Bad Penny Blues

by Cathi Unsworth

  Wesker put all his weight behind his right arm, so that when his fist connected with Parry's jaw there was a crack as loud as a gunshot. Parry screamed, spitting teeth and blood, falling sideways onto Fairchild with the momentum of the blow.

  “Please!” Dixon leapt out of his seat, put up his hands. “Stop it!”

  “Stop it?” Wesker roared. “I ain't even started yet!”

  Dixon cowered back into his chair, Parry lolled over Fairchild who looked like he was about to faint. Wesker stared at Bream with wild, bloodshot eyes. “Add them to the charge sheets,” he said, looking down at the pieces of brick. “Then get them down the cells,” he said, turning to Pete. “Out of my fucking sight.”

  Parry's moans filled the air behind the slamming door. Pete looked at Bream, then at the prisoners, then back at Bream again. The other man shook his head.

  “What a bleedin’ carve up,” said Bream, picking up his pen.

  16 CHARADE

  “Brother?” Jackie and I said in unison.

  Jenny stared back at us as if she didn't know where she was, then closed her eyes, slapping her palm to her forehead.

  “I don't mean… I mean a family friend, an old family friend, I call him my brother because… Oh God, never mind that. He's in West End Central Police station, he just got his one phone call, they arrested him outside Claridge's and they've beaten him up, they've charged him with possessing an offensive weapon, a piece of brick, I mean,” she broke off her rapid-fire ramblings with a snort of a laugh, “for God's sake, Giles isn't capable, he's never been capable. What the Hell was he doing getting involved in things like this again without me? He can't do anything for himself!”

  She sank down onto the top step, one hand still clutching the banister, the other over her face.

  Jackie looked at me. “I've got a half bottle of brandy in my desk,” she said. “I reckon she needs it.”

  I nodded. The pair of us climbed up the stairs and helped her to her feet, manoeuvred her over to a chair in the office. Jackie fetched her secret stash while I held Jenny's hand, trying to soothe her into making some sense.

  “Oh God,” she kept saying, over and over. “What am I going to do? Oh God, oh God, oh God…”

  “Here.” Jackie shoved a mug under her nose. “Get this down you.”

  Jenny looked at her with a glazed expression. She took the mug and drank, spluttered as she did so, then winced and said: “Ugh, God, it's horrible.”

  But it seemed to do the trick.

  Jackie took the mug back off her. “Now talk normal, woman,” she said. “Tell us from the beginning, what's this all about, then we'll try to help you.”

  Jenny looked from Jackie to me, gripping my hand so hard the nails started to dig in.

  “P-please,” she said, “if I tell you girls this, you can't tell anyone else, you mustn't. Not Toby, not Lenny, no one else can know. Promise me?” No longer empty, her eyes now blazed with a ferocious intensity.

  “It's all right Jenny,” said Jackie, showing a surprising softness, reaching out and stroking Jenny's hair. “Your secrets are safe here, we promise.”

  Tears started to form as Jenny spoke. “Giles, he's… He's a boy that I've known since I was little. His mother and my mother were friends, are friends, we played together since before we could walk. I always looked after him, he was such a dimwit even then; so trusting he would have gone off with the first person to offer him a lollipop.” Her voice quavered but she tried to hide it behind a smile and carried on.

  “Giles has a tendency to… Get involved with people he shouldn't,” she said. “Extremists of some form or other. It doesn't matter to him what side of the fence they're on, he just gets completely carried away. It's all a big rebellion against his dad and believe me, I can understand that.” Her voice grew bitter.

  “But really,” she said, “he should have grown out of it by now, for God's sake, his old man is practically senile, there's not much he can do to shock him any more. Anyway…” She shut her eyes again, gave a deep sigh and continued.

  “I know this is going to sound terribly corrupt, but Daddy dearest does have a certain amount of influence in high places and if I could call him he would get Giles out of jail like that.” She snapped her fingers. “The trouble is, since I went to Italy, I haven't had any contact with my parents at all. I don't think…” Her voice broke again and more tears fell. “I just can't go back to them now. I've come too far. But I can't just leave Giles either, he's such a terrible fool and Christ knows what they've done to him. Oh God, what am I going to do?”

