Trouble

by Michael Gilbert

  “Ah, yes. Putney and Wimbledon. A lot of stupid people live there.”

  If Azam cared to develop this interesting conception of the western suburbs of London, Anthony had no desire to dissuade him. He was delighted to be listening once more to the careful English of a self-educated Pathan. It brought back to him the political and philosophical discussions he had had with his houseman, when he had lived outside Rawalpindi. The people of the north were great talkers, delighting in philosophical speculation and political debate.

  “One mistake people in this country make is thinking that all Pakistanis are the same. Just like you might say, ‘all Europeans’.”

  “That’s silly,” agreed Anthony. “Like saying, ‘all Arabs’.”

  “Pakistan – and I mean Western Pakistan – is more than four times the size of Great Britain. Naturally you get many different types. In the south, there are a lot of Hindus. Nothing much wrong with them except that they spend most of their time thinking about money. Also about caste.” He dismissed them with the same disapproval as the people of Wimbledon and Putney, and presumably for the same reasons. “In the north we are tribal folk. We were Mahsuds, from the Sabeh Kehl mountains. Very wild people. My father, Ghaffar Kahn, was a havildar in the 16th Field Transport Company. They were well spoken of by General Wayfull.”

  “Wayfull? Oh, Wavell, yes.”

  “I said so. That same Wayfull, who was also Viceroy. Perhaps you would like to hear what he said.”

  “I should like that very much.”

  Azam extracted from the back of his wallet a piece of paper, creased and folded in a way which suggested that it had been taken out and put back countless times.

  “This I copied from General Wayfull’s own book. He was speaking of the riots in Calcutta in August of 1946. Terrible riots. Five thousand people killed, many more injured. He said, ‘I saw Bucher, acting Army Commander and Sixsmith, acting Area Commander, both good and sensible men who had done very well. They described events to me and the action of the troops. So far as I could see, their judgement and action had been correct and they had used the troops at the right time and in the right way. Bucher said the Indian troops, including Transport Companies, behaved very well indeed. One was manned by Mahsuds of the Sabeh Kehl whom we are now bombing.’ “

  Anthony could see that he was only pretending to read. It was clear that Azam knew the passage by heart. He said, “You understand we remained true to our salt even though our own homes were being bombed. That is the sort of people we are.”

  “It was a difficult time for everyone.”

  “So difficult that my father decided we must come south. We settled between Muree and Abbottabad. You know those places?”

  “Very well.”

  “We were happy there for some years. Then came further troubles.”

  “I know about them, too.”

  “They were terrible. Terrible and unnecessary. You must understand that we frontier Muslims did not hate the Hindus. Why should we? When Pathans kill, they kill for family reasons, not for religion. Nor do we kill women and children. That was vile. So we decided to leave. We and our friends, the Rahmans. They thought as we did. They are an Adam-Khel Afridi family.”

  “Was it difficult?”

  “Difficult? How? To come here? No difficulty at all. My father was a skilled motor mechanic. The Rahmans were locksmiths. Both families got category B vouchers. That was under the rules of the Department of Environment. We had been citizens of Pakistan. Now we became citizens of this country. Very simple. My father set up his garage and repair shop. East London Motors, he named it. You know it? It is where Reynolds Road runs into the High Street. A fine corner site.”

  And almost exactly the place where the fight took place, thought Anthony. No-man’s-land, between Pakistani territory and the conservative, middle-class settlements of Maindy Road and Camlet Street. It was an uncomfortable thought. He said, “The Rahmans are your neighbours. I have seen their shop, I think. ‘Abdul Rahman, Locksmith’.”

  “Abdul is dead now. The shop is run by his widow, Tahira, a fine woman. And Gulmar, their eldest son.”

  “And it would be their children,” said Anthony, feeling his way cautiously, “who are the particular friends of your children.”

  “What you are trying to say,” said Azam with a broad smile, “is, ‘this is a gang’, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are others, too. There is Saghir Abbas, who they call Sher, and his cousins, the Randhawars and – oh, many others. But Salim and Rahim are the leaders.”

