King Dido

by Alexander Baron

  “’Ere, Chas. Come in. Come on in.” Chas hesitated, then followed Blakers into the shop. Blakers handed him a packet of twenty Woodbines. “Reckon you got to give a present now and agin to an old customer.”

  “What for?”

  “You’re a good feller, Chas. Eh? You put ’em in your pocket. ’Ave a smoke on me. Know my friends, I do.”

  Chas looked at him for a moment, then dropped the cigarettes into his pocket. “Ta.”

  As he went out, Blakers said, “Any time you’re passin’, Chas. You don’t ’ave to go short of a fag. You look arter me, I’ll look arter you.” It was cheaper than propitiating the Murchisons.

  Puzzlement at this experience in Chas’s mind turned, after digestion, into pleasure, then to pride, in his strength, in his exploits, in the status of himself and his brothers. Blakers’ offering seemed only right and proper. Chas believed, as the neighbours believed, that he had shared in a victory. He, too, eighteen years old and easily influenced by a surrounding atmosphere, saw himself as a deliverer and entitled to a deliverer’s dues.

  So day by day he collected more tributes; until the next rent-day when Mrs Peach looked in the jar where she kept her money and said, “Whatever shall I tell the landlord?”

  Dido looked up from a plate heaped with bacon and fried bread. “Tell ’im to wait.”

  Chas threw a half-sovereign on the table and said, “Pay ’im.” Dido said, “You never ’ung on to that for two weeks.”

  “Oo said I did?”

  “Where you get it?”

  “Never you mind.”

  “I said where you get it?”

  Chas said, “Arkell.”

  Arkell kept the goldfish shop.

  “You been workin’ for ’im?”

  “No.”

  “What for, then?”

  “Present.”

  “What ’e give you a present for?”

  “What you think?”

  “I’m askin’ you”

  “’E’s got the Murchisons off ’is back, ’asn’ ’e?”

  “Give you money for that, did ’e?”

  “Only right, ain’ it?”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Where’d you think that bacon come from you’re scoffin’ away?”

  Dido finished his bacon and tea, and went out in silence. He walked down the street and went into Arkell’s shop. Arkell was a bent man of sixty with a long, wrinkled face and scanty white hair. Dido said, “Mornin’.”

  “Mornin’, Dido.”

  “You give my Chas ’alf a sovereign?”

  “Yes. No ’arm, was it?”

  Dido’s eyes on him were thoughtful, but with a hard glint in them. Arkell said, “Enough, wasn’ it?”

  “You don’t reckon we’re after charity?”

  “Oo said charity?”

  “You give my Chas ’alf a sovereign.”

  “’E’s off work, isn’ ’e? You as well. You reckon the Murchisons’ll come back if you two go back to work?”

  “Might do.”

  “They might do. That’s what I mean.”

  “Mean what?”

  “Can’t take chances, can yer?”

  “They come back, we’ll knock off work agen.”

  “Talk sense, Dido. No offence. I mean. No use you goin’ after ’em once they done something to your shop or your Shonny. Or your ma.”

  “They better not.”

  “That’s what I’m tellin’ you. It’s too late to bash ’em once they done the ’arm.”

  “I don’t need tellin’ that. It’s why I’m still off work.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Well, then what?”

  “We need lookin’ after as well. The ’ole lot of us. You got ’em off us. It’s up to you to see they don’t come back. You can’t go back to work yet a while.”

  “Not for a bit.”

  “Well, then, you got to live. I don’t mind ’elpin’ out. A lot of us don’t. What’s a neighbour for? You look arter us. One good turn deserves another.”

  Dido stood for some seconds looking at the other man. These seconds were a turning point in Dido’s life. At last he said, “Fair enough. Fair enough,” and, as he went out, “Mornin’.”

  Dido was a proud and intense man. In those few seconds his pride had been on the point of flaring up into rage, against the offerers of humiliating gifts, against his brother who had been petty enough to accept them. But at the white-heat of his pride (hidden behind that impassive face) there had struck into it a perception of the gifts as tribute. In a flash, like a chemical reaction, the whole make-up of his mind had changed. The taste of homage, the recognition that others are dependent and servile, the glimpse of power, these things do not offend pride but inflame it.

