City of Spades

by Colin MacInnes

  Hamilton thought about my story. ‘These Jumble friends of yours,’ he said. ‘You could not stay with them?’

  ‘Oh, you understand me, Hamilton! When Jumbles do the favour, always they ask some price. For payment of their deeds, they wish to steal your private life in some way or another.’

  ‘And you will not return again with Muriel at any time?’

  ‘She say to me, Hamilton, that if I do not marry her, now that she soon has the child, she does not wish to stay with me at all. But how can I marry such a woman? What would they say back home?’

  Hamilton, he understood this. ‘The best thing, Johnny Fortune, is certainly for you to sail to Africa. Do not leave this too late, as I do, or you will find yourself in misery like me.’

  What could I say to my old friend – but that I hope the days of both of us would soon be rather brighter? I said goodbye to him, and still Hamilton would not let me tell his home address to the people in the hospital.

  So I leave that sad place behind me, and walked out in the dark winter East End afternoon: no use to go back now to my labouring job, whose foreman would not give me time off to visit Hamilton, and now would certainly dismiss me for my absence. I thought of Mahomed and his café, and how a free meal of rice would give me strength, and there, playing dominoes, I meet the former weed-peddler, Peter Pay Paul.

  ‘Mr Ruby,’ he tell me, ‘ask why you come for no more business.’

  ‘I cut out that hustle too, man. I cut right out of peddling like you say is best to, when the months go by. And you, what do you do now, Peter?’

  ‘Good times have come to me, Johnny. I doorman now at the Tobagonian Free Occupation club, and this is a profitable business.’

  ‘Tell me now, Peter. I have no room at present. May I sleep in your cloakroom for this evening?’

  ‘What will you pay me, man?’

  ‘Skinned now, Peter Pay Paul. You do this for your friend.’

  ‘Just this one night, then, Johnny. Do not please ask me the next evening, or word will reach the ear of this Tobagonian owner and I lose my good job.’

  Peter supplied me with one coffee. ‘Arthur is down East End,’ he said. ‘He asks for you from several people.’

  ‘I do not wish to see that relative of mine ever again.’

  A great pleasure came to me now, which was the arrival in Mahomed’s of the seaman Laddy Boy, he who had brought the letter from my sister Peach. His ship had been sailing to the German ports, and he told us of the friendly action of the chicks he’d met in dockside streets of Hamburg.

  ‘I see some Lagos boy there, Johnny,’ he told me now. ‘In a ship coming out of Africa. He tell me some news about your family that you should hear.’

  Almost I guessed what Laddy Boy would tell me. ‘Your sister Peach,’ he said, ‘has sailed to England now to train as nurse.’

  ‘This news is certain of her coming? I wish it was some other time she choose.’

  Laddy Boy said to me: ‘Tomorrow, come meet my quartermaster, Johnny. Speak to him and see if you can sign on our ship, to have some serious occupation for when your sister reaches England.’

  ‘I have no knowledge of a sailor – will he take me?’

  ‘We speak to him together, man. I know some secrets of his smuggling that have helped him raise his income to his benefit.’

  When the half-past-five time came at last, Laddy Boy took me for some Baby Salt at the Apollo tavern. We sit there drinking quietly, I thinking of home and Lagos, and of Peach and Christmas and my mum and dad.

  But what spoils these thoughts is Dorothy, when she come in the saloon bar with a tall GI. She send this man over and he say to me politely, ‘Your sister-in-law ask me, man, to ask if you will speak with her a minute.’

  ‘No, man, no. Tell her I busy with my friend.’

  He went back to Dorothy, but come to me once more. ‘She says is important to you, what she have to tell.’

  I went with Dorothy in one corner of the bar. ‘Now, Dorothy,’ I said. ‘Please understand I do not wish to mix my life with yours. Do not pester me, please, with your company, or I turn bad on you, and we regret it.’

  She was high with her drink, I saw, but quieter and more ladylike than I know her ever before.

  ‘Look, man,’ she said. ‘I know the deal I offered you means nothing to you, but can’t we still be friends?’

