Three Brothers

by Peter Ackroyd

  “I suspect,” Daniel replied, “that he hasn’t been there for some time.”

  “But she still picks up his social security.”

  “She tells them that he is too ill to collect it himself.”

  The next morning Mrs. Byrne returned by herself, with two large shopping bags and a suitcase. Slowly, and with great care, she packed all the food stored in the kitchen cupboard; she folded the sheets and towels, putting the plates and cups between them. There was nothing else that belonged to her.

  Sparkler came down to help her. “I’ll be all right,” she said. She seemed to him to be meek and uncomplaining, as if she had been expecting misfortune all along. “I’ll just be on my way,” she said. “I won’t keep you.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Byrne?”

  “Keep an eye out for Ruppta.”

  Sam was surprised and shocked when he arrived to collect the rent on the following morning. He stared at the charred front door of Mrs. Byrne’s flat, knocked, rattled the handle, and, realising that there was no one inside, hurried up the stairs to Sparkler. Daniel was still staying with Sparkler in the little flat. Alarmed by Sam’s knocking, he rushed into the bathroom and closed the door. He did not at first recognise Sam’s voice.

  “What’s going on?” Sam asked Sparkler. “What’s happened?”

  “Someone set fire to Mrs. Byrne’s door.”

  “Whoever could have done such a thing?”

  “I don’t know, Sam.” He turned and looked out of the window. “I have no idea. What do you think?”

  “She never paid all of her rent.”

  “You told me.”

  “I explained this to Mr. Ruppta. I explained that her husband was unemployed, and that she had three small children.”

  “There is no husband.”

  “What?”

  “He didn’t live there. But she’s still collecting his social security.”

  “Oh.” There was no expression in his voice.

  “Tell me this. It may be important. What did Ruppta say?”

  “He never said anything.”

  “Is it possible, Sam—”

  “That he wanted to scare them away? It is possible. Yes. And I will find out. I promise you.”

  Sam was now feeling uncomfortable in the small room; he was perspiring, clutching the notebook in which he kept account of the rents. “I can’t believe that he would do such a thing.”

  To Sparkler’s surprise he then crouched down on the floor, bent forward, and seemed to be attempting a handstand. “What are you doing, Sam?”

  “I am going to stand on my head. It clears my brain. It helps me to think.” This is what he proceeded to do. He managed to balance gracefully upon his head, his arms outstretched upon the carpet. After a minute he relaxed his stance and brought himself gently to the floor before standing up. “I know what to do now,” he said.

  Daniel was astonished. He recognised his younger brother’s voice when he said “I know what to do now.” He shrank away from the door.

  Julie Armitage had prepared a plate of small sandwiches for Sam’s return. “Spam or fish paste?” she asked him as soon as he came into the room.

  “A bit of both.”

  “Ooh.” She squealed in delight. “Cheeky.”

  He knocked quietly on the door and entered Asher Ruppta’s inner office. Ruppta was sitting in his chair, looking carefully at his hands. “Mrs. Byrne’s front door has been set on fire,” Sam said.

  “Is that so? That is very unfortunate. Was anyone hurt?”

  “No. But she left with the children straight after.” He stared at Ruppta. “I don’t know how it could have happened.”

  “Shall we call the police, Sam?”

  Sam remembered the absent husband. “I don’t think so. We need to find a new tenant.”

  “We should really call the police.”

  “They never do anything.”

  “But the police protect us, Sam.”

  “Too much trouble.”

  “Well, if you say so.”

  It seemed to Sam that his employer could not have instigated the arson. Why was he so eager to summon the police, if he had been the guilty party? No, there was another cause for the attack. He was reflecting on these things on his way to his mother’s house.

  She greeted him with a kiss, and then folded back the side of her hair with her hand. It was a gesture that he remembered from childhood. “And what have you been doing?” she asked him.

  “There was a fire in Britannia Street.”

  “When?”

  “A few nights ago.”

  “Bad?”

  “Not really. But one of the families left. They didn’t feel safe, I suppose.” Then he told her about Mrs. Byrne and the three children.

  “Poor cow,” she said. “I know what it’s like. What number?”

  “Twelve.”

  “But that’s where Sparkler—” She stopped, confused, and her face reddened.

  “How do you know Sparkler?”

  “Friend of a friend.”

  “Friend of whose friend?”

  “I know a man who knows him. Would you like a pot of tea?” She went out of the room for a moment. “Mary will bring you one. Do you think Mr. Ruppta is responsible for the fire?”

  “I hope not.”

  “He is a most unusual man. From what I have heard.”

  “What have you heard, Mum?”

  “Nothing in particular.” She seemed perplexed, almost worried. “Where is that tea?” She went out and came back with a full pot.

  When he returned to Camden that evening he found his father lying on his side upon the worn carpet. “Thank God you’re back,” he said, “I can hardly breathe.” His voice was high and quavering. “Someone crept up behind me and gave me a great thump. I can still see his shadow.”

