2 The Imposter

by Mark Dawson

  “Had some luck on the horses,” he said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand.

  Edward looked terrible in comparison, his backside half-hanging out of his trousers, and he knew it. “Well, you look like a millionaire playboy. I’m inclined to ask you about the seven-and-six you owe me for those beers in Calcutta.”

  “Good God, man, you’ve got a memory like an elephant.” He pulled out the seat and sat down. “Why haven’t you called me?”

  Edward smiled wryly. He still had the travel docket with the number scribbled on the back. It was on his dresser, weighed down under a handful of loose change. He had been meaning to call, but something had stayed his hand. He felt awkward about his circumstances, the way he looked, the fact that he could barely afford to buy a pint of milk, let alone a round of beer. “I’ve been meaning to,” he said. “There have been about a million things I’ve had to do.”

  “How’s it been?”

  “Oh, you know,” Edward said, putting on a brave front. “Takes some getting used to.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “What are you talking about? You look like you’ve fallen right on your feet.”

  He grinned. “You’re right––I shouldn’t grumble. No, I’m doing alright. It’s the getting into a new routine that’s the tricky bit.”

  “Are you working around here?”

  “No,” he lied. “Out in the sticks.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Bit of this, bit of that.” He needed to change the subject. “What about you?”

  “The same,” he said with the same vagueness.

  Edward slid back easily into the persona he had constructed for himself in the Far East. His time away from home had allowed him the opportunity to build an idealised picture of who he was that he wanted others to see. It was impossible for him to tell the truth now, not without fear of the assiduously created illusion being dispelled. That would be embarrassing, perhaps even dangerous. He knew that a lie would lead to another lie, and then a whole series of lies that would spring from the first, and he was comfortable with that. He had been living that way for most of his life and he was good at it.

  As he looked at Joseph and his evident good fortune, he wondered whether Joseph might present him with the opportunity he had been looking for.

  “Are you living around here?”

  “I’ve got a little place in Camden,” Edward lied. He did not want to admit that it was nearby in case Joseph suggested they go to see it. He could not stand the thought of that.

  Edward was thankful as Joseph became a little distracted. “Look, Doc,” he said, “I can’t stay, much as I’d love to. I’m meeting a man about a spot of business. But what are you doing tomorrow?”

  “I should think I’ll be working.”

  “Can you slip out for a couple of hours in the afternoon?”

  “Yes. Probably.”

  “Terrific. I’m going to be at the gym. How’d you fancy a spot of sparring? We’ll see how well that foot of yours has healed.”

  “Sparring. Haven’t done that for a while.”

  “So now’s the time to get back into it. What do you say?”

  “I’d love to. Where is it?”

  “On the Hill.”

  Edward said he didn’t know where that was.

  “Little Italy. Clerkenwell. We call it The Hill.” Joseph wrote the address down on a napkin and pushed it across the table. “You can get the number thirty-eight bus. Two o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  With that, he got to his feet, shook Edward’s hand for a second time, and left. Edward looked at the napkin in his hand, the ink blurring at the edges as it was absorbed into the material, and allowed himself a smile.

  7

  EDWARD WAS WORKING in the kitchen when Jimmy arrived with the first post. It was the usual dreary collection, invoices that they would gamely attempt to put off, paying only those suppliers they could not afford to do without or the ones who were threatening to sue. Jimmy filtered the stack, separating one envelope that didn’t fit the usual description. It was a luxurious cream colour and of weighty stock. It was addressed to Edward.

  “What’s that then?” he cooed. “Look at that––stamped by the War Office. What have you been up to?”

  “Haven’t got the faintest.”

  Edward slid his finger inside the envelope and opened it.

  “Well?” Jimmy persisted. “What is it?”

  Edward realised that he was gawping. “I’m getting the Victoria Cross,” he said.

