by Hugh Fraser
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘What are you on about?’
‘I’ve got enough aggravation with Bielsky and his fucking army already without you battering one of his ponces and nicking a tom.’
‘I’ll sort it.’
‘Fucking right you will. The ponce is called Don Beale.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Kill him.’
‘All right.’
‘Before Feliks finds out and gives me a hard time about it.’
‘Why would he?’
‘He knows you’re one of mine and he’ll think I’m taking a liberty.’
Even though I’ve done a lot for George I’ll never belong to him or his firm but this isn’t the time to tell him.
‘Where’s the tom?’ he says.
‘Out of the way.’
‘The ponce is in the Three Bells. Bert’ll take you there.’
‘Who’s going to get rid?’
‘Bert will. Do you need a tool?’
‘No, I’m all right.’
He gets up and opens the door. Bert is waiting outside. He leads me through a door at the end of the corridor, down a narrow flight of stairs and through a door into the street. His white Jag is parked with two wheels on the pavement but he steers me towards a dark brown van that’s parked beyond it, which he will have nicked for the job. He opens the door for me and I sit in the passenger seat.
We drive across Regent Street and into Soho. The Three Bells is in Poland Street and Bert parks the van round the corner in Noel Street. I tell him to wait and I walk to the pub and go in. The bar is crowded and it takes me a minute to spot Beale at a table in an alcove at the far end of the room. He’s got his head down, talking to a man in a trilby hat and a dark grey overcoat. I go into the toilet, take off one of my stockings and put it in my pocket. I take out my knife, then I notice there’s a good long chain hanging from the cistern. I stand on the toilet seat and prise the end of it off the cistern lever with my knife and pocket the chain.
I go back in the pub and move to a place near the door where he’ll see me if he looks up. He stands, picks up the empty glasses off the table and clocks me. His face hardens and he puts the glasses down, says something to the other man and pushes through the crowd towards me. I slip out of the door and run to the corner of Noel Street. I take out my powder compact and open it. In the mirror I see him come out of the pub and look around. He sees me and comes after me. I walk round the corner and slip into a shop doorway. I pull the stocking over my head, take the chain out of my pocket and wind an end of it round each hand. As he passes me I step out, get the chain round his neck, pull it tight and drag him into the doorway. He struggles and kicks at me but I push him onto the floor and kneel on his back. I keep the chain just tight enough to strangle him without cutting his neck so I don’t get blood on me. He struggles a bit until I feel him go weak and then he’s gone. I stand up and see a young bloke and a girl watching from the other side of the road. I take my knife out, step out of the doorway onto the pavement and they see me and leg it round the corner. Bert gets out of the van, opens the back doors and we pick Beale up and stuff him inside along with the chain. Bert shuts the doors and gets into the van. I take off the stocking and go to his window.
‘You all right?’
He gives me a nod, fires up the engine, heads towards Berwick Street and turns south. I reckon Don Beale will be spending the night at the bottom of Shadwell Dock with a tyre lever in his pocket.
I walk round the corner and along Poland Street. Everything looks clear and bright and I look up at the sky and I feel light and relaxed as if I could float up above London. That song where they play among the stars echoes in my head, until the traffic on Oxford Street brings me back to earth and I hail a taxi.
• • •
The club’s in full swing when I get back there. The mob in the bar are louder and drunker as I weave through them to the ladies’ loo. I wash my hands and check my face and neck for any specks of blood. I go back to the bar and see George Preston at the far end with his minders. He looks at me as I walk past. I give him a nod to let him know the job’s done and move towards the main room. The crowd round the card table has grown and there’s a collective sigh as the house snares another loser. Tony Farina gets up from the game table. He sees me and makes a quick sign for me to phone him as he leaves. Lizzie’s at a table with Nick and the two girls who spoke to him earlier. She sees me and comes over.
‘What did Georgie Porgie want?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘You’ve been ages.’
‘Had to sort something.’
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah.’
I don’t tell Lizzie anything about my work if I can help it in case it makes trouble for her.
She slips her arm round me.
‘What do you reckon to our Nicholas?’
‘Posh pimp isn’t he?’
‘You fancy this country jaunt?’
‘I haven’t brought a toothbrush.’
‘Just ask the butler darling.’
‘Or knickers.’
‘He’ll lend you a pair of his.’
Nick sees us laughing and comes over. ‘Shall we get going?’
‘Could we stop by Maida Vale and pick up a couple of things?’ says Lizzie.
‘Certainly,’ says Nick.
He beckons the other two girls and they follow us through the crowded bar, down the staircase and out through the front door. Nick leads us to a silver Bentley that’s parked in the square and opens the back door for us. As we get in the smell of expensive leather wraps itself round me and I sink back into the soft seat and relax. While Nick is showing us the cocktail cabinet with its cut glass decanters something makes me look out of the back window of the car. The man in the trilby and dark grey overcoat that Don Beale was talking to in the pub is standing on the pavement outside the club and looking our way. As Nick gets into the driver’s seat and starts the engine the man in the trilby crosses the road and gets into a small black car.