  ‘I do not wish to be your enemy or your friend.’

  ‘Why are you so mean to me always, Johnny? You know how gone on you I am.’

  ‘Keep away from me, Dorothy, is all I ask you.’

  I got up, but she called, ‘Just one thing more I want to say to you.’ She got that far, then stopped, and when I waited, said, ‘Get me another drink.’

  ‘Is that it? More drink?’

  I moved finally to leave her, making from now a rule that never would I answer her again. She grabbed my arm suddenly and pulled me down towards her, and said so close my ear I smell her whisky breath, ‘If I leave the game, Johnny, and get off the streets for good, will you marry me?’

  I pulled my arm away. ‘Your life is your life, Dorothy. Do not try to mix it in with mine is all I say.’

  I left this woman, and returned to Laddy Boy. When she went out some minutes later, she stopped as she passed by and said to me, ‘I’ll mix in, Johnny Fortune, if I want to. I always get my own way in the end.’

  The GI shook hands to show his dislike of her behaviour, and they both left. ‘That woman should drink tea,’ said Laddy Boy.

  I made the arrangement with him for the meeting next day with his quartermaster, and then went to see my overnight home at the Free Occupation club. Peter had not yet come back to his duty, so I waited in the hallways, where I saw a big poster of the Cranium Cuthbertson band, which said they would play at the Stepney friendly get-together where white and coloured residents were invited to know each other rather better.

  ‘Hullo, bra,’ said some voice, and it was Arthur.

  ‘“Bra” is for Africans, not for Jumbles,’ I said to him.

  ‘Why you always insulting me, Johnny? Would our same dad like it, if he knew?’

  ‘Blow, man, before I do you some violence,’ I said to him.

  He walked back to the door, and said out loud, ‘He’s here!’, then scattered quick. The CID Inspector Purity came in with another officer.

  ‘We want you, Fortune,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk to you at the station.’

  These two men grabbed me, though I made no resistance and said nothing. Each held an arm, and tugged me across the pavement to their car. Peter Pay Paul came up at just this moment, and stopped still when he saw me. ‘Telephone, Peter, to the radio BBC!’ I cried out loud. ‘Speak to Miss Pace. Pace! BBC radio headquarter!’

  They dragged me inside the Law car. The journey was short and fast, and they did not speak. In the police station, they took me beyond the public rooms, and then, from behind me, Mr Purity struck me on the neck and I fell on the concrete. I got up, and they pulled me into a small room.

  ‘Fingerprint him, Constable,’ said Purity to the other officer.

  ‘I have no wish to be fingerprinted.’

  ‘Shut up. Over here.’

  ‘You cannot fingerprint me. I have no conviction on my record.’

  The two looked at each other, then at me. The Detective-Constable, whose face was pale and miserable, came close and said, ‘You’re not going to co-operate?’ Then he beat me round about my head.

  I know the great danger of hitting back against the Law, so sat still with my hands clenched by my side. This beating went on. ‘Don’t bruise him,’ said Mr Purity. The Constable stopped and rubbed his hands.

  ‘Our bruises do not show in court so well as white man’s do,’ I said. ‘This is the reason why you hit us always harder.’

  Mr Purity smiled at this funny remark I made. He asked me for details of my name, and age, and this and that, and I gave him these. Then they searched me and took away every possession. Then he began ask
ing other questions.

  ‘In English law,’ I said, ‘do you not make a charge? Do you not caution a prisoner before he speaks? This is the story that they tell us in our lessons we have back home on British justice.’

  Mr Purity raised up his fist. ‘Do you really want to suffer?’ he said to me.

  ‘I want to know the charge. There was no drug in my possession – nothing.’

  ‘We’re not interested in drugs at present,’ said Mr Purity. ‘We’re charging you with something that’ll send you inside for quite a bit longer, as you’ll see. You’re a ponce, Johnny Fortune, aren’t you. You’ve ponced on Bill Whispers’ girl.’

  This words were such a big surprise to me, that at first I had no speech. Then I stand up. ‘You call me ponce?’ I shouted.

  ‘Nigger or ponce, it’s all the same,’ the Detective-Constable said.

