Felix in the Underworld

by John Mortimer

  Felix remembered the books in his grandmother’s house: carefully preserved, hardly read copies of Dickens and Victor Hugo. When turning the pages he had passed quickly over the hard engravings of poverty, lean wolf-like faces, some crowned with tall, battered hats, peering out of the dark recesses of a London or Parisian slum – gaunt men, toothless crones and pallid, starved children. When he found himself in such a scene at the top of the steps, he wanted to turn the page quickly to the illustration of a groaning dinner table or a candlelit ball where men with drooping whiskers and bare-shouldered women waltzed eternally. The top of Blackfriars steps had changed utterly since Esmond had last visited it and the colony of dog-lovers and dog-stealers had moved in.

  The group was momentarily lit by a flaming cardboard box and, as Felix approached it, he saw that there wasn’t one baying dog but a whole pack of varying shapes and sizes, some bounding to the limit of the string that held them, others lying as though dead and one spaniel curled on the stomach of a sleeping man to keep him warm. As he moved towards the group, Felix saw that the faces were white and masculine, except for one girl who seemed very young, a skinny teenager, who stood in the middle of the dogs and young men, not like a captive but as some sort of ruler. She added her voice to the chorus of the dogs and shouted a stream of words which were lost on Felix as he turned and tried to walk slowly back down the steps, afraid that his panic decision not to spend the night with the dogs would rouse the group to anger. As he got back to the level of the street he heard the girl laughing. But when he walked away she and the dogs fell silent.

  The baying and the barking started up soon after when Detective Sergeant Wathen and Detective Constable Newbury arrived. They didn’t find who they were looking for but resolved to tell the Homeless Squad to get the place hosed down and the whole lot moved on in the morning. Detective Constable Newbury decided he could do nothing whatever about the stolen dogs.

  Felix walked westwards along the South Bank, glad to be alone, with no one to talk to or depend on except himself. Some time, he knew, he would have to return to the world and explain. He would soon run out of hiding-places and he couldn’t find a home among forgotten people. All he needed was to come back with what he was convinced was the truth: that the man he was suspected, for whatever improbable reason, of killing was alive and eating free sandwiches intended for the homeless.

  He tried to imagine what Gavin would do if he were still alive but wanted, perhaps as another stage in his persecution of the author he pretended to admire, to remain hidden. Where would he go? Who could be trusted with his secret?

  He felt in his pocket for his money and found he still had some change. He also pulled out a piece of paper which seemed to come as an answer to his questions for on it Huw Hotchkiss had written Miriam’s address and number. It was getting on for midnight and he made for the telephone boxes in Waterloo Station.

  The telephone rang and no one answered. At first he thought she was asleep, curled up in the pile of rugs, blankets and old clothes, white and naked as he remembered her, with the television bleating, and the smell of joss sticks and Chinese take-away. He thought he’d outwit the Furies again, climb the dark stone stairs, knock on the door and tell her about the inexplicable sightings of Gavin. Then, as there was still no sound of her voice, he became convinced she’d gone out and left Ian alone in the bleak bedroom, sleeping, his glasses neatly folded on the floor, locked in his private and impenetrable world. But then it became worse. The ringing seemed to him to echo in a completely empty flat. They had both gone, sold up, cleared out the junk or poured it in armfuls into the back of some friend’s pick-up truck – and the odd couple he had regarded as an intolerable intrusion into his life would never reappear. As he listened to the hopeless ringing he felt unreasonably betrayed. And then he heard a coin tapping the glass of the kiosk and turned to see the pale, hollow-cheeked Yorkie Bar gazing at him like a fish in an aquarium. Felix, seeing him mouth the name Anton, put down the unsuccessful telephone and pulled open the door on Yorkie who said, ‘I seen him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The bloke you were after.’

  ‘Not Gavin?’

  ‘Yes. Gavin.’

  ‘Where? Where did you see him?’

  ‘After I came out of the Garden of Eden, after you ran away from that Basil.’

  ‘I didn’t like the way he was looking at me.’

