Devil Take the Hindmost

by Martin Cathcart Froden

  One of Miriam’s friends, a hunkering great girl called Brenda, told me that Mr Morton had been visiting the Baths on the same day that Paul decided to come back and visit his sick friend. Brenda told me Miriam was shaken, but that she had showed Mr Morton her rooms and as Paul had taken all his things with him she had nothing to hide.

  Poking around the courtyard Drago found the block Paul had put his bike wheel into, but she managed to say she had taken it for firewood, and it seemed like they believed her. The next day Mr Morton sent a big load of wood to the Baths. Not sure if it was a sort of apology, if he actually believed she needed the fuel, or if he was being ironic. It’s very tiring interpreting the actions of a despicable man.

  These thoughts whirl in my head as I pretend to drink tea and watch the racers prance around. All of them apart from Paul who has straddled his bike and is standing as still as a rock.

  Then Crack! With a jostle of elbows and straining thighs they’re off.

  The first hour is torture. Paul drops down a little in the field. Not much, but steadily losing places. He’s not too far down in the field, and neither is he out front for too long, tiring himself. I drink too much, too quickly and soon I’m forced to go to the toilet, looking over my shoulder the whole way there. When I come back the bunch of cyclists have changed. Now Paul isn’t among the first three, or even the first ten.

  Now, time passes differently. It’s because of the gin, and it’s because of the implications. My fingertips tingle; the crowd sense that something is about to happen. The mauled mongrel from Scotland has put up a good show but now he’s flagging. People love to see a plucky underdog die. Still he hangs on.

  I spot Mr Morton. He looks smug, turning a ring on one of his fingers. He’s wearing a white fur coat and he is looking straight at me.

  I wave to the elephantine monster. Make a sign of downing a glass, as if I’m off to get another drink. Soon I’m vomiting in the gutter outside the velodrome and while doing so I drop the key to the strongbox into a drain. My sickness the perfect cover in case I’m watched. Then one of my grimy boys come up to me.

  I run. Not away from the velodrome as my brain tells me to, but towards it, following the detrimental instinct of my heart. The sharp taste of gastric acid burns in my throat. My lungs shallow. Turns out there’s been a big crash. A whole throng of racers have been injured. For Paul’s sake I hope he’s in a coma. Or mortally wounded, a chain wound around his neck, his heart spiked by a broken spoke. Then the grimy boy still at my side tells me Paul was so far behind that the crash was nowhere near him. That Paul, exhausted, could easily ride around it far up on the banking, wobbling all the way to the line.

  I can’t believe it, my heart is trying to escape out of my throat. He’s won! We’ve won! ‘Take that!’ I shout, to the world, but mostly to Mr Morton, who I am sure is still somewhere in the stands.

  The plan was always to return the borrowed money plus the money we owed to Mr Morton, to settle our debt. But riding on that wave of emotion I decide then and there not to return any money to him. What an awful day it’s been. What a fantastic day it’s been. I want to run down onto the track and kiss Paul, but I want to be away from Mr Morton more than anything else.

  As we had agreed in case of a win, I go straight to the bookmaker on Compayne Gardens, via a shop where I buy two of the biggest suitcases available. In the taxi on the way over I can’t think straight, it’s too much of a shock, but a plan starts to form in my head. One taking things one step further than we had originally planned. One involving Sebastian.

  I go to the bookmakers to collect the bet I placed with all of the money from Mr Morton’s safe. He looks pale and tries to protest that he hasn’t enough to keep his business going, but he knows who I am, and he knows I could not care less. I allow myself a chuckle at the thought that it’s Mr Morton’s reputation that’s helping me to escape from Mr Morton himself. With so much of his money. I consult my watch and calculate that Paul should have been able to get to my office, our post-race meeting point, by now.

  I sit in the back of the taxi. The two suitcases, one empty, one full, bounce against my leg, and I almost cry. I’m not cutting Paul into bits with cheese wire, we’re taking a train to Southampton. Half the money in my suitcase, the other half in his. With hats pulled low and scarves pulled high we’re sailing off on the first available ship. Then as we cross the equator we’ll toss our disguises in the ocean. I can see this in vivid colours. Too vivid.

