Devil Take the Hindmost

by Martin Cathcart Froden

  ‘You need to look out for yourself Paul. Look over your shoulder. Try to be a bit more streetsmart.’

  ‘I will. I promise.’

  ‘I know you won’t be able to. It’s not in your nature. And that’s why I like you. Don’t worry, I’ll look out for the both of us.’

  ‘And I’ll get more white chocolate hearts for us next time. Did they all just disappear? Were they nice?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. A curse on Stanley and his witchcraft.’

  She tousles his hair and strokes his cheeks, first going with the grain of his shave and then against it. Seeming satisfied, she kisses him. Perfunctory at first, then deeper. He puts his arms on her shoulder blades and pulls her in. This is what he needs to counter the fear which welled up when speaking to Mr Morton. Then he pulls away and asks, ‘What are you doing today?’

  ‘I have a rare morning off,’ she says. ‘I was going to maybe bake a cake, feed the ducks, buy a dress I can’t afford, go to church.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, not at all. But don’t you sometimes feel like doing normal, mundane things?’

  ‘Like all the people you see?’

  ‘Not the people I see,’ she smiles.

  He shrugs and says, ‘I mean the people in the street. Going to work, coming home from work. Playing with children, putting them to bed. Reading, singing in a choir, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Yes, that sort of thing. I couldn’t bear it in all honesty, but sometimes, even just for an hour I would like to feel drab, and slow, and run-of-the-mill.’

  ‘You’ll never be drab,’ he says and kisses her.

  ‘Thank you. I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, but thank you all the same.’

  ‘So for an hour or so let’s have a cup of tea, like normal people, then we can go to the park if you want. Have you got any old breadcrumbs you want rid of?’

  ‘You’re too sweet. I’m going to sleep. I’m only just back. Last night got a little out of hand. Another collection. A big one.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m a peach.’

  ‘So you are.’

  ‘When was it you had to be in for tonight?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Then I’ll go in with you. Or not with you, just before, or just after.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I just want to be in the building in case Mr Morton wants to discuss anything other than cycling.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He’s surrounded by apes, and that man, Drago, seems to always be floating by his side.’

  ‘I got a new pistol from the raid yesterday.’

  ‘You have a gun?’

  ‘Don’t sound so shocked. It’s not like it’s my first one.’

  ‘Not the first one?’

  ‘Nor the last. I think there would be more cause for concern if I told you I had just gotten myself an embroidery frame.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  She pulls out a purple velvet pouch with a golden drawstring from her handbag, hands it to him, and nods for him to open it. He fishes out a tiny gun, so small that it disappears in his hand.

  ‘Does it fire properly?’ he asks.

  ‘I tried it last night.’

  ‘On someone?’

  ‘No. In the air. To shut someone up.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘To be honest, it’s more a showpiece. A decoration for someone’s wife. A deterrent rather than a killer I would say.’

  ‘But it fires real bullets.’

  ‘Of course, I just mean it wouldn’t rip off an arm or stop a speeding train.’

  He looks at it. Turns it this way and that. She takes it from him and says, ‘It’s mother of pearl, this bit on the handle. The man we were collecting from had a big collection of accordions and concertinas, some of them quite valuable we found out, some of them covered in this pearly stuff. Silly man had this gun to protect himself. It kind of goes well with some of the instruments.’

  ‘It’s very small.’

  ‘He had small hands. As do I,’ Miriam says and smiles.

  ‘And apart from firing into the air, does it work?’

  ‘I reckon if I put it close enough to someone’s temple they wouldn’t be able to dodge the bullet. Especially if they were big and fat,’ she says.

  ‘You scare me sometimes.’

  ‘Do you mind?’ she smiles.

  ‘Not really, as you’re so pretty. I find it pretty exciting to be honest.’

  ‘Paul, you’re in a funny mood today.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m a bit shaken up from meeting him in the pub.’ He reaches out and touches her collarbone, just where it meets her throat, just where it’s visible.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she smiles.

  ‘I forget that you’re a lady.’

