by John Burke
But nobody knew he was here. He had been most insistent about that before he left prison. No one was to know.
Because he wanted peace and quiet — or because he was afraid?
Roger did not believe that his father was afraid. Even now, seeing him as only a shadow of his former self, he was sure that fear had nothing to do with this deliberate seclusion. Somewhere, somehow, a plan was maturing: it must be.
Yet nothing happened. Sam Westwood said nothing and did nothing about that fabulous haul which had caused all the trouble and cut all those prison years out of his life.
Chapter Three
The car had sprung a flat tyre some miles outside London. Roger was late arriving at the studio, and felt hot and greasy as he went up the stairs.
A girl passed him, coming down. She was a silver blonde, heavily perfumed and frozen in make-up. She glanced at him once, and angrily looked away again. Her heels struck against the treads of the stairs, then set up a new, more impatient rhythm as she reached ground level.
Roger pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and went through. There were three girls sitting on the chairs against the wall in the little corridor that had been converted into a waiting-room. They looked up expectantly. One gave him a red smile and said: ‘Good morning, Mr. Westwood.’
‘Good morning,’ he said, and went on.
The large room beyond was hot with arc lamps. A girl wearing shorts and a pink brassière leaned against a metal screen. A young man going bald stood by one of the cameras and said, ‘Not bad,’ then said, ‘Hello, Roger,’ then, to the girl, said, ‘Lean forward. Mm. Yes, I reckon you’ll do.’
Roger went round the screen and into the tiny office behind it.
Stan Morrison looked up from a heap of bromides and scowled. ‘Thought you’d gone off with your old man to collect the treasure.’
Roger tried to shrug unconcernedly. ‘Not yet.’
‘When’s it going to be?’
‘You sound pretty foul this morning,’ Roger protested. He had expected the usual challenge, and expected it to be more savage than the last time or the time before; but he had not been prepared for such an immediate attack. ‘What’s the matter?’ he ventured. ‘Did that blonde on the stairs spit in your eye, or something?’
It was closer to the truth than he had guessed. ‘That blonde,’ Stan growled: ‘you saw which one she was?’
‘Just looked like one of the usuals.’
‘She was the one we used in the last two issues of Damsel.’
‘The one —’
‘The one my old man had his eye on,’ Stan Morrison sourly agreed. ‘But she won’t play. She won’t even have those other pictures taken — you know, the breakdown stage — and if she won’t go that far, she’s no good for the Morrison stable.’
That was a tested scientific fact: the models who drew back from the prospect of posing for some of the periodicals with a more limited sale — yet a more remunerative one — never enjoyed the prospect of joining Lew Morrison’s chorus.
Roger picked up the morning mail, which Stan had pushed to one side of his desk, and began to go through it. He said:
‘Well, there are plenty more where she came from. And your father’s got plenty to be going on with.’
‘My father’s got where he is,’ said Stan fiercely, ‘from never letting up. He keeps at it. A good thing for us, too —’
‘Of course,’ Roger hastened to say, aware of what was inevitably coming.
‘If it was left to you and your promises, we wouldn’t have much of a future to look forward to.’
‘It wouldn’t be bad,’ Roger attempted. ‘We’re doing nicely —’
‘Not as nicely as you said you would. It was all going to expand when your old man came out of stir — that’s what you promised. Plenty of backing from him, and plenty of scope for building up the business. Well, where’s the backing?’
Roger said stiffly: ‘He’s . . . not ready yet. Not ready to talk.’
‘Christ,’ said Stan.
He pouted like a girl: he had a dark face that was almost Italian, and a heavy lower lip that drooped petulantly. When he was alone in the room he would smoke a cigarette that dangled from one corner of his mouth, held by that moist lip, and study himself in the glass on the wall. When other people were with him he would wave the cigarette constantly between two fingers. Roger had copied Stan’s mannerisms with a cigarette until he had developed some of his own.
Someone banged into the metal screen outside the office, cursed, and put his head round the door.
‘Don’t forget those three outside,’ he said. ‘Especially Maisie. Maisie’s ripe for the picking, if you ask me.’
‘All right, Archie, all right.’ Stan leaned back in his chair, already seeming to swell into the plump, smooth operator that his father was. ‘Send her in first.’
The two of them waited in silence. They were partners, but gradually they were becoming enemies. If Roger did not soon produce the promised results, Stan would really get down to hating him.
A brunette was shown in. She said, ‘Good morning, Mr. Morrison,’ and, for the second time, ‘Good morning, Mr. Westwood.’
Roger sat on the edge of the desk. He felt better. It was at moments like these that he was conscious of power. Yet there was also the thrill of being unsure — of gambling on girls like these, not knowing whether they would turn out right, whether one’s judgement had been sound.
He said: ‘You’ve done some good work for us, Maisie.’
‘It’s not work,’ she said with a cool, self-satisfied laugh. ‘Just displaying what I’ve been given’ — she glanced downwards almost coyly — ‘isn’t much. Or is it?’ Her lips parted, and she looked straight at Roger.
‘You’ve enjoyed working with us, haven’t you, Maisie?’ said Stan.