  Once at the house I open the door of the Ofiss just an inch, and my heart stops. The first thing I see is a white suit jacket flung over a chair. I should have snuck back outside, bought a car and driven to Calais, but something holds me there. Then I hear Paul’s voice.

  ‘I’m sorry Silas.’ He’s on his back on my desk, one arm handcuffed to the steel bars over the window. He is pale, and his eyes are closed.

  He tells me that he was in such a state after the race that he requested an ambulance. Partly for his own safety. The ambulance was sent away and instead he was driven back to Copenhagen Street in Mr Morton’s car. But not before Mr Morton picked up a rumour that someone had gotten very rich from the race.

  ‘Where is he?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s coming back. He’s got men at the Baths too. Leave while you can. I can’t. I’m stuck.’ He shakes his arm and the rattle from cuffs against bars is awful. ‘He is just getting Drago, and he said together they would get the whole story out of me.’

  There’s a knock on the window – like the sound of a bird colliding with the pane – but I can’t see anything. Then there’s another, and I look outside. It’s a streetgirl, throwing pebbles. I look again, and realise it’s not a prostitute. It’s a woman in disguise. Miriam. She looks left up the street. Then right. Then she waves to me. Frantic. Urgent. Shivering. I raise one palm.

  ‘When did he leave?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I’m in so much pain it’s unbearable.’

  ‘Take some of your pills. Now is not the time to break down. Pull yourself together Paul,’ I hiss.

  ‘I’ve had so many. If I have any more I’ll be a vegetable.’

  ‘Take a couple and stay still.’ I hiss. I dig out the skeleton key and start to work on the handcuffs. They’re well made, good quality ones, and the minutes tick by as I work. My heart almost stops at every little sound out in the street, and there are drops of sweat, and drops from my runny nose dripping on my hands. Then there’s a click and the clasp opens.

  I give him one of the suitcases. The empty one. Not the one carrying a fortune. I ease the front door open. All quiet, so I edge out, nodding to Miriam the mock prostitute across the street. I carry the big suitcase full of cash and my heart leaps at the possibility of us getting away. If we can just make it away from the building there’s a chance. If we are quick we can disappear in the city, until we can leave the country. Then, like a glimpse of the sun over the horizon at dawn, but horrible, I see the bonnet of a big white car turn a corner. It’s now or never so I take a deep breath and push Paul out in front of me. I stumble after, both of us slowed down by our bags. I pull him into a service alley, hoping Miriam will follow. Then I hear the roar of the engine echoing between the houses of Copenhagen Street. I should’ve been quicker, but there’s a chance he didn’t see us.

  Chapter 41

  Paul hears the engine come closer. He knows it well. Twelve cylinders of relentless power, so different from the horsepower his legs produce. The revs of the engine are awful but what comes after is worse still. The screeching tyres, pushing loose gravel into two straight lines, maybe ten, fifteen yards long. Then the silent engine. Around the corner, in the alley, Paul inches even closer to Silas. Two doors open and they hear the heavy puff of a fat man and the deadly tread of Drago. Mr Morton tells the driver to stay where he is, to keep an eye, then they both enter the building. Paul lets out a breath, nods to Silas and then they both run.

  Before they get far there is a shrill, castra
to shout behind them. Wordless anger. Drago comes running into the alley, a filleting knife, held flush against Rupert’s throat. Drago pushes Rupert away from him, slashing him vertically down the arms. Ripping Rupert’s coat, leaving long, bleeding lines.

  Paul, exhausted from the race, and Silas, in slippery shoes, a man who’s not been forced to run for many years, sprint down the alley. Drago is quickly catching up and Paul gestures for Silas to give him the other suitcase. At first Silas won’t do it, but when he sees how close Drago is getting, Silas hands over all the money he’s ever made to the ginger giant.

  Carnegie Street, busy as always, is just in sight at the end of the alley. Caledonian Road, with its crowds and mass of vehicles, beyond that, and further still the river. Drowning seems like a good way out at the moment.