  I hit him not on the face, but in the stomach where I know this blow must hurt him badly, even if they kill me after. They did not kill me, but called in friends and kicked me round the floor.

  After this treatment, I was left alone and even given a kind cigarette. An old officer in uniform and grey hair then visited me, and spoke to me like some friendly uncle. ‘You’d better do what you’re told, son,’ he said, ‘and let them print you. Tomorrow they’ll oppose bail in court, and the screws can print you in the nick at Brixton … You don’t want to fight the whole police force, do you? You can only lose …’

  ‘Mister, this battle is not ended,’ I said to him. ‘Outside in this city, London, I have friends.’

  14

  Mobilisation of the defence

  The message reached Theodora, in a highly garbled version, through an agitated secretary who boldly interrupted an interdepartmental conference at Broadcasting House on a projected series of talks to be called, provisionally, ‘The Misfit and the Body Corporate: a survey of contemporary unintegrated types.’ Theodora, scenting mischief, had asked the DAC (Programmes) if she might be excused, and had parliamented with the secretary in an airless corridor outside.

  ‘I’m sorry if I did wrong, Miss Pace, to barge in on the meeting,’ the secretary whispered, ‘but it sounded urgent. This person said this person was “in big trouble” – those were his words.’

  ‘Which person?’

  ‘The one who phoned said it. I think he must have been a native.’

  ‘You mean the African who telephones me sometimes?’

  ‘No: an illiterate sort, Miss Pace. I could hardly understand a word he spoke. But he did say to tell you “the Law have put the hands on she Spade friend” – those were the exact words he used.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Lamb,’ said Theodora. ‘You did quite right. Please go in and tell the DAC I’m called away on urgent family business. A sudden case of sickness.’

  All this Theodora told me, in calm, shrill tones, over the telephone to the flat, where I was helping Norbert Salt iron the ruffles he’d sewn on to the front of a silk shirt he planned to wear with his tuxedo at a gala.

  ‘It sounds, Theodora, as if Johnny’s been arrested.’

  ‘Of course it does. But where? And why? How does one find out?’

  ‘Telephone the police station.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Well, try the East End ones first. Would you like me to do it?’

  ‘No, I’ll work from here. I’ll call you back when there are developments.’

  ‘Just a minute, Theodora. Lay your hands on some money if you can – it always comes in useful. And what about a lawyer?’

  ‘I’d thought of all that. I’ll call you later.’

  I waited half an hour, then telephoned the BBC. Theodora had gone and left no message. I wondered what to do. I opened the fourth volume of the telephone directory and looked up ‘Zuss-Amor’.

  Though the hour was late, a female voice replied. Yes, Mr Zuss-Amor was in, but what was it about? I started to explain, but clickings in the line suggested to me someone listening on an extension. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘May I please speak to Mr Zuss-Amor direct? Tell him I’m a friend of Alfy Bongo’s.’

  Immediately a male voice said, ‘What sort of case is it, Mr Pew?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, my friend’s only just been arrested. We’re trying to find out why. He’s an African.’

  ‘Oh. Then we know what the case will probably be, don’t we. I can see you here tomorrow at half-past-five.’

  ‘But Mr Zuss-Amor, that’ll be too late. Won’t the case come up in court tomorrow morning?’

  ‘He’ll be formally charged tomorrow, yes, but you can take it from me, if the case is at all serious, the police will ask for a remand. There’s nothing I can do till I’ve heard some facts from you and from the client: that is, if I agree to take the case, of course, and he agrees to me.’

  ‘What should I do tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Where was your friend arrested?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. He lives down in the East End.’

  ‘It’ll be Boat Street magistrates’ court, most likely. Go there, try to see him, and try to get the magistrate to grant bail. I doubt if he will, though.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The police usually oppose bail in the kind of case I think it’s likely to be. See you tomorrow, then, Mr Pew, and thanks for calling.’

  I had a lot more to say and ask, but Mr Zuss-Amor hung up on me. The moment I put the telephone down, the bell rang, and it was Theodora.

