‘I’m only minding it,’ retorted Rodney turning and letting the infant slide. He caught her with a frantic grab. The baby howled. ‘You mind your fucking business, mate.’
‘Give me my Deirdre!’ demanded the mother trying to reach for the bawling child in Rodney’s uncertain arms. ‘Come on, you council-house bastard!’
‘Bastard!’ exploded Rodney. ‘I’m not a bastard. Am I, Bill? Here, let Bill have the kid, he’s had plenty of bastards, ’aven’t you Bill!’ He passed, almost tossed, the child to Bill who caught it and began to rock it with drunken ferocity. Now the child was screaming, the mother was screaming. Bill threw the baby to Ernie who heaved it back. ‘Me, I’m next!’ shouted Rodney staggering forward. He caught the baby, again almost let it slip, but held perilously on to it. The mother was hysterical. ‘Stop! She’s only nine and a half weeks old.’
‘Whoops!’ called Rodney trying to balance with the infant as the train rocked around a curve. ‘Here you are, Bill. Your turn, mate!’ He lobbed the bundle to Bill. The mother sobbed and beat them hopelessly with her fists.
Savage stood up and walked along the central aisle of the carriage. He felt his body stiffen as he walked. ‘Give the baby back,’ he ordered.
Four of the five participants in the pantomine stared at him as if he had materialised by magic. The baby, eyes squeezed, continued to bellow. ‘Give the baby back,’ repeated Savage.
‘You give it back, mate,’ suggested Rodney holding the bawling child. Its arms thrashed. ‘’Ere, you ’ave it.’ He thrust the baby into Savage’s arms. Then, while Savage stood transfixed, feet apart to keep his balance, Rodney thrust his knee into his groin and, as he was doubling up, Ernie punched him in the face. Somehow he held on to the baby. The train slowed. ‘We’re getting off ’ere,’ announced Bill affably. The trio crowded to the door and before the train had stopped, opened it and jumped whooping on to the platform, flinging the door shut behind them. White-faced, Savage sat down, sick, still with the baby in his arms. Blood was gushing from his nose. His head was swinging inside. He heard, as though from a distance, the mother’s cry: ‘You’re bleeding all over my Deirdre!’
Through a mist Savage looked down and saw with horror and guilt that the baby’s clothes were splodged with his blood. Blood again. His bloody blood. ‘Give me! Give me my child!’ the woman demanded. Blindly he handed the bundle back. ‘Look! Blood all over ’er frock!’ howled the plump mother. ‘That’s her very first frock. Now there’s bleedin’ blood on it.’ She clutched the baby and rocked it fiercely. It had never stopped screaming. ‘I’m getting off this train,’ moaned the woman. She glared almost madly into his splattered face. ‘Next stop. ’Orrible, bastard men!’
He forced himself to stand and then staggered back to where he had been seated in his concealed place. His nose was still running red. He had no handkerchief. The train was slowing for the station. ‘Have you got something I can use for this blood?’ he asked the trembling mother haplessly. ‘Anything.’
‘Bugger off!’ she retorted getting up and, with a struggle, opening the door. ‘You bastard men. Look at my baby. Look at ’er frock. ’Er first frock that is.’
The train halted and she almost tripped out on to the platform slamming the door viciously behind her. She began to run along the platform like a rugby player clutching a ball. Savage sat transfixed. They had got him again. He was bleeding.
Five
As he staggered across Westminster Bridge in the late hours of that night he vaguely recognised the shining face of Big Ben, remembering it from News at Ten on the television. A wet wind whining up the river buffeted him, he leaned into it. He had no true idea where he was, where he had been, what he had done, nor why he was crossing this bridge.
In the shelter of the Houses of Parliament he attempted to get himself together, standing upright but still, swaying on the pavement, pulling his coat around him, trying to push down his soaking hair. A policeman on the corner of Parliament Square eyed him speculatively but then concluded he was just another windblown drunk or vagrant and aimed his measured stride in the opposite distance. He did not need the paperwork.
