Echo of Barbara

by John Burke

  ‘That’s no excuse.’

  ‘I’m not saying it is.’

  ‘But if — if that was the way you wanted it then,’ she fumbled, ‘why don’t you want it the same again? Why are you so . . . why don’t you care any more?’

  ‘I’m not the same man.’ He seemed to be shrinking back and back into his chair, as though to withdraw from her; yet there was something imploring in his voice. ‘It just wouldn’t be possible for me to go back to what I was. I could never keep doing the same thing over and over again. Even in the old days it helped: no job my men did was ever pulled off in the same way as one before. And the men themselves didn’t know the plan: they just took orders. Like with the Mannerlaw job. The results of that, of course, were unfortunate.’

  ‘I know,’ said Paula. ‘I know all about that.’

  ‘Nobody knows all the details about it. Nobody but me.’

  ‘Such as where the things are hidden,’ she breathed.

  He stared at her for a long moment. Then he said:

  ‘You’re very determined, aren’t you, Barbie? You’re determined to be hard. I suppose you were too young then to understand what had happened to you — and to me — and now . . .’

  ‘I wasn’t too young,’ she said, ‘to be hurt.’

  He was forced to his feet. He stared down at her, then padded across to the window and stayed there, looking out.

  ‘Yes, you must have been hurt,’ he whispered. ‘So hurt that you couldn’t face me when I came out — could you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you came back. You did come back.’

  ‘Roger found me,’ she said, ‘and talked me into it.’

  ‘A funny thing for Roger to do. Not in keeping with the rest of him.’

  Paula said: ‘You’ve never liked Roger.’

  ‘Another one of my sins. No, we didn’t get on specially well when he was a kid. It’s a funny thing to say about a boy of his age, but even when he was little I never trusted him. Not,’ he hastened to add, ‘that I ever trusted anyone in those days.’

  ‘And do you now?’ she asked softly.

  He was silent. In the distance was the sound of a car engine, pulsing nearer.

  At last he said: ‘No. But it’s not the same. Once I distrusted people, and despised them because they were all so twisted one way or another. I had no friends. Didn’t miss them. Plenty of men, and a few women, I saw a lot of and talked to and made a lot of noise with. But I didn’t trust them — and I was right. It was the same in prison, to begin with. All the little cliques and false friendships, and the warders that you can bribe or think you can bribe . . . It was all so false and so dirty that I curled up inside myself, and for ten years I hardly talked to anyone. I lost my voice: and it didn’t much matter. And now . . . well, I still wouldn’t trust anyone, but I see that it doesn’t make any difference. Nobody’s honest and consistent right through. You just don’t have to let it matter. Have the friendship while it’s there, and to hell with the flaws in it. Adam Collier may be a policeman —’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s quite possible,’ said Sam. ‘They’d still like to know where the Mannerlaw treasures went to. Though I don’t imagine they can spare a man full-time just to hang about watching me. Anyway, it doesn’t make any difference. I like young Collier. I like a couple of old sailors over at Easterdyke, and I often have a drink with a youngster who could be a journalist looking for a scoop. I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m not going to let suspicion foul up my pleasures. Not any longer.’

  The car was approaching the house now. There was nowhere else along this road for it to go.

  Sam said: ‘Trust . . .’ He paused. Then: ‘You’re staying, Barbie?’

  ‘If I stay,’ she said stiffly, ‘things have got to be squared up. You’ve got to face it. Things can’t go on like this.’

  He stood with his shoulders hunched as though bracing himself against a savage blow.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘What do you want? What are your . . . your terms, Barbie?’

  She winced, but made herself continue. ‘You know. You must know. I want what we all want — what we’ve all been waiting for.’

  The car stopped outside the house. If this was Roger, he was going to ruin all his own plans: the impatience that had brought him home again was about to destroy the moment.

  ‘Please,’ said Sam. ‘Please don’t ask.’

  ‘I’ve got to.’

  ‘I’ll tell you, Barbie. If you insist, I’ll tell you. But . . . I do want you not to insist.’

  She said: ‘What have you done with the Mannerlaw stuff? Where is it?’

