The Yellow Glass

by Claire Ingrams

  “Honestly, Hutch, I’m not too concerned about my husband. I’m sure he can find his own way home. No, I’ve come to see you about an entirely different matter.”

  He was standing very close to me with his sherry and I made a move to sit down, to put the meeting onto a more professional footing. However, rather than placing himself behind his impressive, mahogany desk, he pulled a gilt chair over and sat down beside me.

  “I’m not too concerned about your husband, either,” he said.

  “Oh. Well that’s encouraging, I expect. I mean, you’d know whether he was in any danger, or not.”

  “Mmm. Tell me . .”

  “What I’ve come to see you about? Well . .”

  “ . . about ‘The Furies from Venus’. That corset-affair you were wearing . .” he put his hand on my knee and squeezed, “ . . was damned fetching, if I may say so.”

  This was not unfamiliar territory, but I’d failed to see it coming and was disconcerted.

  “Hutch!” I exclaimed, sounding like the ingénue in a French farce. “I’m a married woman!”

  “When the cat’s away and all that. I’ve always had a soft spot for you, Kathy. May I call you Kathy?”

  “No, you may not and would you please take your hand off my knee!”

  He removed his hand, but only to take a swig of his sherry. He seemed, if anything, rather thrilled by the bracing tone of my voice.

  “Why such formality, Kathy? This is our chance to get to know one another properly.”

  I’d stood up and backed towards the door because I had a sudden sense that this was the type of fool who might not take no for an answer. And my instincts proved right because he promptly lunged at me, hands like an octopus diving underneath the hem of my coat and the skirts of my black mourning dress. I screamed, but his mouth came straight at me, scraping at my teeth, while he pressed me into the back of the door, my scream stifled into a series of gasps. I may have been taller than him, but he was wiry and surprisingly strong and all over me. I kicked one leg free and stamped on his foot with the heel of my shoe.

  “You damned bitch,” he snarled, hopping up and down, “don’t you come that with me.” (While I wrestled with the doorknob in the brief moment that I had before he flung himself on me again.) “What I know about you could see you put away for life,” he spat into my ear. “You killed a man, don’t you know? Play ball and we’ll forget it ever happened. Otherwise . .”

  I went limp. Yes I knew I’d killed a man; I’d been living with the guilt of it for weeks and it had been nothing less than a living death. That was why I’d come to HQ, you see. That was my plan. To offer up the envelope in return for information on the man I’d run over. To see if I could find his family and make some sort of amends for the terrible thing I’d done.

  Hutch seized his moment. He swooshed my skirts up above my face and yanked, hard, at my legs, so that I lost my footing and slipped, flat on my spine, onto the floor, while he began to fumble with his trousers. I felt no terror; felt nothing, whatsoever. The guilt was so all-consuming, you see, that it left room for nothing else at all.

  When, the door burst open and Mr Piotrowski jumped over me and barrelled into him, laying hands on his puny shoulders and slamming him backwards onto his own desk.

  “Up to your old tricks, eh, Hutchcraft?”

  He must have had him pinned against the desk, but all I could see was the back of the old spy’s filthy coat, shrouding the two of them. (I was glad of that moment of privacy, because I’d finally caught on; had realised that the helpless woman, flat on her back on the floor, was me. Shame piled on top of guilt and it was so overwhelming that, in that second, it crossed my mind I might actually die of it.) I wrapped my coat around me, hiding the torn, silk skirts of my black dress as best I could and got myself up stiffly, like an old lady, my shredded stockings pooling around my ankles.

  “How the hell did you get up here?” Hutch asked Mr Piotrowski.

  “With the greatest of ease. Your security is not up to scratch, old boy.”

  “You always were light on your feet, A, I’ll give you that. Look, get your damned hands off me, will you? You’ve had your bit of fun.”

  “What, and let you press that buzzer that I see over there, Hutchcraft? Let you summon your boys and get me accused of another of your little slip-ups, eh? Add attempted rape to my crowded biography? Why, it really is just like old times.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. What is this senile drivel? Just get the heck off me if you know what’s best for you.”