  “Fair enough.” A different Dido strode away down the street.

  Neither the Peaches nor their neighbours knew why they lived in peace.

  After the arrest of the Peach boys Mr Merry paid a visit to Jaggs Place. Mr Merry was a man with his own — not schemes, for he was nothing so petty as a schemer — his own vision of the working-out of things. Life must be ordered in such and such a way. People were devious and nasty little creatures who could not be trusted and who must therefore be manipulated both in their own interests and the interests of an overall maintenance of all things in their ordained orbits that Mr Merry called law and order. To this he was dedicated. Without giving the matter a thought he had a placid confidence in his own right and ability to order the game of peoples’ lives. Considerations of his own future came into it, for he was newly appointed; and moreover was a supernumary, since the detective force in the Division already had its establishment of one inspector; but these were so tacit, so undisturbed beneath the surface of his mind, and so justified by what he accepted as his own proper place in the scheme, that he would have been startled and contemptuous of anyone who confronted him with the accusation of impure motives.

  Mr Merry did not play chess; nevertheless he had a chess-master’s grasp on life, quite naturally seeing several moves ahead, patiently sure of the larger results that would flow in the future from present acts apparently insignificant.

  From the moment that Ginger Murchison had been brought down, the Murchisons, while watching for their enemies, were themselves watched by Mr Merry. He did not interfere when they laid their ambush, and he did not use it as a chance to take them in, for it suited him to wait for greater things. He arrested the Peach boys because it accorded with his plans but he saw to it that the charges were not serious. He wanted them to be marked by the law, but it suited him that they should remain at liberty.

  However, it did not suit his plans for the feud to be quickly consummated. An hour after the abortive ambush he returned to Brick Lane, pounced on the skulking Cockeye and sent him with a message to the oldest of the Murchison brothers, Harry.

  Harry was tall and skeletal, with a skin pale as the underside of a toadstool and sunken, melancholy eyes. Not only was he Crown Prince by age, but by the reputation of having done a “real stretch”, which none of the others had. He was thirty, and had served five years penal servitude for house-breaking, an activity which he had tried as a matter of youthful independence when he was twenty-three, and which he had forsworn when his father represented to him how much safer it was to share in the family trade of extortion, with which the police, content to see no evil and hear no evil for the time it took them to pace unhurriedly out of sight in each slum street, did not interfere.

  He found Mr Merry sitting at the back table of an almost empty coffee shop, a mug of strong tea in front of him. “Sit down, Harry.”

  Harry sat down. “What can I do for yer, Mr Merry?”

  “Had a quiet evening?”

  “Been at ’ome with the missus.”

  “Have you now? Quite a home-lover.”

  “She can swear to it, Mr Merry.”

  “Mm. So can a dozen others, I dare say.”

  “All them that seen me.”

>   “I dare say. Very anxious to prove you had a quiet evening, Harry. Why?”

  “Dunno why you sent for me. Told you where I was. That’s all.”

  “Quite.” Mr Merry leaned across the table. “Harry —” His voice dropped, becoming positively friendly. “I think it’s time you and I came to a little understanding.”

  “Understanding?”

  “That’s it.”

  The two men looked at each other. Harry felt himself on familiar ground. The conversation had taken a turn in accord with local custom. Remote the police might appear, majestic when in uniform; there was one widespread mode of contact. He chuckled. “I got you, Mr Merry.”

  “Have you, Harry? I’m glad.”

  “I play ball with you, eh, you play ball with me.”

  “You were seen this evening, you know. By myself and two constables. Where’s your knife, Harry?”

  “What knife?”

  “The chiv. Hidden it? Wouldn’t do you any good against me and two constables in the witness box. Not with your record.”

  “Ah, go on, Mr Merry —” Harry was grinning. “You know what a short memory you got.”

  “Have I now?”

  Harry took a hand out of his pocket and laid it on the table.

  “’Aven’t you?” He shifted his hand slightly.