  ‘I am a lady. I’m also not a lady. I like it when you speak your mind.’ She turns to face him, looks straight into his eyes, and says, ‘Always be honest with me Paul, promise that.’

  ‘I will. On one condition.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That I don’t have to finish this cup of tea.’

  She stands up, laughing, and takes his hand. In the front room on a little table are the earrings she managed to wrangle out of her earlobes before she received him. She sits him down on the sofa and closes the curtains. Sits still next to him and asks him to read.

  No. 33

  Eating, washing, playing, sleeping

  A thousand secrets not worth keeping

  I was one blood, he another

  I still miss him, my little brother

  She lies down, putting her head in his lap. In less time than it takes for him to survey the room, the bookshelf, the curtains, she is asleep. Soon he is too, hand in her hair.

  ***

  In the afternoon, when Paul comes back to Copenhagen Street, it’s as though he is seeing his attic space for the first time. The scene is atrocious. A long time ago when he moved in he made a conscious decision not to see the room for what it was. A hovel. He couldn’t afford to think about it, and the last few months he’s been home so little. Sleeping every now and then, but nothing more, and only when he’s not away for races, or at Hampstead Heath. Miriam made him promise to never come knocking on the door to her city apartment again. She said she understood he was in some kind of shock, after he explained about seeing Mr Morton in the pub, but he couldn’t come by unannounced. Or at all. It was too dangerous. He didn’t tell her about the real reason he was so afraid. About the rain, the delay, the forgery. About his luck with the vanished maître d’ and the apparent suicide.

  Seeing Miriam in her home, rather than at the Turkish baths was different. He lies on his lumpy mattress and wishes he could set up a real home with her. A little house somewhere. Maybe a dog or two. A plot of land. No cows whatsoever. Then he blushes, telling himself to stop being such a girl. She will never leave the city, and neither will he probably. He can’t make enough money for a house, and even if he did own a house in the countryside and had ten bread tins of money, he’s not sure if she would come with him.

  He makes a quick headcount of the money he’s made so far. Deducts rent and other costs, mostly inner tubes, apples, eel, and the down payments on the bike. He considers which races are coming up, then he climbs down the ladder and walks down the creaky stairs to Rupert’s office. He knocks and to his surprise Silas shouts from the other side of the door.

  ‘You’re late. Come in.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise we had...’

  ‘Oh, it’s you Paul, I didn’t know you were in. I was hoping Madame Dubois was coming in today with this month’s rent. She’s gone over her time you see.’

  ‘Madame Dubois?’

  ‘She’s in 2B’

  ‘I see. The one with the friendly women. Always socialising.’

  ‘That’s the ones.’

  Silas stands up and walks over to the little
window. Peers out for a second. Then turns back into the room.

  ‘Now how can I help you Paul?’ Silas asks. He looks uncomfortable. Paul thinks it’s maybe the heat of the room. Then Paul thinks back on some of the blurry evenings in the summer. And their plans. Their stupid, stupid, drunk and dangerous plans in regards to Mr Morton.

  Paul looks down. Suddenly he feels ashamed and he’s not sure why, but then he pushes that thought aside, a brusque sweeping of the mind. He looks up and says, ‘I want to move out. I wanted to ask Rupert, or yourself, if you know somewhere else. You know a bit bigger. Better.’

  ‘You still owe me a lot of money.’

  ‘I know. And I’m sorry. But I’m doing quite well and I think I should live somewhere where I can sleep properly. Stand up. Have a thing or two of my own. A proper window.’

  ‘I don’t want you to move,’ Silas blurts out.

  ‘I can’t stay.’

  ‘I like to know where you are,’ Silas says uncrossing his legs.

  ‘You’re afraid I’m not going to pay back the money?’

  ‘Not really. I told you I would find you wherever you went if you chose to disregard our arrangement.’

  ‘So why can’t I move?’

  ‘I like to know where you are, that’s all. After all, you’re my star.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And some nights you’re not here, is that right?’

  ‘Rupert does a headcount? Does he tuck us all in?’

  ‘It’s for your safety, nothing else. Mr Morton has a very short fuse, no one knows quite what will ignite it. I just care about you, that’s all,’ Silas says leaning back.