  He did not reply. He watched three men coming up to the door of the house. Paula got up, wanting to grip his arm and shake him. Now that she had gone this far, she could wait no longer. She burned to shake the truth out of him.

  Sam said: ‘You’d better go out for a walk, Barbie.’

  ‘You promised — you’ve just promised to tell me —’

  ‘We have visitors,’ he said dully, ‘and I’d like you to go out for a walk.’

  He was leading her towards the door, one hand lightly but commandingly on her shoulder. Some reserve of strength remained from the past, to be called on when he needed it. He was the old Sam Westwood, not to be argued with.

  ‘I’ll go upstairs,’ she said, ‘and wait until —’

  ‘Go for a walk,’ he said. ‘Go and see Adam Collier. Anything.’

  Abruptly she sensed a threat waiting outside the house. There was a heavy knock at the front door. She gasped: ‘You want me to bring Adam here? You want him to come and help you?’

  ‘No,’ said Sam. ‘Keep your mouth shut. That’s all I ask. I can handle this.’ His fingers tightened on her shoulder. ‘When you come back, you can ask me your question again . . . if you’ve got to.’

  He opened the front door. Three men stood there in a huddle as though sheltering from the rain. But there was no rain.

  One of them said: ‘Hello, Sam. We’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘Seems that you’ve found me.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it? Going to invite us in?’

  Sam stood back. The three men came in. They all wore brown raincoats, and two of them had grey hats; the other was bareheaded, with crinkled black curls.

  The two men took their hats off, and all three of them looked searchingly at Paula. What she saw in their eyes made her reach instinctively for her coat and brush past them, out into the open air.

  When she was a hundred yards away from the house, she felt a sickness of shame rising within her. Shame because she had asked Sam the thing he had not wanted her to ask; shame for doing what Roger had paid her to do; and shame for leaving now, when he was in danger.

  She knew he was in danger. But, even if he had not ordered her to stay away, she could not have gone back into that house now.

  And at the same time she could not bear to be out here, alone with herself.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mrs. Westwood put her head round the door. ‘I thought I heard someone come in.’ She looked at the three cold faces that turned towards her. ‘Do you . . . is there anything you want? Tea . . . or anything?’

  ‘No, thank you, my dear,’ said Sam. ‘We’ll be all right.’

  ‘Barbara —’

  ‘Barbara’s gone out. Just run along. We’re going to have a little — ah — business conference.’

  She retreated apprehensively, closing the door.

  Willie McKenna said: ‘That’s exactly what we are going to have, Sam. You always did have a clever way of putting things.’

  Sam said: ‘Willie, where are your manners? You haven’t introduced me to your new friend.’

  ‘Sure, you were always one for the manners, too. This —’

  ‘I can introduce myself,’ said the curly haired man with the dark features and the hard, flat voice. ‘I’m Dave Legat. These two work for me now.’

  Sam nodded blandly. ‘Never could d
o anything on your own, could you, Willie? Or you, Russell. You always needed a boss.’

  ‘Now listen —’

  ‘I’ll do the talking,’ said Legat.

  Sam reached for the cigarette-box on the brass-topped table. His movement was slow enough, but it prompted a sharp jerk of Willie McKenna’s hand towards his pocket. Sam smiled, handing the box round. Willie and Russell took a cigarette each, then glanced warily at Legat, whose lip curled.

  ‘All right,’ said Sam; ‘go ahead.’

  ‘We thought we’d drop in and see you. It took us quite a time to find your address: you haven’t advertised it.’

  ‘I wanted some peace and quiet,’ said Sam, ‘beside the seaside.’

  ‘I’m all in favour of peace and quiet,’ droned Legat. Everything he said had the quality of a bleak, piercing incantation. ‘Let’s keep it that way, for both our sakes, eh?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Willie said: ‘What got into you, Sam? After we had to break and run for it — and after we got picked up — why didn’t you keep in touch with us?’

  ‘Inside,’ said Russell, his left eye twitching spasmodically as it had always done, ‘we got messages through to you. You didn’t answer. Not a peep did we get from you.’

