Devil Take the Hindmost

by Martin Cathcart Froden

  I glance at the clock above the bar mirror. Then, not trusting it I get out my own watch. It’s a buckled, rubbed old thing on a chain. It’s only a Chemin de Fer, nothing special, used for sentimental reasons more than anything. My doublechecking pays off, the bar clock is slow by twenty minutes, that way they extend the licensing hour a little. I put a hand on Paul’s shoulder, indicating it’s time to go across the road. A table crashes against the balustrade upstairs and then two chairs come toppling down the broad stairs. Cartwheeling disasters made from oak.

  ‘Come on Paul, time for us to go. Unless you want to join in upstairs?’

  ‘No, thank you. Besides you told me to never be late for Mr Morton again.’

  I can’t tell if he’s serious or pulling my leg. Never can.

  The Elephant Emperor receives us in his hidden office with his usual flourishes. Inquires about our health. Parents. Prospects. As if we had a communal life Paul and I. Asks about our day, as if we spent every waking minute together, grooming each other like a pair of monkeys. As if we were on honeymoon and not summoned.

  ‘Silas, I’m surprised to see you here,’ he says. He’s standing behind his desk, the two of us are sitting on uncomfortable kitchen chairs in front of it.

  ‘Well, I was in the area. Just bumped into Paul at the Ram’s Head. Thought I’d drop by.’

  ‘You were in the area?’

  ‘Yes. But you know, if this is something you want to discuss with just Paul that’s fine, I’m happy to go back. I had a good run on the cards with some clueless chaps from Somerset.’

  ‘No, stay. It’s good that you’re here actually. Saves me explaining the same thing twice.’

  I can see he’s annoyed. In my mind I resign myself to leading a simple life on a small island somewhere. A goat, a chicken or two. A small, tattered library. Half a bottle of ouzo. Maybe getting by with one arm less, or if I’m lucky, just a hand. I don’t know what we have done, but judging by the gaiety in Mr Morton’s voice, the way he trips around like a portly frog in raw white silk, he must have a bloodbath on his mind.

  So when he says, ‘You two have become my favourite little thing to think about,’ I am at first scared witless. Then I realise he’s serious, and I’m so relieved I almost pee in my pants. I have to wiggle a little in my seat to stop a drop from escaping.

  ‘I think you’ve found yourself a good project Silas. You’re fattening him up, whetting him, all that. In short, making him a champ.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I stammer like a girl at her first communion. Out of turn.

  ‘Now, I’ve been looking at the books. Apart from a week here and there I feel Paul could maybe have done a little better. Pushed himself a little harder. But I’m not complaining. You’d know if I was.’

  He puts a finger in his ear, holds it there for a second, looking into the middle distance, then shakes it in a series of spasms. Then he takes out his finger, and looks at it. There’s a wistful, disappointed look about him. More human than I have ever seen him, and this over the lack of wax. Then he looks up, ‘The venture is not a great earner,’ he continues, ‘but luckily I have other areas which bring in money for food on the table. This messing about on bikes is a nice little sideline, something that amuses me. Like pigeons, or darts or something. It’s inconsequential, but fun. Well done Paul.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ the boy says, as if he’s made a cake for the local society.

  ‘You see young man,’ Mr Morton continues, for the first time tonight addressing Paul, ‘Silas here had been on the ropes for a while, a few years in fact, and I was debating not when, but where, to put him out to pasture. But that was before you came along. And look at him now, the coat, the lustre in his little Greek eyes when he looks at you. If you didn’t know better you’d think he was a man in love.’

  He walks around the desk and gives me a playful punch in the arm, and I die many deaths inside. Mr Morton always thought of himself as some sort of natural boxer, waylaid by his godlike ability to make money. I smile, a strained smile. It’s one that I know looks natural, from years of practice with a mirror.

  ‘Now gents,’ Mr Morton says bringing over his abacus from a shelf, ‘I’ve got a suggestion.’