Savage was wary of the policeman. He kept trying to think where he was. Was he drunk or was he wounded? There was blood on his coat. Was he mad? Even Big Ben only fitted into the frame of a television picture, but he recognised possible trouble from the policeman and he crossed the rainy street and stumbled back towards the bridge. He considered the front of the tube station, recognised what it was, but dared not risk it. Despairingly he stared at the wall map of the Underground. Some late and voluble people began to come up the stairs and he instantly went on, his head sunk into the hole of his overcoat collar. If only he could sit down he might sort things out. He knew his name and rank but he had mislaid everything else including his suitcase, his typewriter and his sub-machine gun.
At first he went along the Embankment, peering at the lights reflected greasily in the Thames. He did not like the look of the river and the wind remained sharp and spliced with rain, so he waited until the shining wet road was clear and loped oddly across it. There were seats occupied by piled and sleeping figures. He nudged one who was snoring comfortably and asked him to sit up so he could sit down.
‘Find your own fucking berth,’ suggested the man. He was an irritable, rough and ragged tramp but from below sticking lids he regarded Savage with disgust. ‘Look at the state of you,’ he blinked. ‘Pissed out you are. Where you been?’
‘Where?’ Where?’ Savage repeated.
Sitting up, the vagrant studied him further. ‘You don’t look all there to me,’ he said cocking his head. ‘You look a bit bonkers, mate. ’Aven’t come out of the barmy house, ’ave you?’
‘I did,’ agreed Savage.
The tramp remained seated but moved on the bench and assumed a more diplomatic stance. Savage had a good overcoat although there was blood on it. ‘Mind,’ he said. ‘There’s more mad than not around ’ere, at this time o’ night. Some of ’em don’t even know they’re nutters.’
Exhaustedly Savage sat on the bench at the distant end from the tramp. ‘Where is this?’ he asked. ‘Where are we?’
‘Embankment,’ answered the tramp like a correct contestant in a geography quiz. He added helpfully: ‘The Savoy is just along there.’
‘But . . . where? I know the clock . . .’ He nodded down river.
‘The clock? Oh, I get you. Big Ben.’ He leaned forward kindly. ‘You’re in London, mate, England.’
‘Yes. Thank you,’ Savage nodded gravely.
The tramp folded his arms which were lagged with the sleeves of several tattered coats. ‘If I had any loose change I’d give you five pence and you could buy a cup of coffee,’ he offered suggestively. ‘Just along the road. It’s only five pence for the likes of you and me. Or a bowl of soup. It might be just what you need, mate.’
‘I’ve got money,’ said Savage with some eagerness.
‘You ’ave?’ asked the tramp speculatively. ‘’Ow much?’
‘Thousands,’ said Savage.
‘Oh, I see. But you don’t happen to have it on you?’ His interest drained.
‘Enough for coffee,’ Savage told him stoutly. He reached for his pocket and took out a fifty-pound note. The tramp’s eyes protruded. He examined the note which Savage refused to let go. ‘That’s plenty,’ he managed to say. ‘Plenty for two cups.’ Then craftily: ‘But you’ll want change. They only take five pences. They don’t give no change.’ His eyes were still riveted to the note. ‘I’ll go and get change for you.’
‘No, don’t bother,’ said Savage with childish petulance as he rolled the fifty-pound note tightly in his fist.
‘It’s not one of them forged fifties, is it?’ asked the tramp suspiciously. ‘’Old it up. You can keep ’old of it.’ They were like two ragged boys playing a game. Savage held up the note. ‘It’s all right,’ adjudged the tramp. ‘Want some coffee?’ asked Savage.
The tramp, reluctant to dista
nce himself from such wealth, said: ‘Yes, right.’ He stood and scratched himself. ‘I’ll look after you, just see. I’ll come wiv you, show you what to do.’ He took a couple of apple-sized stones from one of his many pockets and almost daintily placed them on the bench. ‘They keeps our places,’ he said suggesting that their association might continue. ‘It’s like, booked.’ On the thought he pushed out a filthy hand. ‘I’m ’Orace,’ he said.
Savage shook his hand and said: ‘Staff Sergeant Savage.’ His attention was taken by the stones. ‘Where did you get those?’ he asked as though they might be rarities. Puzzled but pleased at his interest, Horace answered: ‘Them? Well, I just pick them up. Anywhere.’ He examined the stones as if he thought he might have missed their importance.
