I ought to have said Lucia was lovelier. That she was a better person. Worth ten of Kay any day of the week. But I was still mixed up about Kay and the words wouldn't come. So I stood there, feeling awkward and tongue-tied, until she smiled and held out her hands. "Come on, Sam, let's go for a walk. Just to clear our heads. Then I'll cook dinner while you do some more remembering."
We crossed Park Lane into Hyde Park and ambled towards the Serpentine. My hands were thrust deep into my pockets and as we walked she linked her arm through mine. It was comforting, her being with me. I wondered who I would have turned to had she not been there? That's what got me down more than anything. This business of being ostracised. Why! There had been so many friends in the old days. Dozens, hundreds of friends. But none had even phoned since I came out. Just to ask how I was. Not one had offered to help. Just for old times' sake. Not one! Except Jack and Maria, and this girl Lucia.
"Penny for them?"
I shrugged. It would be ungrateful to tell her, so instead I said, "Tomlinson seems to think the notes we're working on might be useful after all."
"Sam, they're vital! Absolutely vital! You must remember everything. Everything you possibly can."
Her forcefulness surprised me. After all, my problems could mean little to her. We had only just met. It was kind of her to become involved but the outcome could only be of passing interest to her.
"What's that expression of Jack's?" she asked, just as strongly. "Don't let the bastards grind you down. Don't let them, Sam - you mustn't."
I laughed. Typical of Jack to say the right thing - even if it was through a third party. And what was that saying of Kay's? 'The surest way to be a loser is to act like one.' It was time to pull myself together. We walked on for a bit, then I said, "Look, you are supposed to be on holiday. I'll tell you what. We'll finish this thing of ours, then spend the weekend in the country somewhere. We could go-" I broke off as she stiffened on my arm. Her stride faltered and she took a half pace instead of a full one, so that we bumped into each other. "What's the matter?"
"What - what you just said?"
"A weekend in the country?" I laughed as I caught the expression on her face. "Look here - I didn't mean - well, I suppose we could have separate bedrooms. I just meant to show you the countryside-"
She shook her head. "No. You said - 'this thing of ours'." She stopped abruptly and stared at me.
"So? Those notes for Tomlinson. You were the one who said they were vital."
I could see the questions in her eyes even in that dim light. She searched my face for such a long time that it was embarrassing. But eventually she smiled, uncertainly at first, then with more confidence. She relaxed her grip on my arm and said, "Yes, that would be nice. A weekend in the country. Sam, it sounds a lovely idea just what we need."
After which she became so enthusiastic that I forgot how startled she had been. What did it matter anyway? A misunderstanding obviously. I imagine it is easily done when you are not speaking your natural language however fluent you may be in another. When she asked where we would go I suggested the Wye Valley, and we were still talking about it when we returned to Rex Place.
"Let's have a drink before I start dinner," she suggested. "You fix them while I fetch your notes."
So I did as I was told and a moment later she came back downstairs, frowning over the last sheet of paper.
"This man Corrao?" she said, taking the chair at the hearth. "What did he look like?"
I cast my mind back over the years. "Short and thin, about five six, weighing a lot less than me. Black hair, dark glasses."
"Anything else?"
I shrugged. "That's not bad is it? I only met the guy once."
"Think Sam - it is important."
"Why?" I asked, thinking instead of Tomlinson. "The lawyers won't be interested in-"
"Forget the lawyers," she said sharply. "Concentrate on Corrao."
"But I told you-"
She shook her head. "Try, Sam - was there anything else about him?"
I stared at her, wondering what on earth she meant. Then she prompted me. "What about his hands, Sam? Was there anything special about his hands?"
Suddenly I went cold. I knew what she meant. I saw Corrao back in that hotel room, sitting at the breakfast table. Buttering a slice of toast with one hand. His right hand. The toast slid around the plate a bit, but instead of holding it with his other hand he just pushed it around with his butter knife. Then he did the same with the marmalade. He poured the coffee with his right hand, put the pot down, picked up the cup and passed it to me - all with his right hand. And when he finished he opened a pack of cigarettes with his right hand, just as if his left hand were paralysed or something.
