool table. It was not even in use at the time, so no players had been put off their strokes by the sudden arrival of sauce. This wasn’t the London blitz. And the Worcestershire sauce concerned was not some special, precious vintage from the cellar dating back decades. Ralph could simply order another bottle from the club’s supplier, as with the print, print, print. Enz had more or less at once promised to pay for any replacement Worcestershire sauce – possibly even a larger bottle than the one hit – and all repairs and cleaning.
Also, he would have met the cost for complete new pool-table baize if Ember considered that necessary, though he hadn’t said so. He would be too vain and snotty to accept compo. Most likely he came from a nothing family, yet he seemed to think arriviste ownership of a manor house, Low Pastures, and his moth-eaten club, transformed him into quality: Squire Ember; Milord Monty. Gordon Loam had done some research on Ralph’s genealogy and found only low-grade clerking and shopkeeping Embers. As far as Gordon Loam knew, Worcestershire sauce caused no actual chemical damage to baize, shrivelling it up, for instance, like acid flung on a face. There wouldn’t be much research data on this by pool table manufacturers. The staining might be unsightly, but would not prevent normal playing of a game. A slight stickiness would perhaps slow the balls until the sauce dried, but that could provide an interesting extra challenge when cueing. Despite the insignificant damage, Enz had said he’d gladly cough up for that total renewal.
Didn’t Timmins understand that the kind of playful, exuberant, jolly larkiness at the club was commonplace among high spirited – high octane – folk with notable backgrounds? Trashing of pubs or hotel rooms or restaurants – that sort of unfettered, merry carry-on – was more or less a rite of passage for some select people. They needed to show they were not cowed by rules and/or boring, restrictive conventions. These were for lesser folk. Enzyme thought of those roistering, classy, boon companions who would fling their excellent quality champagne flutes to shatter against the wall when they’d downed enough drink: the expensiveness of the glassware was vital; it made their point about freedom from customary, banal, penny-pinching cares. The damage and breakages, along with a wry apology, would be routinely seen to when the fine wine effects had worn off.
Enz regarded the assault on Blake and, inadvertently, the Worcestershire sauce bottle, as that type of uninhibited, impulsive, alcohol-aided, entirely excusable gambit. In a way, this brand of roughish behaviour linked the upper classes and the Marxists: both displayed a contempt for ownership of property, theirs and other people’s. Also, it linked races. Wasn’t Louis Armstrong, the great black jazz trumpeter, sent on a special correction course as a boy after he’d excitedly, harmlessly, fired a pistol into the air at New Year’s Eve celebrations? This festive trigger-happiness had been just his way of saying then, ‘What a wonderful world!’, a genial thought he would repeat in a song later, entirely without gunfire.
But someone like Timmins probably had too narrow and drab an upbringing to recognize that a bit of fun was only a bit of fun, not arrant destruction and chaos. It functioned beyond her paltry understanding. Hell, though, Enzyme wished the Harbingers still operated. True, they didn’t have much class about them, either, but if he’d gone to Amy H. for a replacement piece and ammo there’d be no insolent poking about into the recent past, no uncouth interrogation, no primness, no questioning his reliability merely on account of a naughty prank. The deal in the small back-room at their pub would have been swiftly completed and with a kindly smile from her as she counted the twenties – no fifties, because of forgery risks – and he checked the action of the gun and the number of rounds. He’d go back into the bar to finish his drink, the gun shoulder holstered, chamber full, the rest of the ammunition spread around his pockets. The parrot might croak a question: ‘All ship shape and Bristol fashion, my grand lad?’ There was nothing friendly and amusing like that at Silver Bells last time, only the trite teddy bear and Fern, an insulting loudmouth. The parrot would most likely come out ahead of Fern in a Mensa intelligence test.
But the Harbingers and the parrot were gone and would never resume: they’d be watched non-stop in future. Things for them could no longer be all shipshape and Bristol fashion. There’d be no more harbingering. This meant Timmins had a monopoly in the trade, and monopolies inevitably, and always, worked against public well-being. They could screw customers because customers had nowhere else to take their custom, like the old ‘Tommy Shops’, run by pit owners, where miners were forced to buy overpriced goods out of their poor pay. All right, Loam would admit his own family probably exercised a tea monopoly at one time. It would be foolish not to acknowledge this. Regrettably, that’s how business was and still was. Enz had a lot of self-awareness and could be unsparing in examining his own and his forebears’ lives.
But now it wasn’t a question of being fleeced by SBAC. Timmins wouldn’t sell to him, not at any price. Blockade. Ban. There might be other armourer firms in the city, but Gordon Loam didn’t know where, and he was afraid that, even if he did find an alternative to Timmins, he would run against the same sort of measly, yellow, scaredy-cat un-cooperativeness. It was as though they insisted their weapons should go to a good home, like someone selling puppies. He was not regarded as a good home because he shot Blake. That matter had become too well known and not helpful. These dealers were so fucking cagey. They fussed about their ‘reputation’! Crooks fussing about their reputation! They were all like Timmins, unable to appreciate a light-hearted joke.
