Kensington Heights

by Leslie Thomas

  ‘Hello, Jean. This is Frank Savage.’

  ‘Frank. Well, well. How’s the encyclopaedia? Finished?’

  ‘Not quite. Another couple of years or so.’

  ‘Where have you got to?’

  ‘The Andaman Islands. In the Indian Ocean. Bay of Bengal. I thought I would let you know that I’m settling down now. I wanted to tell you again I was very grateful for your help when I had that black-out in London.’

  ‘You must tell me about it some time. I only got the basic details from the nick over there. It sounds interesting.’

  ‘I just had a brainstorm. I’ll tell you some time. I went back to see the doctor at Marshfield Manor, Dr Fenwick. He says I’ll be all right.’

  ‘All I saw was a message about you getting into some sort of fight with some down-and-outs on the Embankment.’

  ‘That’s right. It wasn’t quite as straightforward as that. Apparently I attacked a whole bunch of them.’

  He heard her professional pause. ‘Apparently?’ she queried.

  ‘It’s a long story. Someone was throwing a baby about on a train and I . . .’

  ‘Throwing a baby about?’

  ‘Yes. Some yobs.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I am. Perhaps I ought to tell you the whole story.’

  ‘Would you like to come around to my place for supper?’ she asked.

  Savage took a long breath. ‘Well . . . yes. Thanks. When?’

  ‘Could you make it tonight? I’m off duty tonight.’

  In the afternoon he went for a walk. He had intended to go later but at two o’clock the room seemed to gather round him. He went to the window. The familiar low, late, winter light and landscape were waiting.

  Outside the damp of the day touched his face and he felt it on his hands. He pulled the collar of his overcoat higher and headed along the upward sloping pavement towards Notting Hill. At the top he turned right and eventually right again into the wintry park. A group of shambling young people came up the broad path under the wet trees, shouting extravagantly, defiantly, to each other, rough laughs and half-intelligible shouts, loud, spiteful, aggressive, as though they were warding off demons. He wondered if they knew Korky. Would they know where she had gone? He continued walking. At the bottom of the path, where it joined the main road through the park, a squad of soldiers marched towards him. He sat on a clammy bench to see them go past, their backs straight, their chins jutting as if each expected a punch. He almost felt an urge to stand to attention. ‘Left, right, left, right, left, right,’ he muttered. Their boots sounded in his brain. When they had marched by he opened his eyes and saw Mr Kostelanetz stationary on the opposite grass verge.

  Mr Kostelanetz was wearing an expensive tweed overcoat. His moustache was lengthy but carefully tended, his hair silvery in the diminishing afternoon light. His whorled eyes went left and right as though expecting more troops, then he crossed the park road unhurriedly. Arranging his overcoat he sat down. ‘Would you like a Mintoe?’ he enquired.

  Savage thanked him but declined. Mr Kostelanetz minutely unwrapped a Mintoe and opening his big mouth tossed it in. He seemed pleased with the trick and disappointed that Savage did not appear to have noticed it. He worked the sweet around. ‘How is your life?’ he asked.

  ‘It is working quite well.’

  ‘It is quiet at the Kensington Heights, like you wanted?’

  ‘There have been interruptions.’

  ‘The old people,’ sighed Mr Kostelanetz understandingly. ‘They are crazy.’

  Silently he renewed his offer of a Mintoe. Savage again politely refused and said: ‘Three men came calling for you the other night, in the early hours actually. One had a cricket bat.’

  ‘I do not play,’ said Mr Kostelanetz with an apparently genuine regret. ‘I am a foreigner, you know.’

  ‘I don’t think they wanted you to bowl to them,’ continued Savage. ‘I think they were intending to sort you out.’

  Mr Kostelanetz gave a quiet, unafraid snort. ‘Those men are incompetent,’ he said. ‘Fools.’

  ‘You know them then?’

  Mr Kostelanetz sighed again. ‘I have experience of them. They are going to work for me now. I am sorry they disturbed you. I understand you have a gun.’

  ‘They told you about it.’

  The overcoated arm came heavily up and the hand patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. ‘I know about a lot of things, my boy. But do not worry. I know about the gun but nobody else knows, except those three, and they won’t tell. They have made a sincere promise to me. And a soldier, even if he is not a soldier now, should have a gun.’