  * * *

  EDWARD SAT ON THE TOP DECK of the number thirty-eight omnibus, watching the city change as it passed through central London. Tramlines, winding at the bottom of Pentonville Hill, gleamed like silver. The bus passed across them and headed East. It was brown, rather than red, brought up from the coast by the operating company to replace vehicles that had been damaged during the Blitz. The windows were still fixed with cross-hatched lattices of tape to prevent the glass imploding in the event of a bomb detonating nearby. London looked dreary and battered, the view from the top deck disclosing glimpses across fenced-off bomb sites to the rubble, pools of brackish water and scorched walls beyond. The city had taken it very badly at the hands of the Luftwaffe.

  He got off the bus at Holborn, turned off the main road and headed up Hatton Garden and into Little Italy. The mongrel district was to the north and south of Clerkenwell Road, hemmed in by Roseberry Avenue on the west and Farringdon Road on its east. To the south, it occupied the area around Saffron Hill, Leather Lane and Hatton Garden. Edward had lived in London all his life yet he had never been here before. The streets were ancient, a baffling maze of narrow and winding cobbled passages that crept between rickety houses and tenement blocks. A number of bombs had fallen and as he walked he passed half a dozen blasted gaps in the terraces where houses had taken direct hits. The evidence of slum clearance and the presence of mechanical machinery suggested Herr Göring had presented the local authorities with the chance to sweep away the old, cramped streets. A row of buildings had been levelled. Barriers had been erected at the end of the road. A sign reading CAUTION – UXB was fixed there. Bomb disposal officers were examining the old wreckage of a house. A hole had bored into the muddy ground, the bomb sunk somewhere at the bottom of it, undisturbed since the end of the war.

  Locals passed on bicycles and in horse-drawn carts, thick-wristed men pushing brightly-decorated ice cream carts and mobile barrel organs. The day was warm and the street was busy with pedestrians, Irish and Italian accents merging amidst the clamour. Edward turned onto Saffron Hill and the cobbles became muddy, scattered with ordure from dogs, horses and mules. Small shops offered empty shelves and feral children congregated on corners, eyeing him greedily. The smells grew more pungent and, as he crossed Eyre Street Hill, he had to traverse a plank that had been placed on the stones so he could avoid sewage from blocked drains.

  The gym was on Greville Street, situated in one corner of an old bathhouse. It had three full-size rings fitted somewhat haphazardly into the interior. The walls of the gym were covered in chipped, beige tiles plastered over with handbills from ancient fights. There were all sorts there, from bantams to heavies. In one corner, a group of boys were lifting weights, while in the main hall there was a confusion of punch bags and skipping ropes. In one of the rings, two heavily protected youngsters followed each other menacingly, firing out the odd jab and grunt. It was stifling hot and noisy, too: the machine-gun racket of speed bags, the slap of skipping ropes on the hardwood floor, leather gloves thumping into rib cages and sand-filled heavy bags.

  Joseph was in a second ring, sparring with a second man: a skinny featherweight. Edward watched him for a moment as they exchanged blows, clouds of dust puffing up from the canvas as they moved, muffled exhalations as they absorbed each other’s punches on their gloves. His muscles were taut and prominent and well-defined. Joseph’s partner was quick and agile, darting in and out of range effortlessly, his punching speed b
etter than Joseph, too. He feinted with his left to draw Joseph’s guard that way and then followed up with a straight right, through the gate and into his mouth. Joseph spat out his bloody mouth guard. “Bugger!” he yelled, frustrated with himself.

  Edward collected his duffel bag from the floor and went across to them both. “Joseph,” he called out.

  Joseph turned. “Doc!” He stepped through the ropes and jumped down from the apron, giving him a firm, sweaty hug. “How are you?”

  “Very good. And you?”

  “Never better.”

  “You looked sharp.”

  “Feel sharp, too.”

  The second man rested his elbows against the ropes. “Joe? Who’s this?”

  “My bloody manners––Billy Stavropoulos, this is Edward Fabian. Doc––Billy.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Billy.”

  He had a narrow face and teeth that protruded a little over his bottom lip when he smiled. It was rather an unfortunate feature that put Edward in mind of an anxious rabbit. He said, “Likewise,” and regarded Edward with what he took to be a lazy ambivalence, a quick up-and-down that said he wasn’t going to be an easy fellow to impress.

