Ten Word Game

by Jonathan Gash

  There was somebody else with them. I stared, and drew breath to ask a searching and meaningful question, like what the hell. I stayed silent.

  “Carnival time, Lovejoy. Come and identify someone.”

  “Who?” I got out.

  “He’s an old spoil-sport,” Amy said, grinning mischievously.

  “Deess away,” Ilya said in his strange Russian accent. “Pliss, Loof-yoy.”

  They all laughed and pulled me into the corridor, enjoying some joke. Several passengers were already making their way from the cabins to the party. Maybe it was Honour To Sweden time? Or was their flag different colours?

  “You’ll like this, Lovejoy,” Mangot said grimly. He looked a bit pale. I thought, who’s the one at risk here, you or me?

  We went to the front end of the ship, passing through the Atrium where passengers were assembling, all similarly bedecked with ribbons and boaters and floral hats in patriotic hues. I tried looking for Ivy, Fern even, Delia Oakley, Cynthia and Josh Bannerman, or Lady Vee at a pinch, anybody who might suggest normality.

  We went to the elevators and descended to the medical centre. There, we turned to the side opposite Out-Patients, and went through an unmarked door covered in dark green beige, some kind of thoroughfare lit by strip lights. I heard a thick lock slam. I’d heard that sort of sound before and my chest griped.

  “He’ll like this,” Amy was telling Les, punching him playfully.

  “So will we!”

  More laughter. We turned right after about twenty paces, into a bare room lined in stainless steel walling. Doors were set in the steel surfaces. At the far end was a double door, all steel. The air was cold. Ilya undid the bolt, slid it aside and pulled the door for us.

  We entered a mortuary. I tried to hang back but was shoved none too gently and stumbled in with the rest. Purser Mangot was looking decidedly pale by then. Amy and Les were being as amused as ever at less than usual as usual, if you follow. I stood there. A medical technician, I suppose, in a green gown was standing beside the central table, everything stainless steel and freezing. Nervous, I glanced back towards the entrance door but they kept me there.

  On the table was a covered figure. I saw heeled shoes projecting from the green sheet covering the deceased. I thought, why me to identify Henry Semper, when he came on board with his lass Lauren and a hoard of TV admirers? I drew breath to complain about this absurdity when Purser Mangot gestured to the technician. He removed the green sheet.

  Billy? I stared from one person to the next and the next. My mind went ??? so I asked what had happened.

  No blood, but Billy had been cleaned up. I saw another person had joined us, Kevin, incongruously dressed in striped patriotic colours and bishop sleeves and pearly waistcoat and straw boater. He was staring past me at Billy. A hole was in Billy’s right orbit, a mess of staining on his chest.

  “Lovejoy?” Purser Mangot said. “Can you identify this person as Mr William Sands from the Wirral? Your fellow diner on Table 154 in the Pacific Restaurant on this cruise?”

  “Yes,” I managed at second go.

  “Are you in a position to say when you heard, saw or encountered the deceased last?”

  “Yes.” I looked round at Kevin.

  “On what occasion?”

  “I was on a shed in the Yusupov Gardens in St Petersburg. I heard him talking.”

  “Talking to whom?”

  “To Kevin,” I said. “Kevin spoke Russian.”

  “That’s not true!” Kevin said, “you vicious bitch.” He spoke in a voice that barely got beyond a hiss. “You’re making it up.”

  “I didn’t see who shot Billy, just heard two shots.”

  “I never left Tour B2!”

  “Oh, aye you did, mate,” Ilya said in perfect English. “I was within yards when you sloped off, you bastard.”

  He got my stare. I asked who he was.

  “Ta for the evidence, Lovejoy,” he told me, smiling. “We are recorded and certified.”

  He called out in Russian, and Natasha appeared at the door with two uniformed blokes.

  “Time to go, folks.” He nodded thanks to the technician, and led the way out. Purser Mangot, I noticed, was first through the exit and into the lifts, returning to the dementia of the ship party.

  “Who are you?” I asked Ilya, one eye on Natasha.

