The Complete Dangerous Davies

by Leslie Thomas

  ‘Can we go back a bit?’ suggested Davies spacing his words with great care. ‘I’d really like to know how Mr Dulciman became dead in the first place.’

  She was sitting opposite him at the table now and she leaned over and slapped his wrist playfully. ‘All in good time, Dangerous. I want to tell it my way.’

  He regarded her over the coffee mug. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you,’ he said.

  She hunched her large shoulders. ‘I am a bit, funnily enough. It’s not often I get a man’s undivided attention.’ She leaned forward and began to cry again, great bulbous tears. She moved her coffee mug as though to catch them. ‘Oh, he was such a hateful bastard, Dangerous. Hateful … hateful …’

  As she said it there was a gunfire sound, sharp and startling, followed at once by an explosion that seemed very near. Earth fell on the roof of the house, dust and small pieces of debris showered from the ceiling and the stone walls shuddered. They stared at each other. ‘I thought you said …’ began Davies.

  Another explosion followed. This time nearer. Mildred put her trembling hands to her face. ‘Oh God, why am I always getting things wrong!’

  She jerked into movement and tugged him with her onto the bottom of the bunk beds. ‘It’s only mortars,’ she said. They rolled into a thick bodily ball, their heads together, their arms protecting each other. ‘They don’t use the big guns here now … hardly ever.’

  Another report and another explosion followed as though in answer. ‘Oh Christ,’ she snivelled. ‘Now what have I done?’ The rickety house quaked. More of the ceiling fell down, a hail of plaster followed by a lump which fell across the table and hung there like a thick cloth. ‘They never aim for the houses!’ she shouted desperately.

  ‘The one across the road is demolished,’ he grunted, his head locked into her shoulder. The firing ceased and the dust settled. There were no sounds. ‘We’ve got to make a run for it,’ he urged.

  ‘No! No!’ She held onto his arm. ‘Stay where we are! We could get into terrible trouble.’

  Davies closed his eyes. He was sweating and the dust was sticking to the sweat. He could feel Mildred’s large body vibrating. They both stiffened as a series of distant reports sounded and at once there came three successive and deafening explosions. The house reeled again and more of the ceiling came down. ‘Grouping,’ said Mildred knowledgeably.

  ‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ gritted Davies. ‘This place is going to get a direct hit.’

  ‘All right,’ she said determinedly, although she still trembled. ‘We’ll hang on until they stop for a minute. Sometimes they have a Naafi break.’ She began to sob again. ‘I’ve caused all this trouble, Dangerous. I don’t want you to get killed.’

  ‘We won’t get killed,’ he answered more stoutly than he felt. Slates suddenly cascaded through the hole made by the missing plaster. But now the shelling paused. ‘Come on!’ he pulled her arm. ‘Let’s run!’

  Mildred went first, bounding like an overgrown child, almost squeaking as she went. He followed her from the shelter of the door, trying to run doubled up, as they did in war films. They dodged between the broken houses. The air was swirling with smoke and dust. A fire had started somewhere across the roofs and was crackling through rafters. They ran wildly, breaking clear of the village and heading across the open ground around the base of the hill. There were freshly made craters ahead. ‘This way,’ she shouted. ‘They won’t use the same range twice.’

  For once he thought she might know what she was talking about. His lungs ached, his legs wobbled, his breath tightened, sweat filled his shirt. But as if it might afford some protection, he kept his overcoat on. They crouched in the lee of the rising ground. Then the firing started again, to their left this time, the brown earth thrown up violently, their feet feeling the shudders.

  ‘Let’s give it another go,’ she panted. ‘We’re nearly there.’ Without waiting for his agreement she bounced off over the cratered ground around the base of the hill. Davies swore and followed her. Another shell landed close enough and they both slid feet first into a muddy crater. There was three feet of water at its base and together they tobogganed down the mud and into it. Brown and cold it enveloped both of them to the waists. ‘Oh shit!’ bellowed Mildred. ‘Now look what’s happened.’