‘Sure thing. And it’s nice to see my . . . face . . . on the bookstalls.’ Again the laugh.
The two young men looked at her for a long minute. Then Roger swung half round and nodded. Stan dipped into one of the desk drawers, took out a magazine, and tossed it across the desk. Maisie stared down at it, and began slowly to smile. She picked it up and opened it.
They watched her face. Still she was smiling.
‘This is hot stuff, isn’t it?’ she said at last.
‘It pays well,’ said Roger quietly.
‘It’d need to.’ She passed the magazine back.
Stan said: ‘Well?’
‘Well?’ she echoed.
‘The distribution of this sort of thing is tricky, but we have regular customers who pay through the nose for it. The trouble is, they’re always wanting something new. Somebody new,’ he added.
‘Jaded appetites, eh?’ said Maisie cheerfully.
Roger relaxed. She was hooked. He and Stan had not been wrong.
He said: ‘You’d like to earn bigger money?’
‘Who wouldn’t?’
Roger slipped from the desk. ‘Come and see Archie,’ he said. ‘Maybe he’s got some time for a little shooting this morning. Just to get you used to it.’
He delivered the girl to the cameraman, and then came back.
Stan ought to have been looking pleased, but he was not. His expression was the same as it had been when Roger first entered the office this morning. He went back to the attack.
‘So there’s still nothing doing? What the hell does your old man think he’s playing at?’
‘He knows what he’s doing,’ said Roger defensively.
‘Does he? That’s nice to know. I wish I knew what he’s doing, that’s all. When you think of what we could do with more capital — more apparatus, better distribution facilities, getting our stuff into the foreign movie market . . . Just when are we going to get that money, that’s what I’m asking.’
Roger had been asking it too; not out loud, but over and over again in his head. But all he could say was: ‘It’s all going to be all right.’
Stan began to speak very slowly. It
was unusual for him — unnatural, in fact. ‘I came into this business with you,’ he said deliberately, ‘because I’d heard a lot about your father. All about what a smart operator he was, until he got caught. And even then, they said — you said — he was smart enough to keep his hands on the stuff. It was there waiting for him when he came out, you said. We’d cut in on it, you said. With Sam Westwood behind us, there were terrific possibilities. Well, he’s out now: where’s the stuff?’
‘Can’t you shut up for just one minute?’ snapped Roger. ‘My father makes his own mind up about things. When he’s good and ready, I’ll be the first to hear.’
‘You think so?’
‘I’m sure of it,’ said Roger, sounding more confident than he felt.
‘If there’s anything there at all,’ said Stan meaningly.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘What do you think I mean? Has your father really got that stuff safe somewhere? Maybe one of the others got away with it after all . . .’
‘No.’ Roger denied it swiftly, denying it fervently to himself at the same time.
‘Well, that’s the way it looks. That’s the way I’m beginning to think. And my old man, too — he’s not so sure about the set-up.’
A woman laughed outside. There came the deeper, answering rumble of men’s laughter. Stan glanced instinctively towards the door, and the vicious lines in his face softened. He sighed, and pushed himself up from his chair.
‘Better go and check there’s some work going on,’ he said.
He pushed past Roger.
Roger said: ‘It’s not just the cash — not just the future. You’re getting a hell of a kick out of this place as it is, and you know it. And if it hadn’t been for me you wouldn’t be in on it.’
Stan stood for a moment at the door, looking into the studio. His lips curled appreciatively. Over his shoulder he said in a milder voice, but one that had not lost its scepticism: ‘Your job is to get some more money into our hands. Fast. It’s time we saw some results.’
Then he sauntered out.
Roger, watching him go, wanted to kill him. Or at any rate to bring him to his knees. He wanted to be in a position to telephone someone, to mutter curt instructions, and to know that Stan Morrison would be picked up and dealt with. That was the way his father had done things. No one had insulted Sam Westwood and got away with it. Sam Westwood had been respected and omnipotent.
Maybe if he knew what young scum like that were saying about him . . .
*
Instead of staying in London for a full week, Roger drove down to Easterdyke the next morning.
It was a cold day. The wind smacked at the side of the car as he approached the sea along the road that swung slowly round in an arc before dipping towards the sea. Getting out in front of the house, he felt the bleakness in the air, and thought of the warm office in London. His father must be mad to have suggested living here, even temporarily.
His footsteps in the poky hall brought his mother and father out.
‘You didn’t say you’d be back so soon,’ his mother complained.
His father looked past him, as though expecting someone else to be there. But Roger had closed the door, and there was nobody there.
Sam Westwood said faintly: ‘I thought you might have . . . that is, I wondered . . .’
‘That’s all you think about,’ said his wife. ‘The rest of us don’t count. Just because Barbara isn’t here, nothing counts.’
He touched her arm gently but without real meaning. She twitched away and went out into the kitchen.
Roger said: ‘You’re not still hoping Barbara will come back, are you? I told you, the mood she was in, she wasn’t intending to come back. It’s no good, Dad.’
He went in and stood by the fire. The wind moaned thoughtfully to itself around the exposed house, and there was a noticeable draught from somewhere around the window-frame.
Sam Westwood returned to his chair.
