‘It’s coming on,’ said Savage.
‘You were lucky getting those books just like that, so quick, in the Reading Room,’ she observed drily. ‘You couldn’t have been in there only a couple of hours. Normally it takes longer than that just to get the books, let alone read them. I didn’t realise you were a member of the British Library.’
‘Oh, yes. I joined weeks ago.’
‘These books,’ she pursued, ‘must have just been sitting there waiting for you.’
‘Probably.’
‘Where are you up to? Which islands?’ Her voice remained friendly but formal.
He groaned. ‘Indonesia.’ He regarded her across the table. ‘Do you know how many islands there are in Indonesia, Korky? Thousands.’
‘Why not skip them for a bit and go on to the next. What is it?’
‘Iona,’ he said. ‘In the Hebrides.’
‘One island? Small?’
‘Yes, just one. Small.’
‘Some time you could go back to Indonesia. Just stick the main ones in. There’s no way you can do every island in the world or the book would be as big as the world.’ She laughed over her tea. ‘Anyway, you should let Stephen see it, as much as you’ve done. He’s quite keen.’
‘He’s keen on you, I expect,’ said Savage.
‘He’s lonely,’ she shrugged. ‘I attract lonely men. They think they can look after me.’
There were only two other people in the café apart from a waiter wearing a huge white apron. He studied the other couple. They were close and whispering over their cups on the marble table. ‘I’d really like you to help me out,’ said Savage. ‘If you could get together some additional material it makes a difference, it really does.’
‘It makes it a bit more interesting,’ she agreed bluntly. He stirred his tea. ‘And you’re only a few yards away, just in the next building. You could bring the stuff to me, or I could come to your place.’ He continued stirring. ‘I’ve not been in your flat since you moved in.’
‘It’s too tight for a party,’ she shrugged. She drank from the solid, white cup. ‘There’s no need to stir,’ she pointed out. ‘Unless you’ve started taking sugar.’ He stopped stirring.
‘Has Mr Longbottom turned up yet?’
‘No. But he rang. He was all right. He sounded like a small man. I told him that his wife had gone to Australia. They could have waved to each other in mid-air. He just said: “Bloody good,” and rang off.’ She paused. ‘But I may be moving out anyway.’ She studied the whorls in the marble table top.
He took it in. ‘Move? Where?’
‘Mr Furtwangler wants me to go and live in his house.’ She faced him, her cheeks beginning to pink. ‘Not like that, for Christ’s sake, he’s about eighty. But he’s there in this big house in Wimbledon all by himself. His wife’s been dead years. He says there’s a flat upstairs and I can have it if I like. He’s not even going to charge me rent.’ Her expression became challenging. ‘He says he’ll be quite happy to hear me singing and to hear my footsteps over his ceiling.’
‘You can’t sing,’ he objected. ‘You’ve got a terrible voice.’
‘Mr Furtwangler won’t mind,’ she said patting the back of his hand as though to console him. ‘It’s better than silence. Anyway, even if I do go, I’ll be coming back to Kensington Heights for Wilhelmina Blenkinsop’s seances.’
‘See you there,’ Savage grunted.
Korky laughed. ‘Don’t be mean. They don’t do any harm and they make people happy. I’m a brilliant spirit.’
‘I don’t want to hear about it,’ he sighed.
‘And I might come back to the party . . . the one Miss Harkness is having.’
‘Who is Miss Harkness?’
‘She hasn’t been there long. It’s a housewarming. I’ll come down after the seance. You haven’t been invited?’
‘No.’
‘They’re afraid to invite you. They think you’re too busy with your work and you don’t want to be disturbed.’
‘You make me sound like Miss Bombazine.’
He grinned uneasily at her but she laughed outright. The waiter seemed pleased. The other confiding couple glanced up with a hint of envy. ‘They haven’t asked her for the same reason,’ she said. ‘Funny, isn’t it. Anyway, Miss Harkness is umpteen years old, stone deaf, and she’s having this piss-up, whatever.’ She paused and looked at him sideways. ‘Do you want to be invited?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t mind,’ he said avoiding her eyes. ‘I’m not actually working all the time.’
‘Right. I’ll fix it. See you there.’ Her look went to the waiter. ‘I’ll get the teas,’ she said. ‘I’ll treat you, Savage.’