  “Oh, I have never known what’s best for me,” said Mr Piotrowski, “not like you, Hutchcraft. If it were up to me, I’d advise Mrs Upshott to press charges and make a big splash of it over the front pages. I’d certainly be willing to testify to the state I found her in. We might not get anywhere, but it could put a blot on your copybook.”

  “Ha, ha,” Hutch’s laugh was a listless effort. “I think you’ll find that Mrs Upshott has no desire to press charges. Not with her history.”

  There was a pause.

  “Damn you, Hutchcraft!” It was the first time that I’d heard the old spy raise his voice. “You’ve got something on her, haven’t you?”

  “Ha, ha.”

  A tremendous, smacking noise reverberated through the office. It was the sound of Mr Piotrowski punching Hutch smartly in the mouth, coupled with the thwack of Hutch’s head hitting the gleaming surface of his mahogany desk.

  “Out cold.” Mr Piotrowski turned to look at the state of me, rubbing his bruised knuckles as he did so. “No, I have never known what is best for myself. But what does it matter any more? How are you, Kathleen? Recovered enough to run?”

  “Just about.”

  In truth, my legs had begun to shake of their own accord.

  “Excellent. Come, my dear. We shall take the little lift first, I think,” he held the door open for me. “Then we run.”

  20. Being Joe Bloggs

  “I’ve put the witch out of action for the journey, so you don’t need to worry about her. But d’you think you can sit tight for much longer, Tamang?” I whispered.

  He managed a small smile, which was pretty impressive in his position; trussed to the mainmast and recovering from a brush with the cat.

  “I can sit tight for as long as it takes, Mr Upshott.”

  “Good man, because I can’t unbind you yet, I’m afraid. There’s too much damn daylight.”

  But, how long would it take? I was counting on at least twelve hours from the Thames Estuary to the Port of Dover, but my estimation was on the hazy side; the barge, after all, was fairly steaming towards the mouth of the Thames. I reckoned the reason she could move so fast was because she wasn’t carrying much cargo. A barge like the Humber was able to carry tremendous loads, but not without slowing down.

  “Well, keep your chin up. I’ll see if I can bring you some water and something to eat when the lights go down.”

  I set off across the deck at a scuttle, making my way towards the larger of the two sliding hatches, the one situated in the stern (because I’m naturally inquisitive and I like to know as much about any given situation I find myself in as I possibly can). If this floating steel box was carrying anything, then uranium glass was my guess and I certainly wouldn’t be diving into the hold to join it. But I wouldn’t mind crossing that one off my list. I slid past the wheelhouse on my stomach, practically under the nose of Severs, who had donned a muffler and jacket against the night air and was resolutely upright at the wheel, scanning the river like a good skipper. I was so close I could hear him humming a tune, wholly off key.

  When I reached the hold, I patted at my jacket pocket for my little collection of picks. However, when it came to it, I found they were unnecessary because the bolt wasn’t fully shot and the padlock was separated from the chain, which hadn’t been the case when Tamang and I’d first come aboard. It seemed that something or other was in the cargo hold, although they couldn’t have had much
time in which to load it. I slid the hatch and poked my head in, but the hold was empty. It occurred to me that whatever it was we were carrying might be stowed away through an inner door, much like the sealed door we’d found at the bow end of the barge. So I turned round and climbed down the steel ladder, closing the steel hatch over my head. I’d nearly reached the bottom when a hand grabbed my ankle.

  He yanked me from the ladder and I stumbled on the floor, righting myself almost instantly; although not quickly enough to dash the gun from his gloved hand. Actually, it took a second to regain my savoir faire, but that may have been the daunting effect of the padded radiation suit, hood and mask. Anyhow, I had my hands in the air straight away because he’d pushed the barrel of his gun against my forehead before I had time to think. He indicated that I should head back up the ladder, which gave me a moment to get my bearings. I turned tail, as if to go, but ducked instead, kicking backwards with one foot. His suit slowed him down, and I twisted my torso round, hooked a leg behind his and sent him crashing to the ground. The gun skidded out of his hand and across the floor and I dived after it. At which, he began to make strenuous efforts to get up, so I promptly whipped his hood off and bashed him over the skull with the hilt of the gun, rather hard.

