——
Fred clocked me at the bar and he came over.
“Not just yet, Fred. I’ll get ‘em in a bit later.”
They were drinking pints. What was the betting she was a lightweight? Bide my time ‘til she’d had a skinful. Look at the state of her. Yid snoop. Bide my time at the bar, then peel them apart; skim her off like fat from a pan of gravy.
——
“I’ve been thinking . .” she said, “thinking how unfair this has all been. I mean, I was a fine undercover agent; I bet they’ve learnt all sorts of important things from my de-briefing. Uncle Tristram said that would be the case, actually. But now I’m not going to know what any of those things are. They’re leaving me out in the cold and none of it’s my fault.” She glared at me, accusingly, as if I’d had summat to do with it.
“So the dose of uranium hasn’t put you off, then?”
She made a scoffing sound and downed some more beer.
“Can I have your crisps, Magnus?”
“Feel free, man.”
A trio of musicians had arrived and were getting themselves sorted out in the corner, just a couple of yards from our table and a crowd had built up all of a sudden, leaning over our pints and using my ashtray. Soon we’d not be able to hear ourselves talk. I thought about her uncle and what he’d said about her running away. It was true; for somebody so persistent, she wasn’t half elusive. She edged closer.
“I’m just going to have to go it alone,” she confided. “I think my country needs me. I really do.”
“Oh Rosa. I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, man. This stuff is dangerous; you could get yourself in all kinds of trouble. Real, grown-up trouble.”
She smiled, so close to my face, I could have kissed her, just like that.
“I am grown-up, Magnus.” Her big, brown eyes crossed, ever so slightly. “I’m also rather drunk. Uranium with a beer chaser may have been a bit silly. Got any more crisps?”
A man leant over us and tapped me on the shoulder.
“’Evening Magnus. Not seen you here for a while.”
It was my Uncle Reg - my father’s younger brother, my London uncle. He’d got his hat and shades combo on and a wide, black scarf wound round his neck, like a genuine hepcat. I wasn’t that surprised to see him there; his office was in the vicinity and I’d run into him at the Black Box before.
“Uncle Reg, man!” I stood up to shake his hand.
“Who’s your lady friend, lad, and may I have the honour of buying her some more crisps?”
Rosa got up, swaying a fraction.
“That’d be lovely, thanks so much. I’m Rosa, by the way,” she reached for his hand and held onto it for support. “I say, have we met before?”
He bent his head over her hand and kissed the back of it.
“I don’t think so, Rosa. I reckon I’d have remembered you, love.”
He picked up our glasses and headed off to the bar.
“Isn’t that funny!” She exclaimed. “Uncles coming out of the woodwork all over the place! He’s quite ‘hail fellow well met’, isn’t he?”
She made me laugh. Rosa was a treasure trove of archaic expressions.
“He’s harmless,” I replied. “I didn’t see much of him when I was growing up in Hull, but we’ve caught up over a pint once or twice, since. He’s a businessman; can’t remember exactly what he does, but he’s done alright for himself and his family, has Uncle Reg. Lives in a big house in Cricklewood. He’s got a little brat of a son I’m not that keen on, though. Bit of a Johnny Ray[26] fan, if you get me.”
“Do you know . .” Rosa laid her palm on top of mine, like she had summat of great import to communicate, “I quite like Johnny Ray. Even when he cries. In fact, Magnus . . I think I prefer him when he cries.”
Blimey she was drunk.
“Well I’m not sure we can be friends any more, Rosa,” I said.
10. The Second Uncle
Uncle Reg was making his way back to us through the crowd, bearing two pints held well above his head and with a packet of crisps stuck under his armpit.
“I don’t know how jazz fans can see in those dark glasses,” Rosa remarked. “Not in a basement in gloomy, old London, at any rate.”
“Their eyes adjust, I reckon,” I said. “But Uncle Reg always wears them. He’s got trouble with his eyes. Some industrial injury the Trades Unions should’ve come down hard on, only the Unions in this country’ve got no teeth. Ta for that!” My pint had arrived. “Not supping, yourself?”