Korky was not at Miss Harkness’s party. Freddie was. So was Percy Belfont who had gone to die in Antwerp. ‘I found it was not suitable,’ he said a little sadly.
‘I got off early for her,’ Freddie complained to Savage. ‘I could have clinched a sale this evening. You’ve got to grab them these days. And instead I’m drinking sherry with a lot of crumblies.’ He scanned Savage apologetically. ‘And you.’
‘She said she was coming after the spirit meeting she goes to,’ Savage told him.
‘She’s into that,’ frowned Freddie. ‘It appeals to the crazy side of her.’ He grimaced at the amber sherry in his glass and lowering his voice asked: ‘Do you like this muck?’
‘It’s all there is,’ said Savage sipping his diffidently. He surveyed the crowded room; the grey heads were like balls of wool. Easily looking above them he saw the salt-shouldered Bertie Maddison. Bertie eased himself towards Savage and whispered: ‘She’s on probation. Came up on Monday. She’s at home sulking.’
‘Festival Hall?’
‘That’s where it started.’ Maddison ineffectually brushed his dandruff; a flake fluttered into his sherry glass where it floated. He extracted it daintily with his little fingertip. Freddie glanced at Savage. Maddison said: ‘She took a strong exception to the Chinese violinist, the one with the odd name. Said he was squeaky. I managed to control her and they always have a couple of stewards lurking in her vicinity anyway, because of her reputation, just in case, but she was seething. “Tchaikovsky has died a second time,” that sort of remark, and: “The death of a thousand cuts.” She was muttering through the whole concert. It was eating at her all night. She couldn’t sleep. Next morning she went out and flung a half-brick through the window of the ticket agency.’
Miss Harkness moved to them making her way with elderly aggression. ‘Poor Minnie Weiz has syphilis,’ she opened conversationally. She noted their surprise. Miss Weiz was standing near the ornamental fireplace. ‘It was syphilis, wasn’t it, Minnie?’ she shouted.
Miss Weiz, struggling to hear, called back: ‘A nasty dose this time.’
‘It was shingles, Miss Harkness,’ reproved Miss Cotton standing near. ‘Shingles is quite a separate ailment.’
Miss Cotton muttered: ‘Silly old woman.’ She half-turned to Savage and coquettishly tugged at his lapel. ‘I’d like to make you a proposition,’ she said. She made a face towards the back of the hostess who had gone bleating towards Miss Weiz. Freddie had been eyeing the door and began to slide towards it.
‘What is that, Miss Cotton?’ asked Savage. She smiled winsomely and brushed her crinkly hair back from her forehead. ‘Why don’t you move in with me,’ she suggested.
His face stiffened. ‘Move in?’ was all he could muster. ‘In what way?’
‘Move in,’ she repeated resolutely. ‘Live with me.’
Savage gathered himself inadequately. ‘It’s very kind of you but I’m settled in my place now.’
She pursed her lips and looked not very prudently around her. ‘And at a fine rent, I must say.’ She leaned closer so that her emerald necklace swung out suggestively and clinked on his glass. ‘I won’t eat you,’ she confided. ‘But it would be nice to have a man around, a younger man.’ Her face hardened. ‘That would show these old fools a thing or two.’
‘
But I can’t,’ he protested trying to whisper. ‘I couldn’t . . .’ Then desperately: ‘There’s my work.’
‘You could do your work undisturbed,’ she offered calmly. She was not going to be put off. ‘And I would buy you a car. Anything you wanted within reason. Clothes, anything.’ She faced him knowingly. ‘Now that you’re on your own as well.’
‘Well . . . that’s really kind of you, Miss Cotton.’
‘It’s Penelope, by the way.’
‘Yes. Well, thank you, Penelope.’ He began to edge away.
‘Think about it,’ she suggested lightly. She leaned and the necklace tinkled against the glass again. ‘We make music,’ she tittered and more privately: ‘There would be no rent involved of course.’
He managed to work his way over to the exiting Freddie and together they edged towards the door thanking Miss Harkness as they went. She exacted a kiss on the cheek from each.
In the corridor, they found Mr Tomelty padding along the carpet. ‘They all shout,’ he observed nodding in the direction of the party. ‘No wonder they can’t hear.’ He took in Freddie. ‘I’ve put your bicycle outside, sir.’