  ‘And when the two of us was out,’ complained Willie, ‘we sent in to you. You could have got a message to us. Why wouldn’t you be sending us the word how we could find the Mannerlaw sparklers?’

  Legat said contemptuously: ‘I’ve told you why he wouldn’t.’

  Russell fidgeted. ‘Look, Sam’ — suspicion and resentment had brought him here, but there was a note of respect as he tried almost to plead with the shrunken man around whom they were clustered — ‘Willie and me don’t think you meant any double-cross. We’re willing to forget what happened, whatever it was, and share out now. That’s what we want. Maybe something did go wrong — maybe you knew what you were doing. Not trusting anyone: that was always the way you worked, wasn’t it? Well, we’re all here now. What about it, Sam?’

  Sam nodded towards Legat. ‘And what part is this character playing? Where does he come into it?’

  ‘I run things nowadays,’ said Legat. ‘Lots of things. You play along with me, and you’ll be all right. Well, Westwood?’

  Sam was pale and limp in his chair. Still Russell and Willie shot cautious respectful glances at him. He said: ‘Well?’

  ‘What did you do with the Mannerlaw stuff?’

  ‘It’s safe,’ said Sam.

  ‘All right, so it’s safe. Where? Are you going to tell us?’

  ‘No,’ said Sam.

  Willie McKenna’s lean, furrowed face darkened. ‘Now look here, Sam —’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Legat penetratingly. ‘I told you this was the way it would be. You’ve been making excuses for this washed-out little shell of a man — the big-time operator, that’s what, eh? — and you’ve been scared to look for him. If it hadn’t been for me, maybe we still wouldn’t have been here. But now we are here . . .’

  He stood in front of Sam’s chair, his arms dangling loosely.

  Russell said: ‘Don’t be a mug, Sam. Let’s settle it nice and quietly —’

  ‘You always were a coward, Russell,’ said Sam equably. ‘You always wanted to get things tidied up without a fuss, didn’t you? You were always the dodger, always —’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Legat again.

  Willie stiffened. Russell blinked and looked from his old boss to the new one, and back again.

  Sam said: ‘Things aren’t what they were in my day.’

  ‘You’re dead right,’ said Legat. ‘Now what about telling me where you put that stuff? We’ll see you get a share — a reasonable share.’

  ‘Nothing doing.’

  Legat said: ‘Get up. You’re coming with us.’

  ‘I’m staying right here.’

  Willie’s hand went into his pocket and emerged again. A shining blade lay along the palm of his hand.

  ‘Coming?’ said Legat.

  ‘You’d never have the guts to use that on me, Willie,’ said Sam.

  ‘There’s always this,’ said Legat. He had a gun in his hand. ‘It’s lonely out here — and in any case I don’t fancy you’re one for shouting for the police, are you?’

  ‘You won’t get much out of me when I’m dead,’ sighed Sam; but he began to get up wearily.

  ‘I’ve no intention of killing you. But I can shoot you in some nasty places. You wouldn’t enjoy it. Now . . . what’s it to be? Do you walk now, or come for a ride with us, or —’

  Sam’s knee lifted the loose brass top of the table. It rose in an arc, clanged against the gun, and fell on its edge on Legat’s left foot. He yelled, and dropped the gun.

  Willie raised his knife. But he hesitated. The old fear was still strong enough — suddenly demoralizing enough — to hold him back for a second. In that time Sam, wirier than he looked, had pounced on Legat’s gun and was standing away from them, waving them towards the door.

  ‘Never did have any time for amateurs,’ he said. ‘Run along home. And don’t come back.’

  Breath hissed faintly between Legat’s teeth. He ran one hand jerkily through his bunched curls in a gesture of long-established habit.

  ‘I’m warning you, Westwood —’

  ‘Spare me the clichés,’ said Sam. ‘It’s been nice meeting you, but I don’t wish to repeat the experience. Out you go.’

  ‘We’ll come back,’ said Legat. ‘We’re going to have the Mannerlaw diamonds and all the rest of it. You’re not going to sit on it for ever. If we go now, we’ll be back when we’re good and ready.’