  “Just a humble member of the plod,” he said back. Emerging from the lifts into the corridor by the Atrium he nudged Amy and said, “Hey, Amy. Loof-yoy! What about that?”

  They laughed all the way back to sanity. I asked to sit down in Mangot’s office while Kevin was taken away.

  Purser Mangot recovered his poise as colour crept back into his face. He must have been unsettled by the mortuary. “This is your statement, typed up. Sign it.”

  “My statement? I can’t give evidence.”

  “You already have, sufficient for our purposes. The St Petersburg authorities need it, not us.”

  “Right,” I said, working things out, going back over the traces and trying to remember who’d said what to whom.

  “You will be called upon to identify the painting.”

  He pointed. On the wall my painting was hanging, now expertly framed. Van Gogh’s Spinning Woman, that I’d nicked from the Marquis of Gotham’s mansion.

  “It’s my painting,” I said stupidly. I went close and peered. “How’d it get here?”

  “You swear it’s yours?”

  “Course it is.”

  He was smiling, his old authority returning. “You’re under arrest, Lovejoy.”

  “For what?”

  “Theft of Old Masters from the Marquis of Gotham. And forgery. And complicity to steal.”

  “Are you a copper, or crew?”

  “I’m neither, Lovejoy. I’m David Buddy the bounty hunter. I know sod all about ships, but I know all about you.”

  By then I’d got there and said his name with him, nodding.

  “You looked different on TV.”

  “That’s my cousin’s husband. A decoy. Otherwise crooks like you would see me coming and clear off, right?”

  “Right.” I said. Well, I would.

  “I’ll send for you early,” he said, shuffling his notes. “We’re going on a long journey, you and me.”

  “Want to come for supper with me, Lovejoy?” June Milestone asked. “You’ve tried the Bordeaux. We could do something less fashionable. Maybe the Al Fresco? I know you like the Lido Deck. It shouldn’t get too crowded until after the late show. By then we should be quite tired. It’s been quite a day.”

  She smiled at Purser Mangot, aka David Buddy, bounty hunter. Kevin and his guards were gone, Natasha with them, and Ilya staying to chat up two girls on Reception.

  “Promise you won’t ask any questions,” June said, gracefully leading the way. “We have antiques to talk about. What did you think of the Exhibition in the Hermitage? Wasn’t it brilliant? I have figures from Sotheby’s recent antiques toys auction – the Great Teddy Bear Sale. You’ll be interested. And I’ve had faxes of the Ince and Mayhew furniture auction. Just think what you’ve been missing!”

  * * *

  About four o’clock the next morning the Melissa was sailing slowly among a scatter of small islands, the grey dawn turning blue. Small boats, a myriad har-bours, coloured houses, the approach to Stockholm looked idyllic.

  June wakened me and told me we had to go on deck to see a special sight.

  “You’ll love it,” she said, excitement in her eyes.

  We dressed and I tottered after her. At the end of the corridor Purser Mangot was waiting with two crewmen. June handed me over with, “Goodbye, Lovejoy. It’s been fun.” And left me.

  “Downstairs, Lovejoy.”

  Mangot led the way. The crewmen shoved me. We went down a ladder to the embarkation point. A small boat was travelling alongside flying the Swedish flag. Shaking, I got aboard, Mangot following. I kept away from him. The power boat accelerated away from Melissa. I saw June at
the Promenade Deck railing. She blew a kiss. I turned away.

  An hour later we were on a plane to London.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Back home I was allowed to return to my cottage after three days of statements, more statements, repeated statements. It only confirmed my view of lawyers – they’re people in some private gold field beset with mines, the location of which they alone are trained to avoid.

  My garden was even more overgrown, my Austin Ruby dwindling audibly among rust. My cottage had a broken window – who’d done that? Nobody usually bothers – but cardboard is in everybody’s dustbin so I patched it. Water, electricity, phone, were all cut off. Council bills and final demands were fallen leaves by the door. Robins and blue-tits came shouting for nuts, cheese, crumbs. I shouted back for them to give me a frigging chance for Christ’s sake, and rummaged for some grub. Not a carrot.