  ‘I’m at Aldgate, Montgomery,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t get any sense out of the police over the phone, so I took a taxi down here and went to the station.’

  ‘Yes, yes. And?’

  ‘He’s been arrested, but they won’t tell me where he is or what the charge is.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They wanted to know what they called my “interest in the matter”. I said I was willing to go bail, but they told me that was a matter for the magistrate. Then I tried to get through to Sir Wallingford Puke-Drew—’

  ‘Sir who?’

  ‘He’s my family solicitor: the one who advised us on the eviction trouble; but there’s no one in his office.’

  ‘I’ve got a solicitor, Theodora. A Mr Zuss-Amor.’ And I told her of our conversation.

  ‘But what do you know about this person, Montgomery?’

  ‘Nothing. But he’s seeing me tomorrow, isn’t he? We must get things moving.’

  There was a slight, agitated pause. ‘Suppose they convict him tomorrow before we have time to get legal advice?’

  ‘They can’t possibly do that. He has the right to apply for legal aid.’

  ‘But does he know that?’

  ‘He’s not an idiot, Theodora.’

  ‘If only I knew what it was all about.’

  ‘Well, stop fussing, and come back here and talk about it. There’s nothing else to do now that I can see. Would you like me to come down there and fetch you?’

  ‘No. I’ve kept the taxi waiting.’

  She arrived back, battered and dismayed as I had never seen her before. I gave her a glass of vodka (a present to the household from Moscow Gentry), and she recovered something of her poise.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Montgomery,’ she said, ‘and it must be one of three things. Either some act of violence, or else having that disgusting hemp in his possession, or else …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You don’t think this woman Muriel was a prostitute, do you?’

  ‘I’m certain she wasn’t. She wouldn’t know how.’

  ‘Would he have lived on any other woman of that type?’

  ‘You can never be certain, Theodora, but I really don’t believe he would.’

  ‘What can you get for having Indian hemp?’

  ‘I believe on a first conviction it’s only a fine – unless they could prove he dealt in it as well.’

  Theodora poured out another glassful. ‘I’ll have to cook up some story for the office,’ she said. Then, draining it down, ‘I wish I knew more about the world
!’

  Next morning saw us driving down to Boat Street in a taxi – I in my best suit with an unusual white shirt, and Theodora in her severest black. She opened her bag as we drew near the East End, and made herself up rather excessively. Then she took a small yellow pill, and swallowed with difficulty. ‘Dexedrine,’ she said. ‘Want one?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Good for the nerves. Tones you up in an emergency.’

  ‘Like hemp, apparently.’

  ‘But if you’ve got a kind doctor or chemist, perfectly legal.’

  ‘White man’s magic.’

  ‘No wonder they think we’re hypocrites.’

  The public waiting at the court were not prepossessing: though even Venus and Adonis would have looked squalid in this antechamber of the temple of justice, built in Victorian public lavatory style. When the sitting began, we squeezed in among a considerable throng, and watched a succession of small, grim cases – on all of which two dreadful old men beside me throatily passed whispered comments, invariably derogatory to the accused. Somebody nudged me. It was Mr Laddy Boy, the seaman I’d met earlier in the Sphere. He shook hands, and pursed his lips as if to say, ‘I’m here, and you’re here – so there’s nothing to worry about at all.’

  When Johnny Fortune was brought in, he looked a little shrunken and shop-soiled, but preserved, I was glad to see, his habitual buoyancy. He immediately glanced round to where the public were, saw us, nodded slightly, and then faced the magistrate.

  This was one of those old gentlemen who look so amiable, but in such a neutral, meaningless sort of way that one really can’t tell very much about them. The clerk read the charge, which, as I’d feared, and all the time secretly believed it would be, was one of living on the immoral earnings of a common prostitute, to wit, Dorothea Violet Macpherson. To this odious charge, Johnny Fortune pleaded not guilty in ringing, confident tones.

  ‘Fucking ponce,’ whispered one of the disgusting old men.

  ‘These black bastards,’ said the other.

  Laddy Boy trod accidentally on their feet. There was some slight scuffling, and the usher turned and frowned severely.