He reads the rest of it. It’s short and to the point. His uncle had noticed an article about Paul in the paper and had meant to send it on to Paul’s father, but before he got around to it he received news of a fatal heart attack. Not knowing where Paul was, his uncle sent the letter to the paper, hoping for the best. Looking at the postmark, Paul realises this is more than four weeks ago now. He will have missed the funeral.
He doubles over. Looks at his feet a long time. Silas just sits there, until Paul stirs.
‘My father is dead,’ Paul says. The truth worse as it’s said out loud.
‘I’m sorry,’ Silas says, bowing his head a little.
‘I think I am too,’ replies Paul.
Silas moves one chair over, now sits next to Paul, then says, ‘My parents died a long time ago. I still miss them though.’
‘I suppose I will too. I think I miss my mother. Despite not knowing her.’
‘But you left home on difficult terms with your father if I recall correctly?’
‘I did. But he had been hard to live with for a long time before that.’
‘I see.’
Paul turns the envelope this way and that. Unfolds a well-read, yellowed, greasy newspaper clipping. It’s the one that appeared in the Sunday Times, it’s not a huge article, not more than two or three fingers wide; the length of a palm. No photo, but a sketch of what is supposedly Paul, but in all honesty could be anyone astride a bike, hair slicked back. You can’t tell if it’s from Stephenson’s Hair Pomade, or the wind. He hands it to Silas, who looks at it and smiles.
‘I don’t know...’ says Paul.
‘These things are not easy regardless of the circumstances.’
‘I suppose,’ Paul mutters.
‘Can I offer you a drink?’
‘No thank you. But I appreciate the concern.’
‘Any time, champ.’
‘Can you get me out of tomorrow’s race? It’s Mansfield, a real bastard, and a long train trip away. I’d rather not to be honest.’
‘That can’t be helped. I probably can’t get you out of it. And despite how you feel now, it might be good for you to have something to concentrate on.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Either way, let’s leave. You sure you don’t want a drink?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘That’s fine. I’ll go outside while you gather your things. I’ll try to find a taxi for you. Can be a nightmare this time of day. Especially around Christmas.’
‘Thanks. I’m just going home to eat and sleep, and drink water and sleep some more. I’m going to need all the rest I can get if I’m to get on the first train to Brighton tomorrow.’
‘That’s the right attitude. See you out front.’
Paul struggles out of his race jersey, the big embroidered number 34 shining on the back, dry on an otherwise sweat-soaked garment. He dips his hands in one of the buckets of water which are provided for the racers. Pulls his hands through his hair, over his face, looking through his fingers at the world. Like he only wants to see half of it. He puts on an undershirt, a woollen sweater, a coat and a flat cap.
He wrestles his swollen feet out of his special cycling shoes, dips a facecloth in the pail and washes the bike. Not because it needs it. Today’s velodrome was cleaner than most, and the weather is fine if cold. His mind is empty. A blown egg.
Once he’s done he takes a first step, then another. Once his legs are moving, he can’t seem to stop. It’s as if he’s on a railroad track.
He wheels the bike outside, tries to take as much time as he can, but he needs his powders, his drinks, his own bed, and to sit down. Silas, smoking, leans against a lamppost. Paul knows he should go home. He wants to go to Hampstead, but Miriam might not be there, and getting to Elephant and Castle can be an ordeal. And either way he has to let Silas leave first.
Eventually a taxi arrives, and Silas steps on his cigarette and raises his hand in a commanding salute. The driver pulls up and Silas instructs him to take Paul home, paying the fare from a thick bundle of notes. Silas takes the bike from Paul and ushers him into the back seat, handing him an inch-thick wad of money, much more than he would have made from the race.
Paul looks at his hands and sees that he’s still holding the letter and that Silas is holding onto his bike. He leans out of the taxi, says, ‘My father died,’ to himself as much as anyone else.
‘He’s in a better place Paul,’ Silas replies, then nods to the bike, ‘I’ll get this to the house, get one of the boys to take it over.’
