Devil Take the Hindmost

by Martin Cathcart Froden

  Henry nods but doesn’t open his eyes.

  ‘We’ve got a deal with their boss. We pour the leftovers, or the flour that’s gone off, down this shaft and it disappears. Either into the ground or into the sewage system. Also helps with the smell.’

  ‘Paul, let the boys rest, they’ve had a hard night,’ Rupert says. ‘You wouldn’t mind pouring this stuff down there would you? I’ve got some things to discuss with them in the office. Might even pour them a drink, talk a little about the baking they did last night,’ the last comment directed straight at David.

  ‘I’m in a hurry Rupert,’ Paul says.

  ‘Consider it an order from Mr Morton.’

  ‘Sure, fine.’ Paul says. ‘Then I’m off. Tell Silas I’m looking for him, or he can come out to Wood Green if he wants to.’

  ‘Not a problem Paul,’ Rupert says, letting go of the doorframe. ‘I’ve left the key in the padlock. Just lock and slide the key under my door when you’re done. Good man.’

  The three men leave. Rupert shaking his head, Henry stumbling down the stairs, David whistling. Paul hears clinking glasses and someone opening a bottle of beer even before the office door is closed. Then someone kicks it shut and Henry’s voice starts rumbling, indecipherable.

  Paul carries the first sack over, rips it open with the skeleton key he gets out of the lock and pours the flour into the darkness. He doesn’t know much about flour but this stings his eyes and smells sharp. He reasons that’s because it’s gone off, or maybe it’s infested with mealworm? Once he’s done with the fourth round he wonders where to put the empty sacks but if the shaft is big enough to swallow pounds and pounds of flour surely the hessian bags can go down too. He bunches the first three sacks up and drops them over the threshold. Then, picking up the fourth, he notices writing on the side of it. It says ‘NaOH – Sodium Hydroxide – Not for domestic use – Handle with care.’

  Is that really for baking? he wonders. Or is it baking powder, rising agent, that kind of thing? As his nose prickles and his eyes sting he decides to throw the last bag into the gap and close the door. Coughing his way down the stairs he slips the key under the door.

  ‘That’s you done then?’ Rupert shouts from inside, not opening.

  ‘Yes. I put the bags down the shaft too. Hope that was the right thing to do?’

  ‘That’s fine. Run along now.’

  Paul can hear David and it sounds like he’s laughing, but he could also be crying. It’s something right between: a hacking hysterical noise.

  Paul runs upstairs and stuffs his meagre possessions into a haversack. A couple of medals, a shirt, the spare cycling top he can never use as it has the wrong number on the back of it, two books, both presents from Miriam that he’s not read but pretends he has at least started. Some clothes for life, some for cycling. A hat and a coat. A few bits and bobs for the bike, a picture of Glen Coe he found in a magazine, a meerschaum pipe Emrys gave him once after winning a race, the wager from Paul was his old handlebars, now sold back to Jack for sentimental value. It’s not much, but it’s all his. On his way down he passes the office again. A voice shrieks from behind the door. Not a word, not a command – a wounded seagull’s death wish.

  Paul leaves for the track, hoping to see Silas there as he sometimes does. The house is getting to be too much for him. Maybe Silas owns other houses where Paul can rent a room. Or maybe it’s time they went their separate ways. That’s what Paul wants to discuss. He’s been saving and there might just be enough, providing that he wins the remaining races of the month, to pay off the bike and the rent he still owes along with whatever other costs Silas will surely tell him have been incurred. Coughing up phlegm he cycles over to Wood Green.

  Chapter 23

  Today I’m at Wood Green. Though I’m usually a bit secretive about telling Paul I’m here, I’ve decided to make my presence known. Since I saw him last, only one thought has been on my mind. I’m going to ask him to meet me in ultra-secret, maybe even leave town for a day or two. I want to talk to him about any plans we might hatch for severing our ties to Mr Morton. The boy has given me hope. Foolish definitely, but an addictive line of thought.

  I find him in the racer’s area twenty minutes before the race is about to start. It’s extremely early. I’ve not been home yet. I’ve been to an absolutely splendid champagne reception down on the strand all evening. Just caught a taxi to the velodrome.