Lizzie pours whisky from the decanter, gives a glass to me and the girls and passes one to Nick in the front. Nick proposes a toast to a fun weekend and we clink and drink. He introduces us to the two girls as Jane and Poppy, turns on the radio and Elvis tells his little sister what not to do as he swerves onto Park Lane and accelerates towards Marble Arch. Poppy is blond and sassy in a gold dress with lots of bouncy curls and cleavage. Jane is dark haired, slim and beautiful with a quiet, watchful look about her. Poppy rummages in her handbag and produces a small bottle. She unscrews the cap, shakes some pills into her hand and offers them to us.
‘Blues anyone?’
Lizzie takes a couple, swallows them with a slug of whisky.
‘Cheers.’
When Jane and I decline Poppy says, ‘I’ve got Mandrax for later.’
‘I’m fine thanks,’ I say.
Jane shakes her head and Poppy offers the blues to Nick, who palms a couple. She takes the rest herself, slithers over into the front seat, puts her arm round Nick and they have an animated discussion of who was responsible for various excitements and aggravations that happened at the club.
We drive up Edgware Road and Nick pulls the car into the service road in front of our building. The small black car noses into a parking space on the main road. I think about staying in London but decide that it’ll be easier dealing with whoever is under that trilby out of town, where he won’t have any backup. Lizzie and I go in and up to our floor. I unlock the door to my flat and go in. Georgie’s asleep and I leave a note on the kitchen table with a fiver for food. She’ll be fine on her own for a couple of days and will probably prefer it. I call Tony Farina’s number and I’m about to hang up when he answers.
‘What have you got?’
‘Mary Weedon.’
‘I know. Do you have anything?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Come and see me Monday.’
‘Ok.’
5
Nick swings the Bentley through the gates of Ringwood Hall and as we scrunch round the curves of the drive the headlights shine into the trees and give us glimpses of neat lawns and a rippling lake. There’s enough moon for me to make out the house standing firmly at the head of the drive. The ‘cottage’ Nick told us about is the biggest house I’ve ever seen. It’s like one of the pictures in Georgie’s history books, with a massive grey stone front with three rows of tall windows, a square turret thing on each corner and battlements going along the top in between. I half expect someone to start shooting arrows at us when Poppy gives a whoop of delight at the sight of it. There are lights on in a couple of the downstairs rooms. Nick turns off the radio, stops the car by the front door, gets out and takes a bag out of the boot, then he opens the door for us. We get out of the car and Nick pulls on a big metal ring hanging by the door. A light comes on above the door and it’s opened by a grey haired old boy in a black tail coat.
‘Good evening sir.’
‘Good evening Symmonds. I believe His Lordship is expecting me.’
‘Indeed sir.’
Symmonds opens the door wide, takes Nick’s bag from him and we step into the hall. It’s about as big as two tennis courts with a marble floor and three big chandeliers that tinkle as Symmonds shuts the front door. The wide staircase leads up to a landing and then divides and curves off to left and right up to a gallery with another staircase leading off it. There are paintings of olden days’ people in robes and big hats looking down on us as if they’re not sure we should be there. Symmonds turns to Nick.
‘If I may have your keys sir, I shall have your car taken to the stables.’
Nick hands him the keys. Symmonds beckons to a nervous looking young girl in a cap and apron who’s standing at the foot of the stairs with her hands clasped in front of her.
‘Jones, please take the young ladies’ luggage to the cloakroom.’
The girl nods and comes forward. We give her our coats and she picks up our bags and heads for a door at the back of the hall. Symmonds turns back to Nick.
‘Perhaps you’d care to join His Lordship in the long gallery sir.’
‘Splendid,’ says Nick.
‘I trust your usual room will be to your liking sir?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘With your permission sir, I shall inform you of these ladies’ accommodations once I have made the necessary arrangements.’
‘As you wish Symmonds.’
A door opens along the hall and a white haired old boy in a maroon smoking jacket appears and heads for the foot of the stairs. As he turns onto the bottom step, he looks over and says,
‘Is that young Nicky Boulter I see?’
‘Good evening My Lord,’ says Nick.
The old chap comes over and holds out a withered hand to Nick. ‘How are you dear boy?’
‘Quite well, thank you sir.’
‘Here for bit of a party with the lad, are you?’
‘That’s the general idea sir.’
The old fossil looks us over.
‘Well, you’ve brought a fine pride of fillies with you, eh what?’
‘Won’t you join us sir?’ says Nick.
‘I would dear boy but I’ve to be up at sparrow twitter and to the Atheneum for an emergency meeting with “you know who”.’
‘Ah. Tricky sir.’
‘Damnably so.’
He turns and toddles off saying, ‘Goodnight ladies, goodnight sweet ladies, goodnight,’ in a fluty voice, as he climbs the stairs.
We follow the butler along the hall, past more paintings and bits of armour, and swords and the like. Poppy takes my arm and whispers, ‘That was the Lord Marquess himself, no less.’