Remembering that surprised me, but it was nothing to the shock I felt as I looked at Lucia's excited expression. How had she known? And what the hell did she mean - 'forget the lawyers'? Dammit, that's why we were working on the notes, wasn't it? Wasn't it!
I went back to the sideboard to collect my drink.
"His hands, Sam. Do you remember them?"
I was as cold as the grave. Cold with a sudden fear. Fear of betrayal. Betrayal by another woman! I swallowed the scotch neat and refilled my glass, this time adding a dash of water. Then I turned to face her. "Yes, I remember. And I remember something else. Thinking about Corrao reminded me. He said this thing of ours is too strong. This thing of ours. When I used the same words in the park you almost seized up. And I remember something else. How calm you were at Oliver's after the explosion. Calm, like a nurse, like a - a professional. And I remember you saying these notes are vital, 'absolutely vital'. But not for the lawyers, apparently?"
I looked at her coldly, hating myself for distrusting her, trying again to decipher the look in her eyes. My image of her shattered. Hair prickled on the back of my neck. I forced the words out, made myself ask, "Who are you, Lucia?"
She sat perfectly still, but even from across the room I sensed the tension in her body. Like a cat ready to pounce. But before she could move I heard a step in the hall and a moment later the sitting room door opened.
"Good evening, Mr Harris. No, don't move - please remain exactly as you are."
It was the man from the restaurant! The man who had attacked me! I watched in amazement as he opened the door wider to admit another man. They were both so calm. Unhurried, casual. I swung back to Lucia, suddenly frightened for her despite my doubts of a moment ago. But I need not have worried on her account. She knew them! From the look on her face they were friends of hers.
"You heard?" she asked the man who had attacked me.
He nodded, without taking his eyes away from me. "Sorry about last night, Mr Harris - but I had to get you away from that window."
I heard what he said but it barely registered. The world, my world, was going mad.. I no longer understood it. I took a deep breath and asked, "Who the hell are you?"
"My name's Henderson. Attached to the Home Office." He produced a wallet from an inside pocket and flicked a plastic identity card in front of me. I saw the name Henderson and a passport photo which resembled him.
Lucia asked, "What happens now?" She spoke to him, not me.
The man called Henderson said, "Headquarters." He shrugged, dismissing the questions in her eyes. "It had to happen, sooner or later." He looked at me. "You're coming with us, Mr Harris. Don't be alarmed. You'll be quite safe, well looked after. My colleague will help you pack an overnight bag."
"Am I being arrested?"
He smiled, faintly amused, then he shook his head. "You'll be back here within a day or two."
Lucia said, "Sam, it's all for the best - please believe me."
But I was incapable of believing anyone by then. "I'm not going." I said, panicking, "I don't want to go. I'm not going anywhere, d'you hear me?" I swung back to the two men as they crossed the room towards me. "Look, what the hell is this all about? How did you get in here anyway?"
The man from the restaurant smiled. "I said there was no
cause for alarm, Mr Harris. You must accept that." He moved a pace nearer, reaching out to take hold of my elbow.
I stepped backwards. "Get out. Get the hell out of here. Get out - d'you hear?"
But everything was happening at once. Lucia was pleading, "Sam, it's all for the best. Really it is." And the man from the restaurant was boring in on me. "Let's be sensible, Mr Harris. There are two of us and only one of you."
I lashed out but he must have been in training overnight because he rode the punch like a professional fighter. Then his mate wrapped himself over my back like an overcoat. I struggled and shouted, but I was no match for both of them - besides there was no space to manoeuvre in that little room - and a minute later I was being forced into a chair as my sleeve was pushed up above the elbow.
"Sorry about this," said the man called Henderson. "Believe me, it's for your own protection."