  ‘I’d be more than happy to give you the address of where I’m going, if I can find somewhere,’ Paul says, now eager to push the sore point.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ Silas says and returns to the papers on his desk.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just leave it with me and I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Sure. Thanks.’

  ‘You’re not in a rush are you? No one’s coming after you? You don’t owe money to other people as well?’

  ‘No, no. It’s just you.’

  ‘Good. Fine. You know it’s just with you running Mr Morton’s numbers, I have to be able to get hold of you at short notice.’

  ‘Sure,’ Paul says, then continues, ‘Speaking of Mr Morton, I’m meeting him tonight.’

  ‘Tonight? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Because he asked me to come see him at the Carousel.’

  ‘And did he tell you to ask me too?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me to ask you, but he didn’t forbid me to tell you.’

  ‘This isn’t good,’ Silas says and puts down his pen, ‘What made him ask you?’

  ‘I met him at one of the pickup points. I think he’s upset about some Russian.’

  ‘Ilya. Bloody bad business that. You know they found his head two hundred yards further up the line. It had become lodged in one of the headlights of the train engine.’

  Paul tries to ignore the icy sheaf in his belly. It’s not proving too easy. Changing the subject from what he has done, to what he can do, he asks, ‘Anyway I can get out of it you think? You know any late night races I could be going to?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Silas answers with a wry smile. A lemon stuck in his throat, kind of smile.

  ‘I’m sure it’s harmless,’ Paul says. ‘He didn’t seem too upset. Maybe it’s something about the Roman races. Maybe he didn’t want to bother you about the details?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Either way I’m coming with you. He’ll have to throw me out if he doesn’t want me there. When are you meeting?’

  ‘Eleven. Will I just meet you there?’

  ‘Meet me at the Ram’s Head at ten, sharp. Speak to Isaac Holben as soon as you get there. If I can’t make it or have any instructions for you I’ll leave a message with him.’

  Silas crosses his legs again, pulling slightly on the upper trouser leg. Puts an index finger on his lips. Still as a picture. Then he turns to Paul and says, ‘You short of money my friend?’

  ‘I won’t be late with my rent.’

  ‘I know you won’t. That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Well, then yes and no.’

  ‘Here take this.’ Silas puts his hand in his jacket pocket and hands Paul a roll of bills held by a rubber band. ‘It’s not much, but I had some luck with a horse called Tipperary Tim last night. Hundred to One,’ Silas says, shaking his head. ‘I know the jockey, Little Willie D, and his horse was looking terrible just before the race, so I called out and promised I would be betting on him, just to cheer him up a little, but the only way he would win would be if all the other horses died or fell over. And lo and behold, they did, forty-one horses down, can you imagine?’

  ‘That’s mad.’

  ‘I know. It’s good to remember the long odds too sometimes. My pocket change made me quite happy so see it as an early Christmas bonus.’

  ‘But it’s only November.’

  ‘Very early then.’

  There is a shuffle by the door and a giant, heavily made-up woman – a walking empire biscuit – comes in wringing her hands.

  ‘Madame Dubois, so nice to see you,’ says Silas.

  The woman, in a very deep voice, says ‘I’m sorry Silas. There was a mix-up last night, a whole company of sailors, you know how it goes, rum and the girls busy looking at tattoos and talking about foreign places, all wanting to get married to these men, follow them to hot islands, drinking out of coconuts.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I follow you.’

  ‘I’m surrounded by fools, these girls sometimes forget that they work for me.’

  ‘As you forget sometimes that you work for me Madame.’

  ‘No, never. I never forget.’

  ‘Rent. Let’s talk about rent. And why it’s not here on my desk today.’

  ‘Well, I can explain. You see...’

  Silas turns to Paul with an apologetic smile, ‘This might take a while. I’ll see you later.’

  Then he turns back to the woman who wears a dress too small for her and says, ‘Let’s get this over with, shall we?’

  Chapter 26

  I knew it. I knew it. I knew it. The boy is going to end up getting himself killed. Not because he’d ever do anything bad, but because he’s a giant, trusting boy in a man’s exquisite body.