  He sits down behind his desk and fiddles with the beads. Moves all the ones in the top row to the right, the ones on the second tier all the way to the left and so on. Then he continues, ‘I think that with a little more discipline and training, sufficient physical exercise and a more restrained diet, Paul you could really make something of yourself. I speak to a lot of people, and when I mention your name, they quite often whisper ‘Olympics, next time around,’ back to me. Wouldn’t that be exciting? What an honour. Imagine how proud your family would be to see their son in the paper? A golden medal around his neck. I wouldn’t expect anything less. Representing his country. Representing me.’

  ‘Yes, yes that would be great,’ Paul says shooting a glance at me. This is all news to me and I shrug my shoulders as imperceptibly as I can.

  Should Paul play along, telling Mr Morton that ‘Yes, I would like to become an Olympian’? Should he deny his wish to cycle and swear his allegiance to Mr Morton’s business empire? It could go either way. I don’t know. Speaking to Mr Morton is like being forced out on thin spring ice. You know it’s going to crack, you know you’ll end up wet, probably with hypothermia and pneumonia, but you have to walk on, not knowing where the crack is going to appear.

  ‘To achieve this goal,’ Mr Morton continues, ‘I have decided to bring in an auxiliary trainer. A friend of mine. He has recently left the army. Something unsavoury that you’ll probably hear about anyway, but I’m convinced it’s a stitch-up. You know those Sandhurst types, they’d sell their own grandma for another bar on the chest.’

  ‘I think we are doing fine, with all due respect, Mr Morton,’ I say, forgetting to think before I open my mouth.

  ‘Yes, you might think you are, but your thoughts don’t account for much. I hold the money, I hold the reins. Try to remember this Silas.’

  He continues, ‘Nathaniel Jones, his name is. Served in the Kent Cyclist Battalion. As soon as he’s had a drink he talks about cycling through the ruined villages of the Somme, in that high-pitched theatrical voice of failed war poets. Just make sure you water down his beer, and he needs help remembering his quinine tablets.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ I pitch in, in a neutral voice, beyond reproach.

  ‘He’s a hero, did more than you to win the war Silas. He saw some action in that Anglo-Afghan affair too, I’m not sure what that did to him. Last time I saw him he affected a limp, something he claimed had to do with being shot, but I’m not so sure. I think it’s gout rather than shrapnel.’

  ‘Quite the man,’ Paul says in a similar neutral voice to mine. He’s learned something, which, despite the situation, makes me proud.

  Mr Morton nods and goes on, ‘Nathaniel’s a real hard man. He swears by strict routines and a healthy lifestyle. I think he could really whip you into shape Paul. And also keep an eye on your comings and goings, young man. This isn’t a holiday in the sun you realise.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say Mr Morton.’

  ‘Thank you?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Paul says, then looks at me and I say the same.

  ‘When is he joining us?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ve had considerable trouble finding him. He’s been holed up somewhere in India for months, waiting for his marching orders, as he puts it, but I know better. It has ‘dishonourable’ all over it, not that I mind. Do you Silas?’

  ‘About what? The man, the Afghan war, the end to his career? All of the above? No, no.’

  ‘Good man. I think Nathaniel could be good for you too. He doesn’t miss a thing, and he could get rid of that flabby stomach of yours too. Make sure you’re in bed early.’

  ‘Good,’ I say, ‘I could use a man like that. A nanny.’ No irony in my voice whatsoever.

  ‘I’ve arranged for a passage for him and he should be her
e to crack his whip before the end of the month.’

  Mr Morton puts the abacus, which he has been cradling like a lapdog on its last legs, on the desk and stands up. Groans a little. ‘So gentlemen, we’re in agreement that this is a good idea? That this will lift Paul’s cycling to the next level? To an Olympian level? That he’ll bring me at least a silver medal, yes?’

  The two of us nod. There’s nothing else to do.