‘Have you got any more?’ Now the tramp began to look apprehensive but took two more stones from his sagging pockets. ‘I always ’ave some,’ he said vaguely. ‘What d’you want ’em for?’
‘Just in case,’ said Savage.
He accepted the proffered stones and kept them in his hands. The two odd figures went together along the pavement. Ahead of them was the slanting light of the all-night canteen, a caravan parked against the kerb with its flap propped up. ‘The soup’s all right,’ said Horace. ‘If you ’ang around and stare at the lady she’ll give you extra for nothing.’
Gauntly Savage surveyed the scene ahead. Then he pulled up sharply and held the tramp by the arm. ‘Look,’ he croaked. ‘See them?’
‘Who? What?’ asked his startled companion, his eyes going wildly about him.
‘Out of their minds,’ whispered Savage nodding ahead fiercely. ‘Look at them. They’re exposed, for God’s sake.’
Anxiously Horace looked. ‘Oh, them,’ he said with still-puzzled relief. ‘That’s the line for the canteen. That’s what you ’ave to do. Line up proper. Sometimes there’s fifty blokes there.’
To his consternation Savage adopted a crouch and began to lope forward. ‘Bloody fools,’ he snarled. ‘They’ll get them again. Out in the open.’
‘. . . ’Ere, ’ang about,’ suggested Horace. He made to detain Savage but his hand was flung aside and he dropped back and remained still and struck as Savage began to advance at a crouching run towards the lit canteen and the queue of down-and-outs waiting innocently. As he went forward he swung his hands holding the stones. Then he halted, straightened from the crouch, and straight-armed lobbed one across the road where it hit the Emankment wall and clattered in the night quiet out on to the empty road. He shouted: ‘Down! Get down! Take cover!’ Some of the men in the line peered whitely towards him and a woman’s pink startled face projected around the open front of the canteen. Savage flung his second stone. ‘Down!’ Savage bellowed again. ‘Get down!’ At his strange crouch he ran towards the queue of bewildered men. From behind him Horace bawled: ‘Watch out! He’s bonkers!’
The warning was late. Savage, his eyes fiery, his coat flying madly, his arms flailing, was among them. He charged into the tramps at the head of the queue just as one was taking delivery of a bowl of soup. The soup and the tramp went flying. The pink woman screamed. Savage battered into the queue shouting: ‘Take cover!’ The men fell against each other, the line toppling like dominoes, falling, bawling, protesting. They sprawled on their backs on the pavement. Only those at the rear of the queue escaped. ‘Get out o’ here,’ bellowed an Irish voice. ‘It’s the Provos!’
There was utter panic. Men ran, men struggled to run, men tripped, men tried to rise from the pavement. Almost fainting, the woman pulled down the shutter at the front of the canteen with a bang that some of the vagrants took for the detonation of the bomb. Some began praying volubly. Savage, still shouting, his arms swimming, was sprawled flat on top of those who had been at the front of the line. Those who could regain their feet did so and ran. A police car pulled up at the side of the pavement and three astonished officers got cautiously out.
‘It’s a bomb!’ howled one of the prostrate men, for once glad to see the law.
‘That bloke threw it!’ a vagrant pointed from behind a metal sandbin. ‘’Im there!’
‘Where’s the bomb?’ demanded the leading policeman. They searched for signs of an explosion. The flap of the caravan was forced up and the woman’s now red and distraught face appeared. ‘That one,’ she indicated with a sob. ‘That one there with the nice overcoat.’
Two policemen got Savage to his feet. He stared as if he could not quite place them. They, in turn, quickly took in his appearance, the decent clothes below the overcoat, the wild face, eyes and hair. ‘Was it you?’ asked the leading constable.
‘He’s bonkers,’ offered Horace smugly from the fringe of the scene.
‘I saved them,’ protested Savage but now with a touch of doubt. ‘I saved their lives.’ He paused and looked pleadingly around at the stricken faces. ‘I did,’ he asked them. ‘Didn’t I?’
The door opened heavily but carefully. A buoyant-faced police sergeant looked in and then walked in. It was as if he had not wanted to disturb him. ‘Nothing like a night in the cells for making the world seem a nicer place,’ he philosophised. Savage groaned and sat up stiffly. His face was sore, his clothes clammy, the upper front of his shirt was stiff with blood. He pulled his coat across it. There was blood on his coat as well. He took in the policeman and studied the close walls. ‘A spell in custody works wonders,’ persisted the officer. ‘It’s all right to come out now and have a wash and they’ll give you some breakfast.’