  ‘What’s happened to your face?’ It looks sunburnt or as if he’s painted it. He says something about sweat, and fleas in the room he’s renting. With everyone else I would have heard a veiled accusation, with him just a fact: there are fleas.

  He talks about bags of flour poured down the shaft in the house. I realise I have to talk to Rupert, and tell Paul he’s not making any sense. I make sure he gets to the starting line on time, tell him I want to speak to him after the race. My ears are still burning from the bubbly drink and previous night’s adventure. I wish him luck and retire to the stands for some reading. On the way over I had the presence of mind to buy a few of the national broadsheets. These races go on for absolute hours. Throughout I’ll cast the occasional look. Unless he crashes he doesn’t need me. Or if he’s in a bad way after he might need me too. Sometimes. Once.

  I’ve got the stack of newspapers next to me. A steaming cup of coffee, a breakfast roll in a brown paper bag balanced on top. The sun is out. My boy’s looking good, has been doing well lately. This means I’ve been getting richer, and almost more importantly, more and more in favour with the old Elephant Emperor. I hear the crack of the starter’s gun. I watch the first few laps, nothing too strange, nothing too exciting happens. Paul stays second or third, like he usually does. He looks relaxed enough. I ask one of the girls behind the bar to bring me a coffee and some breakfast if they have any.

  I undo my scarf, a lovely mohair number I’ve imported at great cost, and turn my attention to the world beyond the oval. In the Spectator I read an article on the upcoming election in America. A chap named Hoover is the favourite for the next president, and the paper has tried to get a statement from the current president, Mr Coolidge, but has been quite unable even to get a decent quote. Not because they haven’t been able to reach him, but because he’s such a quiet man. This Coolidge is probably as good or as bad, as genuine or addicted to sex and money as any other old man in politics. A former lawyer, which tells me everything I need to know about the man. He fell into the post as president quite by accident when Harding, the real president, suddenly expired from a heart attack. Rumours say he was poisoned, by his jealous wife, but nothing was proved.

  I laugh to myself. This high drama so unlike our own House of Commons. I’ve always been fascinated by America. Have always tried to keep on top of the news and rumours from over there. It seems quite often their trends and ideas trickle over to us, and it’s good to keep abreast of these things. I suppose it used to be the other way around. Europe was all the rage, our ways of thinking, and the languages. That tide is changing now.

  Under the article is an advertisement for paint. My eyes are reading along before I can stop them, I’m not interested in paint. I will always hire people to do the work for me. I will have nice tastes. Not too showy, not too classy either. I’m measured and cultured and stuck. I wish I wasn’t tied to Mr Morton. He owns me and that feels like a pair of seamstress scissors hacking at my insides. He knows that. He knows I hate him, and he loves that I do. Like a kicked dog I return to him again and again.

  I lift my eyes from the paper I have long since stopped reading. I look at Paul, he’s in the lead, sweating and panting, a big pack of cyclists chasing him round and round.

  I think of my mother and, not for the first time, I wish she was here, tucked away in a cosy flat in Palmers Green. She would have liked Paul. She would have pinched his cheeks and made him promise to come over for lunch every Sunday. I have let him starve, which is good for the cycling. I am now more a Londoner than Greek. A slick, wise-cracking, corner-cutting
bastard. When I think of myself in the light of my mother I am ashamed.

  I’ve added cognac to the coffee. It helps. Keeps me drunk. I concentrate on the paper. Eat a roll and drink my coffee. Force myself back to the life I’ve created.

  After the race Paul can hardly hold the pen someone gives him, asking for an autograph. I take him by the elbow and steer him away, out, home. I can’t take him to mine. That can’t ever happen again. I’m happy to take advantage of people in general and sculptural boys in particular but despite having decided not to think of the episode I do. That’s something I’m not used to. Harvest, then move on, is a motto I’ve lived by a long time.

  A man walks up and asks Paul to sign a bit of card, for his child. Paul wants to but can’t. Hand, eye, shake, eye, shrug, shaking worse and worse now. He can’t. He needs to go, to sit in a bath, to lie in a bed, to close his eyes.