  ‘Good. I’m glad. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a couple of things on my desk today. Things that bring in money, real money.’

  He roots about in a drawer and brings up a box of cigars. He pats his pockets in constrained frenzy. Like a Red Indian dance to make matches appear, or at least like the Red Indian I once saw on Margate Pier. Then he waves his hand, five flying Cumberland sausages, in our direction. To end the misery I light a match from my box for him. He nods and says, ‘Goodbye gentlemen. Please show yourselves out.’

  Just as we reach the door, Mr Morton turns from the secret window overlooking the pub and plucks the cigar out of his mouth, ‘Paul, before you go.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There is one thing relating to Captain Sergei Ilyashenko Petrovich that I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Anything. I only met the man a handful of times.’

  ‘Still.’

  ‘I don’t think I can shed any light. Look, I don’t even know what the trouble is. Was. What he did. Is it money?’

  ‘Of course it’s about money, but this is different.’

  Mr Morton turns to us, a certain glint in his eye.

  ‘I was wondering if you wanted to do me a favour,’ he asks.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I wasn’t asking. When will you learn?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Ilya’s apartment in Fitzrovia is a mess. You know where it is don’t you? You’ve been there?’

  ‘I have, but not inside. Mostly downstairs at the restaurant. Up the servant’s backstairs a couple of times.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t get lost trying to get there?’

  ‘No I wouldn’t,’ Paul says, his voice flat.

  Mr Morton looks at him for a few long seconds, then continues, ‘I’m renting out the apartment to a rich Belgian. He’s a diplomat or something, and he’s bringing his own furniture. I’ve sold most of Ilya’s possessions. In the middle of the dining room is a pile of carpets, all rolled up, you can’t miss them. I want you to hire a cart. You’re used to horses aren’t you? You’re from some sort of farm I believe. Take these carpets to Copenhagen Street, which is handy, because Silas tells me that’s where you live.’

  ‘Where do you want me to store the carpets? In the office?’

  ‘No, no that wouldn’t be very suitable. Not very suitable at all. No, here’s what I want you to do, throw them down the shaft. Has Rupert shown you?’

  Paul nods.

  ‘Good. Well these carpets, though initially quite expensive, Persian I believe, are now ruined. Wine, gravy, that kind of thing. They’re an insurance write-off. It’s better for everyone if they are never found.’

  ‘That’s fine. Consider it done sir.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘When do you want me to do it?’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘I just asked you. I want it done now.’

  ‘Of course, immediately.’

  ‘Now get out of my sight you two. I have some real business to deal with before I leave tonight. If I’m late for confession I’m blaming you.’

  Mr Morton then unbuttons his jacket, and says to Paul, ‘You’re a big strong man, I would usually ask two people to do this but the ones I tend to use are busy somewhere else. You’ve met David and Henry, the baker brothers, haven’t you?’

  ‘Only in passing.’

  ‘Here’s a key for Ilya’s house, and the flat. Just leave it in Rupert’s office once you’re done.’

  Paul and I stand up, then Mr Morton turns to me, ‘Are you not going to thank me?’

  ‘Sorry sir, I don’t quite follow,’ I say.

  ‘Well, I thought I’d be nice to you. Finish early.’

  ‘I don’t understand, but I appreciate it all the same.’

  ‘Well don’t you have a train to catch at half past? For Cheltenham I believe.’

  ‘I do, with your permission.’ Mr Morton chuckles and waves his hand in mid-air.

  ‘Goodbye you old fruitcake and take your giant with you. Make sure he doesn’t screw up.’

  We leave and step outside in the dark. Behind us, in front of us, the shouts of revellers. I glance at my pocket watch, then wave to one of the many taxis Mr Morton forces to idle outside. ‘To make it easier for people to come and go,’ he says.

