Devil Take the Hindmost

by Martin Cathcart Froden

  ‘I was going to cycle,’ he says. ‘Now I can’t cycle, and I would rather not walk. All I want to do is to sit down.’

  ‘I don’t think you should be walking anywhere,’ she says.

  ‘I don’t want to but I have to,’ he replies, trying to bend his knees.

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ she says, and puts her hat back on. Before she was just beautiful. Now she is more than beautiful. Then she smiles at him and says, ‘My name is Miriam. What’s yours?’

  ‘Paul MacAllister. Nice to meet you.’ His hands are still trembling, but he lifts one up for her to shake.

  She takes his hand in his. Her skin is warm and dry. The opposite of his. She holds on a split second longer than she needs to he thinks. Maybe.

  ‘Thanks for taking pity on me,’ he says, and folds his hands in his lap. Interlaced as though he was in church. Can’t stop thinking about the sparkles of mica in her eyes. Crushed gravel on moss.

  ‘Nonsense. It’s what any normal person would do,’ she says.

  ‘Well in that case, you’re the only normal person on this bridge,’ he laughs.

  ‘Where are you going? Or where were you going?’ she says.

  ‘I was just trying to calm the horse,’ he says, panting.

  Miriam looks up and down the bridge.

  ‘I’m from a farm, I know my way around horses,’ Paul says.

  ‘I can tell you’re from out of town. Not sure about your way with horses,’ she says smiling. She looks out over the water. Over the morass of streets and lanes. She turns back to him.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ hanging his head a little.

  ‘Anyway, I meant where were you going, before the accident?’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Paul says. ‘I was going to Elephant and Castle.’

  ‘You’re in luck. So am I.’

  ‘There’s a place called the Carousel there. Know it?’

  She shakes her head. ‘If you’re going to the Elephant, we can easily catch a tram, it’s the least I can do. One should come along any minute.’

  ‘But my bike, I can’t leave it here,’ he says, looking across the road.

  ‘You shouldn’t be on it,’ she says. ‘If you start walking over to the stop I’ll see to it.’

  He limps over to the queue of people. Stands with his forehead against the cool bridge railing. The world is spinning, his leg is dripping with blood, and he has to concentrate very hard on not being sick.

  He turns around, leaning against the railing. The woman, Miriam, flags down a man on a delivery cart. She points to the bike about a hundred yards away. Tells him to load the bike onto the cart, and to take it to the pub called the Ram’s Head on Heygate Street. Paul hears her instruct the man to leave the bike with Isaac Holben, the landlord, the man with three fingers on his left-hand. He’s not to give it to anyone else. Paul stares in wonder. Miriam seems used to getting her way. Through his pain and nausea he smiles. He’s glad she seems to be on his side.

  The man on the cart starts to protest, but she hushes him and pulls out a purse, giving him what looks like two days’ wages. Then she leans close and mentions a name Paul can’t quite catch.

  On hearing this, the man promptly hands back the money, jumps down from the cart and sprints over to the bike. He loads it and sets off. Lifts his hat and smiles a drawn smile. Miriam has been standing stock-still, arms akimbo, her brow knitted. Now she bows a little, flashes her teeth, possibly the tip of her tongue, and walks over to Paul. He smiles and tries to raise a hand to thank her, but he’s still focusing on not vomiting.

  ‘Paul, Paul,’ she shouts for him. To bring him back from where his brain, rung like a church bell, has taken him. ‘That’s our tram coming now.’ In the distance, emerging from the crowds of the north, he sees a double-decker tram, painted bright red and blue, advertising Yorkston Pies. ‘Come on.’ He hobbles over to the end of the queue, mouth set in a grimace. The wound is not too painful, but it’s raw, and his jacket brushing up against the exposed flesh is a very unpleasant feeling.

  The conductor, taking Paul’s fare, says, ‘So, one for The Elephant – the Piccadilly of South London? Return?’

  ‘Yes. No. Does it matter?’ says Paul.

  ‘I’d take the return if I was you. If you have somewhere nicer to return to. You’re looking pretty beat up, but it’s even rougher out there.’

