Devil Take the Hindmost

by Martin Cathcart Froden

  He regains control of his breathing and overtakes a redfaced Yorkshireman. Paul now tries to control the pace from one or two places behind the first man. He would let one man go off into the distance, maybe even two, but if there were three sprinting away, he would like to be one of the three. He tries to keep the pace high enough to tire the less seasoned riders, and possibly put a dent in the lungs of the fitter ones, but low enough that he still has some energy, or dynamite as Harry calls it, for the last ten percent of the race. This is experienced racing, not exciting racing. This is him maturing, not necessarily gaining any new fans on the stands. But then again, a Tuesday race is less about being flamboyant, or a daredevil, and more about being consistent. About guarding his position and controlling the situation.

  Then all hell breaks loose.

  Chapter 17

  After the race I walk down to catch Paul in the middle of the circle. It’s almost midnight, and I’m starving. I’ve been sitting on the emptying grandstand, just looking at him for a while. As I enter the circle he is talking to a man in one of those ridiculous Caradine Airway hats. The kind that looks as though mice have been at the front of it.

  Paul introduces him as Morgan Lindsey from the Sunday Times. The man goes on to explain that Paul’s the youngest ever leader of the cup, and that he’s been predicted to win the thing. I nod, making sure he doesn’t catch my name. I have other interests than being known in the papers. Paul is speaking and the man is scribbling away furiously in a little notebook. After a few minutes I send Mr Lindsey away. Hacks like being treated with disrespect. Makes them think they’re speaking to someone busy. And either way my appetite is acting as a great motivator to get going.

  ‘Come on Paul, I’ll take you out for some food,’ I say. ‘To celebrate.’

  ‘You sure? Haven’t you got somewhere more important to be?’

  ‘Where else should I be you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s just something to eat.’

  ‘Fine, just not to Belinda’s.’

  ‘Why not? You don’t like seafood any more?’

  ‘Eels are not from the sea.’

  ‘They’re from the Sargasso.’

  ‘But they’re caught in the Thames,’ he says slowly, like he’s speaking to a child.

  ‘Let’s not get bogged down in details. Are you hungry or not?’

  ‘I am, but not Belinda’s food. I always feel a bit funny after a race.’

  ‘You used to be very keen on it. This recent success has gotten to your head.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  By now we’ve locked the bike up in an overnight storage unit, and walked out into the night.

  ‘I’m sorry. Is it that obvious?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is she reading you the letters from the camel herder?’

  He stops abruptly, ‘You know them?’ he asks.

  ‘Do they sound a little like fairy tales to you?’

  ‘Is he not real?’ he says, eyes wide open.

  ‘Did it make you jealous?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘More confused as to why she wouldn’t, I don’t know, emigrate if he was that perfect.’

  ‘Only mirages are perfect, my mother used to say.’

  ‘So he’s a fake?’

  ‘She’s just lonely I think. Besides why do you dislike her so much?’

  ‘I don’t. I think she’s nice,’ Paul says, throwing his hands out either side of him.

  ‘But she’s not for you?’ I offer.

  ‘Something like that.’ Relief on his face.

  We have now crossed the canal, walking down Ladbroke Grove. We’re in Portobello which is not the nicest part of town to be honest, but I know a place, a small place, unassuming, where the food is marvellous.

  ‘Because you take your pleasures from other things?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’ His brow knitted.

  ‘You prefer men?’

  ‘No, no I wouldn’t say that,’ he says looking shocked.

  ‘But you’ve never tried?’

  ‘Never had the urge.’

  ‘Do you want to try?’

  ‘No. NO!’ He looks at me like I’ve got rabies. I smile and tell him it was just a joke. That his post-race nerves are playing havoc with him. I continue, ‘So, go and see Belinda. God knows my mother and father didn’t choose each other.’

  ‘You really want me to?’

  ‘Either you’ll begin to like her, or start to hate her. Then at least you’ll have strong feelings. That’d be better than this bland indifference you British people seem to wallow in, thrive on, even.’

  ‘Why are you so keen for me and Belinda to be together?’

  ‘I’m just curious as to why you don’t have a lady friend. And besides I like you both and think you could be happy.’

  I don’t tell him it’d be easier to keep track of them together than as now, separate.

  ‘Well, I think she’s not for me,’ he says.

  We cross the road. The boy who can judge where a bicycle wheel will be in five seconds’ time almost walks into a taxi. I take hold of his lapel, save him from death, although he doesn’t seem to notice. He shrugs me off. But doesn’t thank me. It’s not the first time he’s seemed uncomfortable with me touching him. Once we’ve reached the relative safety of the pavement, he blurts out, ‘I’ve got a girl.’

  ‘Who hasn’t? What makes you think Belinda doesn’t have a man?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve not thought about her situation at all.’

  ‘Well, there are five or six other men that come and listen to her letters. Men better than you.’

  ‘Good for her. Do you send them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We walk down the street. Me noticing everything. Him like a lumbering ox, oblivious to the world. He seems distracted. Then it hits me. He’s in love. This can cause mild heartache, nausea, confusion and an increased aversion to risk in young people.