  “Billy’s pretty handy in the ring.”

  “I saw,” Edward said. “You’re good on your feet. Fast.”

  Billy shrugged.

  “Good?” Joseph said. “He’s like greased lightning. Used to be ABA champ.”

  “What weight?”

  “Bantam,” Billy said truculently.

  “He’s got a fight tonight at York Hall. Just giving him a final tune-up. Everyone reckons if he wins he’s a dead cert to go professional. Bloody close to making it, aren’t you?”

  Billy shrugged again, a half-sneer on his face. Edward decided there was something about him that he definitely did not like. He was a hot one alright, this boy, that much was obvious.

  “Did you bring your kit?” Joseph asked.

  Edward hefted his duffel bag. “I did.”

  “Billy’s done for now. Need to keep his strength. But we could have a bit of a run-around?”

  “Capital idea.”

  Joseph showed Edward through into the changing room. He changed into the same fusty singlet and shorts that he had worn in the army and wrapped bandages around his hands. He returned to the gym and picked up a pair of battered old mitts. He pulled them on. “Let’s see what you can do, then,” he said.

  They went through a couple of three-minute sessions. Joseph showed off, giving it much more than he needed to, firing shot after shot into Edward’s mitts, trying to knock him backwards. By the end of the third session he was gasping and his right shoulder was hanging dead from throwing countless jabs. Joseph was more of a boxer than Edward was, but Edward was clever. He knew Joseph would try to impress and would work harder than he needed to. He guessed he wouldn’t be able to say no to the offer of more, and so he suggested a fourth session on the mitts and then one on the bag. By the time that was finished Joseph was just about out on his feet.

  “Right, then––shall we spar for a few rounds? See if you’re as good as you say you are?”

  “I’m bushed, Doc.”

  “Come on. You said you’d give me the run-around. You’re here, I’m here, we’re ready to have a go––you can’t back out now.”

  Joseph was gassed. Edward leaned on the ropes and flexed his knees a couple of times and then dragged his shoes in the box of rosin.

  “Ready?” he said.

  “Go on then.”

  Billy rang the bell and Joseph turned quick and came out towards him. They met in the middle of the ring and touched gloves and as soon as he dropped his hands Edward thrust his left into his face twice. Joseph stumbled back and Edward went after him, going forward all the time with his chin on his chest. Their tactics were obverse: Edward was a dancer, jumping in and out of range, firing out his jab. Joseph was a hooker, a brawler, closing off the ring and slugging, crowding Edward into the ropes so he could do his work in close. All he knew was how to get in there and scrap, and every time Edward stepped into range he had his left hand in his face. Three or four times Joseph brought the right over but Edward managed to take it on the shoulder or high up on the head. Other times he tied him up, getting one hand loose and uppercutting him. When Joseph got his hands free he would belt Edward in the body so hard they could hear it in the street outside.

  This went on for three rounds. They didn’t talk. They just worked. By the end of the fourth Edward’s arm was heavy and his legs were starting to go bad. Sweat ran freely across Joseph’s face. Eventually, Edward tied Joseph up, got his right hand loose, turned it, and came up with an uppercut that got his nose with the heel of the glove. Joseph started to bleed instantly. He tried to get away but Edward had him tied up tight, but then, his blood splashing onto both of them, Joseph measured him and then socked a right into his body as hard as he could, as low as he could get it, five inches below the belt. Edward’s mouth fell open and his gum shield dropped out. He staggered around as if his insides were going to fall out. He tried to protest, his guard dropping to his waist automatically, and that was that: Joseph feinted with his left and then stepped into a right cross that caught him flush on the jaw.

  Edward was out cold for a couple of seconds. When he came around his nose was streaming with blood.

  “You alright, Doc?”

  Joseph’s face swam above him as if heat haze separated them. He couldn’t speak. It felt like he was going to be sick.

  “Sorry––think I fouled you.”