‘What am I doing here?’ asked Savage.
‘Well,’ said the policeman with a modest beam. ‘For starters you demolished a queue of tramps, poor old homeless blokes waiting at the Embankment canteen.’
‘I did?’
‘You did. And we couldn’t find any identification on you. Only the return half of a rail ticket from Basingstoke, three keys, a fifty-quid note and some loose change.’
‘My name’s Savage.’
The man’s beam grew. ‘Nice one. After last night.’
‘Francis Inigo Savage.’
The policeman produced a pad and wrote it down. ‘Inigo?’ he queried.
‘I was named after the architect Inigo Jones,’ provided Savage wearily.
‘Oh, him,’ said the officer hesitantly but beginning to write. ‘How does he spell his name?’
Savage spelt it. ‘That’s what I did?’ he queried rubbing his head. ‘I don’t remember anything.’
‘It happened,’ confirmed the policeman. ‘And your address?’
Savage dictated the address. The officer said: ‘Do you know anyone who can vouch for you? Give you a reference?’
‘I don’t. I’m . . . not in touch with many people.’
‘No family?’
‘No family.’
The policeman was trying to help. ‘Anybody?’
Savage said carefully: ‘I know a policewoman. Slightly. But she knows all about me. She’s got it on a computer print-out.’
The sergeant frowned as if the situation had abruptly entered a new and more serious area. ‘Why did she have that?’
‘It was when I moved into my new place, the flat I’ve just given you the address of. It’s in a security sensitive area. They thought I might shoot down Prince Charles’s helicopter.’
‘Did they?’ The man’s forehead rose. ‘And that’s why they had this print-out?’
‘More or less. I’ve been in the army and I was wounded in Northern Ireland, then I was in hospital a long time, complications and so forth. They wanted to check me out.’
‘I expect they would. And you know the name of the policewoman?’
‘Yes. Her name is Jean Deepe.’
‘And her nick? Her police station?’
‘She’s at West London.’
‘Right,’ said the sergeant closing the notebook noisily. ‘Right. We’ll see if we can get hold of her.’ He regarded Savage with sympathy. ‘You being wounded,’ he said shaking his head. ‘We don’t want to charge you if we ca
n get away with it.’
He had a fried breakfast in the corner of the small canteen. There was no one else there except for the two white-overalled women who were serving. ‘Are you in court, dear?’ called one looking at the large wall clock. He said he was not. ‘Just visiting,’ he told her.
He drank his tea from a half-pint mug and saw the sergeant approaching along the outside corridor. ‘Got her,’ the man said in his friendly way, sitting down in the chair opposite.
‘Want a tea, Mr Trelawney?’ inquired the counter woman loudly. ‘You will I expect.’
‘Not now, love,’ returned the sergeant. ‘I’ve got a train robber downstairs. I’ll be up later.’ He turned his attention to Savage. ‘No, she’s given you a reference, PC Deepe,’ he said. ‘And she faxed us this . . . it’s all about your head trouble.’
‘Inside or out?’
Sergeant Trelawney peered at the fax. ‘Both really,’ he said. Without embarrassment he examined the line of the wound in Savage’s hair and said: ‘That was close.’
‘I was in a psychiatric hospital,’ said Savage quietly so that the canteen woman would not hear.
‘Right. Marshfield Manor Hospital,’ confirmed the sergeant in his loudish voice. The woman looked up and, turning to her colleague in the kitchen area behind, relayed: ‘Psychiatric case.’
The sergeant grimaced briefly in that direction and returning to Savage said: ‘Finished?’ He surveyed the table. ‘We’ll go on down.’
Savage followed him from the canteen. The door closed only tardily behind him and he heard the woman say: ‘Poor thing.’
‘Sorry about that,’ said Trelawney as they went into a small room and sat each side of a table. ‘All you can say is that they do a good fry-up.’ He studied the fax paper.
‘She’s put in a bit from the hospital report,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a rough time, haven’t you, mate?’
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