  ‘Sorry my friend. It won’t work,’ he says. ‘Can you come next week? I’ll be fine by then,’ Paul says to the boy, disregarding the father. ‘Silas, please give the boy two tickets for next week,’ Paul says, and I do.

  I put an arm around Paul’s waist as I can’t reach around his shoulders, and address the man, ‘He’ll race again on the third and then on the fourth. Thank you.’

  I should have left as soon as the race was over. Or employed someone to carry Paul’s stuff, wheel his bike, find him a taxi, open beers and provide jam sandwiches. Instead I’m getting involved. What happened to the business agreement? The cold using of this specimen, this horse of a man? Instead I’m tenderly ensuring his way out of the crowded stadium.

  He soon looks a little better, but not by much. I can tell the throng wasn’t helping. Once again I remember he’s from a place where there probably lived fewer people than would fit in the arena. I was always an Athens boy, then a London man. Crowds of people don’t bother me. Unless they owe me money. It’s the silence and the empty spaces I fear.

  I take him to a classy place to have a quiet drink on the way home. He needs to sit, he says. He needs to drink something strong I say. He says he can’t. I tell him he needs to. But all he does is to order his old, silly drink. So there we sit in a club not far from my home. He has sarsaparilla, his eyelids heavy. I drink quite a lot of beer. I’m all souped up from drinking all night, staying up all day, boosting myself with pills whenever I need to. I talk and talk. Not sure about what, but it’s not the ultra-secret plans, not the precise extraction I had planned to discuss.

  He looks at me but I’m not sure whether he’s grateful, or if he blames me for his pain. Eventually I tire of my own voice. I know I have to remove him from my neighbourhood. I lead him to a taxi. Getting in he looks so helpless. I curse myself and jump in beside him. We don’t talk much. Once we get to Copenhagen Street I have to help him up the ladder. Once he’s in bed he says he’s cold. I put an extra blanket over him, hold onto the edge of the cover for just a minute as he drops off.

  ***

  Two hours later I wake up and he’s on his back, almost comatose in his exhaustion. I’ve been sleeping in a foetal position, my back to his. We have been sharing the pillow and my saliva has formed a big round mark on it. The effect of the beer has left me, all I need to do now is to pee.

  I begin to sneak down the ladder and the stairs, then I remember that this is my building. I can do whatever I want. Whenever I want. With my back straight I walk down the stairs.

  I make it home without falling asleep in the taxi, but it’s not far from it.

  In the morning I wake up with a terrible hangover which is a rare thing. I’m feeling a touch bad for letting Paul get involved with Mr Morton. And with me. With London and the whole thing. To cure my headache and possibly my conscience I walk over to Copenhagen Street.

  ‘Come on, I’ll take you out for breakfast,’ I say once he’s come down the ladder from his crawl space. He’s not wearing a shirt, and sleep still lingers in the corners of his eyes. His hair is tousled and he looks absolutely pure.

  There’s a hint of red on his high cheekbones. Maybe he remembers me sleeping next to him. Maybe he’s just tired. Either way he needs to be built back up. Quickly. He’s got a race on in the afternoon. This time in Catford. He races so much I’m starting to lose track of all the places. West Ham, Putney, Paddington, Herne Hill, God Knows Where and then the same again, week in week out. And that’s just in London. He’s a machine, but he’s also a man, and I’m taking him out for a proper feed. To make my mother proud, if nothing else.

  ***

  After the race I buy Harry Wylde a drink. I tell him I need to make Paul make more money. At this Harry sighs. He tells me Paul is doing remarkably well in the series he’s in, that he needs time to grow and mature, to master the tactical side of cycling as well as the physical.

  Here I tell him to stop. ‘Whose side are you on?’ He starts to speak but I cut him off, ‘Just remember who puts bread on your table. And beer for that matter.’ He cocks his head, he’s a clever clod after all. After drinking half a pint in one go he sits back and tells me about bets and odds. As if I wasn’t the master of those things already. But one thing I wasn’t aware of is something he calls Endurance Racing.