  ‘I know! I know!’ bawled Davies. ‘I’m in here too!’ He never knew how they climbed out. Three times he slithered back. But with surprising agility Mildred was scrambling clear before him and holding down her wet hand to give him a final heave. Once out of the hole they made a last dash for the line of bordering trees and crouched in the ditch, shivering, trying to fill their lungs, wiping the mud from their eyes. Again the guns opened fire. They could see the explosions, like instant trees, around the stone village. The ground below them still shook but now they knew they were safe. The firing ceased.

  Mildred looked at his wrecked exterior and said: ‘I’m ever so sorry, Dangerous.’

  They staggered towards the lane keeping to the hedge. Over the stile they climbed painfully and along the path until they reached the telephone box. ‘We can’t go on like this,’ moaned Davies caked with wet and mud.

  Mildred ran her fingers down the brown mud on her face. ‘No, we can’t,’ she said meekly.

  As though she had overheard, a woman appeared at a cottage door. She was wearing an overall and a bucket-shaped hat. ‘You do look a sight, the pair of you,’ she said without much emphasis. ‘Come in and get dry.’

  Mumbling thanks they hurried into the cottage. As soon as he was inside the door Davies saw that it was not the woman’s home. The furniture was twee-country and there were two modern paintings and a bronze of a sealion. ‘They’re only here weekends,’ said the woman who appeared to read thoughts. ‘I come in an’ clean after them. From London.’ She studied their state. ‘Been over on the MOD have you?’ she said again without surprise. ‘I could ’ear they was shooting over there.’

  Briskly she pointed to a door. ‘Go in there and get your stuff off,’ she told them. ‘There’s a bathroom attached.’ She looked oddly at Mildred. ‘All right for both?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Mildred assured her. ‘We’re getting married soon.’

  Davies closed his eyes but he was too wracked to say anything. They went into a bedroom, nicely furnished with country wooden dressing-table and wardrobe and a large, well-stuffed bed. ‘Oooh, isn’t that nice, Dangerous,’ said Mildred, astonishingly regaining her former mood. ‘Wouldn’t mind trying that out.’

  The woman called through the door. ‘There’s some dressing-gowns in the bathroom. And you’ll be wanting some clothes. They’ve got plenty.’

  Davies, who thought nothing would ever again surprise him, shrugged. Mildred went into the bathroom and emerged with two towelling robes, one in pink and the other in deep blue. She tossed the pink one to Davies but then laughed and gave him the blue. ‘For somebody who’s buried a dead body in a battlefield you seem to have recovered remarkably,’ he said tersely.

  Mildred put her fat fingers to her full lips. ‘Hush, Dangerous,’ she warned. ‘I bet she’ll listen at the door.’

  Wearily Davies began to take his clothes off. ‘I’d always dreamed about doing this with you,’ said Mildred pulling off her soaked and coated anorak.

  With a heave she took off her sweater. Her great brassière bulged. ‘He took pictures of me,’ she said, her voice dropping in tone and volume. ‘Dulciman.’ Davies paused in pulling the shirt over his head.

  ‘Use the shower,’ the woman called through the door. ‘There’s plenty of water. They forget to turn off the immersion.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ Davies called back.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ called Mildred. Her sad eyes were held on Davies. ‘He gave me a load of flattery and I fell for it,’ she mumbled. ‘I would, wouldn’t I. He told me I had an exciting figure. That’s the very word – exciting. Then he said I could be a model and he wanted to take some pictures of me, art photographs. I ende
d up stark naked and doing things I wouldn’t have dreamed.’ She was crying again now. She pulled him to her and rolled him against her bosom. ‘I’m such a bloody fool, Dangerous. I wanted to be a model – me! Look at me for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘And he got you to do it,’ he said calmly. ‘Pose.’

  ‘Right, he did.’ Snivelling, she pulled herself away. ‘I’ll go and get showered,’ she said, wiping her face. She looked about the bedroom. ‘I hope all this is all right.’

  ‘After all that’s happened to us using somebody else’s bedroom is nothing,’ he said.

  She made as if to go to the bathroom. ‘Then he did the terrible thing. He used the pictures of me in a dirty magazine. On the cover! I was so ashamed. And the most terrible, terrible thing was the magazine was called …’ Her voice caught again and her face went into her hand. ‘It was called: Big Fat Girls. Oh, Dangerous, oh, God. Can you imagine how I felt? I wanted to kill him right then, the bastard. Kill him and kill him and kill him.’ She was crying copiously now. ‘I was just waiting for the right moment.’