  Sam telephoned for an ambulance. “Is it your heart, Dad?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Your mother—”

  They carried him on a stretcher into the ambulance, where they placed an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose; his forehead seemed to Sam to be suffused with a pale glow, or was it the brightness of the sweat against the skin? Philip Hanway looked up at the roof of the vehicle, his eyes flickering and darting as if he were deep in prayer. When they arrived at the hospital he was content to be lifted and handled, willingly giving up the burden of his body to others. He was no longer responsible for it.

  He was taken to intensive care, and then wheeled on a trolley to the operating theatre. Sam remained behind in the small ward, where a male nurse was smoothing the bed in which his father had been placed. “The ambulance came within ten minutes,” Sam said. “It was quick, considering the traffic.”

  “Oh they can drive, those boys. I’m surprised they never kill anybody. Still, it’s all in a good cause.”

  “What are they doing to Dad?”

  “I imagine that they are giving him an angiogram.”

  “Angelogram?”

  “They insert a small cardiac catheter in the vein of the leg. Just by the groin. They proceed along the vein, right up into the chambers of the heart, through the pericardium and the atrium, into the pulmonary veins and semi-lunar valve.” He recited this without much thought.

  Sam grimaced. “Will he be in pain?”

  “I am told that veins have no feeling.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of another patient, a very large man perched on what in comparison seemed to be a very small trolley. He was followed by a young man and woman who seemed more distraught than he was. “What is his name?” the male nurse asked them.

  “We call him Uncle,” the young lady replied.

  “We can’t do that in a hospital, can we?”

  “Benjamin. Rabbi Benjamin.”

  “Benjamin.” The nurse leaned over him. “Can you hear me, Benjamin.”

  “He was so full of life. So full of words. Then he fell over, and was silent. He is a gr
eat man. A holy man.”

  “Can you hear me, Benjamin?”

  “Let me be.” His voice was low and powerful.

  “I have to take some blood.”

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “You need to be tested.”

  “I need nothing. I need no one.”

  “That’s not strictly true, I’m afraid.” The nurse placed the syringe in his arm. “That’s good. That’s lovely. Nice and smooth.” He turned to the two young relatives, who were looking on anxiously. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to drink it.”

  When he had removed the syringe, and sealed it, he walked over to Sam. He whispered to him confidentially, in the high voice of Punch, “That’s the way to do it!” He went over to the relatives. “Does he have to pass water, do you think?” He approached the bed. “Do you need to spend a penny, Benjamin? Don’t fret. We’re used to it here. We would like you to use a bottle, Benjamin, if you can.” Once more he addressed the relatives. “A lot of patients can’t bring themselves to mention it. Not until it’s too late. So I always raise the subject myself.” There came a groan from the bed. “He’s probably not urgent, though, is he?”

  He left the ward with the syringe but returned a few minutes later and sat down beside Sam.

  “How did you end up here?” Sam asked him.

  “End up? That’s a way of putting it, I suppose. Better than a prison or asylum, where a man of my talents might end up. But I’ll tell you something. It’s a horrible place at night. They say that suffering brings you wisdom. Understanding. Patience. Pain is supposed to purify the soul. It’s all crap. Bollocks. I’m sick of hearing it. Suffering makes you weak. It makes you helpless. It leaves you at everyone’s mercy. People you could spit on come to pity you. I’ve seen it. You are sick. They are healthy. They don’t want to care for you. They want to triumph over you. Or they want something out of you. Gratitude. Love. A mention in the will.”

  “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

  “It’s not a very nice world.”

  A doctor came in, looked at Sam with a mild expression, and shook his head.

  The three brothers sat side by side in the chapel of the crematorium, looking straight ahead. “It’s been a long time,” Harry said. “You’ve put on weight, Sam. The way I see it is this. We can look back and weep, or we can look forward. When did you last see Dad, Daniel?”

  “Six years ago, I think.”

  “Precisely. The same with me. You only saw him, Sam, because you still live in the house. We weren’t a family any more.”

  They looked at the coffin as it slid slowly behind the curtain.

  Their father looked back at them. He had no regrets now.

  XI

  Easily led

  NOW THAT Hilda Nugent had gone, leaving a scrawled note about Southend, Harry Hanway began to see Guinevere more frequently. He moved out of Notting Hill Gate, considering it now to be a seedy area, and rented a small flat in Walpole Street, off the King’s Road and conveniently close to the Flaxman mansion in Cheyne Walk.

  He met Sir Martin, quite by chance, at the corner of Tite Street. “Hanway!” Flaxman yelled. He was wearing a dark overcoat and a black trilby, with a pair of brightly polished black shoes.

  Harry was startled. He had been thinking of an appropriate present for Guinevere’s twenty-fifth birthday, and had not come to a satisfactory conclusion. And there was her father waving and shouting at him from the other side of the street. Harry walked over to him. “I’m delighted to see you, sir.”

  “So you want to fuck my daughter, do you?”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

  “How would you put it? Shag? Penetrate? Deflower? Or none of the above?”

  Harry tried to laugh. “I’m very fond of Guinevere.”

  “Ditto.”

  “I respect her.”