‘Tell them to walk it. Don’t let them ride it. And make sure they’re careful.’
‘Don’t worry. Get a good night’s rest.’
Silas closes the door and the taxi takes off. Paul settles into the leather seat. He really, really needs to see Miriam. As it’s Friday, he calculates that she’s probably still working.
‘Is there enough in the fare to get to Elephant and Castle?’ he asks the driver.
‘Not really,’ the man answers vaguely. ‘Is that where you want to go now?’
‘Yes, just changed my mind. Sorry. You know the Carousel?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’m meeting someone. I think.’
‘It’s up to you. But once we get there I’m not waiting around in case you change your mind.’
‘I understand.’
‘I’ll let you know the difference in fare and I’d like you to pay before the car comes to a complete halt.’
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘Maybe not for you. But for a scrawny taxi driver, with loads of cash about his person, no thank you. Unless you’re one of his drivers.’
***
Paul is now the owner of a farm he doesn’t want. One with debts and cattle lowing and repairs needed. It’s too much to think about.
He’s race-weary and angry at his father. It’s a sadness he can’t grapple with so he gives in and looks out the window of the taxi. Looks, but can’t see anything. His eyes are blurry, his mind sluggish.
He crosses the river. Flies past Miriam’s dark window, past the coffeehouse. The streetlights are on, blinking as if they just woke up, lending a nocturnal feel to the day.
This is the first time he’s come to the club without being summoned, and he doesn’t know how to act. The men on the door let him through, probably think he’s a punter, and soon he’s at the bar ordering sarsaparilla, trying every brand. Keeping to himself. Looking at the massive chandeliers and the empty smiles of the drinking masses and the lime-sucking sneers of the bartenders. It’s easy to see that they don’t get to keep their tips, or they would be nicer.
He knows he should go over to Hampstead and, if Miriam is not at home, go and sleep somewhere else until she is. He thinks he could go and stay in a hotel for a night or two, the wad of money from Silas making a little spontaneity possible, to let his feelings settle. But he doesn’t. He tries to convince himself to go home. Despite the house on Copenhagen Street being a draughty coffin of a place, it’s his. Instead of leaving he drinks so much of the sugary concoction that his teeth feel soft. Until his stomach is begging him, in a rumbly fashion, to stop. Soon he’s been to the loo more times than he can remember, each time his urine smelling more and more like candy floss.
He’s been through a monstrous run of races lately and he’s having trouble concentrating. He knows he should eat, but can’t muster up the will. After a very long time he leaves the club. Both disappointed and relieved he has not spotted Miriam.
It’s now quite late, judging by the level of drink some people out on the pavement have put away, but he’s still not asked anyone for the time. It seems irrelevant to him, though he knows he should be at home, resting.
He walks for a few blocks. Trying, but unable, to think. He knows he has to be in Mansfield, at the Forest Town Welfare track, in less than ten hours for an early race. Suddenly seeing his father’s face in his mind’s eye he tries to think of racing and bikes and things that he’s good at. Things he
knows. Things that are real and won’t die in him whether he hates them or loves them. Forest Town is one of those flat tracks, ten degrees compared to the steeper ones more common in London. He finds the steeper ones more exciting. There’s more scope for manoeuvring, going high up, gaining power, saving up on power by being higher and higher up on the sides, but still keeping pace with the racers on his left. Unleashing this power, sweeping down like an arrow from the sky. Also, Mansfield is not a real track. It’s more a rectangle with four curves, in the middle a football pitch, so it has no real riders area either. But it’s part of the race calendar so he has to go.
He steps into a deep puddle, soaking his shoes and trouser legs, and decides to go to a hotel after all. His shoes won’t dry in time at home. He’ll call by Copenhagen Street for his bike in the morning. The decision makes him feel lighter. He will go away, sleep in silence and comparative luxury. Anonymously. He will think of his father, have a dram in his honour. Write a letter to his uncle, asking his advice regarding solicitors and what should be done with the deeds of the farm. It’ll be constructive. A ladder of practicalities to climb until he’s purged of guilt. He affords himself a wry smile. Thinks about the time his father fell off a horse into a burn. The surprise made the old man laugh and as soon as Paul had pulled him up with the help of a branch, they stood laughing on the bank, sharing lunch while his father’s clothes were drying, hung in a juniper bush. Shivering in Paul’s coat his father had talked about the time he met Paul’s mother. The first and last time that happened.