So, Enz thought he’d go to talk with Ralph again at the club. He’d explain to Ember that when he handed over the .38 as an entirely meaningful gesture, that’s what it was, a gesture. It spoke of regret and of an assurance that he would never get unruly in the club again. The gesture had been graphically, emphatically, made in the handing over of the .38 during that little, dignified private ceremony. Gordon Loam’s ‘gifting’ of the pistol then did not need to be a permanent transfer, though. Once the offering had been made and accepted, the thing was done, the apology conveyed – conveyed once more. Ralph had no obligation to retain the gun indefinitely. He would surely know that if he returned the .38, Enz would never blast off at Blake with it again, or any successor to Blake. There might be one. Enz knew – in fact, everyone knew – Ralph Ember liked to show he had an education. Loved to. He had started a degree course at the university up the road from The Monty. But Enz had heard Ralph was forced to put that on hold mid-course for the present because he needed to give full attention to his several businesses, especially the sustained, heart-warming upsurge in Charlie use. After Blake, he might want to stick a different picture on the floating rampart at the club – a picture to demonstrate once more what a learned prat he was, such as Julius Caesar or Rudolf
Valentino.
Ralph would also know that if Enz began looking for paintings on his behalf to improve the image of The Monty, there might be some dangers, and it would be in his own and Enzyme’s interests for Enz to safeguard himself adequately. Possibly safeguard some paintings intended for Ralph adequately. So, could I have my gun back, please?
Did that argument stand up OK, he wondered. This was more courageous self-scrutiny. Yes, Enz could be tough on himself and his thinking, and his wife, Irene, could be tougher. He’d consult her. She was sharp-brained, for ever calm and practical, from what Enz considered only a lower-middle-class background with no big-time monopolists in her lineage, but confident and perky just the same. He would never go on at her about a total lack of breeding. That would be uncharitable and snobbish. No need for it at all. He’d find that kind of thing appallingly distasteful. She could not be blamed in the least for this patent deficiency. In his opinion, to a remarkable extent, she’d triumphed over it.
They’d met at evening cookery classes way back. She was thirty-three, dark-haired, slightly dreamy looking, but not in the least dreamy, just above mid-height, slim, quietly beautiful. Enzyme told her everything about his work and about everything else. When he had a problem, as he did now, he’d describe it to her in detail and listen intently to her advice. At times she’d make fun of what she called his ‘obsession’ with the grand, ‘char-blessed’ history of his forefathers and mothers. That term, ‘char-based’ – ‘char’ the army slang name for tea – showed she wanted to trivialize, make slightly comic, the success of Enzyme’s predecessors. It was a kind of retaliation. He did not resent it. He understood. She wanted equality, and he would not do or say anything to suggest this was impossible. He remembered her quoting some American woman writer to him who’d said dwelling too much on the past was ‘one of the most disastrous forms of unrequited love’. Slick. A lot of those bookish American women liked to sound-off.
But, as to love, Irene had married him, never mind his affection for old times, and she accepted without objection the dubious, unglittering, present-day way of life he had chosen for her and the children in place of that famed, epic tea-mongering. If Irene had been with him at The Monty before he shot the bulwark, she would have sensed something ridiculous was likely to happen and moved smartly to stop him. Irene had remarkable instincts. She knew the whole story of the incident, naturally, and considered he’d been showy, vulgar, and barmy, but nothing worse. She’d called him ‘a juvenile jerk’ when she first heard about it. Now, Enz wanted to know what she thought about attempting to reclaim the gun from Ralphy, and about the Peugeot driver. He’d described to Irene the whole nursery saga, including the cow Timmins’ foul, degenerate rejection.
It was late in the evening, the children asleep upstairs. A television culture programme was on the screen, sound switched off, and they had armchairs facing each other, she with a glass of Rioja, he a vodka and tonic. ‘You really consider the Peugeot dame was at Silver Bells for a piece – a woman, young, you say,’ Irene said, ‘but looking to buy an illegal firearm?’
Enzyme produced his two possible explanations: she was there on someone’s behalf, ‘muling’; or she was in some sort of dark, dangerous job and might need self-defence. He saw Irene didn’t think much of either. He hadn’t really expected her to: stand by for some lateral-fucking-thinking, as her kind of far-out ideas were called. But, he’d admit, sometimes they worked. Of course they did, or he wouldn’t be so eager to consult her.
‘How about: Peugeot lady followed you to the nursery?’ Irene said.
He’d suggested that to the woman, hadn’t he, but he played dismissive now. He wanted to see where this line took them. ‘Not possible,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Where would she have got behind my car?’