“Not tonight, son. There you are, Rosa,” he flung the crisps on the table. “Mind if I join you? Be honest; I wouldn’t want to break up a tête-à-tête.”
“Please do. You’re not breaking up anything,” Rosa looked puzzled. “We can budge up, can’t we, Magnus?”
We certainly could. My leg was jammed up against Rosa’s and I caught a whiff of her scent. She smelt of lilacs in the park after the rain. I took a swift gulp of my pint and tried to concentrate on the music.
“What d’you reckon to this, Uncle Reg?” I cocked my head at the trio, who were attempting a driving, hard bop sound done streets better by Art Blakey[27]. It was acceptable, but it lacked the blues edge it should’ve had.
“I’m a trad man, me,” he said. “Give me a bit of Acker Bilk[28] and I’m happy.”
“Fair enough. He’s not half bad, is Acker.”
“I suppose you like the low lighting down here, Uncle Reg?” Rosa broke in, with that avid look on her face. “I suppose it’s soothing for you?”
The lass couldn’t help herself, of course, but the lack of tact could throw people who didn’t know her that well.
“Soothing?” He looked surprised for a moment. “Ah, he’s told you about my eyes, has he?”
“Yes. How did it happen?” She had no shame.
“My, my,” he stared, “what a nosy little parker you are, Rosa.”
“Yes, I suppose I am,” she said, plain and simple.
Did she mind? That he’d said that to her? I couldn’t tell. It didn’t look like she was taking it amiss. But I did.
“Hey man,” I said, “she didn’t mean anything by it. Rosa’s just . . interested. She’s dead interested in everything.”
He ignored me and carried on sizing her up.
“Well, you know what happened to the cat, don’t you?”
“What?” Rosa was as fascinated as ever. “Oh, do tell me. What happened to the cat?”
“Curiosity killed it, love.”
And that’s when I realised I’d gone off my Uncle Reg.
The trouble with pubs - and clubs - is that it’s hard not to take root. You slip in for a quick drink and, next thing you know, you’re standing on the table, singing the Red Flag. Well, maybe that’s just me. The third pint had taken Rosa quite differently. She’d emptied the contents of her carpet bag all over the table and was scrabbling about for a lipstick, which she proceeded to stab at arbitrary parts of her face; taking pot luck as to where her mouth had landed up. However, if anything, her speech had become more precise and she was busy rattling off a comprehensive list of lipstick shades.
“Now, this is Fire and Ice by Revlon of course, but I also like Radiant Peony. And Blush Rose, Heart Red and Pink Violet. Also Promises Pink, Jeopardy Red, Kiss and Make up, Divine Mastery, Coral Seas, Puckery, Sonnet In Mauve, Fleur du Jour . .”
“Give it a rest, sweetheart,” I said. “You are the cleverest girl I’ve ever met, Rosa Stone - and the most beautiful, by the way - but you don’t need to clog up your brain with all that fluff, you know? Save it for the fluff . . I mean stuff that matters, eh?”
“Has she got total recall?” A familiar voice cut through the beer fumes. Was it my Uncle Reg? Was that saddo Acker Bilk fan still with us? He’d been sarky to my girlfriend. Well, I wasn’t having that!
“What if she has? Wanna make summat of it?” I stumbled to my feet and rolled up my sleeves.
“Now, now, that’s the drink talking. There’s no
need for any of that, son. Let’s get you two young people home. Can I offer you a lift?”
“No!” It came out louder than intended. “We’re getting the night bus, thanks.”
“The car’s only parked down the road.”
Rosa looked up from her lipsticks and focussed on my uncle.
“You could take me to Charing Cross station if you really don’t mind, Uncle Reg.”
“No he couldn’t!”
What was she thinking of? Sitting in the station all night to wait for the early morning train to Kent? It was vital that she came home with me. (Yeah, yeah – I know what you’re thinking; but it wasn’t all that. I honestly felt like I’d got to grab onto her coat tails, or she’d be up and off, and then who knew what might happen to her?)