Paul walks on, a new spring in his step. ‘The Excelsior,’ he thinks, ‘or maybe that one by Kew Gardens, that little smart one set back from the street.’ In his mind he goes through the places he’s been cycling past over the last few months. The places he would have liked to have a look inside.
Then he hears someone running behind him, the steps coming closer and closer. It’s not unusual for someone to run, but these are urgent steps. Someone escaping something. Paul turns around just as a lanky man skids up to him on the loose gravel in the pavement.
‘Are you Paul?’ the man asks.
‘Yes. Who are you? A cycling fan?’
‘No, I like airplanes myself.’
‘How do you know my name then?’
‘Mr Morton spotted you in the bar earlier. He wants to see you.’
‘Now?’
‘I think we both know what he’s like, so let’s hurry. And let me warn you, the Cointreau has been flowing in wide rivers already.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘It’s not important. I’ve only been in London for a month, but after some of the things I’ve seen, I’m not planning to stick around. It’s Canada for me. In fact, you know where his office is don’t you?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘I’m off. Pleasure to meet you.
When Paul gets back to the club, Mr Morton stands outside, smoking a long cigarette, his free hand on the shoulder of a slim man dressed in black.
‘Ah, Paul, so nice of you to join us. I hope you’re enjoying the evening. I was waving to you from inside there. Didn’t you see me?’
‘Mr Morton, hello. No sorry I didn’t. I’ve just had some news about my father, I was maybe a little bit distracted.’
‘Nothing bad I hope?’
‘Quite bad I’m afraid. The worst kind.’
‘Well, death comes to us all,’ Mr Morton says. ‘Quicker to some than to others. It took my father years to die.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It was many moons ago. And he was always a bastard.’ Mr Morton spits a globule onto the ground, then says, ‘But here’s another thing. Let me introduce you to my great friend and enforcer: Drago. Shake hands boys, that’s it. With the two of you working in unison we will go far boys. My powerhouse and my sharp lance. The two of you should become great friends I think.’
Mr Morton, now with his arms around both men, leads them back into the club, to a room one flight up from the big bar. It’s an office hidden behind the mirrors over the main bar. Standing in the room Paul realises they are one-way mirrors and that he can now see the crowd of drinkers. Just as Mr Morton would have been able to see him down bottle after bottle a while ago. It’s not a nice feeling realising he’s been spied on, no matter how innocent his activities.
‘It’s rather impressive, don’t you think?’ Mr Morton says, standing behind Paul.
‘Yes, very,’ Paul nods.
‘Lets me monitor the class of people we allow in. Wouldn’t want any undesirable elements. Any suspicious men in uniform, or suspicious men out of uniform for that matter. They’re always the worst kind of posers when they drink. It’s either not enough to get drunk, I mean who comes here for a quiet drink? Or they drink soft drinks. Much like yourself Paul.’
Paul turns to Mr Morton, speaks up, ‘It’s not that I don’t drink. It’s just with the races, I always feel I need the sugar and the water more than beer. I always have to get up early in the morning after a race. You know, catching trains, wouldn’t want to miss any early deliveries, or not be as fast as I can be. Beer, for me, tends to muddle the brain a bit.’
‘You’re very sweet Paul. Did you really think I was asking whether you were an undercover policeman?’
‘No, no I didn’t.’
‘If you were police I’d be spoon-feeding you mercury.’