The butler stops in front of a door at the far end and knocks. I can just hear a voice above the music.
‘Who is it?’
Symmonds opens the door a little. ‘Mr Nicholas Boulter and friends sir.’
The door is wrenched open and the card-playing Viscount from the club who Nick told us about is swaying in the doorway. His shirt’s off and he’s got a bottle of champers in one hand and a tennis racquet in the other. He swipes Nick one with the racquet.
‘Nickers, you old bastard!’
‘Hello Johnny.’
‘And lovely ladies! How bloody marvellous! Come and have a drink!’
We’re ushered into the room and a tennis ball sails towards us and hits the half-naked Viscount on the head. He picks it up, whacks it back towards a tall thin geezer with ginger hair who we also saw playing cards at the club.
‘Fuck off Benders, we’ve got company!’
The ginger one drops his racquet and lopes towards us.
‘Ben Duckworth. How do you do?’
He gives us each a limp handshake and flops on a sofa next to an old boy who’s passed out.
He waves a hand over the body.
‘This is the Lord Marchmont. He’s rather tired.’
Lord Marchmont replies with a long wet fart and Johnny and Ginger guffaw with laughter while Johnny sloshes champagne into glasses and hands them to us. Ginger gets to his feet and goes to a radiogram that’s been pulled out from the wall. He lifts the lid, sorts through a pile of LPs and puts one on. It’s Chubby Checker telling everyone to twist again and Ginger takes him at his word. Poppy downs her champagne in one and joins him and in a minute we’re all at it, twisting away in a mass of arms and legs and whooping and swooping and I’m loving the feeling as I’m singing along and letting it all go. Then after a couple more tracks Nick puts on some Bossa Nova and goes to the sofa and rolls a joint. Ginger’s holding Poppy close and feeling her up, and the Viscount’s smooching and snogging Jane. Me and Lizzie are dancing and the joint’s going round, and then there’s another joint and then Poppy’s handing out the Mandrax. There’s more champagne and the Viscount’s moving towards the door with Jane and Ginger and Poppy following, and Nick’s taking me and Lizzie with them. We go across the hall with the music still thrumming, up the stairs and along a corridor into a bedroom with soft lights and a massive four-poster. We’re on the bed and clothes are coming off and bodies are slithering and sliding until I don’t know who’s who and what’s what and who cares anyway, and there’s sighs and groans and it’s going on for what seems like forever. Then there’s cries and moans and it’s slowing up and calming down until everything’s quiet and still.
• • •
I open my eyes and I’m lying on the edge of the bed under an eiderdown with a leg round my waist and an arm across my neck. The bedside lights are still on and I can see Nick sitting in an armchair across the other side of the bedroom. He’s awake and he’s got all his clothes on and I remember that he’s not been part of what’s gone on. I gently move the arm off me, slide out of the leg’s grip and look for my clothes among the various garments strewn around the bed. I find my bra and pants and suspenders and put them on. I pick up a random pair of nylons and hope they’ll fit. I lift the edge of the eiderdown and see that my dress is underneath the Viscount who is snoring peacefully with his arm around Ginger’s waist and his head between Poppy’s thighs. I manage to pull the dress out from under them without waking anyone. As I’m putting it on Lizzie stirs. She slides off the bed, comes to me, puts her arm round me and whispers, ‘You all right darling?’
‘Mmm,’ I say.
I help Lizzie find her clothes. When she’s dressed Nick walks over to us. ‘Let me show you to your room.’
We go in
to the corridor and he shuts the bedroom door quietly behind us.
‘What time is it?’ asks Lizzie.
‘Four-thirty,’ says Nick.
‘What time’s breakfast?’
‘Probably nine o’clock or so.’
‘Lovely.’
As Nick leads us along the corridor a door opens and a young girl in a maid’s uniform appears carrying a towel. She starts when she sees us and drops the towel. She picks it up again and a couple of pound notes flutter out onto the floor. She looks embarrassed as Nick picks them up and gives them to her.
‘That’s Lady Northrup’s room isn’t it?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘What were you doing in there?’
She turns red and says, ‘Nothing sir.’
The door opens and a tall woman with a hooked nose and a lined face wearing a long nightdress and a hairnet says, ‘What is all this noise?’
Nick turns to her.
‘I beg your pardon your ladyship, I merely wondered what this girl was doing in your room.’
‘None of your damned business!’ snaps her ladyship.
‘I do beg your pardon, I…’
She looks him up and down and then at me and Lizzie.
‘It’s Boulter isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘Jonathan’s friend.’
‘Yes.’
She looks at me and Lizzie again.
‘And why indeed are you roaming the corridors with these women in the middle of the night?’
‘We were just going to bed your ladyship.’
‘I should think so too.’
‘A late rubber, I’m afraid.’
She snorts at him, turns back into her room and shuts the door. The maid scurries off and we go on along the corridor. When we get to a door at the far end Nick stops and opens it for us.