  This was a development that I should have foreseen; the presence of another member of crew, I mean. After all, a barge the size of the Humber would normally have had a couple of men working her and, if one was steering the thing, then the other was more than likely to be down in the hold. What’s more, if the hold contained valuable cargo, then the likelihood was that crew member number two would be guarding it (and this hold evidently contained extremely valuable - if toxic – cargo).

  However, every cloud has a silver lining and the radiation suit was very good news, indeed, (and the discovery of a spare suit and second pair of boots, even better). I tugged my attacker out of his padding and put his suit on over my clothes. Then I stepped into his heavy boots and laced them up. It was a little hot, but night was drawing in fast and the glorious spring day would soon be turning chilly. Joe Bloggs, or whoever he was, had been sweating in the padded suit in the full glare of day and had taken the precaution of divesting himself of most of his clothes, save for a pair of cotton shorts and a string vest. I examined him, thoughtfully. He wasn’t much more than a lad, with dark brown hair shaved close at the neck, as if he’d been in the army. Actually, he looked vaguely familiar, although I couldn’t think why that should be. Sadly, I was forced to humiliate him further - because he wouldn’t remain unconscious for long - and I tied his arms behind his back with his string vest, overhand-knotting it to the foot of the ladder and stuffed his shorts into his mouth. I hoped he didn’t have a cold.

  Then I went to take a look at the goods. I sprung open the bolt on the inner door and gave it a sharp push. What I saw inside surprised me. The Humber was carrying one, solitary, piece of cargo. It sat in the dark, a few feet away from the door, shining silver in the light from the open door. It was a good-sized, metal box, nailed shut, with some foreign words stamped in red at the upper edge; This Way Up in Finnish, was my guess. No wonder her cargo hadn’t weighed her down and we’d been able to travel so swiftly. One box, however . . just what was in that box that necessitated its own, personal, armed guard? I had to take a look; I didn’t want to, but there was no way around it. I stepped outside for a moment, retrieved my picks from my jacket and returned, shutting the reinforced metal door behind me.

  My picks all dangled from the one ring, to which I’d also attached a tiny torch and a miniscule screwdriver. I selected the screwdriver and got to work. It was a clumsy job and I very nearly made a hash of it; the lid of the box was a deadweight and I was drenched with sweat by the time I’d undone the final screw and lifted it off. It was so heavy that I actually staggered with it in my arms and had some trouble getting it onto the floor without dropping it on my toes. I shone the torch inside, encountering a good deal of white, protective wadding, which I burrowed through, gingerly, until my gloved hand hit upon the edge of something sharp.

  I’d been quite wrong, for there was no glass inside that box. What I found were bundles of steel rods. I withdrew my hand, instantly. I’d a shrewd idea what those rods were for and it put a different complexion on everything. Who the hell was supplying Reg Arkonnen with the materials to make a nuclear reactor? The sound of my own panicked breathing nearly deafened me inside the padded hood. This game was not the game I thought I’d been playing. I replaced the wadding and the screws with great care, and left the hold as fast as my boots would take me.

  A sudden, sharp rap came from above.

  “Keep an eye on the wheel, will you, mate?” It was Mr Severs, knocking on the sliding hatch to get his crew’s attention. “I’m just nippin’ to the carsy.”

  “Right,” I shouted back, only it came out as muffled as one would expect.

  I climbed back up the ladder and lumbered over to the wheelhouse, glad of the hood and mask. It was a good ten minutes before Severs re-appeared from the bows and, when he did, he was carrying a tray with two mugs of tea and the damned fruitcake.

  “They’re all asleep down there, would you believe? Mrs A’s passed out on the tea table after her exertions.” He lowered his voice and took his mug from the tray. “Lucky you didn’t see that, mate. Ugly, it was.” He shook his head, clearly on the horns of a moral dilemma. “Still . . pays the wages. Here, you hold this, if you’d be so kind and I’ll cut us a bit of cake. Keep us goin’ for a bit, eh?” He handed me the tray. “Then you can take your hat off, mate; no need to stand on ceremony on my barge, ha ha! It may not be what you’re used to, roughing it on the river, but the only thing’ll gas you up here is good old London fog!”