  ‘I don’t like the way most of them look at me round the Garden.’

  ‘But Gavin. Where did you see Gavin?’

  ‘I went back up the Strand and there he was in the doorway of the camera shop.’

  ‘How could you know . . . ?’

  ‘Purple anorak with a kind of hood like you told me. Gingerish hair. I just thought it was a might be, so I said it out, “Gavin,” I said. You see I knew you were looking for him. So I wanted to help you out.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Well, he turned round and said “Yes?” before he’d thought about it. I don’t think this Gavin wanted it to be known he’s kicking about.’

  ‘I don’t think so either.’

  ‘So I said I had a friend Anton which I don’t think’s his real name. If you don’t mind, I said that. I said he thinks you are dead like it’s given out.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said, Describe Anton.’

  ‘“Going thin on top,” I said. “Thin face, glasses, looks a bit nervous, speaks plummy, like he’s reading the news.” Anyway he seemed to know who you were.’

  ‘That’s surprising.’ Felix couldn’t recognize himself.

  ‘Anyway. He wants to meet you. Says he’s got something to tell you.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I wrote it down. He lent me his Biro.’ Yorkie opened his Economics of Poverty and found a scribble. ‘Six o’clock. National Gallery steps.’

  ‘Six?’

  ‘In the morning. I think that’s what he meant. Anyway he was keen to have a meet. Funny that,’ Yorkie Bar grinned, ‘a meet with somebody dead.’

  ‘If you see him again . . .’

  ‘I don’t expect so.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll be there.’

  ‘You can tell him. When you see him.’

  ‘Thank you. Thanks, Yorkie. I ought to give you something.’ Felix felt in his pocket for the few remaining coins but Yorkie Bar was saying, ‘No need for that. I did quite well tonight. Exceptionally well. Must go now. Got a bit of a meet myself.’ And the boy was gone into the recesses of the station where the bars were shut and the trains had almost all stopped running.

  Someone had left the Evening Standard on the shelf over the directories and he found himself looking down at his own face. The paper told him he was a missing author, once nominated for the Booker Prize, whom the police wanted to interview in connection with the Bayswater murder. No problem, he thought. The Bayswater murder would soon be proved no murder at all. He and the living Gavin Piercey would meet on the steps of the National Gallery at exactly six the next morning.

  He walked down to the river, stood for a while looking at the water and at the floodlit buildings opposite where Flo was no doubt sleeping peacefully in her stolen hospital bed, grateful for the fresh air in her lungs. He was cold and walked up and down until he was tired. There were more possibilities than he could count. Gavin had been hit but managed to recover. He had some reason to hide and wanted Felix to help him. More probably he wanted to implicate Felix again in some way and the missing author, the wanted ex-Booker nominee, had better be careful. Well, he was being careful. He had proceeded strictly in accordance with the law. Gavin would be seen by reliable witnesses and the mystery would be solved. When he had tired himself out, he lay down on one of the benches outside the National Film Theatre and fell asleep.

  He was awake with the first grey hint of daylight. There were only a few early workers waiting for buses in Whitehall and, as he crossed Trafalgar Square, the startled pigeons fluttered into the air. The National Gallery ste
ps were empty and Felix sat down to wait on a little patch of grass where the statue of George Washington stands. He leant his back against a wall on which a long streamer advertised Goya and the Depiction of the Nightmare. Beside him, on the ground, an elderly man was asleep clutching, as though it were a much-loved partner, a placard which read A smile costs nothing, give generously. At three minutes to six Felix woke the sleeper up, gave him a pound coin and told him that something was going to happen on the steps which he wanted to be seen by a witness. He discovered that the old man’s name was Mr Deakin and he promised him another pound when the meeting was over.