  At the small Co-op shop, new to the village now with serving ladies who had a computerised till, I received a frigid refusal when I tried to cadge. A lady I baby-sit for down the lane gave me half a loaf and some margarine and jam, and I filched somebody’s semi-skimmed milk from a doorstep. Well, they were church-goers and should feed the hungry. They were always on about good causes, and I was their sheep like the Good Book says. I wanted an egg because I’m quite good at cooking eggs, except they’re hard to boil and I can’t stand runny white. Same with frying, that rim of soft white round the yolk is a swine to get rid of. Another thing God got wrong.

  A note in a lavender envelope persuaded me to open it.

  Dear Lovejoy,

  I was so afraid. That police officer Mr Mangot sent me off the ship. He said you would be safe. I am so sorry if I let you down. Please call.

  Love,

  Margaret XXX

  Aye, right, I thought. I wiped the table down with some old paper and sat to eat my bread and jam. No tea, which is always death, but I had a cup of water from my garden well and put it there as if I had a full tea set. I was the height of elegance, really impressive with a clean knife and everything. All I needed now was a gorgeous lady to come in and say the words I hungered for, namely

  “Anything you want, sir?”

  “Wotcher, love. You’re just in time for tea.”

  She put two shopping bags of provisions down on the flagged floor, looking round.

  “You make a pretty picture, Lovejoy.”

  “I maintain standards. My gran told me to.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” She shed her coat, was unable to find a place to hang it, finally draped it on the divan bed. I’d pulled it down ready to sleep alone. “I called in the village shop to ask where you lived. They said you’d just been in trying to, ah, shop. I bought these, because I owe you. Think repayment.”

  Nobody ever owes me. I sometimes wished they did, but they never do. Wisely I didn’t say these words, though they’re part of my grievance litany.

  “What’ll you have?”

  “Sorry, Ivy. I’ve just finished. Couldn’t eat another thing.”

  “You’ve never tried my cooking, very Russian. I am magnificent. Sit there.” She tried the stove, the phone, the water taps, grimaced and went out saying she’d be back. I lay down, worn out, and slept.

  Long later she woke me. The place looked neat. Two blokes were in the garden. I detected food, fried this and steaming that. The table was laid. They’d rigged up some kind of trestle table out there, their stove hissing flames from propane gas. Ivy was decorative in a floral pinafore. She called thanks and they left, grinning, in a van that was more logos than vehicle.

  “The proposition is this, Lovejoy,” she said, combing my hair. I wondered if that’s what Russian women do. She’d combed my hair after we’d made smiles in the cabin on the Melissa. Was it a custom? “You dine with me, then ravish me. Or, if you’re far too exhausted, I shall ravish you with techniques I am re-learning. That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”

  Beggars can’t, can they?

  * * *

  She slept beside me, and I thought, is she the one?

  Years ago I invented the Ten Word Game. It’s simple: put any problem into ten words. No extras. You can describe the Olympics, America, or the whole universe, in ten words. It shows you what’s what.

  You can also describe the perfect woman. I’m not saying it’s easy, just that it teaches you. It makes you see things about a person you never suspected, and it can scare you. It can explain death.

  I wanted to play it now, and get an answer. Was she the one?

  Ivy slept soundly. I often think life must be easy for women, because they’ve got it all. They can, with virtually a flick of a wrist, soar a man to heaven in a way he remembers all his life, put themselves right up there on a pedestal along with the Virgin Mary or Mae West or any gorgeous starlette. Or they can charm a bloke with a fluttering eyelash, false or not, and synthesise a shape that stays in your memory for ever and ever.

  Was she the one? I could see myself wanting her to stay for life. I would ask her when she woke.

  Then I wondered what had roused me. I’d imagined I’d heard an engine, and somebody trying the door. Like I say, I’ve not much time for sleep, unless it’s in that umbra time after making smiles, when a man has to be allowed moments to climb back to life. I imagined – heard? – some familiar voice say quietly, “Lovejoy? I’ve come to…” And cut to silence. Then some woman’s footfalls receding.