I was telling them to go to hell, get out, leave me alone - but it made no difference. The needle went in just the same. Suddenly my body felt heavy and the lights went dim in the room. Lucia was watching me, white-faced and anxious, one hand at her mouth while she repeated "It's all for the best" over and over again like a chant. Then her face turned upwards and all I could see was the ceiling, reducing in size, as big as a tablecloth one minute, then a pocket handkerchief, then as small as a postage stamp. A grey mist enveloped the room, fogging everything. My mind grabbed passing thoughts, trying to hang on, make sense, understand. Lucia asking the men if they heard? Heard how? Heard what? Us, talking together in that little sitting room. Heard? How? Lucia had helped refurnish the cottage. Refurnished it with hidden microphones?
How stupid. Bugs Ridiculous to think of Lucia doing a thing like that. Lucia Serracino-Torregianni. A hard name to say and a hard name to live with. And then I blacked out.
Chapter Four
I do remember some things after that. It's not a complete blank. For instance I know I was in a moving vehicle. It was too big for a car, because I was stretched full length on something like a camp-bed. And somebody was sitting close by. I remember that because I felt the jab of a needle afterwards and I went back to sleep. And then later - I had this most peculiar dream. I was in a room, talking to people. God knows who. It was pitch dark, but once or twice I felt a light on my eyes. I couldn't see, I think my eyes were closed - but I sensed a light turning on and off. And all the time talking answering questions - people telling me to remember this, or tell them that. And me not wanting to, feeling sick and tired, just wanting to sleep - or to die.
Lucia was in the dream. Not that I could see her, but I knew her voice. And there were other voices - men's voices. One with a cut-glass accent, like Edgar Hardirsan's. (Edgar, is that you? After all this time?) And an American, but an American accent softened by years of travel, time spent in Europe perhaps? And a voice which sounded like the man called Henderson. Then another voice. So many voices. So many questions.
"Describe Corrao?" "Are you sure you only met him once?" "So what happened when you rejected his offer?" "Yeah, yeah - the take-over battle - we know all about that - but what happened afterwards?" "Afterwards is important - that's what we want to know about." "So okay - you told Corrao no dice - then what happened?" "Sam, you must tell us." "How did they put the skids under Apex - that's what we want to know about?"
It was like the lull before the storm - that summer in '75. Not that it began as a storm. Occasional squalls perhaps, but not a storm. There was a fight at Pam's Place on a Saturday night, then a spot of bother at Winston's a few days later. And some kids were caught smoking pot at Jennifer's the following week. None of the incidents were big in themselves, but they seemed to mount up - so that after a while there was some kind of trouble every week, then twice a week, and then almost every night. I thought it was a run of bad luck at first. There seemed no pattern to the events. But when we lost our licence at the Derby I was really worried, and I think I guessed what was happening then.
The law is an ass when it comes to gambling - full of hypocrisy and double standards. Gambling is venal but permissible if the Government gets a cut - and as long as certain proprieties are observed. Such as the forty-eight hour rule - which was invented to placate the Holy Joe's. Nobody can play the tables unless he has been a member of the gaming club for forty-eight hours. It's supposed to give the unwary time to repent before taking the plunge. In practice it's a pain in the neck. Gamblers arrive at a club and bribe the reception staff to backdate a membership card. Nothing happens to them if they get caught, and all that happens to the reception staff is that they stand to lose their jobs. The one who really gets hurt is the casino operator - and he can lose his licence.
Well, one night the police raided The Derby and found gamblers who were neither members nor guests of members. About twenty of them. They all swore blind they had just walked in off the street and gained admittance without question. It was absolute rubbish of course, but it was their word against ours - and they lied their heads off. Afterwards we found two emergency exits wide open. That's the way they came in - in fact some of the police arrived through the very same doors.
Even the business of the emergency exits was fixed. The doors were fitted with crash bars on the inside, to comply with local fire regulations, and a member of staff guarded each door every night. But that night one man had been called to the telephone urgently, and the other was trying to quieten a drunk. Both the telephone call and the drunk were bogus - and the doors were mysteriously opened within minutes of the men leaving their posts. Not that Chief Inspector Davis believed a word of it. Nor did the magistrates subsequently - though faced with the evidence of twenty men perjuring themselves it is difficult to see how the magistrates could have believed otherwise. And so the Derby was closed.
