Ten Word Game

by Jonathan Gash

  The other two vehicles started up. I saw a couple of figures walk in the lights. Heart in my mouth, I waited for the leading lorry to stall, do something, but the damned thing simply kept going, slowly drawing away. It had gone two vehicle’s lengths when it stopped. I couldn’t distinguish its shape well enough to make out what was happening, but it revved, engine growling, then seemed to quieten. Its nose just edged into the light from the street lamps before it stopped altogether and somebody called out. Other voices answered, a door slammed, more figures moving into the headlights.

  The next lorry started off. I saw its headlights, then the vehicles seemed to slew crosswise, coming against the side of the building with a crash, though it hadn’t been going at any speed, just trying to move past the leading wagon. Its engine cut and more voices began.

  The third came forward but there were urgent warning yells as it slumped down and tilted massively. Its engine whirred as if caught fast, and stopped. Maybe the grid had been lifted by my chains and the wheel had gone into the gap? Then voices went low. I couldn’t hear anything. They must be working out that somebody had damaged their lorries. And it looked like I’d got all three, the first two by my improvised traps and the third because the grid had acted like a tank trap. The loader-arm vehicle was too small to lift or pull such large vehicles. Unless it unloaded them, they were immobilised.

  It was then that I heard the noise. Men, not caring if they were detected, called. I saw flashlights stabbing the shrubbery, and like a fool I thought, what are they looking for?

  My chest griped. Looking for me, hunting whoever had ruined their theft. There was only one place the saboteur could hide, and that was in the gardens where I was. I scrabbled down to the ground and started to run.

  In daylight, scarpering through undergrowth is almost impossible. In the dark it’s hopeless. Branches cut me, twigs poked and blinded me and roots brought me down. I headed for the road, thinking of the square with the metro stations and the caffs. Nothing had been open when I’d cut into the gardens, so unless they opened early…

  I almost slammed into the shed. I ran round it, gasping for breath and whimpering. They’d do for me if I got caught. Flashlights flickered among the trees ahead, between me and the road. With hunters’ instincts, the bastards had sent people round to trap me. I heard them coming, and hauled myself up onto the roof of the little building. It had a ridge, and I spread out on it, on the slope away from the Yusupov building. I heard them come and tried to quieten my breathing. They thrashed about, shouting. Their flashlights sliced the dark sky. If they shone their torches ahead they’d see a bare roof, so unless they came round the other side and raised their beams, I might not be seen.

  They came and milled about below. One or two went past, calling to the men nearer the road. I stayed put.

  Then I heard them pause, stand and talk, a little breathless. One or two lit fags, everything in Russian.

  Except one voice was familiar. Fluent, in Russian? It had never spoken Russian before. And then another, also familiar. Recriminations, possibly, and no love lost. Tempers flew, there were arguments. Then frank bawling. I heard a thump and more shouts. Somebody from nearer the gate, in the direction I’d been heading, came walking back, their beams on the ground so as not to trip, lighting the inevitable cigarettes, talking, calling ahead in those flat voices announcing no luck.

  The group assembled while arguments raged. Some went back to the lorries, no need to avoid noise now. I could hear them reach the wagons and distant arguments begin round the vehicles. I guessed they were trying to work out what to do. Surely they must have had vehicles in reserve for a scam of this magnitude?

  And the row near the shed went on, with those two familiar voices beginning to shout in Russian, others yelling back, and then a series of slaps. Slaps, like hands on faces? And somebody screeching what could only be abuse, then the whole pack starting to mutter, sullen and resigned.

  A voice yelled from the direction of the lorries. An engine started, and the low revving of the loader joined in. Another engine, and somebody calling, I supposed wanting assistance. Maybe they were trying to pull the lorry forward so its wheels would come clear of the hole left by the grille? Except a laden lorry’s wheel would surely buckle under the stress of a fall like that.

  I heard one lorry creak, creak some more then fall with a stunning crash, maybe on its side. Music to my ears. With any luck it would be the first lorry, then the others would be hemmed in. Could a damaged lorry reverse? I wasn’t sure.