  Drago is now so close that they can hear his steps, and the end of the alley, where there will at least be potential witnesses, is just beyond them. They enter Carnegie street with the man in black just behind. Hear a screech and a dull thud. Turning back, they see Drago on the ground, bleeding from the head, and Miriam holding a brick.

  ‘Belinda can hide us,’ Paul says.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Silas answers, struggling to breathe, hands on his knees.

  ‘I’ve been down in the basement, for sarsaparilla, it’s huge.’

  ‘I don’t want to involve her.’

  ‘Mr Morton won’t look for us there.’

  ‘He will. He might already have.’

  ‘Why?’

  Silas straightens up, pulls a hand through his damp hair. ‘She’s my wife.’

  Paul looks at him, wide-eyed. ‘I didn’t know you were married,’ he says.

  ‘Mr Morton doesn’t trust unmarried men. I saved Belinda from a man. She saved me from women. Apart from a trip to Eastbourne we have never stayed under the same roof.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Miriam says, her voice high and broken. ‘But not to Belinda’s.’

  By running through houses, through peoples’ homes, by going into pubs with two doors, entering one, exiting through the other, by moving for almost an hour, in taxis, on buses, on trams, running, always running, they leave Mr Morton behind. Their combined knowledge of the streets, in different social strata as well as false cul-de-sacs and shortcuts through parks and greens now comes in very useful.

  They come to a standstill in a street neither of them know. Wet and shivering, despite the mad dash. This is the first time they have allowed themselves to stop. Paul’s pupils are pinholes and he has a buffoon’s smile plastered across his face. The last time he was lost was in the rain in Marylebone. He’s not used to it. Silas stands shivering on the pavement, eyes half-shut. Paul tries to backtrack, talks out loud, but can’t remember much.

  Miriam has turned her back to the street and is leaning against a wall, her forehead resting on a film poster of Spangles. The celluloid beauty of Fern Andra’s melancholy face level with Miriam’s. Paul gently turns her away from the wall, picks up her hat from the pavement. Her golden feather is missing. Silently he makes her move. To move is to stay warm, is to not be found.

  Silas urges them along the street, but they are walking, not running. Both because they are too tired to run, and because walking people attract less attention. Paul’s in a daze and keeps tripping on invisible things. He asks Silas, ‘Where will we go?’

  ‘You or you two?’

  Miriam takes Paul’s hand and says, ‘Us two.’

  ‘And you, too, Silas. You can’t stay here,’ Paul says.

  ‘I’m not emigrating again. It broke my heart the first time.’

  Paul opens his mouth and starts saying something, but Silas cuts him off.

  ‘America, that’s where you two are going. It’s got to be somewhere where he can’t reach you.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone in America,’ Paul says.

  ‘You’re a big boy now. And besides, cycling is big business over there too. Much bigger than here in fact.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What’s the alternative? Stay and pretend nothing’s happened? Don’t worry. You’ll quickly find your feet, just make sure you change your name.’

  ‘But I left my bike at the velodrome. Only got to use it once.’

  ‘You can get a new one once you’re there. A better one.’

  ‘How will we even get there?’

  ‘By boat, you lunatic.’

  ‘I don’t have that kind of money. I can’t just go up to the ticket office and get a ticket,’ Paul says. Miriam looks at her shoes, ruined.

  ‘You do. You do, Paul. It’s not the money that’s the problem. It’s your name, your looks, and the fact that you have neither a passport nor a visa. And that Mr Morton will have people at train stations and port offices,’ Silas says.

  ‘So what should we do?’ Paul asks.

  ‘I know a boy. His father owns ocean liners. And he still owes me a portrait,’ Silas laughs.

  They come to a run-down café. It looks closed but through the grimy windows they can see a woman shuffling along behind a counter. Silas hands Miriam some money from his pocket as Paul still looks too groggy to be trusted. Silas tells them to wait, to be careful, and sends them inside.