  ‘I’m away for a night or two Paul, and so is Rupert. I mean it doesn’t matter, we’ve been away in the past, but would you mind just keeping an extra eye on the house for us?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Alert the fire services if there’s a fire. Throw out Madame Dubois’ men if they are found sleeping in the corridors. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Alright. I’ll probably be up all night carting carpets anyway.’

  ‘Yes, now, go and do that as soon as you can. At any cost. Buy a cart if you have to. He’s sure to check tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I will. I will,’ Paul says, looking tired. Rolling his shoulders.

  ‘I’m off. Wish me luck on the horses,’ I say before retreating into a taxi.

  And with that I tap the driver on the shoulder and tell him to go to Paddington. He looks relieved to be on his way somewhere else. And so am I. I always enjoy seeing the Carousel getting smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror of a taxi.

  Chapter 27

  Paul watches the taxi disappear into the darkness. Then he hears Miriam saying ‘Coffeehouse’ in an urgent whisper, but he can’t see her. It sounds like the voice is coming from above him, but it’s hard to tell. He looks around the corner and up at the façade of the Carousel, but can’t see anything.

  He walks towards the coffeehouse, which is closed, as it’s now past midnight. The windows are dark and the shutters are pulled down. Coming closer he sees a black and gold feather in the lock and tries the door. It’s open. He walks in and at first he can’t see anything. Then he sees the red pinprick of a cigarette move slowly, like Mars in the night sky.

  As his eyes get used to the dark he can see her outlines. She’s sitting on a high stool, one high-heeled shoe dangling off her right foot. Her hat is on the counter and she’s holding the oxblood Bakelite holder in her right hand. Next to her an almost empty glass of milk.

  ‘How was it Paul?’ she asks.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. All he wanted to tell us was that he’s bringing in some sort of physical trainer for me.’

  ‘You don’t need that. All you do is exercise.’

  ‘I know, but Mr Morton wants this Major to come and work for him, work on me, so that’s that.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. A Nathaniel something. You know him?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  He walks over to her and she puts out the cigarette in the last centimetre of milk. Wafts away the smoke before offering her cheek for a kiss.

  ‘Not on the lips, this red stuff takes ages to apply. I have to go back to work in five minutes, told them I was only stepping outside for some fresh air.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Did you bring that gun?’

  ‘Of course, why? Do you want it?’

  ‘No, just wondering.’

  ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Well, if it’s not safe for me in there, then it can’t be all that safe for you either.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she says, putting her head to one side. ‘You don’t worry about me do you?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘That’s sweet, come and
kiss me on the other cheek.’ He obeys, happily. Then she continues, ‘You don’t have to. I can manage.’

  ‘I know. But I still worry.’

  ‘Come here, I can put on more lipstick later. Give me a kiss. Then I have to be off.’

  Their clothes rustle in the dark of the coffeehouse as they kiss. He bites her earlobes, kisses her on the neck as far down as her blouse will let him. Her hands are strong, gripping him around the head, like a heavy urn she is afraid of dropping. Then finally she pushes him away from her.

  ‘My time is up,’ she says and pulls her dress into shape again.

  ‘When will I see you again?’ he asks.

  ‘Whenever you want to. Just not now.’

  ‘Fine,’ he smiles.

  ‘Why don’t you invite me to see your place? I know it’s dangerous, but I want to see where you live. We can be careful.’

  ‘You mean my room at Copenhagen Street?’

  ‘Is that Silas’ house?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll tell you why I’ve not asked you over.’

  ‘Don’t tell me – you’re married, and have eleven children.’

  ‘Twelve, these last ones were twins.’

  ‘Be quiet. Tell me why.’

  ‘Because it’s awful, and small.’

  ‘We don’t have to do ballroom dancing. Just a quick drink and then we can go somewhere else. Come on.’

  ‘Well, I suspect you knew this before you asked, but both Silas and Rupert are away for two nights, Cheltenham I think, you know, the horses.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘So I would like to invite you for dinner. Tomorrow, at seven? Even though it’s just in an attic space.’