‘Are you coming to the seance?’ Freddie asked Savage doubtfully. ‘I think I’ll go.’
‘No. No thanks.’
‘Mrs Blenkinsop’s. Right along this corridor, turn right,’ directed Tomelty.
Freddie continued along the carpet and Savage went out of the building, crossed the yard, went through the side door and took the lift to the top floor.
As he opened his door the telephone began to ring. He picked it up and recited the number. She only said one word: ‘Frank . . .’ He heard a man tell her to put the phone down. It went dead. Savage pulled the handpiece away and stared at it. ‘Jean,’ he said, then raising his voice against the instrument: ‘Jean, are you there? Jean, Jean!’
Swiftly he dialled her number. It rang but no one picked it up.
Savage stood staring at the receiver. Jesus Christ. What should he do? He spun around the room as though he expected to find some answer, some help. He had to go. He made himself move fast; groping below the bed he extracted the useless sub-machine gun. He pulled out the empty magazine and slammed it back. He ran towards the door. He would have to hide the gun. He rushed into the second bedroom, pulled his anorak from a peg, put it on to conceal the weapon, then bolted from the flat, almost falling down the stairs.
His mind was spinning. How could he get there? Taxi? Run? With a gun? Korky. He had to get Korky. He ran around the building and along the corridor. There was a fat Chinese man wearing a white nightshirt outside the flat. ‘No go in,’ he said holding up a draped hand. He saw the gun hanging around Savage’s neck under the unzipped anorak. His eyes dilated. ‘Maybe can.’
An unworldly wail came from within the room. ‘For me,’ said the Chinese gratefully. He opened the door and hurried in shutting it behind him. Savage heard the bolt slot inside. Through the woodwork he heard a trumpet. He swore, turned and ran again up the corridor, swinging out of the outside door. Propped against the wall was Freddie’s red and white striped racing bicycle.
He stopped, took it in, then grasped it, ran a few paces and mounted it, wobbling out through the enclosed courtyard and into street.
Wildly he turned left, head down, and went panting and pedalling furiously towards Westborne Grove. Pedestrians swung around to see him. The anorak broke open; the sub-machine gun swung from his neck, he went crazily through the Notting Hill traffic weaving and braking, almost falling, righting himself, skidding, pedalling, pedalling, furiously until he reached her street. He flung the bicycle against the outside wall of the small block of apartments and pounded up the outer steps like a street-fighting soldier.
‘Somebody’s shooting!’ shouted a man from a window.
‘Over there,’ pointed an Indian on the opposte side of the street. ‘Where that geezer’s going. That geezer wiv a gun!’
‘A gun! He’s got a gun!’ bawled a woman ducking inside her door.
‘Police, get the police!’
Savage plunged up the steps. He pounded her door then, stepping back a pace, smashed the lock with the butt of the gun. He went in with the muzzle pointing. The room was wrecked, furniture overthrown, broken glass and china strewn, cigarette ends thrown from an ashtray, a window smashed.
‘Jean!’ he bawled. ‘For God’s sake, Jean!’
Jean was among the bedroom debris, almost posed on the floor by the foot of the bed. She sat with her hands spread out in an attitude of hopelessness. She had been shot through the neck and the chest and she was running with blood. There was no life in her.
Slowly Savage crouched beside her. He heard himself sob. Her head rolled to one side. The smell of blood rushed up his nostrils. His hands were covered with it. The front of her was soaked. He looked at his hands and felt the smell of the blood fill him. Blood! Again! His mind went. He felt it go. Screaming and screaming he rushed around the apartment jabbing about with his useless gun and flinging open doors. No one was there. It made him vomit to look down at his hands, one still grasping the gun. The horror, the terror, the awesome dream swept over him. He was mad again. Mad as he ever was. It was back! Howling he rushed from the fearful place, tipping down the stairs to the outside. Heads disappeared below window sills. His thick, red sticky hands somehow caught hold of the idiotic bicycle. He had to find Korky! Korky, where are you! Korky! Korky! Oh Christ, Korky . . .
He threw himself over the crossbar of the bicycle and pedalled crazily down the street, the sub-machine gun swinging wildly from his neck, his face crammed, his hands stuck by blood to the handlebars, his shouts wild. Two policemen at Notting Hill saw him charge by. ‘That’s interesting, Doug,’ said one. ‘Unusual.’