  I felt something inside myself connect with Jenny. I knew plenty about estrangement and how it played on your mind. Apart from the stiff, formal Christmas and birthday cards we exchanged, it had been five years since I'd seen my ma.

  “Did you say he was at West End Central?” I asked, suddenly realising that I did know exactly what to do about this.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Right well I think I know who we should call. I bumped into Chris Hawtrey in Soho a couple of weeks ago, completely out of the blue.” I wanted to make her feel quite sure that I was not suggesting any involvement with Dave. “Turns out he's been working for Civil Liberties, helping people who've been wrongfully arrested, and some of them were by police at West End Central. I'm pretty sure he'll know what to do.”

  “Really?” She stared at me. “But that's brilliant. How do we get hold of him?”

  I extricated my hand from her grasp and went over to the desk with the phone and the directory on it.

  “I expect they're in here,” I said.

  “Well, I say,” said Jackie. “That's a turn up for the books.”

  I didn't ask whether she meant Jenny's revelations or Chris's new vocation. I was just thankful to find the National Council For Civil Liberties listed in the book. Even more so when I managed to get put straight through to Chris – by some miracle, he wasn't up to his neck in anarchists already. Jenny told him a version of the story that left out all the personal details, just that a good friend of hers had been arrested on the protest and then had an offensive weapon planted on him at the police station.

  As she talked to him, the colour started coming back to her face and her posture grew slowly more relaxed. Chris really did have a vocation for this sort of work, I could see it right before my eyes. When she put the phone down she was almost smiling.

  “He said he's going to appoint a solicitor right away,” she told us, “and then go to the police station to try and find out what's going on. He's going to call me back as soon as he knows anything.” She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and automatically started patting down her hair.

  “I can't thank you enough for this,” she said, still staring at her reflection. “Would it be OK if I called Dodson back now, just to let him know not to worry?”

  “Course,” said Jackie. “Help yourself. Come on Stel, let's leave her to it.”

  Downstairs, Jackie went straight over to the radio and turned up the volume. “Bloody hell, what a can of worms! ” she said. “Old family friend.” She shook her head. “Have you ever seen her get so worked up about anything before?”

  “No,” I said, “and who is this Dodson person anyway?”

  Jackie pushed a box of boots across the floor and started ripping the packing tape off, making as much noise with it as she possibly could.

  “Probably a butler,” she said, “they never have Christian names do they? These upper crust families, the way they carry on.” She started taking the boots out in pairs, flicking off the wood shavings they'd been laid in. “I could have just rung Daddy and got him out of jail like that,” she carried on, imitating Jenny's accent. “I mean, what the hell are us little people supposed to make of that? And is Chris going to get her a free solicitor now, when she's got money coming out of her eyeballs?”

  “Who is her dad anyway?” I asked, crouching down to help her, dimly recalling an old conversation with Chris. “Some sort of arch
itect, isn't he?”

  Jackie gave a low whistle. “Her dad,” she said, “is Sir Alex Minton. The bloke that's rebuilding half of West London, putting up a load of tower blocks right on your doorstep. He's one of the richest bastards in England, so I suppose she must have risked a lot, running off to Italy like that. I wonder if he disowned her.”

  “What…” I began, but a creak on the stairs cut me short.

  “Right,” said Jackie loudly, “I reckon we should put some of these in the window,” she stood up, “and the rest of them over… Oh, all right Jenny. Is everything OK now?”

  Jenny nodded. “Thank you so much for everything,” she said. “You really don't know how much it means to me.” She stood there looking forlorn, her eyes sweeping across the floor, clearly unable to decide what to do next.

  “So,” I said gently. “Do you want to carry on with the fitting, or would you feel better coming back tomorrow or something? We don't mind do we Jackie?”

  “No,” said Jackie, “we've plenty to keep ourselves busy with here. You do what you like love, whatever you think's best.”

  “Oh, but of course I want to stay here,” Jenny said, “I'll do the fittings and then I could help you arrange the things, whatever you want. I mean, Chris said he's going to call back here later didn't he? I'd rather keep busy until he does. Keep my mind off things.”