  As she went towards the bathroom door there was a discreet knocking and the cleaning woman called: ‘Don’t be too long, will you. My old man comes home at twelve and he won’t like you being in here. I don’t care, but he does. I’ll get you some clothes.’

  Mildred quickly showered and emerged pink in her pink robe. She seemed almost coy now. ‘We’d better get a move on, Dangerous,’ she said. He walked past her into the bathroom. It was tiled and shining with an assortment of sponges and toiletries arrayed on an old-fashioned washstand. He used the lavatory and quickly got under the shower gratefully feeling the hot water washing away the caking mud. It stung into the scratches on his arms and face and he realised he was heavily bruised on the shoulder. His ribs ached ominously.

  ‘I’ve got you some togs,’ the woman called through the door. ‘Come on out when you’re ready.’

  They went back into the main room. The woman had the air of doing this sort of thing all the time, succouring an unending stream of people in need. ‘They’ve got so much stuff they don’t know what they have got,’ she said. She had produced two separate piles of clothing, one male, one female. ‘Help yourself,’ she invited. ‘I’ll get you a cup of tea.’

  Mildred was picking up sweaters and skirts and ladies’ trousers. ‘Good stuff this,’ she said to Davies who was examining an Arran sweater and a tracksuit with a Gucci label. He looked more closely at the clothes.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he called towards the kitchen.

  ‘Help yourself,’ she invited firmly. She was carrying two cups of tea. ‘That will look nice on you,’ she said to Davies nodding at the sweater. ‘You don’t have to worry. They’re rich as biscuits, these two.’

  They dressed from the selection and drank the tea. ‘I’d offer you something stronger but I don’t like taking their booze,’ said their hostess. ‘They’d notice that.’ She nodded towards the window. ‘It’s a bugger getting caught over there isn’t it,’ she said. ‘When they start their shelling. My hubby’s been in it twice. He goes over to help keep the pheasants and partridges down. All unofficial, of course. But he’s had to run, believe me.’

  Davies said he would keep his shoes but the woman would not hear of it. ‘That pair,’ she said. ‘Those Hush Puppies. See if they fit. He’s about your size. He only wears them for knocking about.’

  Reluctantly he put the shoes on. They fitted at a pinch. Mildred was standing proudly, completely fitted out, although the shoes were too small. ‘Actually she’s quite dainty,’ said the woman. ‘The stuff you’ve got on, dear, belongs to her mother, who’s huge.’

  ‘We must return this somehow,’ said Davies.

  The woman’s face abruptly hardened. ‘No question of that,’ she said. ‘I expect to be paid. I haven’t done this out of the goodness of my heart.’

  ‘Oh, no, of course not … How …?’

  ‘How about fifty quid?’ she said. ‘Then I’ll ring for a taxi. You’ll want a taxi, won’t you.’

  Wearing their new clothes, they sat dumbly together in the back of the taxi heading for Bournemouth. They could not talk about what had happened. The driver had ears like an elephant, although afterwards he apologised for not conversing because he was deaf.

  They were greeted outside the hotel by Bertie, his face anxious, his sparse hair pale in the April noon. ‘All, sir …’ he began as Davies climbed from the taxi. He saw Mildred and blinked.

  ‘Like the new outfit, Bertie?’ she asked with her desperate blitheness. He could not summon an answer. Too many things were going on. She hurried past him into the hotel. Davies, who wanted to know a lot more from her, was about to follow when Bertie caught his arm.

  ‘Sir, you’d better keep the taxi.’ With a porter’s gesture he halted the cab as it was about to drive away. ‘It’s Mrs Dulciman, sir. She’s asking to see you.’

  ‘Asking?’ said Davies. He recognised the nuance: ‘Oh no …’

  ‘She’s been taken in, sir. They rang here for you because they say she’s only got hours.’ Bertie looked near to tears. ‘It’s urgent.’

  ‘Oh, that’s sad,’ said Davies his head dropping. Too many things happened at once for him too. ‘I’ll go. Is it the same hospital as before?’