  ‘Watch out,’ I tell him. He’s almost stepped on a sleeping dog. Then I resume my thinking. For me his new development can work two ways. I just need to make sure it’s going to work my way.

  ‘So you’ve got a girl?’ I ask.

  He looks at me, a child who’s found a sugar lump, and says, ‘Yes.’

  ‘And has she got you?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Is this a mutual affection?’

  ‘I think so.’

  I put an arm around his shoulders, and say, ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’ve not asked her.’

  ‘Do. A lot of broken hearts could have stayed whole if people had been reading from the same page.’

  ‘Is that your mother’s wisdom again?’

  ‘Be quiet.’ I smile. I’m not sure he has any concept of how much he should fear me, but his cockiness is quite refreshing.

  ‘Yes sir.’ He spins around, big grin on his face, and salutes like a soldier. My arm comes flying off him.

  I say, ‘So not eel? That’s fine. Despite it being my treat I’ll let you be fussy. I’ve already made up my mind though, and Kalamaki it is.’

  ‘Don’t tell Belinda.’

  ‘Of course not. And don’t feel bad about it. These other five fellows who come in and don’t accept their change are wellbred, single. With normal hair colours and interests. Lots of money.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Belinda’s a nice woman. She’s come a long way,’ I say.

  We’ve now circled the same block three times, passing the restaurant twice. He’s not noticed. He’s clearly affected by the woman. I hope he soon parts with her. Can’t see how she’d be good for him. But then again, women have always struck me as a bit peculiar.

  ‘What is Kalakaki?’

  ‘I don’t know? A sailor’s disease?’

  ‘But…’ he says, looking confused.

  ‘Kalamaki on the other hand is a dish you won’t find properly
done in many places in London. Nor Athens for that matter, but I know where.’

  ‘Is it eel? Greek eel?’

  ‘What an ignoramus you are. Stick to bikes and let me do the rest of life.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘By the way, it was a great race. I was surprised. You told me Tuesdays were usually dull, but tonight wasn’t. You’re tonight’s champion so we should celebrate properly.’

  We’re now right outside the restaurant. I stop him, one hand resting on his arm, my other hand on his chest. I turn him around and point him in through the door of the place. He’s so incredibly taut. I can’t but admire him, and it pains me to think of the woman. Then he puts his hand on mine. It looks like a pancake compared to my dainty, money-counting ones, and gently, gently removes my other hand from his chest. He holds on for a second too long. Does he hold on for a second too long? I shake the feeling and the old, sunny, couldn’t-careless Silas returns. I throw a mock punch and ask, ‘Now, this woman. Who is she?’

  He grins widely. ‘Let’s eat,’ is all he says before ducking into the smells of my childhood.

  That’s all I manage to get out of him for the rest of the evening. I must confess I’m impressed. This reluctance means it’s not just some floozy, some barmaid he’s toppled by chance. This is not some exotic dancer who’s taken his brain and turned it into mashed potato for her to enjoy. It must be serious. And it must be someone I know. Otherwise he would just say a name. His secrecy whets my mind.

  After the meal he leaves to get his bike from the velodrome. I stay in the restaurant. Footing the bill, chatting with the owner. I enjoy a second coffee, some ouzo, a little music.

  I think about the economic climate. In general terms we all have what we need. Much more than we need. The war really sparked something in people, myself included. We are more inclined to spend than ever, and our industries are churning out material goods we’re more than happy to gobble up. When people spend more money they are more likely to end up in debt, which is great news. But I have a niggling suspicion that we’re riding high on a somewhat inflated market. I can’t be the only person thinking this. I must make sure to read the financial sections of my American papers closer. If anything’s going to happen it’ll come from over there. Pushing these less than happy thoughts out of my mind I rise to leave the restaurant.

  I have just started rolling a Pyramide between my fingers when I realise who it may be. My heart stops. Please don’t let it be her. I have to get out into the fresh air. I leave the cigar on a windowsill and walk off into the night. In the back of the taxi, going home alone, I’m suddenly terrified for him. My stomach is full of food that tastes of summers in Athens and beyond. My heart is cold.

  Chapter 18

  Paul picks up envelopes late Monday nights, and then again on Wednesday morning all through August. Occasionally on a random day, the information passed on either by Rupert, Silas or one of the runners. There seems to be a whole horde of boys, and as he’s usually on his way to a race, at a race, or recuperating after a race, he’s quite easy to find. Silas has the race calendar after all.

  The only time he’s scared to miss a pickup is when he’s spending time with Miriam. Especially when he’s with her at Hampstead Heath. But he reckons he should be allowed to be out of touch every now and then. Mr Morton would disagree, but Paul can always blame his absence on being out training, or mechanical mishaps. So far it’s not been a problem. Also, whenever he’s with Miriam he relaxes a little, as she seems to know when he’s due to come in and check with the people at the Carousel.

  The danger makes her irresistible. He fears being caught with her, but if he didn’t see her, sleep next to her, or spend time beyond the grasp of Mr Morton, he wouldn’t be human. He loves racing and the rush of the crowd, the feeling of winning, but more and more Miriam is on his mind. And in a way these emotions excite him more than the racing, which is why most of his rivals are bachelors. His feelings for her scare him more than Mr Morton.