  The woman now sitting across from him smiles and tells Paul the conductor is just joking. Then she notices his leg and gasps, puts a hand up to cover her mouth, ‘Paul! You should have said.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he replies, smiling as much as he can.

  ‘You need that looked at!’

  ‘I’m late for something.’

  ‘Something or someone?’

  ‘Someone,’ he says, shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘A woman?’ She arches both eyebrows. Leans forward.

  ‘No. A man, two men. Business, you know.’

  ‘Well if it was a woman I would have let you go. She could have taken care of you. And one should never be late for a woman.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he smiles.

  ‘That’s good. I like that in a man. One who admits he doesn’t know.’

  He smiles, finds it hard not to. It’s like there are fishing lines attached to the sides of his lips, and someone above is pulling at them. She quickly looks up and down the tram, doesn’t nod to anyone. Then her eyes return to him, and hold his until he has to blink.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says. Then the lurching tram makes him feel queasy again.

  Holding a hand to his mouth he whispers, ‘I’m sorry. I’m not feeling too well.’

  ‘I can see that. You’re almost green.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Paul, you can’t go to your meeting looking like that. Your leg looks like raw mince. We’re getting off one stop earlier. I’ll patch you up. Then you can go.’

  ‘I’m not sure…’

  ‘I’ll tell you what. Pretend I’m an army nurse or something, and that this is an order.’

  ‘Fine. I surrender,’ he says.

  She sits back in her seat, looks out through the window behind him. Then she starts rummaging in her bag.

  ‘Here, have this Walnut Whip,’ she says. ‘It’s good for your colour, they say.’

  Through his pain he looks at her as much as he thinks is polite.

  After a short while she pulls the cord and helps him off the tram. Takes him upstairs to a small, but not tiny, apartment. She apologises for the mess. He can’t see a mess. She sits him down on a high stool in the kitchen and goes to the bathroom, returning with several strongly smelling liquids which she pours over his leg. He winces and wriggles a little, and she calls him a brave boy. He can’t tell if she’s joking or not. She stands in front of him, looking him over, appraising her work. Then she walks off into another room, returning with a pair of men’s trousers she insists he puts on. He tries to protest but it’s useless. She’s half spun sugar, half pickaxe.

  ‘Do you want a glass of water?’ she asks once he tells her the coast is clear.

  ‘No. Do you?’ he answers.

  ‘Do you want anything else?’ she says.

  ‘A cup of tea?’

  ‘Gin?’ she offers, with one eyebrow raised, leaning against the sink.

  ‘No thanks. Anyway, I thought you were in the army?’

  ‘Be quiet. Can you walk?’

  He stands up and limps a little, then over the course of three or four steps he softens and then walks almost normally. ‘Yes,’ he smiles.

  ‘Good. Well, let’s get the blood circulating. Please could you get me a glass from the cupboard in the hall? One of the nice, crystal ones. I’ll put the kettle on in the meantime.’

  Once he comes limping back she pours a deep measure into the glass, then quickly drinks most of it in one go. He whistles softly and she smiles. When he turns back from dealing with the kettle she has refilled her glass.

  ‘I don’t usually do this kind of
thing, taking stray dogs like yourself home with me,’ she says.

  ‘Me neither. I never have accidents,’ he smiles, shamedfaced.

  ‘It’s just…’

  ‘I’m quite good with traffic. It’s sort of my job. If I had been on a bike it wouldn’t have happened I’m sure. Well, I wouldn’t have stopped to deal with the horse anyway.’

  ‘It’s just, my brother…’ she says, and suddenly she turns pale and he thinks she’s about to fall.

  He says, ‘How are you feeling? Sit down. Is it the blood?’ he asks, now half standing up.

  ‘I’m fine with blood. It’s just before I came to London… never mind. You have a peculiar way of speaking. Are you Glaswegian?’ she says gingerly turning her glass in her hands.

  ‘Not too far from it,’ he says, suddenly aware of his accent.

  She put her glass down on the table, and says, ‘I’ve known a few. I might sound like a Londoner but I’m not from here. It’s a long time ago.’ She looks down at her hands gripping the edge of the table, then she sits down, smoothing her skirt. As if on cue, he sits too, grunting as the knee bends.