“Of course I could,” said Uncle Reg. “Have you got a train to catch, Rosa, love?”
“I’m going home to my parents in Kent. I’ll just get the Dover Priory train and ring from there.”
She’d rammed all her belongings back in her bag and was tying her peculiar purple cape around her shoulders, like her mind was made up.
“Dover? What a coincidence. I’ve a factory down there, would you believe? I’m heading that way tomorrow - first thing - for business. Now I come to think about it, it wouldn’t hurt to go down tonight; set the ball rolling. Why don’t I give you a lift all the way, Rosa?”
She was all smiles. “Well, I wouldn’t say no! How wonderful! That’s frightfully kind, Uncle Reg. I say . . I can’t keep calling you Uncle Reg, can I? What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Oh, just call me Reg,” he stuck out a gallant hand to help her up and made a decisive skip for the door, like he wanted her all to himself and I’d just hand the goods over and scoot.
What was going on? I was drunk, of course - that was one thing that was going on - but, even so, I was knocked sideways by a genuine sense of loss. I felt like she was slipping out to sea before I’d even found the beach.
I pushed through the crowd after the two of them, shouting to make myself heard above the music:
“You can blooming well call him Mr Arkonnen!” I shouted.
I didn’t mean much by it; I’ve gone over and over it since that evening and, yes, there may have been a touch of jealousy involved, but - more than anything - I was just trying to catch her attention, to say:
“Hey, Rosa! I’m still here!”
Never, in a million years, could I have predicted the effect it had.
“Arkonnen?”
She froze on the bottom step of the stairs to the exit. When she turned round, I could see her face had bleached to the colour of quality stock typing paper, those brown eyes gaping out of this paper mask.
“Arkonnen,” she said - straight at me - like she’d just come up with the answer to a sum.
“What’s up, Rosa man?”
She didn’t reply, just gurgled out a weird, gasping sound and flung her arms out wide, substantial bag and all. Uncle Reg - who’d been welded to her side, about to escort her up the Black Box steps - got the full force of that bag in the stomach, before Rosa shoved him out of her way and made a run for it up the stairs.
“Rosa?” I cried, belting after her.
It was the dead of night and that miserable backstreet was poorly lit. Opposite the club, a striped barber’s pole revolved under a wan light-bulb and, further down the road, a single lamp-post smouldered with an orange, sodium glow, but it was properly black. I couldn’t see her, at first. But then, when a figure ran out between two parked cars, it dawned on me that it could only be Rosa. She veered into the middle of the road and, as she passed beneath the lamp-post, I recognised her long hair and her cape and the heavy bag that dragged over the ground, so that she ran all lopsided and awkward; there was something about the way she ran that snagged at the heart.
I was so preoccupied, I nearly missed him; no more than a shadow splitting from the deeper shade of a doorway. Then he came nearer and I realised who it was; with his pipe-cleaner legs and bouffant hair - not unlike the splurge of ice-cream on top of the type of cornet you get from an ice-cream van - it could only be my least favourite cousin, Terry Arkonnen, Uncle Reg’s son. We stared each other down.
“After her, Terry!” Uncle Reg came storming out of the club, behind me. “After that girl!”
Now I really was flummoxed. I gawped from one of them to the other, out of my depth. It was the way that he’d said it:
“After that girl!”
It just wasn’t how you’d expect any uncle of yours to speak; the tone was downright vicious. I expect the booze wasn’t helping, but I honestly felt like my brains were scattered all over the pavement. What was happening here? What’d made Rosa scarper again and why was my uncle setting his little tyke of a son on her?
“Eh? Leave her alone, man. She can run if she wants to,” I shouted.
But nobody paid me a bloody bit of attention. Terry bolted after her, running hell for leather and I stared after him in disbelief, none too steady on my feet. It felt like an age passed while I got myself under control and sobered up, but it was probably no more than a heartbeat.
“Pull yourself together, Arkonnen,” was the general theme. “You don’t need to know the details, all you need to know is Rosa’s in some kind of danger. The girl needs your help.”