That was a hell of a blow. The Derby was our biggest club and accounted for almost ten per cent of our profits - and all this came about when we were committed to pay an increased dividend because of the take-over battle. But we could have weathered even that had it not been for all the other things. Fights which broke out for no reason. A bad case of food poisoning at Winston's. And then the whispering campaign started - rumours that Apex was going broke.
Start rumours in a business like ours and it's like a run on the bank. No gambler likes to think the kitty will be empty when his win comes up. So our business suffered - especially the betting shops which took a real beating. Apex had been financially healthy to begin with but after six months of that ... well, I suppose the writing was on the wall. Even though I refused to read it.
Then I was having this dream again. One minute I was remembering the Derby - and the next minute I was dreaming. Except was it a dream? The light seemed to be stronger and the people's voices were growing louder.
A voice - a woman's voice - said, "He's resisting. He's rejecting-"
"Ask him about Edgar Hardman." ,
"Ask him about his wife for Chrissakes!"
"He's resisting I tell you. It's no good. For Heaven's sake - you'll kill him!"
"That's enough," another voice said firmly. "More than enough. It was a mistake. He needs to be conscious. It will require a conscious effort for him to remember."
"Just get him going about his wife. Please, just for another few minutes."
"No! That's an end to it. Put him back under."
Then the needle again. Deep black waves rolling over me like a velvet curtain. And rest, blessed rest. But the voices? Fading going away - going far away.
It was morning when I awoke. The curtains were drawn back and the light from the window was strong enough to reveal the furniture. I propped myself up in the strange bed and looked about me. It was a large room, larger than average, comfortably furnished with a dressing table and a chest of drawers, two armchairs and a wardrobe. A handbasin mounted on the far wall was surrounded by splash tiles, with a mirror above. Wall-to-wall carpet followed the shape of the old-fashioned bay windows. A single door was set into the wall on my right. Regency striped wallp
aper rose to a high ceiling. No pictures decorated the walls. No flowers dropped their heads in vases, no bric-a-brac cluttered the surfaces. It was a masculine room - a comfortable, old-fashioned, country house kind of room.
A cock crowed in the far distance. That was the only sound. No traffic noise broke the stillness, no transistor relayed the breakfast show to all and sundry - and when the cock exhausted itself silence descended again like a cloak.
Seven o'clock. I had been 'out' for almost twelve hours. A dull hangover buzzed at the back of my eyes but apart from that I felt well enough. My legs supported me across to the handbasin and my face looked normal in the mirror. Normal! What the hell was normal now? The word had lost its meaning. Normal was to be a businessman, a restaurateur, a casino operator. Normal even meant being in Brixton Prison. Normal implied the predictable, a busy life, the daily round. But this?
The windows overlooked a kitchen garden; neat rows of bean sticks and cabbages. Thirty yards away a small shed nestled against a high brick wall and beyond that ploughed fields were crisscrossed with hedgerow and the occasional tree. Flat land, like East Anglia.
The door was locked but I expected that. People had taken a lot of trouble to bring me to this house. Doors would stay locked until they told me why. Until they told me. They! They included Lucia. I saw her face in my mind's eye; heard her voice; "Sam, it's for your own good." Like hell! For my own good, like two years in the army. Like two years in Brixton! Bullshit! I decided what's for my own good. Not them. Not Lucia. She sat there and let them do it! Watched while they held me down and stuck a needle in my arm. Bitch! Treacherous rotten bitch!
I examined my arm and saw the puncture marks. Three - not one. No, four, five even. I shuddered. I had been injected five times. It made me feel sick. Just the thought of a syringe brought back memories. Memories which were better left dead and buried. Then I stiffened as I remembered the dream. Those voices? Asking questions - me not wanting to answer. Suddenly I was sweating all over. Sweating with alarm as I remembered a voice saying, 'He's resisting I tell you. It's no good. For Heaven's sake - you'll kill him.' God, what had I told them? And who in Christ's name were they anyway?
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 47