  Unfortunately, I had to put an end to Severs’ hilarious repartee by pretending to stumble over my big boots and up-ending the tray and its contents into the river. It was rather a shame, because I could have done with a cup of tea, but the cake and Severs had to be kept well apart if we were going to reach Arkonnen’s Dover hideaway.

  “What?!” Severs protested and I waited for a ticking off but, strangely, none came.

  He simply turned to watch the cake sink into the waters of the Thames and sighed.

  “I’ll get us a sandwich later, how about that? You’ll have to make your own tea, mate, if you want another one. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  I bowed my hooded head to ask forgiveness, mumbled a bit and headed back into the hold. As I climbed down the ladder, I stopped to look at Joe Bloggs, who was still out for the count.

  “Who are you?” I wondered.

  Because my attacker was no ordinary crew member, or hired muscle, that much was obvious. By the way Severs spoke, it was clear that Joe Bloggs was no ordinary Joe.

  Time passed, during which I sat on an uncomfortable chair and kept Joe company, not wishing to intrude any further into the inner cargo hold. If I was uncomfortable, I was acutely conscious that Jay Tamang was a hundred times more so. But I couldn’t hurry it. I was waiting for nightfall, for Joe to stir and, most of all, for a plan. And, in time, all three came to pass.

  Joe mumbled and lifted his head. Before he had a chance to open his eyes I walloped him again.

  “Sorry Joe.”

  Then I took off the radiation suit I was wearing - it was far too cumbersome for my purposes and stood out considerably more than the dark grey Saville Row job that I had on underneath - and I climbed up the ladder, slid the hatch and crept up on deck. I could hear Severs singing tunelessly above the chug of the motor, in a world of his own. The deck was now completely dark, with pinprick-small electric lights by the holds and nothing more. I kept my head well down and scuttled back to Tamang. Then I grabbed the end of the rope that bound him and loosened it from the cleat. He lifted his head.

  “Ssh!” I whispered. “Follow me and keep well to the ground.”

  I unwound the tremendous coil of rope; round and round it went, and it struck me that the aunt from hell had
wound so much hemp around his small frame that she’d actually done a good job of protecting him from the whiplash. He collapsed onto the deck, stifling a moan and I let him lie there for a minute, while I wound the rope back around the mast, roughly creating the impression that he was still there.

  “Come, Jay”

  He took a deep breath and scrambled after me, across the deck and down the hatch, where our two sleeping beauties were still doing their stuff in the dark.

  “Sorry about the delay,” I said.

  I found a lamp by the bunks and switched it on, turning it so that it faced away from my secretary.

  “Will you pull through? Anything I can get you from the medicine chest?”

  He was leaning against the steel wall, flexing his arms and legs, when he suddenly clocked the presence of Dilys Arkonnen. His dark eyes widened and little wonder.

  “She’s been put out of action, Tamang. Drugged up to her eyeballs. Pretend she’s not here.”

  He began to breathe again and slid down the wall to sit on the floor.

  “I think my head’s bleeding,” he said. “And my legs are rather sore.”

  “Other than that you’re in tip top shape?”

  He managed to squeeze out a smile.

  “Mr Upshott, I have remembered now what it’s like in the field . .”

  “And you can’t wait to get back to the lab?” I finished his sentence off for him.

  “Exactly so,” he said.

  “Good. I’m glad one of us has come to his senses. Now, I’ve got to scoot off again, but make yourself a cup of tea, or whatever, while I’m gone; only mind you grab the kettle before it starts whistling, won’t you? I won’t be two ticks.” I headed back up the ladder; I was beginning to feel like I’d climbed the rigging to the crow’s nest on a fleet of tall ships, I’d climbed up and down so many ladders in the previous hours. “Oh, and one thing more.”

  “Yes, Mr Upshott?”

  “You’ve got to take your clothes off again. Yes, off with the trousers, I’m afraid. Now, if you’d be so kind. Trousers, duffle and shoes will do. If you’ll just get a move on, I’ll take them with me.”