Not before time, I got going. Given that Rosa was in heels, she was a surprisingly quick mover, but my cousin was gaining on her, fast. He was a skinny, agile, little bastard, that boy, and there was no way she’d manage to escape him on her own. However, Terry had me to reckon with and, even with four pints inside me, I could also run.
She was heading north toward the railway line, past the sort of neglected patch you find all over this country from slum clearance, or old bomb damage, or both. A sharp wind had got up and weeds that had grown into trees waved, head-height. Few people were about, just a couple of working girls taking a shortcut home and a cloth-capped man pushing a barrow top-heavy with coal, up ahead. He reached her long before Terry or I did; the barrow took an unexpected turn across Rosa’s path and there was nearly a collision, but she jumped out of the way, while he pulled up to collect the lumps of good coal that were rolling all over the street. This was a lucky break because he made an excellent job of blocking the pavement while he picked them up, and he managed to slow Terry down for a precious few seconds; just enough for me to catch up with him, leap onto his back and pummel him, good and proper, with my fists.
“Leave her alone, Terry Arkonnen!”
There was nothing to the boy, just sinewy skin and bone, but his reflexes were quick – I’ll say that for him, if nothing else. He twisted round, threw me half off his back, somehow brought his knee up and stabbed me with it as hard as he could. It was eye-wateringly painful. I staggered a couple of steps, breathing hard. When the mist cleared and I could see again, I caught him pulling a hooligan face at me, giggling inanely and flicking a V sign for good measure (Terry was living proof that all the old fogeys had it spot on when they complained about the younger generation, he really was).
A car horn blared at us, and we both dived out of its path. I couldn’t help noticing Terry’s face as it sped past and I knew, there and then, that his dad had been at the wheel. I’d sensed this scene was serious the minute I’d heard Uncle Reg yell in that vicious way and yet I couldn’t have known how serious it was. Not then. But now . . if the man was on wheels, it was hotting up. I mean, if I didn’t move it, the stranger I called my uncle might abduct her from the streets. So I did something I’d been itching to do for a while and punched my obnoxious cousin on the nose. Terry fell backwards, his hands nursing his nosebleed, while I straightened up to see where Rosa had got to.
She was off the road by now, and halfway across the derelict patch by the railway line.
“Rosa!” I bellowed, loud enough to catch her attention. “Wait for me, Rosa!”
She stopped to catch her breath, dropping her bag and hugging her bo
dy as if there was little breath in it to catch. It took a minute before she could speak.
“Go away, Magnus,” she shouted, when she could. “I hate you! Go away, you traitor!”
She hated me? The scene was becoming more bizarre by the second. Then, as if to confirm that, Uncle Reg’s black sedan drove clear off the road, flattening a broken, wire fence and began to lurch over the bombsite, crashing through saplings and over lumps of rubble, the car jolting up and down on its springs. It was aiming straight for Rosa. I promptly jumped over the crumpled wire and set off after them, half-crazy with a new fear; never mind abduction, it looked like my uncle was going to run her over. The maniac was actually about to commit murder and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.
I’ve never run so fast in my life. The sedan reached Rosa instantly, of course, yet it didn’t run her over, it circled round her. She had plenty of room to escape, but she didn’t; she just stood there - stock still like piggy-in-the-middle - clutching her bag to her chest, white-faced and gibbering with terror. I saw why when I’d caught up a bit. Uncle Reg was turning the steering wheel in a leisurely circle with his left hand, while his right held a small pistol, the snout protruding out of the driver’s window.
“Into the car, love,” I heard him say, pleasantly. “Into the car, or I shoot you.”
I judged that Rosa was incapable of movement, at that point. So I moved for her. I ran at the sedan, wrenched the passenger door open and leapt in. Uncle Reg didn’t even bother turning his neck to acknowledge my presence, he just carried on circling round Rosa like a bird of prey who had all the time in the world; all of the sky and all of the earth below at his disposal.
The Yellow Glass Page 10