  Still he couldn’t speak. The ring was spinning.

  Joseph helped him through the ropes and into the changing room. Edward undressed and stood under the hot shower for five minutes, letting the water soothe his muscles and, gradually, the sawdust in his head started to slip away. Joseph used the shower next to him.

  “Caught you pretty good there.”

  “Below the belt,” he said, still groggy.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Sorry about that. Still, think I had you anyway.”

  Edward opened his mouth to let the blood run out. “You what?”

  “Had you anyway,” he grinned.

  Edward looked across at him: his body was muscular and hard, his chest solid. He squeezed the faucet closed and limped back towards the lockers. They rubbed themselves down. Edward put on his shirt and trousers. He took a moment, gathering his strength again. It had been a hard workout.

  “You’re hobbling,” Joseph said. “is it bad?”

  “It gets a little sore if I’m standing for too long, but it’s much better than it was. Another month or so, it’ll be good as new.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Long story,” he said. The time wasn’t right for that story, not yet. He needed to work on the details a little, to freshen them up in his mind.

  The reference to Edward’s injury seemed to prompt Joseph’s memories of the jungle. “Be honest, Doc. You’ve been back a while now. How’ve you found it?”

  He thought of the restaurant and Jimmy, his father and the hospital bills, and the awful situation that they found themselves in. “It’s not quite what I was expecting,” he admitted.

  “It’s not having the excitement, that’s what I reckon it is. I’m not stupid enough to think that it was all peachy when we were out there, God knows it was boring as sin most of the time, but I can’t help thinking that I had scrapes and adventures in the jungle that I’ll never get to have again. And part of me misses all that. Does that sound crazy, Doc?”

  Edward left a pause and thought about it. It did sound crazy and, yet, he knew exactly what Joseph meant. “I don’t know,” he mused. “It’d take a lot of money for me to go back there again but I wouldn’t mind a bit of that excitement in my life, too.”

  Joseph towelled off his hair and started to dress. “Got a bit to talk about, haven’t we? Why don’t you come to Billy’s fight tonight?”

  “I don’t know that I can.”

  “
It’ll be well worth it––a few beers, a proper chat. There are some decent fighters on the bill.”

  “I’m supposed to be working.”

  Joseph chucked him on the shoulder. “Come on. One night won’t do any harm. What do you say?”

  Joseph grinned broadly, his teeth shining.

  Edward said he would think about it.

  8

  YORK HALL WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF BETHNAL GREEN. It was a poor area, down-at-heel and often dangerous, and it had suffered badly during the war. Buildings had been flattened, whole terraces erased, and even now there was a dirty, dusty smut that hung in the air. Murphy had decided against driving across from the West End. Hardly anyone owned a motor here, and the last thing he wanted to do was to draw attention to himself. He had taken the underground instead and walked the short distance from the station. He was wearing the cheap set of clothes he used when he wanted to blend in: threadbare suit, crumpled shirt, scuffed shoes. His overcoat was old and fetid but at least it was thick. It was foggy and damp out, and he was glad for its warmth.

  The handbills distributed outside the station advertised a night of amateur boxing. Six bouts, six rounds apiece, a motley collection of fighters: youngsters who thought they could fight their way out of the slum, and those who had tried it and knew better. Charlie ran his finger down the sheet until he found Billy Stavropoulos. He was boxing under the name of Bert Gill, going up against a young featherweight from Hackney. Immigrants often chose Anglicised names. Charlie knew it well enough: he’d nicked plenty, and you always had to record both.

  A queue of spectators snaked around the corner of the building, stamping their feet against the cold and speculating on the night’s entertainment. Charlie paid for a ticket at the door and shuffled inside, following the crowd into the auditorium.

  It was a medium sized space, bench seats arranged at a steep rake around a well-lit ring. Charlie spotted Joseph Costello quickly. He was sitting near the front with another man he did not recognise. There was space on the bench next to them but it was filling quickly. Charlie hurried down the steps. “Excuse me,” he said as he made his way along the row.