‘None of your friends have seen her?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘You could ask them to look out for her. If you really went about it —’
‘We wouldn’t find her if she didn’t want to be found,’ said Roger.
Sam did not seem to hear. He held his hands out in front of him and flexed the fingers as though trying their strength. Distantly he said:
‘What is this business of yours?’
Roger felt a quiver of excitement. This was the first sign of interest his father had shown. Perhaps this was the opening he had been waiting for; perhaps, at last, the shell was beginning to crack.
‘It’s a pretty slick little organization,’ he said, moving to the chair opposite his father. ‘We started out supplying photographs — pin-up stuff, you know — to magazines. Then we began to publish our own magazine. You have to go carefully, but once you know the ropes you can’t miss.’
‘Pornography?’ said his father mildly.
‘Well, you know the sort of thing. We’ve got several monthly ones going now — good glossy art paper, high-class stuff — and one or two for private circulation if you know what I mean.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘We’ve got the market pretty well sewn up,’ said Roger expansively. ‘All we need now is more capital. Then we can expand.’
‘Expand?’ said Sam Westwood. His expression was as remote as his rustling voice. ‘There’s no future in that sort of thing. Small-time dirt. You’ll never make a fortune out of that.’
Roger flushed. He wavered, on the verge of making a sharp retort; but it wasn’t worth it — not now, with his father at last showing some interest. Stiffly he said:
‘We’ve explored the possibilities thoroughly. I don’t think you know just how you can branch out in this racket. There are side issues —’
‘Such as keeping Lew Morrison supplied with girls?’
‘I never mentioned Lew Morrison.’
‘You did,’ said Sam Westwood, ‘when you drove me down, a few weeks ago. And the only reason Lew Morrison would even bother to smile at a little operator like you is that you’re channelling raw material into his clubs.’
Still Roger kept his temper. Still he held the words on a level, like someone practising one note over and over again — a steady, dead note without vibrato.
‘We don’t turn down useful contacts,’ he said. ‘Morrison or anyone else, they all widen your scope.’
‘But you’re still not big enough,’ said his father, fingers locking together and stiffening, ‘to find your own sister.’
They were back. The important topic receded; the shadow of that spoilt, stuck-up creature darkened the room again.
Roger said again: ‘If she didn’t want to be found, nobody could —’
‘In my day,’ said his father, ‘it could have been done. I’d have found her. I’d have found anybody.’
It was too much. The anger was like a bitter vomit that could not be kept in any longer. Roger got up from his chair. He stood above his father, dominating the crumpled little figure. He shouted:
‘In your day. I’ve been living on your day for a long time, and it’s been a big mistake. I’ve been waiting for you to come back, and now look. Look at you!’
‘I’m sorry,’ whispered his father. It was a brittle, mocking whisper. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come back in splendour with machine-guns blazing. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
‘All I wanted,’ cried Roger, ‘was for you to let me in with you. To . . . to trust me.’
‘Trust you?’
‘Where’s the stuff you lifted?’ In his own head, resounding, Roger heard the plaintive echoes of his own despairing appeal. ‘If you’d come through with that — share it, let me in on it — give me a chance to use it, instead of sitting there sneering at me and the work I’m doing, that’d be something. And all the time I get cracks made at me . . . Do you know what they say about you? Do you know? And me having to stand and take it.’
&nbs
p; Sam Westwood stood up. Roger took an instinctive step backwards. Sam grinned a slight, wintry grin.
‘We’d better try to understand one another, son. I never made a habit of telling anybody anything. I’m not going to start now. That’s the way it always was, and that’s how it is now.’
Roger followed him impotently to the door. ‘Damn you.’ He could have burst into tears. ‘How long is this going to go on?’
‘It’s a nice, crisp day,’ said Sam. ‘I think I’ll have a breath of air.’
‘What’s the game?’ cried Roger. ‘What’s it all about? If you muffed the job — if you never got the diamonds after all . . .’
His father did not even look round.
*
Mrs. Westwood crossed the room and meaninglessly plumped up the couch cushions.
‘Yes,’ she said; ‘that’s how he’s been with me, too. All the time. I’ve been hanging on all these years telling myself everything would go back to what it was before. And it’s all meant nothing — all the waiting.’
There was no real need for her to tell him this. He knew it all. He had known since he was a boy what she felt. It was all there in her tart comments on life as it was then and in her blustering assurance as to what it would be later. Later, when things went back to normal. No alternative was possible: she was waiting for the rich bright world to be laid at her feet again, as Aladdin’s stolen palace had at last returned under the Sultan’s window.
For Roger it had been the same. He, too, had waited. But for him there had been no bitterness, no spasms of rage against the man who had so skilfully concealed his true profession for so long. Sam Westwood’s son had grown up to admire and envy him: no father returning from heroic action in a noble war had been more eagerly awaited than Sam Westwood after his ten years in prison.
Wife and son — alike, wanting the same things, yet not united and not devoted to one another. They did not talk a lot: they pursued their own dreams and planned their own futures. They were simply fellow prisoners, linked only by their need for that other prisoner to be released at last and to come to them, releasing them in their turn.