  “It’s the best way, Harry, isn’t it? Best way to deal with the law.”

  “Ah!” Harry chuckled. “Never ’ad no trouble. Always understood each other, us and the coppers.”

  Mr Merry’s right hand shot out and clamped Harry’s down on the table. He turned his head and called, “Weldon.”

  A tall man in a sailor’s reefer jacket was reading a newspaper at the other end of the shop. He put it down and came to them. Harry glared at Merry, then at the man. “Weldon,” Mr Merry said, “what do you see?”

  Weldon said, “Banknotes, inspector. Two five-pound notes.”

  “You git,” Harry said. “You rotten lousy bleedin’ swindlin’ git.”

  The mildness of his voice unchanged, Mr Merry said, “Can you identify this man, constable?”

  “Yes, sir. Harry Murchison, 5, Jaggs Place.”

  “Thank you, constable.” Mr Merry was still grasping Harry’s hand. “You can go now, constable.”

  “Right, sir.” Weldon went out, his police issue boots clumping on the plank floor.

  Mr Merry released Harry’s hand. “Now, Harry, just put it away.”

  Harry, glowering and bewildered, shoved the notes into his pocket.

  “You know what you could get for that, Harry,” said Mr Merry. “Attempting to bribe an officer of the law.”

  Harry muttered, “What’s all this?”

  “A little understanding,” said Mr Merry. “No witnesses now. Just a little understanding between us two.”

  Harry was silent. He was rubbing his hand, which still ached from the terrible grip. Mr Merry said, “From now on, Harry, you’ll play ball with me. Just that. Never mind who I play ball with.”

  Harry said, “I don’t git you.”

  “You don’t have to. Just do as you’re told. Now listen to me. This is for you and your brothers, your cousin, your nephews, your women and brats, your thieving pals, the whole lot of you. Keep out of Rabbit Marsh.”

  “Rabbit Marsh?”

  “Don’t come the innocent. Rabbit Marsh. Keep out of Rabbit Marsh and leave the Peach boys alone.”

  Harry was sullen and silent.

  “The word was, leave them alone. I think you know me now, Harry.”

  No answer.

  “I said, I think you know me. Do you? Answer me now.”

  The plump, suburban man in trilby hat and light smart overcoat sat across the table and looked at Harry. His eyes were calm, his voice mild, neat and suburban. Harry was utterly daunted by him. “Yes, Mr Merry.”

  “Don’t think you can catch them somewhere else. Or set someone else on to do it. Or sneak down there by night. Or get a hundred and fifty people to swear an alibi. Because I’ll have you for it.”

  “What ’appens if someone else —?”

  “If someone else does them, it’ll be your misfortune. Because I shan’t ask questions. I shall stick it on you. Look at me. Look at me I say. I swear on the Book I’ll stick it on you.”

  “What’s the idea —?”

  “Never mind the questions. I’m telling you, that’s all. I want no more trouble down Rabbit Marsh. That’s the form. From me. And you’ll do as you’re told.”

  Harry scowled at him. “They squared you first, did they?”

  “One more word and I’ll fix you, Harry Murchison. One more word, one bit of trouble from you and I’ll have you breaking stones on the Moor till your kids have forgotten what you look like. I can do it, you know.”

  “Can yer?”

  Mr Merry reached out and dropped a hand, gently this time, on Harry’s sleeve. His voice became soft again, but menacing. “Look at me, Harry. I can do it. I can do anything I like to you. Not God in his heaven can save you from me, because I’m down here and He isn’t.”

  After a moment, “All right.”

  “You’ve got the word. Keep out of Rabbit Marsh. Leave those boys alone.”

  “You can go now, Harry.”

  As Harry stood up, Mr Merry spoke again. “There’s other places you can make a living. I won’t tread on your heels. I’m an easy man with those that understand me. Just you do as I said.”

  Harry grinned. Once more the language of his familiar world was being spoken. He was used to the police letting well alone, and now he thought he saw what this policeman was after. He would be left alone as long as he preyed outside this copper’s parish. He said, “I understand yer, guv’nor. No trouble. Not on your beat. I promise yer.”