  Making the deliveries he’s learned to take the shortest of shortcuts, and equally the long ways around certain points where he knows the police usually stand. He sometimes wishes he had a box or two of vegetables, to make him seem less like a private post service. In a way he just looks like a man in a hurry, but he realises that he must be seen quite a lot by the people who work or live on the streets where he goes. It’s hard to blend in when you’re big. When you’re in a mortal hurry, zooming by on a bike, seemingly out of control.

  Mr Morton has not said Paul’s work is illegal. Not in an outright fashion. But then Mr Morton might not ever do anything legal, so for him perhaps the norm is so murky he doesn’t reflect on it.

  Lately he’s not had to visit the Carousel, which is a relief. Instead he’s been in to see William Knapp, the bookmaker at the Southampton Arms a lot. It’s as though the command centre has moved. William’s a barking German Shepherd of a man, with long mutton chops, black from birth, whitened from age, yellowed from tobacco.

  The most recent deliveries have been to the same three addresses. Little glued-shut envelopes, containing first eight then a space then four numbers. The numbers are incomprehensible to Paul. A few times he’s seen them, while in the presence of the people he delivers them to as they open them. Sometimes they make a point of showing him the slip of paper, as if that is a tip in itself. And maybe it would be to some people.

  One cloudy Monday Mr Knapp says that he’s run out of envelopes. Paul’s just going to have to take the slip of paper in his pocket and make sure a man called Ilya on Gresse Street, in Fitzrovia, sees it properly. ‘Off you go.’

  On the way there Paul tries a new path through the warren of streets. How else will Paul ever find better, faster ways? He knows it’s not a great idea, but Mr Knapp didn’t say there was any extra hurry.

  Paul winds in and out of traffic. He’s twice as fast as some horses, a third faster than most cyclists he sees. Admittedly they usually cart much heavier things than a slip of paper. He sometimes feels like he’s able to see into the future. In a way he’s doing Mr Morton, and Mr Knapp, and Silas and all those other men who are too busy, too lazy, too old, to do the dirty work, the hard physical labour, a favour. By enduring the extra pain in his legs he’s likely to save time in the long run. By spending the extra breath on finding a better, faster, more efficient way from one point to another, he’s bound to make his boss, and his boss, happier.

  Slowly, he realises he is lost in Marylebone. He’s following hunches, craning his neck for landmarks. The sky is getting darker and darker, but the streets are still dry. Eventually he has to admit to himself he has no idea where he is. Mr Knapp usually writes the address on the front of the envelope – but not today. Paul remembers having been there before, but there have been many deliveries, many addresses and details to remember since. He knows the building, a three-storey one with a Russian restaurant on the bottom floor, and Ilya’s apartment above.

  Paul knows the building – the whole block – well, if he comes at it from the right way. He knows the turns, the things to look out for on the way there, on his usual way from Mr Knapp. Now though he’s lost and he can’t ask for anything more than Fitzrovia, which is broad enough.

  Then the hailstorm starts. He’s still on the bike trying to retrace his steps, and the little white shavings from the sky have a sharp bite. It feels like pinpricks if he tries to go any faster than walking pace. The hail is followed by torrential rain. This makes for slower going as the gutters and streets become rivers and lakes. Pedestrians under umbrellas crowd corners Paul usually cuts, and they also have a tendency to just walk out into the street. Paul’s harder to spot than a horse or a taxi, and this slows him down. In a matter of minutes he’s soaked through. He contemplates standing under an awning by a café but there’s already quite a crowd and the owner is walking around taking orders, and pushing the ones who don’t want anything out into the rain.

  Paul gives up on being dry. He stands and looks at the tra
ffic for a minute. Tries to get his bearings. Annoyed with himself for being an idiot. Now a wet idiot. He puts his hand in his pocket, only to find a small ball of grey pulp. This has never happened before. He’s never been lost. He’s never not delivered a number. He’s been wet before, but the envelopes, and the relatively short time he’s been on the way to the receiver, seem to have been enough for the slips of paper to survive.

  Standing with his head in his hands, water streaming down as though he is under a waterfall, Paul decides he has two options. He can either return to Mr Knapp, tell him about the deluge, ask for a new slip of paper, and hope that Mr Knapp doesn’t report him. But if Mr Morton even heard a whisper about Paul not being able to deliver, things would turn unpleasant very quickly. Also, and he admits to himself this is guesswork, he was hired because he’s fast. So there must be a time limit, something that makes the numbers expire, or else Mr Morton could just put a stamp on the envelopes and let someone else carry them across the city.

  The only thing left to do, besides suicide or boarding a ship for Japan is to make up a number. He knows it’s crazy, but hopes Mr Morton’s system doesn’t involve receipts. As it’s a number that expires, it must have something to do with bets. Paul guesses horses, or boxing, the lottery, something along those lines. Tries to think about what sports would use the combination of numbers. First eight then a space then four. For results or odds. Instructions perhaps.