  “Of course that's all right,” I said. “So, er,” I looked over to Jackie, “shall we carry on where we left off?”

  “I tell you what,” said Jackie, “why don't you put kettle on first?”

  “Yes,” said Jenny, nodding. “Tea. How very British, Jackie.” The ghost of a smile played around her lips. “That's exactly what we need.”

  Chris arrived on our doorstep at a quarter to five, another bunch of folders under his arm. “Hello Stella. Amazing place you have here,” he said. “The rest of the West End is in total chaos, but you're so tucked away you'd never even know.”

  “Is it really that awful?”

  “I've never seen anything like it,” he said, shaking his head. “Anyway, I've just been at the police station and seeing as I was in the vicinity, it seemed easier to drop by than call. Jenny's still here, isn't she?”

  “Yes,” I said, “come in, please.”

  “Hello everyone,” said Chris, “sorry to barge in on you like this, but I've got some news for Jenny and I thought it best that I dropped round to talk to her rather than make her come all the way over to Camden. There is rather a lot to discuss and I hate to appear rude, but it does have to be confidential.”

  “That's very good of you Chris,” said Jackie. “Would you like to go upstairs to the office?”

  The minute they'd disappeared, Jackie reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the remains of her bottle of brandy.

  “Here,” she said, offering it over. “I think we could both do with something a bit stronger than bloody tea now.”

  “You can say that again,” I said.

  17 HOW DO YOU DO IT?

  Pete knocked back his pint, bitter down his throat to match the memories of the day's events still swirling through his head. Plonked the empty glass down on the backstage bar of Teddy's club and turned to Bream.

  “Another?” he said.

  “Keep ’em coming,” Bream nodded.

  Pete watched the brown liquid pour down the side of the fresh pint glass. Saw again Giles Somerset cringing in the corner of his cell, black eye and torn jacket, crying as he rocked himself back and forth. Saw the dark, accusing eyes of the man he had been put in with, remembered his own shock as he recognised him as the former West Indian batsman Kingsley Puttnam, sitting there with his front teeth knocked out. Asking Wesker what Puttnam was there for, receiving the reply: “Fuck him – I ain't got time for that coon now, I'm too damn busy.” Watching Wesker's eyes turn narrow, realising he'd alerted the detective sergeant to a fault in his character – that he should care about the state of a prisoner, especially a coloured prisoner.

  Wesker calling him in just as he was about to finish his shift, giving him a bollocking – Robert Parry was not Robert Parry at all, his real name was Stefan Kirk, a regular little red activist who Special Branch had under obs. Wondering if Pete was really up to this job or if a few days on the front line were getting too much for him, was he folding under fire, going soft? Grigson standing outside Wesker's door as he left, cracking his knuckles and smiling that evil smile.

  Bream waiting by the front door, suggesting a drink at Teddy's and Pete calling Joan to tell her he'd not be back for a few hours yet, hearing the disappointment in her voice and hating himself for it, but needing that drink and needing to be at Teddy's.

  For behind it all, behind all those broken teeth and iron bars, those dodgy detonators and pieces of brick, he could see one face: the hatchet mug of Sampson Marks. If this was going to be his last night at West End Central then it had to be one last dance at Teddy's, one last vat of bitter for the road.

  “Pete,” said a kindly voice at his elbow. He turned to see Teddy himself, a gap-toothed smile on his battered face, black, curly hair falling over his formidable brow. He wore a Savile Row suit in pale grey, with a purple shirt unbuttoned at the neck, revealing a black fuzz of chest hair. Teddy didn't look entirely comfortable in his get-up, as if even the finest stitched cloth in all of England couldn't quite contain his huge shoulders and thick arms and at any moment the seams would rip open. But his manner was genial. “Bad day at the office?” he enquired.

  Pete couldn't help but smile. “You could say that, aye,” he replied.

  “I've been trying to keep up with it all on the news.” Teddy shook his head. “Down with the Nazi Queen, what a bleeding disgrace. You can have those drinks on me.” He nodded over to the barman who put two fresh pints down on the counter. “You deserve it, putting up with animals like that. Harry not with you tonight then?”