  Mr Merry watched him go; then left his cold cup of tea and went his own way.

  The Peach Boys were now accustomed to be spoken of as “holy terrors”, a title of honour in their world, and their gratification swelled.

  That it should go to the heads of Chas and Shonny was inevitable. To understand why Dido, the proud and taciturn man of more mature years should also be seduced by this shabby glory, one must understand how vulnerable a self-determined solitary is to the offer of friendship and flattery; one must ponder upon his celibacy at the age of thirty, in a milieu where most coupled young.

  The very intensity of his character made him exult in his new status with an intensity undreamed of by his easy-going young brothers; though he affected to ignore it and maintained his old, stern demeanour.

  The Peach brothers were like workers of primitive “magic” who are astonished at what they seem to have achieved but believe in it because the evidence of their own eyes is not to be denied. The tribe believes in it too, and offers them gifts and leadership. So chieftains and kings once came into being, in return for their protective powers. Dido, Chas and even young Shonny found it daily more natural to accept gifts. Daily their air of authority grew, and the confidence with which they gave the assurance that there would be no more trouble as long as they were about.

  Even though their enemies had been driven off, a return to work was not to be thought of as long as menace lurked in the darkness without.

  Chapter Four

  In the same stable yard where the Peaches left their barrow, Tommy Long kept his pony and cart. He lived in a room over the entry with his wife and four children. He was less than five feet high, thin as an urchin, with a face like a grey chip above his dirty choker and ragged jacket.

  The pony, a sturdy, barrel-chested little beast, was the pride of his life. He had bought it, together with the cart, with compensation money he had received after an accident which had ended his career as a docker. Thus equipped he had gone into business as an itinerant merchant in old rags and lumber. A bizarre assortment of his purchases was stacked in an empty stall in the stable.

  On a fine morning in July he was grooming his pony; and Dido was helping him.

  “Yer can�
�t git away from it,” he said. “I wouldn’ ’a got my compensation else.”

  Dido, busy with the curry-comb, seemed preoccupied with the pony’s glossy coat.

  “I couldn’t prove nuffin,” Tommy said. “Not on me own. Gaffer swore it was my fault. It was the union. The union, mate. I wouldn’ ’a got a penny compensation wivaht the union.”

  Dido stood back to admire his own handiwork as if he had not even heard Tommy.

  “Yer can’t git away from it,” Tommy said. “What’s the workin’ man wivaht ’is union?”

  Without looking at him, Dido said, in a voice of disgust, “Workin’ man!”

  “The workin’ man, mate. What’s you an’ me but bloody workin’ men?”

  Dido used his foot to push a bucket noisily under a tap. He turned on the tap and water rushed. “You speak for yourself.”

  “Why? Wha’ d’ye call your bleetn’ self? Work on the wharf, don’t yer?”

  “I did.”

  “Be goin’ back there, won’t yer?”

  “Depends.”

  “It’s got to end one way or another, ’asn’ it? You an’ the Murchisons? Can’t go on for ever.”

  “Depends on them.”

  “They don’t seem in no ’urry. You got it cushy, you ’ave.”

  “Think so?”

  “Must be ’alf a dozen shopkeepers payin’ their dropsy to you ’stead o’ the Murchisons. If that ain’t cushy I don’ know what is.”

  “Like to change places?” Dido set the bucket down in front of the pony, who drank contentedly.

  “Well,” Tommy said. “I ain’t talkin’ abaht that. You asked for it.”

  “That’s right. An’ I got it.”

  Tommy took time to consider while he filled the pony’s nosebag. “All the sime,” he said at last. “You’ll be goin’ back to work one o’ these dies.”

  “Makes no odds to me.”

  “Then you’re a workin’ man,” Tommy said triumphantly.

  “Tell you what I am.”

  “What?”

  “Dido Peach. An’ I’ll tell you what your workin’ man is.”

  “What?”

  “Same as every other man. Dirt.”

  “Much obliged, mate.”

  “Dirt. Anyone can tread on ’em. They want to be trod on. They stood round that night and yelled for Ginger to pulverise me.”