  Savage asked cautiously: ‘Mr Kostelanetz, what do you do? As a business?’

  The moustache wobbled as the big man transferred the Mintoe around his gums. ‘A business?’ he queried. ‘Well, now I am more or less retired. There is not so much work. I was a spy.’

  Savage glanced sideways at him. Kostelanetz was looking straight ahead as if he were reconnoitring the distance.

  ‘Who did you spy for?’

  ‘Sometimes the Americans, sometimes the Germans, East and West, and on occasions for the Russians, although they were mean. I did not do much spying for them because they wouldn’t pay. It’s all gone now, of course, espionage. Nobody spies like they used to. It is a shame. We all knew each other and, if you were clever and kept to the rules, it was a good life, sometimes very good.’

  His face had become reminiscent. ‘I took after my father,’ he revealed eventually still surveying the gloomy park. ‘My father was also a spy. He operated in Lisbon during the war, where all the spies were. It was like a club. They all knew each other, they even had a football team.’ He emitted a massive sigh evaporating the air around him as he breathed it out. ‘Lisbon,’ he said shaking his head. ‘That must have been something, Mr Savage. My father enjoyed it, the city, the danger. And he died quietly in a bed. Not his own.’

  ‘And now you’ve retired.’

  ‘Semi,’ corrected Mr Kostelanetz. ‘I do some business. A bit. Removals mostly.’ He turned towards Savage, his gaze profound from below the dark, overhung eyes. ‘Moving things.’ He paused. ‘From one place to another.’

  He rose ponderously as though his overcoat was bearing him down. ‘And I have to go now, to do some removals. Keep well, Mr Savage.’ He bent confidingly. ‘And safe, of course. Keep safe.’

  From the tweed sleeve projected a hand, the colour and texture of pine. Savage shook it. Mr Kostelanetz restrained him from getting up, walked a few paces of his departure but then stopped and turned. ‘You must get better,’ he called, holding up a finger as though for silence. ‘Get entirely better.’

  He continued on his journey, shuffling down through the park towards the main road. Savage could see his large coat as far as the gate and then he spotted it plodding along the pavement outside the railings. He got up from the seat and began his walk back through the dimming afternoon towards Kensington Heights. There were few people left in the park at that time. Its air was echoing and misty, and from the distance he could hear the soldiers who had gone by. They had halted at the top of the park and the shouted orders sounded across the abandoned grass and the empty trees. Glancing around guiltily he began to march, as he had once done, shoulders square, back upright, eyes ahead, arms swinging. No one saw him and after a few yards he stopped, slumped almost.

  ‘What a ruddy life,’ he said to himself.

  Unspeaking they lay against each other, her breasts against his ribs. One bedside light was on. It was one o’clock and the street in Westbourne Grove was silent as a rural lane outside the dimly glowing window. She moved her head against him and laid one hand over his groin. ‘Would you like me to tell you about the fascinating day-to-day life of a London policewoman?’ she enquired moving her gaze up to his face.

  Savage shifted. He saw her uncertain smile in the periphery of the lamp. Jean leaned up and kissed his chin. ‘I thought it would help towards conversation,’ s
he said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Savage said. ‘I was enjoying the quiet.’

  He rolled towards her again. ‘It’s a long time since I did this,’ he said. ‘It’s one of the things that seemed to go away. I’d forgotten what it was like.’

  ‘Do you want to do it again?’

  ‘Yes. I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘I’d like to take my stockings off. They belong to the Metropolitan Police.’

  ‘Take them off,’ he said. She did without getting from the bed.

  ‘And how do I look?’ she asked as if she really needed to know. She kicked back the duvet and stretched her body, naked and now rosy in the lamplight. Savage eased himself up on his elbow. She closed her eyes privately. Her dark hair framed her troubled face and lolled over her shoulders. Her breasts were unassuming, lying as though separately asleep, slightly parted, the nipples like her own shut eyes. She had a flat stomach, easing to her breathing, and hips only a little wider than her indented waist. He began to stroke her between her legs.

  ‘This is the first time I have felt completely human in a long time,’ she said.