  She continues, ‘Up there, in Birmingham where we were living, the horses are huge. He was only five, I was seven. It was just the two of us, out doing something, stealing food probably, and he was knocked over by a cart.’

  Her hands are fidgeting from the glass to the tablecloth and back. Again and again. Then she gulps down the full glass of gin. ‘Unlike you, he didn’t make it,’ she says, holding her empty glass high. ‘He died. Right there in the street. And no one noticed,’ she says, her voice flat.

  The room is silent. To him it feels like the whole town is all of a sudden deserted. It’s a very strange feeling in London. Then one by one little sounds come back. The tram, a horse, a woman shouting about the evening news, a child crying.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. It’s the only thing he can think of.

  ‘It’s a long time ago. My brother was a child. I was a child.’

  Paul is quiet. Looks into her green eyes.

  ‘No one knows. I don’t know why I’m telling you,’ she says.

  He looks around the room, then his eyes settle on a small pile of napkins, folded on a sideboard. ‘Here, take this, you’re crying,’ he says, handing her one.

  She starts to dab her eyes, and then unfolds the napkin and buries her face in it. Her shoulders shake. The sobs tear at her body. He feels utterly useless. Then she looks up, smiles a sad smile and says, ‘It’s been a long time since that too.’

  ‘Can I help you? In any way?’ he says.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I owe you that.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, it’s just a bit of bandage,’ she says. Then they both lapse into silence. Her eyes are still wet, still very green. He’s not sure where to look. The kitchen feels too small and too big at the same time. Eventually he says, ‘I should go.’

  ‘You should,’ she answers quickly.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ he says, looking at the glass she’s still holding high.

  ‘It’s my house isn’t it?’ she says with glassy eyes.

  He watches her cry a little while. She doesn’t seem to mind. He watches her drink, watches the green specks of colour in her eyes. Then she tells him it’s time to go. And he does. Leaves his cup of tea steaming on the sideboard.

  Once he’s out in the street again he looks up and down the tram tracks to see where the next stop is. After walking two blocks, still in pain, but not as bad as before, he asks a man about the Carousel. The man, with raised eyebrows and a very obvious up-down-up look, says, ‘Turn left up there, then left again. Got that?’

  Chapter 9

  ‘Where in God’s name have you been Paul?’ I say, shaking with anger.

  ‘I was held up,’ he says, shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘It’s almost twelve. Are you crazy? We said ten.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I had a puncture. And then I had an accident.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I say and try to spit but can’t, as my mouth is as dry as sand. ‘You can be late for Mr Morton, once. Only once.’

  ‘I didn’t realise…’

  ‘You must be the luckiest Scot in England. He’s been in a meeting with one of his lawyers all morning, and he’s still expecting us. Let’s go and when we get there be so quiet he doesn’t even hear you breathe. Pretend you’re a ghost. A dead ghost.’

  ‘That doesn’t even make sense.’

  ‘Shut your mouth. Just let me do the talking.’

  Two men, both taller than Paul’s not insignificant six feet and three inches, come outside and look us over. There’s a stage with baby blue velvet drapes, a bar the length of a rugby pitch, and chandeliers wider than buses. Bartenders loiter in white shirts, silver arm garters and matching baby blue double breasted waistcoats with dull silver buttons. Polish glasses with the proud, dismissive smiles of their profession. As there are no tables or chairs the space feels empty. I tell Paul that Mr Morton reasons he can fit in more drinkers if they stand rather than sit.

  We follow the impatient security man in front of us through a door and come to an equally large room. This one is carpeted apart from a large hexagon in the middle of the room which is sprinkled with fresh sawdust. There are ten or twelve clusters of comfortable seats with emblazoned antimacassars, all with views of the hexagon. Next to the seats are small tables with kerosene lamps and pedestal ashtrays. There’s a smell of naphthalene balls and spilled whisky. Old cigar and pomade. We walk single file along an aisle of floorboards painted white and red, like a bleeding zebra.