  He needn’t have worried. As the clock on St Martin-in-the-Fields struck six, and as Felix went up the steps to meet someone who wasn’t there, Detective Sergeant Wathen and Detective Constable Newbury got out of their car, walked up behind him and arrested him for the murder of Gavin Piercey. Detective Sergeant Wathen then gave Felix the new, complicated caution which warned him of the dangers of silence in words which neither the Detective Sergeant nor Felix were able to understand. Felix protested, pleaded, shouted and resorted to charm after this warning but nothing would persuade the officers to wait for Gavin. Indeed, the idea seemed to the Detective Sergeant decidedly comic. ‘You are speaking of the deceased now, Mr Morsom.’ Wathen gave a thin smile. ‘And no one could be more deceased than the late Gavin Piercey, which is why we are taking you in, sir.’ Before he was removed from the steps Felix managed to throw another coin in the direction of Mr Deakin and shout, ‘Wait for a man in a maroon anorak!’ Deakin trousered the money and, when he was alone again, went back to sleep.

  In the car Detective Sergeant Wathen said, What’ve you got against kids then, Felix?’

  When Felix said he had nothing whatever against them, Wathen asked, ‘Have you considered, for one moment, how it will affect the life of young Ian having a killer for a father?’

  At Paddington Green Wathen said, ‘We’re going to introduce you to the custodial suite.’ After further formalities, and after his fingerprints had been taken, Felix heard the cell door bang behind him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘You’re not having my baby’s blood!’

  Miriam stood with her legs apart, her chin up high; a lioness protecting her cub. WPC Brisket looked distinctly shaken. She had come to the flat at the World’s End armed with an order signed by Mr Percival, a stipendiary magistrate, and a paramedic called Nigel stood holding what looked like a bright blue lunch-box which contained a hypodermic syringe, among other more or less alarming equipment. ‘I’ve made up my mind,’ Miriam added on a higher, shriller note. ‘You’re not getting a drop of blood out of my Ian!’

  ‘Come on, Miriam.’ The policewoman’s use of a Christian name was meant to be reassuring but Miriam Bowker winced and backed away as though horribly insulted. ‘Nigel’s not going to hurt your boy. Just a drop of blood. It happens every day in hospitals.’

  ‘It may happen every day in hospitals but it’s not going to happen under my roof. And I know why you want it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You want to give it to those police that came here. I know just what they think.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m quite with you, Miriam.’

  The WPC was a dark-haired, kindly girl with large breasts and a motherly expression. She was prepared to wait as long as it took.

  ‘What do they think?’

  ‘They think Ian’s got bad blood. They think it’s inherited. Because they think Ian’s father’s a murderer.’

  ‘Is he a murderer then, Miriam?’

  ‘You’re trying to trap me now, aren’t you?’

  The maternal smile remained fixed, although the accusation was true. WPC Brisket had recognized the name in the letter from PROD as someone on whom the police force were relying for help.

  ‘Are you telling me that Ian’s dad is a murderer, Miriam?’ she repeated.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What are you telling me then, Miriam?’

  ‘I don’t know about Ian’s dad.’

  ‘Are you telling me you don’t know who his dad is?’

  ‘Of course I know my own child’s father!’

  ‘A good many don’t, Miriam. It’s a funny old world we’re living in nowadays.’

  ‘I don’t see what’s funny about it.’ Miriam was panting for a cigarette but felt nervous about lighting up. She was unsure if to do so had now become an arrestable offence.

  ‘It seems you weren’t always so sure. Not judging by the correspondence we’ve had with the Parental Rights and Obligations. You once said the father was someone else entirely.’

  ‘I was covering up for him. But I know who it was. And I know why you want Ian’s blood. You want to prove there’s something wrong with him, don’t you? The killer instinct. You want to prove it’s in the blood so you can prove your case. Well, I’m not having it, see. I’m not having my Ian exhibit A handed round the jury. Not whatever Felix did.’

  ‘What do you think Felix did, Miriam?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what he did recently. I only know what he did on the beach, what he did to bring Ian into this world. My child you want the blood out of.’

  ‘Miriam’ – the WPC sighed and her voice became more gentle and exhausted, like a mother’s when her child won’t stop kicking the cat – ‘why do you think I came here?’

  ‘I don’t know. You ask those other detectives. See if I didn’t cooperate with them. I even . . . Well, I cooperated fully.’