‘You told me you’d just been to The Monty to redeem yourself by donating the gun – rather like an old-time defeated general sadly, symbolically surrendering his sabre.’
She knew how to take the piss. She knew how to get a special sting through alliteration of those damn hissing, pissing, ‘s’ sounds. ‘So?’ he replied. God, he was helping her with them!
‘Couldn’t she have picked you up there?’
‘How would she know about The Monty? How would she know I’d be there?’
‘Maybe she didn’t know you’d be there. But she could know about the club, couldn’t she? It’s been publicized – the Blake farce in the “I Spy” column.’
‘I wouldn’t call it a farce.’
‘What would you call it?’
‘An unwise jape, maybe.’
‘It’s been publicized – the Blake unwise jape that turned to farce,’ she replied. ‘Let’s proceed. If she’s something to do with the art game here, she might like to have a look at The Monty. It’s a kind of landmark, prominent in the gossip column. More than prominent: central. And she gets lucky. You’re there, and you leave while she’s watching. This she immediately recognizes as super-important. She changes her objective – not Ralph and The Monty. You. She could have seen your picture in the newspaper. She’s an opportunist. She knows how to adapt fast to a new situation. You’re it, Bas.’
‘I’m sure there was no green Peugeot in the club car park.’ He noted the daft feebleness of this as he spoke it. But he mustn’t let her completely commandeer the talk. Say something, idiocy or not.
‘Of course there wasn’t a green Peugeot in the club car park. She’s cleverer than that. She’s not going to announce her presence. She was doing a bit of clandestine surveillance. She’d most probably be parked on the road. No green Peugeot in the car park, naturally, but try to remember, Bas, did you get a green Peugeot in your mirror on the trip to Silver Bells?’
He objected to that ‘try to remember’. He wasn’t senile, nor a dim kid. ‘But I wouldn’t be watching for a green Peugeot,’ he said.
‘I didn’t ask whether you’d be watching for it. I asked whether you’d seen it. Somewhere behind. Not immediately on your tail, but staying with you for the whole journey, possibly hidden for part of the time by intervening vehicles, like in TV cop dramas.’
‘But why do you say she’s in the art game?’ he replied.
‘Not as precise as that. I suggested she might be. It’s a guess.’
‘Based on what, though, Irene?’
‘You’re to do with art. Ember is apparently thinking about art for the club. These could be pointers, couldn’t they? She might be from one of those “facilitator” art firms, mightn’t she? Same as yourself. Have you seen her at auctions, in galleries?’
Had he? Did her question put the notion into his head that, yes, maybe he had seen someone like her? But he couldn’t have said when or where. And why had it taken Irene to bring the memory out from him? While Peugeot woman had actually been on view – in the nursery, or on the pavement afterwards – he hadn’t even for a moment thought he recognized her.
Irene said: ‘What does she look like? Is she striking, memorable?’
He felt he’d better be careful answering this. It might irritate Irene if he’d thought Peugeot woman striking, memorable. ‘I’d remember her, supposing she were memorable, wouldn’t I, Irene? She’s tall, hair somewhere between fair and brown, squarish face.’
‘Friendly?’
‘Not that I noticed.’
‘Lively? Animated? Vivacious?’
‘Which?’
‘Boobs?’
‘Probably.’
‘Age?’
‘About thirty, or late twenties.’
‘Which?’
‘Difficult.’
‘It’s important. Ask any woman.’
‘Can’t help.’
‘Ring? Rings?’
‘Couldn’t say.’
‘Accent?’
‘Not local.’
‘London?’
‘Not cockney.’
‘Refined? Educated?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Smart? Good clothes?
’
Pricey, low-slung jeans, blue shirt, hip-length navy jacket. Fairly striking. But he said: ‘I didn’t notice. I was more interested in the conversation, although, as we know, it turned out dud.’
‘Did she seem to know you? I mean, by sight?’ Irene asked.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘She’s thorough. She’s daring. To follow you into Silver Bells for a possible glimpse of what you were up to would need some boldness, some professional acumen. She could be a fieldworker, accustomed to go doggedly after what she needs to find out. When you spoke to her, did you get the feeling it wasn’t really the nursery that interested her? Did you suspect you might be her target? If I’m right, and she’s a real operator, she’d know by training and practice, not just TV, how to road-tail you undetected. Conceivably, she had a gun on her from the nursery when you intercepted her afterwards.’
Enz had heard Irene do this before – build a narrative, a plausible narrative, even where there was a bundle of uncertainties. And he saw a bundle here. Who was the woman? Had she learned of The Monty and the Blake stupidity? Did these interest her enough to make her determined to see the club? If so, why did they interest her? Had she been outside The Monty, watching it when he left? Did she follow him to the nursery and actually into the nursery? Did the conversation on the pavement show he believed she’d been after a gun? Did she, in fact, have a gun on her when they spoke?