  Harry says, ‘They’re almost closer to a circus act than real racing, but the money is good.’

  ‘He’s used to that from the gladiator games Mr Morton puts on,’ I tell him.

  ‘Well then. There are a couple, and if you think you’ve got the manpower you could organize one yourself I suppose.’

  ‘Go on.’ Half of me is attracted to this idea of more money for the same effort from me. The other half realises that more money means more effort on Paul’s part.

  ‘There are twelve-hour, and twenty-four hour races, and even much longer ones. The aim is to rack up as many miles as possible. You can ride however you want. Either go quickly and then rest, eat, sleep if you need it. Or just go at a steady pace for the duration of the race. It depends on your style of racing and on the quality of drugs you can get.’

  ‘And the money.’

  ‘The longer the race, the better. Especially as there are intermediate sprints and prices for the first person to complete ten, twenty, a hundred miles and so on.’

  ‘And what’s the longest?’

  ‘The six-day race.’

  ‘You mean cycling for six days straight?’

  ‘The Lord rested on the seventh. If it wasn’t for that…’

  My mind is reeling. I couldn’t do anything continuously for twelve hours, let alone a week. Harry continues, ‘Sometimes you race in teams of two, making sure one of you is always on the track. Sometimes you’re on your own. There are little shacks, like the ones at allotments set up in the middle of the velodrome, where racers eat, sleep, see to their needs, be they medical or more basic.’

  ‘How have I not heard of this?’

  ‘You’re not a cyclist. No offence. And besides these races are bigger in France and Germany than here, but there are still enough of them to enter Paul into if you feel that would be the right thing to do. There’s a man out at Olympia trying to set one up at the moment. You should go and see him.’

  ‘Thank you Harry, this has been most informative,’ I say after he’s talked a bit more about the finer points, most of which I don’t understand. ‘I wouldn’t usually ask an employee for advice, but seeing that this is a new venture I’ll ask you: Do you think I should enter Paul into one of these six-day races?’

  ‘To be honest. No, not yet. He’s too explosive, too young. You need to know yourself, your limits and strengths better before setting out on something like that. It’s absolute agony you must understand. I can’t think of anything harder.’

  ‘But…?’

  ‘But, I think that maybe next year, or the year after that, once he’s lost a bit more weight, and knows himself, and the bike, a bit better, he could be a contender for some of the bigger races. Also if you’re going to send him to places like Berlin or Toulouse where these races are big and where the real
money is made, you need to either be prepared to travel with him, or trust him on his own. Or send me I suppose.’ He smiles.

  ‘I see your point.’ I think about this, about Paul’s age and legs for a minute. Then I just want to go home. I stand up and signal for another drink for Harry. I leave, thinking about what I’m doing in six days’ time, and how horrible it would be to know I would be cycling almost the whole time till then.

  Chapter 24

  A month of racing and hard graft has passed. The occasional warmth of October is about to topple over into the hoarfrosts of November. Wet cobblestones, slippery from the night’s cold, greet Paul in the mornings. Mr Morton’s commands stand above seasons and the passing of time, disregarding Paul’s every possible discomfort.

  It’s Monday evening and Paul’s just parked his bike outside the Southampton Arms on Nine Elms Lane. There’s usually a big, burly ox of a man on the door. Paul has never been able to get his name.

  The man stands by the door, waiting for an excuse to explode. The first time Paul saw him he thought to himself that the pub must be doing well, or be especially important in some other way, as the size of the man on the door usually tells punters what they can expect. Later when Paul knew the place as one of Morton’s main pickup points he realised there must either be a lot of secrets or a lot of cash on the unassuming premises.

  As Paul is a regular, not in the drinking sense, but in frequency and punctuality, the man nods. That’s the most polite he’s ever going to be. When Paul asks if he can leave the bike outside unlocked, this again the same question every time, the man nods again. Only this time the man raises an eyebrow and points with one thumb over his shoulder into the pub, as if he’s trying to convey some sort of message. This is different from the usual, but the meaning is lost on Paul. He presumes the ox is asking if he’s going in which he is, or having a drink, which he isn’t. But Paul thinks not having a drink might offend the man, so he just nods.