  After Madame Dubois leaves, promising rent plus ten percent in the next three days, I sit and look out the grimy window. I pour a drink from a bottle I keep in the desk. The rat is scurrying around in its box and I feed it some dry bacon from a tin I keep next to my bottle. My head is still empty after the second drink, so I put on my suit jacket and my coat, unfurl my umbrella, and leave the house. Copenhagen Street and its inhabitants, the human rats I keep in the brick box, soon behind me. It’s easier to think when walking. It’s raining, but I don’t mind. Less people to bump into.

  People don’t think I am very compassionate. Some would say all I am is an opportunist; a lowly moneylender and fixer of boxing matches, cock fights, greyhound races. But people don’t know me. I care for Paul. For Rupert and the Baker brothers in a way. I care for Madame Dubois and her girls. I even gave her an extra week to come up with the funds.

  And now I have to go over to the Elephant Emperor’s palace. Not what I had in mind for my evening. I’ve never liked the place. It’s massive for one, you never know who’s there and who’s not. Who’s coming or going. You can never get to know the people, never maintain any useful contacts. And maybe that’s exactly what Mr Morton wants. He ensures such a high turnover of staff that none of them ever get to know anything. No routines, no secret paths, no schemes. No congeniality, no friendships, no plans, will ever take root there. There’s too little time for the luckless few who are forced by circumstances to work for him to get acquainted, and it’s always so busy.
Mr Morton is also very good at sneaking up on people, sniffing out any kinds of intrigue, that I don’t think it ever enters people’s heads to revolt.

  Over the years I must have met hundreds of his employees, but I can’t say I remember many of them. Apart from Miriam, his pretty orphan, Drago the despicable Austro-Hungarian or whatever he is, and the two monkey men on the front door, whom I don’t credit with speaking English, or any other language, there seems to be an ever-changing sea of faces.

  I leave Copenhagen Street and walk for about twenty minutes with no particular destination in my mind. The rain, which at first was charming, has now gotten heavier. It’s bouncing an inch off the pavement so I hail a taxi. I was going to nurse my hangover, read the Washington Post, and as my luck was quite remarkable last night, have dinner at the Savoy. Later on I’m booked on the last train to Cheltenham with Rupert. It’s a postal train leaving half past twelve. They usually hitch a first-class carriage onto the back, a service they put on for the Cheltenham events. Speeding west, they will sort the mail while we gossip about jockeys.

  I have lost my appetite and instead of enjoying the day I have to worry. I will miss the train, my outing and reward. There’s also a real possibility that Mr Morton has plans which will result in the death of Paul. I would miss the boy terribly if that was the case. The taxi stops outside my house and I hurry inside to have a bath and to think.

  ***

  To my relief Paul is waiting for me at the Ram’s Head, chatting away to Isaac. Paul’s wearing what almost could pass as a new shirt, with a kind of Chinese collar to it, not sure if I like it. He’s got an elbow propped up on the bar, foot on the brass rail, looking more relaxed than he should be. Than I am. I buy Isaac a drink, and a whisky for myself, but I don’t have much to say. Too many things going through my mind. I half listen to Paul describing something to do with motor-paced racing, where the cyclists are pulled along the circuit by a man on a motorbike.

  ‘Speeds of up to twenty miles an hour,’ Paul says. Isaac laughs a drunk’s laugh and shakes his head. He holds onto the cashier so as to not fall over. Someone could walk off with Isaac’s trousers and he wouldn’t notice. He catches me looking at him, and without asking hands me a Bibi and a small glass of ice, as though I was the one who was drunk. After listening some more to Paul, Isaac’s called upstairs by a rough-looking man in a Fur Felt Broadway. A terrible hat for a strongarm, if you ask me. Isaac leans heavily on the man who doesn’t seem to notice, must be used to it. As they go upstairs the shouts and insults of patrons and punters increase. Seconds later I hear the crashes of another drinking session gone sour. It is clear that Isaac’s man was straining at the leash. He just needed his master to come upstairs and release him.