  ‘I’m glad,’ he told her.

  ‘Kiss me down there.’ He lowered his head as she opened herself to him. The low scent of her engulfed him. He kissed her. She wriggled and eventually raised his face from the crevice. ‘No more,’ she asked quite firmly. ‘I want you to be there when that happens.’

  He lay alongside while her fingers caressed him. ‘I can’t tell you how much I have needed this,’ she muttered. ‘I have to have a man.’

  He eased himself above and slid into her. They moved against each other with slow luxury. But at the end she clung to his neck, almost throttling him with her slim hard arms. Then, cooling, they lay against each other, his hard body and arms about her thin but disciplined form.

  ‘It’s not necessary to be in love,’ she whispered. ‘Sometimes it is better if you aren’t.’

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  He left her at three. He was content to go. ‘I’m on the early shift,’ she said as though she had put aside everything else. She got into a robe, went to the kitchen and made coffee which they drank in silence while they waited for his taxi. He walked into the confined kitchen, and put his arm around her waist.

  ‘I’ve not had many satisfactory relationships since my husband died,’ she said.

  ‘I see. You haven’t told me about it. I was waiting for you to tell me.’

  ‘He was beaten over the head outside a pub in Shepherd’s Bush,’ she said staring into her cup. ‘Nothing newsworthy like foiling a bank raid. He wasn’t even on duty. Some coppers wouldn’t have wanted to know. He hung on for two days in Charing Cross Hospital, then he died without regaining consciousness.’

  When the taxi arrived Savage went out into the icy air. He climbed in and looked up at the uppermost window in the three-storeyed conversion. As he did so the light was extinguished. She had gone back to bed quickly. The early shift was the next bit of her life. He felt sorry for her in her loneliness and he sensed even then that there was little they would be able to do for each other.

  The streets were empty, spectral sodium light splodged over the wet roads, and the journey took only five minutes. He paid the cab and walked introspectively towards the open yard of Kensington Heights. There were no illuminated windows, not even Miss Bombazine’s. He turned into the entry and stepped quickly towards the main door, feeling for his key. As he did so there was a cry and a scuffle of movement in the low-lying darkness almost under his feet. Startled, he staggered backwards out on to the lit pavement.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ she demanded. ‘What sort of time do you call this?’

  His hands went out into the almost black space and she caught hold of them and weakly drew herself to her feet. She began coughing, shaking violently, putting her face in his hands. ‘Wait, wait a minute,’ he pleaded. She leaned back against the brickwork, her face like a quarter moon, staring at him with real fear. Savage put the key in the door and opened it. Warm air rushed out. Korky staggered towards it as though she believed it would save her life. Savage helped her into the lower passage. He supported her against the wall and looked at her. He saw she was very ill, her face smudged, ragged, her eyes closing and opening wildly. He thought she might be drugged.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he asked wildly.

  Korky held up a dripping plastic bag. ‘I just went to get my things.’

  She could not walk; her legs dragged as he helped her into the lift. He held her upright, her body like old wire, her exhausted chin hooked across his shoulder. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she mumbled again.

  ‘Out,’ he muttered. He kept her on her feet. Her squalid pink fake fur was hung with rain. She dropped the plastic bag on the floor of the lift. Her face felt hot against him. ‘Where out?’ she demanded scarcely able to say the words. ‘I looked for you in the launderette.’

  He held on to her while the lift clanked up. They reached the landing and he got her out. She had picked up her bag. Below them he heard a door open and a querulous and croaky female voice call up the stairs. ‘It’s very late you know, Mr Savage.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ he answered below his breath. He held Korky up while he got his key from his pocket. There were carpeted footfalls on the stairs. An old woman in a tasselled dressing gown reached the landing and took in the scene. ‘Who is it?’ she asked. He realised she was the one called Miss Weiz.

  ‘It’s an albatross,’ replied Savage.

  ‘And hanging on your neck,’ observed Miss Weiz. ‘Is this albatross drunk?’

  ‘She’s ill,’ corrected Savage. ‘Can’t you see?’ He had opened the door and now manoeuvred Korky inside. The girl tried to say something to the old woman but she could not get it out. Her coughs beat against his ribs. He turned her and closed the door in Miss Weiz’s face.