‘He’s got a gun,’ mentioned the other. ‘And riding a bike.’ He lifted his radio to the side of his mouth.
Savage rode furiously among the traffic. He had to get to Korky. Nothing else mattered. Swerving he went head down across signals at red; drivers braked, skidded, collided. There were warnings, shouts and curses. He scattered pedestrians on a crossing, jumped another set of lights and rattled into Church Street, riding against the one-way traffic, sending vehicles swerving and bumping against each other. Police sirens began to sound.
Cars were waiting at another zebra crossing; bellowing he violently jerked the bicycle on to the pavement and zigzagged crazily under the shop awnings, strewing people and wrecking a china stall. There were cries and waving fists. None of it reached him. He had to get to Korky.
A final turn and he was there, throwing up the gravel in the courtyard of Kensington Heights. He threw the bicycle aside and flinging open the door, raced down the passage. The same Chinese man was waiting again in his white nightshirt outside the door. His face congealed when he saw Savage. He had no time to say anything; Savage thrust him aside, grasped the door and flung it open.
The room was dim, with the outlines of people sitting heads bowed. ‘Korky! Korky!’ he screamed. There were movements and exclamations. An expectant voice intoned: ‘Who is it this time?’
‘Korky!’ he howled again. His breath was coming in sobs. He still had the blood in his nostrils, on his hands. He stared at it as though he could not believe it. Wilhelmina advanced waving her arms, berating him. Then he saw Korky. Christ, she was dead! She almost floated at the back of the darkened room, her face eerily shining, her body like muslin. ‘Korky! Korky, help me!’ he pleaded.
A spurt of white smoke shot up from the front of the room and there was a sheet of orange flame and a loud explosion. He flung himself flat. There were more shouts and screams. It was all happening to him again. His brain was on fire. Where was Henry? Where was Sergeant Barnard? All this smoke. Everywhere was smoke and blood. Where was Barnard? Somehow he got upright and in panic he whirled and ran out of the room colliding with the frightened Chinese who had just regained his feet. Savage, bawling, straddled him, got up and waving the sub-machine gun, plunged along the corridor and o
nce more burst out into the yard.
Four policemen with guns were coming towards him. They scattered. Incoherently he shouted at them. There were police vehicles blocking the exit with officers and dogs. He halted on the steps. ‘Stop!’ a voice ordered hollowly through a megaphone. ‘Stop! Armed police. Stay where you are.’
Savage turned sideways, bent almost double, and made to run along the wall of the flats. He was a soldier again. Nothing mattered. Nothing now. ‘Stop. Or we fire!’ echoed the voice. Miss Bombazine’s window was flung open. ‘Look out, Frank!’ she screamed. He doubled up and kept running. Two shots sounded, resounding in the high and confined courtyard. Each one hit him and he stumbled, and slithered, and stopped, flat out against the wall. The useless sub-machine gun clattered along the gravel. A Black boy, who had been sheltering behind the wall with his brother, reached out and almost tenderly picked up the weapon. Wide-eyed and silent he handed it to the first policeman.
‘You’ve shot him, you bastards!’ Miss Bombazine shouted out of her window. ‘Stupid, bloody coppers. You’ve done it now!’ Her face disappeared and a minute later she was out in the courtyard and racing towards the prone shape of Savage. She was wearing a black negligee. Her impetus took her through the policemen to Savage’s side. Korky rushed from the block, wearing a muslin shift, her face painted luminous white. ‘Fuck me,’ commented one policeman to another.
‘You’ve just killed a hero,’ Miss Bombazine told him bluntly. Korky was crying against the bloodied chest.
Behind them, from the door of Kensington Heights, the residents were coming out. Slowly, as though entranced, they entered like players on a stage and formed a silent group. The Tomeltys were there, Wilhelmina Blenkinsop, Miss Weiz, the Maddisons, Miss Cotton, Percy Belfont fresh from Antwerp, and the others. Mr Prentice stood shocked and sooty-faced. Two young policemen attempted to usher the gathering back through the door. ‘Go inside, please. There’s nothing to see,’ said one outstretching his arms.
‘There’s everything to see,’ pointed out Tomelty hardly moving his eyes from Savage. His wife began to cry. ‘Don’t upset them,’ she sniffed.
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