  “When you and the Rahmans came here – that would have been when – 1949?”

  “1950. We were the first. Others followed.”

  “Had you any particular reason for coming to this part of London?”

  “We are loyal servants of the Crown. We came here because it is a Royal Borough.”

  “Plumstead – a Royal Borough? I thought that Kensington—”

  “Certainly it is royal. Does it not contain the Royal Arsenal, the Royal Artillery Barracks, the Royal Dockyard, the Royal Observatory—”

  Anthony laughed. He said, “I hadn’t thought about it that way before. I agree that there’s a good deal of royalty about. May I give you some advice?”

  “Of course,” said Azam. “That is your job, is it not?”

  “Very well. You said, just now, that you were loyal servants of the Crown. One of the things that the Crown values most is peace. It used to be called the King’s peace.”

  “That I know,” said Azam. “You must not imagine that we have not studied English history. The King’s peace covered all the highroads in this country. People must be able to pass along their highways unmolested. So, if anyone did wrong to another on the highway, he had committed a breach of the King’s peace and the King would punish him. Right?”

  “Right,” said Anthony, glad that this scrap of legal history should have sunk in.

  “But,” said Azam, “this peace extended only as far as the cleared borders of the road. Beyond that, lay the forest. In the forest, it was each man for himself. Tell me, now. Where does the forest begin?”

  Sergeant Whitaker was hobbling briskly along Royal Observatory Road. He was wearing his Number One outfit, with the SAS flash. He was on his way to what promised to be an enjoyable social occasion in the Sergeants’ Mess at the Royal Artillery Barracks. His host, inviting him, had warned him that it was likely to be a damp evening; which he understood to mean that a lot of beer would be consumed. He himself held the beer-drinking record for his Squadron. Seventeen consecutive pints. The runner up, the Squadron Commander Captain Musgrave, had failed at the fifteenth. If the gunners imagined they were beer drinkers, he was prepared to show them the light.

  He was hobbling because, months before, he had dislocated his ankle chasing a light-haired bugger up a steep cliff path above Cuckmere Haven and although it now caused him very little trouble, it had never really set properly.

  It was at this moment that the very man he was thinking about came out of a side turning and walked away up the pavement ahead of him.

  He was in no doubt about the identification. He had seen the face as the man looked back from the cliff top, apart from which he could almost have identified him from his walk alone; the springy, confident walk of an athlete in top class training.

  Whitaker slightly increased his own pace, but knew that he could not keep up for long. To his relief Blondie swung across the road and went through the wrought-iron gates on the other side. Some sort of up-market shop.

  He peered cautiously through the gates. His quarry had walked up the stone-flagged path, climbed the shallow steps and was now pulling the wrought-iron bell-push beside the double doors of the house. Better to wait outside and see what happened next. If only there had been a telephone box in sight, but there never was when you wanted one most.

  He examined the notice board which announced, in flowing script, Arthur Drayling and Company. Foreign Tiles, Statuary an
d Ironwork. Immediately inside the gate was an attractive lady, unclad and balancing dangerously on a pillar. If she had slipped she would have fallen into the mouth of one or other of the lions who flanked her. An evil-looking boy was waiting, hopefully, for this to happen.

  Whitaker had no doubt as to his duty. His projected evening must go by the board. He had to wait until Blondie came out and then try to keep up with him. Next time he stopped he might be able to get a message through and get instructions and help. There was a useful vantage point opposite the gate of Drayling’s establishment. The entrance to Greenhill Secondary School was set back, and by squatting on the low wall, he could rest his ankle and remain almost out of sight.

  Time passed. Half-past seven when he had first caught sight of the man. Now past eight. Eight fifteen. Nearly eight thirty, when Blondie came walking back down the path.