  One of the familiar voices mentioned a woman’s name. I stilled. It was the last name I could ever have imagined having anything to do with a scam like this. I caught another name I knew, but surely that couldn’t have been right. I was disorientated. It was then that a blunt snapping sound came, just when I’d thought tempers had cooled.

  The sharp report dinned in my ears, so quick and severe I actually thought something tapped the side of my head. I almost looked round in fright. Somebody grunted once, twice, kept on until a second slapping sound caused one last severe exhalation. The sounds ceased. And the grunting, and the breaths.

  “Bastard,” a familiar voice remarked, nonchalantly as if winning a trick at cards. I’d heard other gamblers say things like that, almost affectionate, with a hint of oh-well-bad-luck. I almost exclaimed aloud.

  More Russian, then the voices receded as the men went towards the lorries. I waited, trying to hear if anybody was lurking down there for me to drop into a trap. Five minutes or so, the revving engines still hard at it and the shouts uncaring now, as if everybody had given up trying for secrecy.

  I dropped to the ground. I didn’t risk going round to the other side of the shed, where some corpse was lying shot to death. I know what a gun sounds like close to, and didn’t want my footprints all over a crime scene, nor did I want bloodstains on me. For a second I dithered, guilt telling me I should see if they were still alive. Except people who shot people like that were unlikely to leave loose ends. Good reasoning, for a coward.

  Taking care, I went near the house, and saw a real mess. One lorry was on its side – my crowbar trick coming good. The rear wheels of the second lorry were splayed as if it had actually been broken and the truck bed split. The third looked driven into the ground, two of its near-side back wheels in the hole and its front wheels almost off the terracing. I was thrilled. The Amber Room wasn’t going anywhere.

  Time I looked after myself. I retreated to the shrubbery. I needed to get past the stricken vehicles. The men started to unload the crates, handling them so roughly I winced. The loader wasn’t much use, until they could manhandle each crate off the bed of each truck. Only then could the loader remove the crates one by one and stack them on the edge of the terrace.

  They finally started in earnest, and after about half-an-hour I got past. They must have sent for more trucks. I saw a faint sky-glow and guessed morning was on the way. About time too, but they must think they were still within a shout of success. It was odd stepping into the light of the corridor through the double rear doors of the building.

  How long ago since I’d come through here, talking and smiling, having a glass of champagne with Tour B2 from the Melissa, Natasha rounding us all up and Lady Vee eager for cake? I went quietly to the main office, just feeling my way along the walls and taking my time, until I reached the main desk by the front entrance.

  The doors seemed intact. There was adequate orange light coming in through the windows. It showed the desk where the information ladies had been seated when we’d arrived. I left a trail of mud from my shoes, but there you go. I took a good thirty minutes trying to make sense of the phone, until I saw a list of numbers in non-Cyrillic script stuck on the wall beside the desk. I cursed, cheated out of valuable time.

  Keeping an ear out for the men – I was too far away now to hear them unloading – I dialled the numbers we’d been told on the coach trips. St Petersburg is easier than our own cities. You dial zero-1 for fire engines, zero-
2 for police and zero-3 for ambulances. Before I called them, though, I rang a series of embassies. I did our own, then Germany’s, France’s, then the American, Canadian, Ukrainian, Danish – in honour of Wolffram the amber carver – then Poland’s. I only got one who was awake and on the ball, guess whose. All the rest were recorded voices, so taxpayers could get stuffed and ambassadors could slumber their alcoholic stupors in peace and not be disturbed by the hoi-polloi.

  Then I called the 01, 02, 03 and said, “Yusupov, fire, fire!” The police and ambulances just got the name of the place, nothing more. A master of disguise, I did one voice falsetto, one bass, and one a stuttery Italianate with every word ending in a vowel. I did it all a few times in attempted film-star impressions with my sleeve over the mouthpiece like I’d seen in bad movies. Then I wiped the phone free of dabs and let myself out by the front door. I had the courtesy to switch the lights on and leave the doors ajar.