  ‘I’ll lay in some canned goods,’ said Sam, ‘ready for a siege.’ He was smiling; his cheeks were flushed with something more than physical exertion. ‘But I really think it would be better for all of us if you didn’t come back. Find some other ambition. You won’t get anywhere with this one.’

  Willie McKenna, scowling at his useless knife, said: ‘You can’t hold out against the three of us, Sam. We’ll fix you in the end. I swear to God we will.’

  ‘Thank you for the warning,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll take due precautions. Now, for the last time —’

  ‘You wouldn’t fire that gun,’ said Russell uncertainly.

  ‘No?’ Sam took a step forward. ‘I could fire in self-defence. It’s not even my own gun — it’s bound to have your prints on as well as mine, Legat, and that would take some explaining away. Let’s not play games any longer. I got tired of the gangster game ages ago. Just clear off.’

  On his own, Legat might have done something; might have taken a chance. It was there in his eyes, smouldering. But he was infected with the awe and indecision of the other two. When they backed towards the door, he was with them.

  After they had gone, Sam sat in his chair for some time, his mouth still puckered in a faint, reminiscent smile.

  *

  ‘As a resident,’ said Adam Collier, ‘I am entitled to drink on the premises whenever I feel inclined to do so. Will you join me?’

  Numbly Paula shook her head. Then she changed her mind. ‘Yes. Yes, please.’

  He pulled a chair forward for her. She ducked her head under the huge beam that crossed the old fireplace, and sat beside the fire basket. The smoke made her eyes tingle; it was stinging in her throat, faintly intoxicating.

  Adam went up the three steps to the little serving-hatch behind the bar. ‘Mr. Ingle. I wonder if you’ve got a minute.’

  He returned with glasses, set them down on the brick ledge within the old chimney-piece, and said:

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she said, trying to sound surprised. ‘I was just out for a walk, and it felt a bit cold — and the idea of sitting by a fire was too wonderful to resist.’

  Her hand trembled as she picked up her glass. Her fingers tightened.

  Adam stretched out one long leg, kicked a log into the centre of the fire basket so that it sparked and cr
ackled; and he said: ‘If you’re worried about anything — now or any time — and I’m around, you know . . . I’m very fond of your father — like him enormously . . . if you want help, you’ve only got to shout.’

  His bluff ease of manner had faltered for once. Embarrassment and something else undermined it. He took a large gulp at his drink.

  The warmth of the fire, the placid cool calm of the deserted room outside the fireplace, the distant sound of someone scrubbing a floor: all these things added up to a cosy ordinariness that was the denial of violence.

  But she heard herself stammering out: ‘Are you . . . are you a policeman?’

  His mouth fell open. He stared at her across the fire that spluttered between them. Then he laughed, and she was sure that the laughter was genuine — yet too hearty, too clumsy.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I’m not a policeman. Cross my heart. But what —’

  ‘How well do you know my father?’ she demanded.

  Now he looked away from her. ‘I’ve only met him since he’s been in this district,’ he said. ‘But . . . I knew his name.’

  ‘You’d read about him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Adam, ‘I’d read about him. He’s not what I’d have expected. I’m glad I met him. I like him a lot.’

  ‘So do I,’ she murmured, half to herself.

  ‘But of course —’

  ‘There’s no ‘of course’ about it,’ she flared.

  He put his empty glass down on the ledge, and came round the fire towards her. He had to crouch, keeping his head and broad shoulders beneath the beam.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ he said firmly. ‘Have you quarrelled with Sam? Are you . . . sorry you came back?’

  ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘Only what I’ve guessed. Hints — things I’ve picked up.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong,’ she said shakily.

  He bent over her, holding her arms. One side of his face glowed in the firelight; the other was shadowed and severe.

  ‘Barbara,’ he said. ‘Please. I mean what I said. If you want help . . .’

  Her head fell against him. She was glad to give up and rest, just for a moment — as she had been glad to sag against him in the cold wind on that wooden groyne, when at last she and Sam had been drawn up from the water.