  “Well, don’t go near her cunt then.” Sir Martin put his arm around Harry’s shoulders. “You know she’s a virgin, don’t you?” Harry made no response. “And I insist that she remains that way until the day of her wedding. She isn’t one of these London slags. Do you have a J. Arthur when you think about her?”

  “Sorry?” He knew what Flaxman meant, but he wanted him to spell it out.

  “J. Arthur Rank. Wank.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “I bet you don’t think about her at all.” Harry really did not know how to respond to this. “Come and walk with me back to the house. I like you well enough, Harry. You’re a decent boy. And a good hack.” He clasped his arm with a very strong grip. “I want you to do a favour for me. I want you to stick it to Pincher Solomon.” Solomon was the owner of a string of betting shops in South London; he was known as “Pincher” because of his unorthodox ways of doing business. “I happen to know that he is defrauding the Revenue. I just can’t prove it.”

  “So what—”

  “Investigate him. Make him nervous. Get one of your financial people to drop a few hints.”

  Harry knew that Sir Martin was bidding for a franchise in racecourse gambling. Pincher Solomon was obviously a competitor, and Sir Martin was willing to employ the resources of the Chronicle to blackmail or intimidate him. It would not have occurred to Harry to refuse his proprietor’s request. It was his newspaper, after all. So now as deputy editor, without consulting the editor, he began a dossier on Pincher Solomon and asked one of the financial journalists to consult the records of Solomon at Companies House.

  He met Guinevere now two or three evenings each week; they walked by the Thames in the direction of Lambeth, and ate in an Italian or Indian restaurant at the upper end of the King’s Road. “Your father has told me to be careful with you.”

  “That’s very good advice. For once.”

  “Am I allowed to kiss you?”

  “On the cheek. When we meet or part.”

  “Can I hold your hand?”

  “That is going too far.”

  So they talked of other things. “Why is English life so unbearable?” she asked him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “One of my clients is dying in agony because she can’t get the right cancer treatment. And there’s my mother going on about pearl necklaces. It’s all so wrong. So—”

  “Unfair?” In his childhood Harry had been surrounded by poor people, just a step away from destitution, and he had felt no pity for them.

  “Worse than unfair. It’s evil.”

  “Have you told your father that?”

  “He just smiles at me.”

  “He’s good at that.”

  “You know,” she said to him on another evening as they sat in the Italian restaurant, “there are a lot of prostitutes in Limehouse.”

  “Oh really?”

  “All they drink is tea.”

  Harry shifted in his seat. “Extraordinary.”

  “Some of them go round to one of the flats in Britannia Street.”

  “To a customer?”

  “No. A friend. They call him Sparkler. I think he’s queer. Sorry. Homosexual. Sparkler has lots of stories.”

  “I bet.”

  “That reminds me. Do you remember Mrs. Byrne?”

  “The one with the three children.”

  “Sparkler told me that she had been scared out of her flat. Someone set fire to the front door.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s what he wants to find out. He knows the neighbourhood very well. He suspects the landlord—”

  “Asher Ruppta. I remember him.”

  “But it could just be a street gang.” She had been picking at a seafood pizza. “Who can tell? Who can know?” He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “That’s not allowed. We are not meeting or parting.”

  “I’m a very lucky person. Having you.”

  “What do you mean—having me?”

  “I mean, well—”

  She really did not want her question to be answered. “There’s no such thing as luck. I don’t believe t
here is, anyway.”

  “You make your own?”

  “Well, put it this way. You are charming.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are confident. Yes. I think you have made your own luck. I don’t know what drives you forward. Ambition, I suppose. I accept that.”

  “I am ambitious for both of us, Guinevere. I love you.”

  “I don’t think you actually love me. I think you love the idea of me. I am the heiress. I am the only child.”

  “Of course. Everyone knows that. But I’m the best person to guide you. You said that I was ambitious. But I am also realistic, Guinevere. Maybe that’s why your father introduced us.”

  Guinevere took him to a concert at the Albert Hall in the following week. “They say,” she told him, “that music soothes the savage breast.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Wait and see.”

  “I feel sorry,” Harry said as they left the building after the performance, “for those musicians.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Once they wanted to stand out. I bet every single one of them wanted to be a famous violinist. Or whistler.”

  “Flautist.”

  “They all expected to be the best. What is the word?”

  “Virtuoso.”

  “Exactly. They wanted to excel. But they ended up as part of a crowd. They must feel depressed when they wake up in the morning.”

  “I’m sure they enjoy making music together.”

  “You don’t understand the world.”

  “I want a bit that’s rare,” Sir Martin Flaxman said to his butler, staring at a haunch of cold roast beef. “As if it’s just been carved from the cow. Speaking of which, where is your mother?”

  “She has a headache.” Guinevere was sitting opposite him at the dining-room table.

  “Headache? That’s a woman’s way of saying fuck you. Isn’t that right, Harry?”

  Harry was sitting beside Guinevere. “I wouldn’t really know.”

  “Is that so? Hark the vestal virgin sing. Are you keeping your promise to me?”

  “Of course.”

  “What promise?” Guinevere asked her father.

  “None of your business.”