  I walked to the market and hunched down near a bare stall to wait for the dawn.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Russian words were spoken by the same familiar voice, the one that had been raised in anger before somebody got shot. Strangely, I could understand what he was saying and knew who he was. He thought somebody had betrayed him. Ivy’s name was mentioned over and over. I knew I was dreaming. Somebody threw water on my face. I came to, spluttering in the cold.

  Three men in dark garb stood over me. It was nearly day. I was cold and damp in the street market. A few Ladas and Volgas and some gungy old Zhigulis were already whining about the streets, and the odd Mercedes. I knew none of the men.

  “Up, Lovejoy.” Purser Mangot pushed into view. He was in full uniform, wearing a hat crammed with insignia. I’d have saluted if I’d remembered how.

  “I got lost,” I stammered. “I got mugged, er, lost my memory.”

  “You’re pathetic.”

  “These five blokes jumped out and – ”

  “It’s no good, Lovejoy.”

  The Russians bundled me into a police motor. At a grim police station I was put into a room and watched over by some bloke in the uniform of those traffic cops who stand on every corner. I had evaded them until now.

  The guard ignored me when I asked for water. Time passed. I was interrogated by a uniformed bloke accompanied by an interpreter. I told my story. They tested my coat, my trousers, my skin and hands with chemicals and took skin scrapings and pared my finger nails and took the residues away in containers. A Russian lawyer speaking an occasional word in English came and asked how did I manage to have some American dollars in my sock and pockets if I was mugged. I said I’d run like hell.

  They asked how I’d become separated from the B2 Tour of the Yusupov Palace. I said I’d gone to the loo, and when I came out everybody had gone and I tried to catch them up and guess what but they’d already left so I started walking but missed my way…

  “Pathetic,” Purser Mangot said with that snarl, putting his head round the door. I asked him for some water.

  “Don’t be pathetic.” He sounded disgusted, and went.

  For a whole morning and most of the afternoon they asked me questions. I was glad Mangot was around, though I heard another voice speaking English. I was interviewed over and over by a new lawyerish geezer who sounded tired out and from Liverpool. I was never so glad to hear a familiar accent in all my life. They let me go to the loo, where I drank some water.

  Later, I asked if I could phone the embassy. They told me to shut up. I asked to be allowed a phone call. They said no.

  Another hour, another interview, same questions. They asked if I’d made phone calls to the fire, police and ambulance departments. I said I hadn’t. They asked if I’d gone back to the Yusupov Palace and I said no. They took my finger prints. They made me read English sentences and recorded my speech. They photographed me with a card round my neck and measured my ears. I thought, ears? What the hell had my ears been up to? They snipped a lock of hair and washed the inside of my cheek and took the saliva away in a container. They labelled everything. They even had a container for blank labels.

  As it was getting on for evening, I was taken to the door and a Russian man came. A grubby embassy official in a bad temper arrived with Mangot and signed forms. I asked if he was a lawyer. He glared. His suit didn’t quite fit. I suppose he was one of the embassy people I’d roused by the phone calls I had denied. He hurried off to get ready for the next cocktail party. My taxes were some use, then. Purser Mangot said they were letting me go. We boarded a taxi. It took us to the airport.

  There, I was handed into the charge of a man from the shipping agent’s office. He wore a shipping line badge and spoke fluent Russian, but not to me. At the gate I asked Purser Mangot where I was going. He did his snarl. I told him thanks for getting me out of the Russian gaol. He said his bit about my being pathetic and turned on his heel.

  My pal said nothing even when I asked questions so I shut up. I felt handcuffed, though he didn’t even glance my way. I obeyed his beckoning finger without question. He directed me by gestures and tilts of the head, stay there, come this way, stand still. He signed forms at the airways desks. I wasn’t a prisoner but made sure I was a model prisoner, if you follow.

  Purser Mangot was visible on the spectator’s gallery when I boarded the plane, watching me leave. The man came with me, sat behind my seat and still said nothing. After the shortest flight on record we touched down in Helsinki. It was already dark. With my silent warder I travelled in a taxi to a quayside, where a huge cruise liner was about to dock. It was the Melissa. Christ, she was a giant of a thing. I vaguely remembered the ship was due to reach Helsinki in Finland the day after leaving St Petersburg, so there had been no question of my escaping, not for real. My heart sank.