  Whitaker was relieved to discover that his quarry was now walking more slowly, with his head bent forward as though he was thinking out some problem. Fifty yards on, he seemed to make his mind up, swung left into Frances Street and slightly increased his pace. There were two men ahead of him and a man and a woman coming in the other direction, arguing noisily. Whitaker was glad they were there. Footsteps on that particular piece of pavement seemed to echo loudly. Maybe it had been built over one of the water ducts running south from the Thames.

  Keeping their original distances apart they passed the long frontage of the Royal Infantry Barracks. Blondie had slowed again, allowing the pair in front of him to draw ahead.

  Whitaker thought, ten to one he’s making for Woolwich station and will be heading back to London. That would suit him well. If he could discover what ticket his man bought, he would make a dash for a telephone. There would be boxes outside the station. If Captain Musgrave moved with his usual speed he could set up a reception committee.

  At this point the road went into a short tunnel under the railway. He could hear a train approaching. This would be helpful, particularly since the two men ahead had now turned down a side road. The noise of the train would mask the sound of his own footsteps.

  It had not occurred to him that the same thought might be in his quarry’s mind and that his pace had been carefully adjusted to ensure that they both entered the tunnel under the railway at the moment when the train was passing on top of it.

  He had the first inkling of this when he realised that Blondie had swung round and was almost on top of him.

  After that he had no time for thought. A blow with the left hand swung horizontally hit him in the bottom of the stomach. As he doubled forward, the hard edge of the right hand came up and slashed him under the nose.

  The blow fractured the bone of his nose. The pain was horrible. It brought Whitaker to his knees, where he stayed for counted seconds, his eyes blinded by tears, trying to master the nausea, trying to absorb the pain, trying to think what the hell he ought to do.

  An effort of will-power got him on to his feet. He staggered clear of the tunnel. There was no sign of his quarry, nor had he expected that there would be; but there was a telephone box.

  A woman, who was coming out of it, took one look at him and scuttled off up the pavement. The number he had to call had been so drilled into him that he had no difficulty in remembering it. The next thing was to find some money. He managed that, too.

  He recognised the voice at the other end as belonging to the Orderly Room Corporal. He said, “Put me through to the skipper. Emergency routine.”

  “Can’t hear you, chum. Who is it?”

  Whitaker was finding it difficult to speak. He realised that his mouth was full of blood. He spat some out and said, “It’s Sergeant Whitaker, Corporal Dunn. You heard me say emergency. If you don’t pull your bloody finger out, you’re for the high jump.”

  “All right, all right. Matter of fact the skipper’s still in his office. Putting you through.”

  Captain Musgrave listened in silence to Whitaker’s recital; half narrative, half confession. Then he said, “I’ve got Colonel Every here in the office with me. He’s been listening on an extension. He’d like a word with you.”

  Christ, thought Whitaker. The old man himself. Now you’re for it.

  But Colonel Every’s voice was surprisingly mild. He said, “I suppose you didn’t happen to notice whether this man – I’ve no doubt that he’s a character we know as Liam – actually used the station. I imagine it was the Woolwich Dockyard station.”

  Whitaker realised that the Colonel had been following his movements on a street plan and this gave him an illogical feeling of security. He said, “I’m afraid not, sir. I wasn’t really in a state to notice very much.”

  “Broke your nose, did he? Underarm swing. Very painful. I ran into it once by mistake in combat training. On the whole, of course, you were lucky.”

  “Lucky, sir?”

  “If Liam had thought you’d recognised him as the man at the caravan camp, he’d have shot you, no question.”

  “If he didn’t recognise me, why did he attack me?”

  “Just playfulness. I imagine he thought you were planning to proposition him. You wouldn’t have been the first to try. It’s that lovely blond hair of his.”

  Whitaker was almost more staggered by this outrageous suggestion than he had been by the assault itself.

  Colonel Every’s voice sharpened. He said, “Listen to me, because this is important. Get yourself back to base without attracting any unnecessary attention. We don’t want the local police in on this. Not yet, anyway. Our own medico will look after you. You know the drill. Any questions?”

  “No questions, sir.”