  Our guardians march us in single file. I had hoped to prepare Paul. To give him stern pointers. I’m not usually summoned like this. Whenever I’ve seen Mr Morton I’ve been to his other office. This one, this crow’s nest, I’ve never been to. Only heard talk of.

  After coming up a carpeted staircase, we stop at an unadorned door. It looks like so many of the doors we have passed. One of the giants knocks once, then opens the door an inch, then they both leave, walking quickly. I motion for Paul to enter.

  Swallowing hard, wiping his hands, patting his hair once, twice, three times, he walks in, and I follow. Once into the room he stops. The room is completely white. The first thing I see is a crucifix. A simple cross, one bit of wood slightly longer than the other, tied with a bit of coarse twine, hung on the wall by a crooked nail. Not ostentatious like the rest of the Elephant’s life.

  ‘I’m a devout catholic,’ Mr Morton says from behind the open door. He waddles over to the middle of the room where he sits down in an armchair, puffing. He wears a white morning coat, white tie, waistcoat with ivory buttons and white trousers, baby blue socks with an Argyle pattern of white and grey, which look to be made from silk. His shoes are grey on white wingtips, polished to an impossible sheen and laced tight. He stretches his hand out for the tumbler on the little table next to him and stares at us. Looking uncomfortable, Paul scans the room, but there’s nothing else on the walls. I know better, I just stand. There’s nothing for the mind to rest on. Nothing but the incredibly fat man in a white Chesterfield.

  ‘I’m drinking Cointreau,’ he says, but doesn’t offer us anything. ‘Sit,’ he says, and before we have had time to react, ‘SIT.’

  We bend our legs and sit on the floor just inside the door. Like schoolchildren.

  Mr Morton looks at me and says, ‘Silas, will you undo my shoelaces? I’ve been on my feet all day.’ I stand up stiffly and walk over to Mr Morton where I have to kneel. Cradling the man’s feet in my lap I untie the shoes, first one then the other. Place them next to the chair, not on the same side as the table. Mr Morton then cups a hand under my chin and tenderly tilts my head upwards. He looks at me for twenty seconds.

  ‘Thank you. That’s better,’ he says and then his eyes turn to Paul.

  ‘So is this your newest investment, Silas?

  ‘Hello. My name is…’ Paul says, and I turn to look at him sharply.

  ‘I don’t
really mind what your name is,’ Mr Morton says. ‘But if you’re ever late again your man here will do unspeakable things to you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You should be. I’ve half a mind to make an example of you.’

  I don’t like where this is going, so I gently raise my hand and say, ‘May we talk business, Mr Morton?’

  Mr Morton takes a sip and sets the glass down hard on the table.

  ‘I’m not in the mood. Something about this boy annoys me,’ he says. ‘It’s a shame because as you said Silas, he’s big, he could have been turned into a winner. I know you know better Silas, and I know you’re sorry about your lateness. This boy on the other hand will receive punishment.’

  My heart stops. I think I might have grown to like the boy. Mr Morton slowly takes off all six signet rings, inspects them, and then threads them back on. Taking his time. Then he says, ‘Silas will you go downstairs and ask for my man Drago?’

  Paul starts to speak but Mr Morton’s hand waves him silent, before he continues, ‘Silas, now be a good man and ask Drago to come up, and tell him to bring ropes and piano wire. We’ll see what this boy is made of. Can’t have latecomers in my organisation.’

  I try to catch Paul’s eye, but he looks petrified. Maybe it’s dawned on him just how badly this meeting has started to slide.

  Before I have time to go downstairs, the door opens and a woman saunters in. I’ve seen her before but we have never spoken. The fact that she doesn’t knock or seem to need an excuse to walk in on us in the middle of a meeting sends a shiver of respect down my back. She walks up to Mr Morton and whispers something in his ear, not even glancing at us. Again we’re like wheelbarrows – just tools.

  Mr Morton smiles benevolently and says, ‘Miriam, will you excuse us. I was about to make an example of this boy. He’s insubordinate and he was late. You know I don’t like time-wasters.’

  She looks at us, swallows once, then turns to Mr Morton and says, ‘He was helping me. I’ll take the blame.’

  ‘You must be joking. This half-wit, this ginger dog, helping you?’