  The quayside clock said nine o’clock. The passengers would be either at dinner or in the evening show or films, or grumbling because the casinos were closing on account of being in a foreign port. I was taken to the gangway and walked on board alone, the silent warder standing watching until I was taken in hand by the Ghurkas and the gangway door closed. I felt entombed by the air conditioning. I was put in my cabin, rather glad to be there in a strange way. I locked the door, had a shower and changed. I shaved, did my teeth and felt really quite good.

  At the Bordeaux I had a meal, then sat in the lounge in solitude. I saw photographs by the ship’s photographers among hundreds on display. The girls were just taking them down. I asked for the one showing me trying to grin over the side of the gangway as we’d left the previous morning on Tour B2. A memento, but silly to waste the money. I sat in a bar until my eyelids drooped. Distantly I could hear the riotous laughter of the celebrations of a great show, flags, everybody singing, the ship one big party.

  Unbelievably, I decided this wasn’t for me. I know I ought to have reported to Lady Vee, shown her friends I was still around and maybe build myself some security. Instead, like a duckegg I went to bed. No sign of any of my fellow diners, ladies I knew, or antiques experts. I didn’t call June Milestone, Delia Oakley, or Lauren to ask how she’d got on doing the dinner-time antiques quiz. Maybe I was just done for.

  Someone had once told me to tell everybody wrong. I’d done that, all right. I was getting more and more narked as the lamp hours ticked away. Thinking about it, I’d been really obedient, mostly. Even when that benign little bloke Mr Moses had been killed in that attractive harbour in North Germany, I’d kept myself meek and mild like in the children’s hymn. I was so angry I could hardly think. I wondered how far an official protest would get, on board a ship like this.

  Once, I’d heard passenger gossip about two families leaving Durban on this cruise liner. They’d fought, and been so obnoxious to everyone aboard that the crew told the captain. He’d simply put them ashore, to fly home at their own expense. Captain’s word is law, they say. Can’t hang anyone these days, but still law.

  Making sure my cabin door was locked, I fell into bed.

  * * *

 
; The steward arrived like a tornado, grinning and bringing a breakfast I hadn’t ordered.

  “You like Helsinki today!” he prophesied.

  “Ta, Emil, but I didn’t order breakfast.”

  “You eat! Good breakfast start the day!”

  I noshed my way through, feeling better. I searched the cabin thoroughly before the stewards came to make the beds and vacuum. Nothing had been planted. I felt around every ledge, up-ended every drawer. Not a single thing.

  A swim, then I had coffee when the morning passed a bit, watched Helsinki tours leave the ship on coaches parked along the quays. I even strolled ashore, to say I’d been there, saw a Greek Orthodox cathedral of all things and walked through a market – lots of flowers – and sat listening to a brass band competition in a little park. Good leather things, woollens, carved ornaments, in Helsinki. The ship, notices said along the harbour wall, would sail at the end of the afternoon, for Sweden. It was fine, dry and warm. The ship sailed on time.

  Nice place, Helsinki. No trouble.

  * * *

  Late that day, before dinner, I was getting ready to find Lauren, select some antiques for the evening quiz. My name was missing from the ship’s newspaper, so presumably I wasn’t needed to give and help to June Milestone or deputise for Mr Semper. I was pretty calm, even knowing it was close to my arrest over something trumped up. It came at quarter to six. I was dressed. No tuxedo tonight, since we had just left port.

  They came in without knocking. I stared at them. Executive Purser Mangot was in a striped shirt, wearing an imitation straw boater and bow tie with a Pearly King waistcoat and string round his knees, a Cockney sparrow image as convincing as a promise. June Milestone was his Pearly Queen, with red, white and blue skirt and bolero in the national colours, a jaunty Eliza Doolittle bonnet on her head. Amy the dancer was even more floral, with Les Renown done up like John Bull, a shiny black topper and artificially rotund belly popping his waistcoat, gleaming black George boots.