  Whitaker replaced the receiver gently. He had stopped bleeding and was conscious only of the intolerable ache which centred on the bridge of his nose and spread from the point of his jaw clear up to the top of his skull.

  “Playful!” he said bitterly.

  3

  The plate outside the surgery in Maindy Road said ‘Dr. Wilfred Graham, Dr. Anthony Laborde, Dr. Jennifer Marshal’ – and in smaller letters and clearly a later addition, ‘Dr. K. Dalpat’.

  Whilst she waited to be attended to, Sergeant Montgomery’s wife, Florence, was passing the time discussing the merits of these medicos with the only other occupant of the waiting-room, Shazada Kahn. Mrs. Montgomery was forty-five. On the whole she had stood up pretty well to the delivery of five children: one born dead; two boys and two girls surviving; also to the occasional brutality of her husband. It was mainly verbal brutality, but it was cumulatively wearing and had begun to affect her health.

  “The one I used to see,” she said, “was Dr. Graham, but I’m afraid he’s what you might call old-fashioned. When it comes to nerves he’s out of his depth entirely. Or perhaps,” with a smile, “he doesn’t think people like me ought to have nerves.”

  Shazada smiled back politely. She was so apprehensive about what lay ahead that she could hardly take in anything Mrs. Montgomery was saying.

  “So my husband said, why don’t you change to that woman doctor? That’s what women doctors are for, to look after other women, aren’t they? I didn’t agree with him there. No, I said, you go to a doctor because you think he can do you good. Dr. Laborde’s modern. You can tell that by the way he talks. He understands nerves. Ah well, I suppose you’ll be seeing Dr. Marshal.”

  “No. I’m on Dr. Dalpat’s list.”

  “Of course, dear. He’s from the same part as you, isn’t he?”

  “Not quite,” said Shazada. She was used to the illusion that India was a small green patch on the map and that everyone in it knew everyone else. “Actually he’s a Punjabi. He comes from Rajkot.”

  “And that’s different, is it?”

  “It’s about a thousand miles south of the place we came from.”

  “Well, fancy that.” All this was leading up to what Mrs. Montgomery really wanted to know. She said, “And what can it be that brings a young lady like you to the doctor? I’m sure you look a picture of health.”
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  Shazada was ready. She said, “It’s a cough. It comes on at night and keeps me awake.”

  “They’ve got some very good cough mixtures in the chemists. I always use Dr. Blossom’s Lung Syrup. Have you tried it?”

  “I don’t think I’ve tried that one, no.”

  “Which one do you prefer then?”

  “I’m not sure of its name. It’s dark brown and rather sticky.”

  “And is that the only one you’ve tried?”

  “So far, yes.”

  “Well there now. If your cough really is troublesome, I should have thought you’d have shopped round until you found something that did do it some good.”

  “Mrs. Montgomery,” said the nurse, putting her head through the hatchway from the dispensary. “Dr. Laborde will see you now.”

  Shazada watched her departure with relief. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of what she was doing. Why should she be? She was doing it for Tim really, not for herself. And anyway dozens of her friends, girls at the school she had just left and girls at work, did it as a matter of course—

  “Miss Kahn. Dr. Dalpat is free now. He has the room at the end of the passage, on the left.”

  As the newest member of the medical firm, Dr. Dalpat had naturally been given the worst room. Its chief drawback was its smallness. There was hardly space for more than a desk and a chair and the patient was forced to sit on the same side as the doctor.

  It would have been difficult enough to say what she had to say across the wide separation of a table. Sitting almost arm in arm made it much harder.

  “Well, young lady,” said Dr. Dalpat, “what can I do for you? Let me see.” He shuffled some cards out of the filing cabinet under his left elbow. “Kahn. Bisset Street. Number 16. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your father is Azam Kahn. Yes? He keeps the garage in Lyndoch Square. A fine mechanic. I take my car there when it makes improper noises. Just as he comes to me when his body behaves in the same way.”

  Shazada smiled faintly.