  ‘Her usual one, sir.’

  Davies peered into the lobby but Mildred was not there. Noting his look Bertie said: ‘She’ll be gone to her quarters. I’ll see she don’t vanish again. Not till you get back.’

  Davies thanked him and climbed back into the taxi. Bertie gave the driver the hospital location, having to repeat it with a shout. The deaf cabbie apparently thought that he could contribute to the drama. ‘My old uncle went last week,’ he bawled over his shoulder.

  ‘Where?’ asked Davies. His mind was buzzing.

  ‘Only God knows, sir,’ responded the man loudly. ‘Either up or down. The funeral was on Friday. The best thing that anybody could say about him was that he wasn’t the worst one.’

  ‘Oh, good. Yes. Well that’s something.’

  At the hospital the receptionist saw him approaching and sensing his urgency, put down the telephone. ‘Mrs Dulciman,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to see her. It’s urgent. My name is Davies.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Davies,’ said the young woman. ‘They’re waiting for you. You can go right up.’

  She went to the lift with him and said: ‘Third. They’ll be relieved to see you.’

  A doctor and a sister were waiting for him on the landing. ‘She’s not going to be with us long,’ said the doctor with a practical sadness. ‘She wants to speak to you urgently.’

  Davies said: ‘Isn’t there any chance?’

  The sister shook her head and the doctor said: ‘Not this time.’

  Going into the room Davies suddenly felt very strange in his odd, new clothes. Mrs Dulciman was lying in the quiet place, afternoon sunshine lying across her bed and lighting up a bowl of flowers. Her face was calm and waxy but lit with a smile when she saw him. ‘Dangerous,’ she breathed. ‘You’re here. I knew you would.’

  She held out her slim hand and he held it. ‘Don’t exert yourself. Don’t try to talk too much.’

  Her smile was a shadow. ‘Dear Dangerous,’ she said. ‘This is the one time I must talk. We must talk.’

  The lie came as if by magic: ‘I’ve discovered what happened to Mr Dulciman,’ he told her. ‘He … he went to Gibraltar.’

  She even flushed. Her neat mouth opened in amazement. Then she smiled, broadly now. ‘I might have known it,’ she said. ‘Where we were happy. Once. We used to take our holidays there.’

  ‘He left this country,’ said Davies deliberately, ‘and went to the Rock Hotel …’

  ‘Our old place,’ she mused. ‘I remember the flowers at this time of the year. So that’s what the old fraud did.’ She closed her thin eyes as if trying to picture the past. Then she said quite strongly: ‘Is he still there?’

  He swallowed and plunged on with the lie.
‘He died there last year. He had moved from the hotel and had taken an apartment under a false name.’

  ‘I bet he was with a woman?’ It was a question.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered carefully.

  ‘He would not be by himself. Well, I’m glad.’ She smiled towards him again. ‘Someone once said that nothing matters very much and in the end nothing matters at all. I think that I am reaching the moment when nothing will. So I want to tell you …’ He had been standing but he quietly pulled up a chair and sat confidingly close to her. Her eyes were closed and with a rush of anxiety he tried to see if she were still breathing. She saved him the trouble: she opened her eyes. ‘I thought I had killed him,’ she whispered. ‘I am so relieved I didn’t. I’m grateful to you, Dangerous. So grateful.’

  ‘You thought you had killed him?’ repeated Davies slowly.

  Mrs Dulciman gave a small, spectral laugh. ‘I pushed him down the stairs, you see. The stairs outside our hotel suite. He was such a pig that night. Even more than normal.’ She reached out again and her hold on his hand became a clutch. Slivers of wet were lying under her eyelashes. ‘He was such a bastard, so abominable you know. But I did not want to be a murderer. That is why I asked you to investigate. I had to know what happened to him. I hope you’ll forgive my lies but there never was a son – what did I call him, Gervais? – from a previous marriage and since there was not one he could not have abandoned his wife and family as I told you. It was all a fairy-tale. I was afraid you might find that out very early in your inquiries.’

  Mentally Davies thought he should have done. He said: ‘So you retained me really only to find out what had happened to him?’