  “Not so far as I know.” Pete feigned indifference, passed Bream his pint. “It's just me and Frank, drowning our sorrows.”

  “Well.” Teddy raised his own cut-glass tumbler of whisky and clinking glasses with them. “God bless you for it.”

  There was a round of applause from the front of house as the crooner on the stage finished his act, and Teddy put his glass down on the bar to join in.

  “Did you catch much of Simon's act?” he asked Pete. Pete wondered for a second what he was talking about, then realised it was the man on the stage he was referring to. Pete hadn't paid him any attention at all, but he didn't want to seem rude.

  “’Fraid not, no,” he said. “We've not been here long.”

  “Shame,” said Teddy. “If it was a normal night you could have brought your wife to see him. I'm sure she's a fan. Mrs Wesker certainly is.”

  Pete craned his neck to try and make out who the figure in the pale pink suit taking his bows actually was. The name Simon didn't ring any bells and the music couldn't have been worth hearing, otherwise he would have noticed it.

  “Do you want to come back and say hello?” Teddy went on. “Maybe get an autograph for Mrs Bradley? He's a good pal of mine, Simon, I'll introduce you.”

  Pete considered the offer. Maybe Joan did like Simon Whoever He Was. Then his signature would be a good peace offering when he eventually did get home. And maybe this was going to be his last night as a valued customer at Teddy's so he'd better make the most of it.

  “Cor, I wouldn't mind,” Bream said before Pete could reply. “Me old ma's dead sweet on Simon Fitzgerald, she's got all his records, framed photos on the wall, you name it. If I could get his autograph for her I reckon I'd get Sunday lunch every day for month and all me laundry done with no moaning for once.”

  “Good,” Teddy laughed, “follow me then, lads.”

  Simon Fitzgerald looked almost comically like a miniature version of Teddy, with the same dark gypsy looks and wide, lopsided smile. The pale pink lounge suit made him look smaller still and sadly out of date. Simon was a crooner in the style of Bin
g Crosby – the mothers might all still love him, but in 1963 he was a man out of time. Which maybe accounted for his uncomfortable, nervous demeanour.

  When they got backstage, he had a showgirl on each arm and was midway down a bottle of Bells, holding court to an audience middle-aged men, their wives in pink satin and permanent waves and a gaggle of tuxedoed musicians. In the middle of the room was a long table with a white cloth over it, laid out with fruitbowls, Champagne buckets and ice trays full of beer, two enormous vases of flowers and a selection of garish-looking finger food, salmon mousse, cheese and pineapple sticks, avocados and vol-au-vents.

  In the corner, a shifty-looking fat man with a greasy comb-over was deep in conversation with Sampson Marks, chubby, bejewelled fingers holding a handkerchief to his brow, piggy eyes using the mirrored walls to subtly keep tabs on everyone in the room. His corrupt corpulence reminded Pete of his old Sergeant, Alf Brown. No doubt he was Fitzgerald's manager. Some of the middle-aged patrons, he slowly realised, were actors and actresses, light entertainment types you'd see on the telly. Fitzgerald was putting on a show for them and they were laughing and nodding appreciatively. But the singer looked strained, his eyes flicking towards the door and then down at his wristwatch every few seconds. When he saw Teddy he visibly brightened.

  “Oh Teddy, darling, how did it sound out there?” He extracted himself from the showgirls and rushed forwards to greet his friend. His accent was Scouse with a camp twang and he moved with a mincing gait. Funny, thought Pete, how both Fitzgerald and Wesker liked calling other men ‘darling’.

  “Wonderful, Si, as always.” Teddy clasped him in a bear hug. “You always know how to play the crowd just right.”

  “Ooh,” said Fitzgerald in an undertone, “but I was sick with nerves beforehand. It never gets better, Teddy, no matter how many times.”

  “You're a natural, Si, a star, you don't have to worry about a thing,” Teddy reassured him. “Now here's a couple of friends of mine I'd like to introduce you to, Pete Bradley and Frank Bream. They work with big Harry, you know.”