  ‘I’m here because you wrote to PROD about Felix Morsom being the father of your child.’

  ‘All right, I did that.’

  ‘And he denied it. So, in cases where the paternity is in dispute, PROD asks the parties for a blood test.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘PROD wrote to you on no less than four occasions asking you to agree for a test on Ian.’

  ‘Did they?’ Miriam was incredulous.

  ‘Didn’t you get the letters?’

  ‘Possibly. I don’t open them. Not if they are brown envelopes with OHMS written on them.’

  ‘So they had to get a court order. That you permit your son to take a blood test. You know what a court order is, don’t you, Miriam?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You have to obey it or you get locked up.’

  ‘Lock me up then! Go on! Kick me out of here! Beat me up! Drag me down the stairs! Chuck me in the bloody paddy-wagon!’ Miriam held out her wrists as though for the handcuffs. At which point the door of Ian’s bedroom opened and he put in an appearance.

  ‘It’s awfully hard to get any work done,’ he said, ‘with all this noise going on. Can’t you keep quiet, Mum?’

  ‘Ask them! Ask them to keep quiet!’

  ‘All we want of you is a drop or two of blood for a test.’ WPC Brisket cheered up considerably at the sight of Ian. ‘Nigel will see it doesn’t hurt a bit.’

  ‘All right.’ Ian started to roll up his sleeve. ‘I don’t see why not. It’s better than doing homework. Do stop fussing, Mum.’

  Defeated by her child, Miriam decided to forget about the future and lit a cigarette. Nigel, the paramedic, plunged the needle into the boy’s white matchstick arm and drew out blood. Although Ian didn’t blink, Nigel, who hated giving injections, felt horribly faint. The room lurched and he was glad to get out into the fresh air before he collapsed.

  Simon Tubal-Smith, head of Llama Books Worldwide, lay on a square white sofa in his office with his shoes off and a smile of simple beatification on his face. He had yellowish skin and soft brown eyes and spoke very rapidly, as though he were trying to sell a carpet before you noticed that it was full of holes and covered in mysterious stains. He had come to publishing because of his huge success in the pet food company which had given him his first job. He rewarded it by stripping it down, selling off the wholly owned pet shop chain, firing a lot of people and declaring a huge profit. Deeply impressed, Catesby Communications PLC, which
had bought Llama Books for the sake of prestige, head-hunted him. For the first time in his life he put on a bow-tie, because he thought that was what publishers wore, and sacked seventy-five Llama employees, including four of London’s best editors. Brenda Bodkin, a survivor of the massacre, was one of the few people who could enter Tubal-Smith’s office without fear. She now sat at his desk (Tubal-Smith would have considered it humiliating ever to use that piece of furniture) and she thought how thin and long his arms and legs were. Given all that, his distended stomach came as a surprise. It was as though a skinny woman, past the appropriate age for childbirth, had become heavily pregnant.

  ‘Guess who was on the plane from New York?’ he said and rolled the name round his tongue as though it were a fine old wine. ‘Only Sammy de la Touche.’

  ‘Who on earth’s Sammy de la Touche?’

  ‘Only the most notorious of all fashion designers!’ Tubal-Smith began to feel insecure. Had he not been travelling with a real celebrity?

  Of course Brenda, dressed in her baggy, checked trousers, trainers and a T-shirt which read SYDNEY-SIDERS DO IT IN THE SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE, knew all about Samantha de la Touche, but she wasn’t going to allow Tubal-Smith the pleasure of his name-dropping.

  ‘Did you speak to her?’ she asked, sure that he hadn’t.

  ‘She wasn’t next to me,’ Tubal-Smith admitted. ‘And she was asleep most of the time, wearing one of those masks they give you as a present. But I passed her quite often on my way to the john.’ He always came back from New York speaking in American. ‘And I thought of telling people that I’d spent the night with Sammy de la Touche.’

  They really ought to give you a knighthood, Brenda thought, so you could drop your own name occasionally. ‘And who else do you think was on the plane?’