  Two hours later Silas comes back, tells them a reservation of sorts has been made for them on a ship, at no insignificant sum. Then he sits down across from them. His hands are shaking almost uncontrollably. Miriam gets up and brings him a cup of tea, and he nods at her thankfully.

  Once he’s had his cup of tea and a piece of stale pineapple cake, Silas tells them he has secured passage between Southampton and Ellis Island. He can’t tell them much more than to ask for a stevedore named Raul once they get there. Apparently someone else is going to get caught in customs tomorrow, and Paul and Miriam will take their cabin.

  ‘Beyond that you’re on your own.’

  Silas waves to the woman to get another cup of tea, but she can’t see him, so Miriam gets up and comes back with a teapot. Silas looks Paul straight in the eye, and puts an urgent hand on his arm. ‘Make sure you wear your racing top when you’re boarding the ship.

  ‘The one I’m wearing now?’ Paul says and unbuttons his jacket a little. ‘The one you gave me for Christmas?’

  ‘Well, the one Jack gave you first...’

  ‘Will you say goodbye to him from me by the way? And Emrys?’

  ‘No I won’t. You send them a letter. Just no return address please. You need to use your head a little in the coming months.’

  ‘Why should I wear the racing top? Don’t I want to look nice and respectable for the trip?’

  ‘For luck.’

  ‘But it’s sweaty.’

  ‘Paul, when you’re properly out at sea, once you can’t see land any more, and as soon as you’re convinced no one has recognized you or followed you, go to your cabin. Lock the door, then, and only then, take a pair of scissors to your top.’

  ‘Why? It’s my lucky top.’

  ‘You see, there’s a lump, a little bag with five lumps, under the three.’

  ‘Lumps?’

  ‘Each about a carat.

  ‘Rings?’

  ‘Diamonds.’

  ‘Yours?’

  ‘No, no. Mr Morton’s.’

  ‘Won’t he miss them?’

  ‘Yes, immensely.’

  ‘And I’ve been cycling around with that since Christmas?’

  Silas nods and finishes his tea. His hands now a little steadier.

  Paul says, ‘Thank you Silas. You’ve always been too good to me.’

  ‘If you play your cards right, it could set you up quite nicely. Just don’t sell them too cheaply.’

  ‘I won’t. I wasn’t born in a barn you know.’

  ‘I know you were, so just be quiet.’

  Paul laughs, and when he falls silent they look out into the street. Then they shrug into their coats and walk out into the street. Silas looks at his hands and then at Miriam.

  ‘Miriam, this is goodbye. I
know you understand the magnitude of what’s happening. I appeal to you.’ Silas opens his arms as wide as he can, and she comes to him for a hug. He whispers loud enough for Paul to hear, ‘Take care of him. Promise me you will.’

  Her eyes well up, start to glitter, and she swallows several times before giving up on speaking. Just nods.

  ‘We’ve had a strange few years, Miriam,’ Silas says. ‘We’ve both hated working for Mr Morton I think, but we both, up until now, failed to find the courage to do anything about it. Until Paul turned up. But not even then did we combine our forces properly, but pussyfooted around our common enemy for too long. Now we have acted. Maybe because we had something in common? Loving him.’

  ‘Oh Silas, come with us,’ she says. Silas just shakes his head.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Paul asks.

  ‘I don’t know. Stay here maybe?’

  ‘That would be insane. You can’t.’

  ‘Buy a boat and sail to Greece,’ Miriam says.

  ‘Be serious. I’d drown before I was out of the harbour,’ Silas says. ‘For the first time in many years I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘You’ll figure it out,’ Miriam says, putting her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘He knows about all my other places, the flat on Ossington Street. The cubby hole at the Peacock club,’ says Silas wistfully.

  Suddenly Paul’s face lights up, and he says, ‘I’m going to give you the farm.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You once said you had had enough of the city. That you wanted a simpler life, something more real, less flashy.’

  ‘Maybe I did.’

  ‘And now you need to go and hide somewhere remote where he won’t look.’

  ‘I can’t take your farm.’

  ‘I don’t want it. I can never return.’