Mr Morton walks over to his desk, laughing softly, pointing over his shoulder with a crooked thumb, letting Drago in on the joke. Paul smiles and tries to think of the outside world. The last days of December the skies have been clear. Sometimes in the mornings the roads are covered in hoarfrost. Before people and the day have thawed the cobbles he has to take special care. Stay focused and upright. Same as with Mr Morton. There’s a little heater in one corner of the room, close to Mr Morton’s plush chair. The office itself isn’t cold, but Paul has goosebumps. He starts rubbing his arms. Mr Morton flashes his teeth, shakes his head, says ‘Scotland Yard’ out into the air. Then Paul hears steps coming up to the door, and a double knock.
‘Ah, that must be her,’ Mr Morton says.
‘Who?’ Paul says, a second too late.
‘The Queen, who else?’
Drago treads over softly, opens the door. Outside, applying lipstick, stands Miriam. She doesn’t look up when the door opens, just finishes her make-up. Touches the edges of her lips daintily with a napkin. She flicks her hat with an index finger, which sends the black and golden feather quivering, like the insides of Paul, and steps over the threshold. She hands the napkin to Drago who’s too surprised to refuse and continues to where Mr Morton is sitting behind a desk, working on his nails with the nib of an empty fountain pen.
‘You’re late,’ he says without looking at her. His left hand now done, so he shifts the pen to his left hand.
‘I’m sorry. But not too sorry. It wasn’t as easy as you said it would be. The old man had barricaded himself up in his office. He had his two sons with him and several rifles. Victoria had to climb up to the floor above his, where there was a water cistern. She cracked it open, and we flushed him out.’
‘He’s gone?’
‘He won’t be operating from those premises any more.’
‘Or any other premises I hope.’
Here Miriam nods, and looks at her shoes. She still hasn’t looked at Paul. He hasn’t looked at her. He knows she’s got the poker face required for the situation. He knows he hasn’t. He knows she’s in control of the world around her, but if asked right now he would confess anything and everything from making a calf out of solid gold to Jack the Ripper’s crimes to pissing on Mr Morton’s car. Luckily Mr Morton is too interested in his nails.
‘You know, the padres told me I was ambidextrous.’
‘Sorry?’ says Miriam.
‘At school. It was a dreary place and I was often bored. I used to sit in class and take notes with my right hand and draw with my left. I was good at animals. Ponies, cats, even zebras you kno
w. I thought I was quite talented, but the people in charge didn’t like it at all. Thought it was a devilish trick.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Miriam offers.
‘I think so, too. Eventually they tied my left hand behind my back and told me to never do it again. But here I am, with perfect nails on both hands. Who’s a little devil now?’
Paul tries to breathe quietly in the hope that he won’t take up more space in Mr Morton’s mind than a houseplant. He steals a glance at Miriam but catches Drago looking at him and smiles with a cocked eyebrow, a man-to-man expression. Paul makes sure to not look at anything other than the pattern of the floorboards, but Miriam’s naked legs keep coming to him. He tries to will those flashes of colour and skin away. It doesn’t work. He silently prays to a God he’s not prayed to in a long time, not since one of first nights in the attic.
‘Paul,’ Mr Morton’s voice a commanding rasp, ‘you remember Miriam don’t you?’
‘Yes, yes I do,’ Paul says trying to keep his voice from trembling.
‘When was it that you two met?’
‘In your office, your other office I mean, the white one, with the crucifix, that one, the white one,’ Paul babbles, feeling his face go red.
‘And not since?’
‘Well, maybe here in the Carousel, in passing, I suppose.’
‘You see Paul, this is important. To me Miriam is a mixture between a woman, a dog and a good commode. I own her. I need her. You see what I mean?’
Paul answers that he does, but the words leave a sour taste in his mouth. Miriam just stands there. Stock still. If he didn’t know better he would think she couldn’t hear them. Only the blinking of her eyes, much more often than she needs, gives away the fact that she’s not one of Madame Tussaud’s creations, found over by Regent’s Park. They were all destroyed by fire a few years ago, and now they’ve rebuilt the place, with a restaurant and cinema, he thinks, wilfully trying to distract himself. Maybe he should take Miriam to the wax cabinet for an outing. She could scare punters with her straight face, suddenly winking or whistling. Despite the situation Paul smiles.
Devil Take the Hindmost Page 22