  Ivy moved, coughed slightly, raised herself to look. I drew breath to propose. No time like the present.

  “Ivy, love?” I said, ready to go for it.

  “Lovejoy, darling.” She stretched, one of the loveliest sights, looking flour-dusted from slumber. She hunched closer. “That was my goodbye.”

  Goodbye? “Er, right.”

  She took my response in. Our heads were like bookends on the pillow.

  “I’m returning to St Petersburg.”

  “Okay.”

  “I have to, darling.”

  “Course you have.”

  “Billy took up with Kevin so completely that I had no proper life. Kevin being an emigre, they hatched the plan to loot St Petersburg even more than the Arch-Looter himself.”

  No wonder Billy condoned my friendship with Ivy. “The Arch-Looter?”

  “Boris Berezevsky, among other pseudonyms, was Kevin’s relative. Poor Russia came unstitched in the Great Mob War of 1993. It lasted two years and Berezevsky led the looting. Everything went, even street lamps carted away for sale. It was dreadful. Kevin arranged the shipments. They always get off scot free, don’t they?”

  “Do they?” I never do, and I don’t loot anything.

  “And Billy being in the police…”

  “Then why go back?” was the best I could manage. “They’ve collared Kevin for killing Billy in the garden after I stopped their theft. It’s finished.”

  “And poor Henry Semper.”

  I didn’t want to think about Henry because of my guilt, or how Kevin had done it. That Ilya copper guessed poison, but they were still looking for the body. My fault. I could have turned back that night and…

  “You don’t understand what Russia’s gone through. I can at least lend a hand, show tourists a better side of the loveliest country.”

  What chance had I, against love for a whole country, including Pushkin and that lot?

  “Victor thinks the same.” She went quiet, then said, “We shall go together.”

  Ivy and Victor? We rose, and I thanked her for the nosh and making smiles. I walked her through the brambles to the broken gate. She kissed me. Little Elizabeth with Olly from down the lane came by just then and went, “Ooooh, Lovejoy!” and went pink. I wagged a finger at her. “Don’t tell on me!” and she said, “I promise!” but didn’t spit and cross her heart so I knew Radio Elizabeth would broadcast round the village within minutes.

  Ivy had summoned a car on her cell phone by then. I waved her off. She looked back through the rear window until the car went beyond the hedger
ows. I went in and started to stack up the messages and letters, discarding the red final-demand notices. They’d already done their worst. Two were from magistrates.

  “Alone at last?” Delia Oakley said, knocking on the jamb.

  “Not now.”

  “Need help with those?”

  “I can guess most contents. These are summonses, those others superfluous.”

  “Four or five look personal. One’s from me.”

  “Saying what?”

  She tut-tutted. “The cream of the correspondence is usually inside the envelope. Isn’t that Goldsmith’s crack?”

  “Almost.”

  “I’ve leased a shop on North Hill next to the tea shop.”

  “You and Fern?”

  She avoided my eye. “Our partnership dissolved. I’m hoping to be your assistant.”

  “To learn the antiques trade?”

  “There’s a flat above the premises. Deal, Lovejoy?”

  Somebody once said, “Small-small fee deal?” I winced at the memory.

  “I work alone, love. And I can’t pay.”

  She smiled. “Bargain at the price. You can lodge with me until you get straight.”

  I was surprised she said that. The cottage was tidier than it had ever been.

  If you’re unsure, postpone. If you’re absolutely sure, postpone absolutely. It’s my rule. She was bonny and appealing, yet I didn’t know how I now stood with local dealers. I needed to see them first.

  “Right. I’ll be down tonight, then.”

  She came and put her arms round me. “I’m so pleased, Lovejoy. Eight o’clock?”

  “Ta, love.”

  I waved her off in her Toyota as a motor came up from Seven Arches. It must have gone past while Delia was here, because there is no way through beyond the river. Cynthia Bannerman alighted. I stood aside and she went in. I like the way women assume they’ve a right to go anywhere, which of course they have. I followed.