  ‘Casual women are not permitted!’ his neighbour called thickly through the door.

  Savage eased Korky into the chair. Her carrier bag fell sideways, tipping some jumbled scraps of clothes, a cheap plastic radio and some food cartons which had been in his fridge, on to the carpet. Ignoring it, Savage strode back to the door and flung it open. Miss Weiz, unable to straighten up from her position against the letter-box, almost tumbled into the room. ‘Go away!’ he snapped, frightening her. Still bent from the waist she backed away towards the stairs but remained unblinkingly watching him. ‘Clear off,’ he ordered. ‘Go on back to bed.’

  He shut the door loudly. She continued to reverse across the landing, then changed direction like an ancient figure on a weather vane and began to descend the stairs. ‘Go away . . . clear off,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Orders, orders. Go back to the bed . . .’ At the next landing she revolved again and projected her voice upwards, using her worn hands as a funnel. ‘Casual women not permitted!’ she bawled.

  Another door opened and out came Miss Cotton wearing a tablecloth around her shoulders. ‘Where are the casual women?’ she enquired. ‘Who has them?’

  ‘That Mr Savage. I knew he was up to something. He was much too quiet.’

  Half-bent she strutted towards her own door, opened it, and went in bad-temperedly. ‘It is always the quiet ones,’ commented Miss Cotton wagging her face as she returned to bed.

  In the apartment above Savage was attempting to get the soaked fun fur from Korky’s back.

  ‘Poor old Paddington,’ she moaned. ‘He’ll get pneumonia.’

  ‘You look like you’ve got it,’ grunted Savage. ‘We’ll sort out Paddington later.’

  He manoeuvred the wretched coat, chewed and hung with dirt and damp, from her back. ‘Poor Paddington,’ she mumbled again. ‘He’s done no harm.’ Tight-faced she sat down again. Under the coat she was wearing layers of old clammy cardigans, the stitches sagging, and the same skimpy dress as she had worn days before. Savage made up his mind. ‘Take everything off,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you some pyjamas.’

  ‘Help me,’ she pl
eaded holding out the woollen arms like a bird drying its wings. ‘Help me then.’

  He went towards the bedroom, returning with a pair of pyjamas he had ironed the day before. ‘Can’t you manage?’ he asked her.

  Korky gave him a pitying look. ‘I can’t bloody stand up.’

  ‘Right. All right. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Don’t look,’ she muttered.

  With difficulty, holding her, seating her, he took the ragged clothes away from her, the cardigans and the thin dress, fetid and clinging to her bony body. ‘My pants are clean,’ she said attempting to flutter her eyelashes.

  He said nothing but unbuttoned the dirty dress and pulled it down her stark body.

  ‘Ever seen a sight like this?’ she croaked looking down wretchedly. ‘Like a skellington.’

  ‘Skeleton,’ he said. She was sitting in the chair naked but for her pants, her narrow body pimpled and pale, her chest as flat as a child’s, her nipples raspberries. ‘I say skellington,’ she argued. She regarded him with wet eyes. ‘What a fucking mess, eh?’

  Her apparently empty plastic carrier bag began to move across the floor. Savage heard it and swivelled. It had stopped. He turned back to Korky. ‘We’ll get you into bed,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘And I’ll get you a drink. You ought to have the doctor.’

  ‘I’ll have the whisky,’ she accepted.

  He heard the carrier bag move again and this time saw it edging away. He began to go after it, then turned back and helped Korky into the voluminous pyjamas. ‘Great,’ she approved weakly. ‘Warm as toast.’ She began to wheeze again and he held her upright. ‘John is in the bag,’ she said. ‘He’s my only friend. Apart from you, Savage.’

  The carrier bag restarted its progress across the floor. ‘What is it?’ Savage asked. He tried to help her to her feet; she was so fragile she could not manage a step. Easily he picked her up and took her in his arms towards the single room. ‘John’s a gerbil,’ she mumbled. Her eyes were almost closed. Savage opened the duvet and eased her into the bed. She sighed deeply and lay back on the pillow as though she were dead. ‘I must get the doctor,’ he said.