He had barely clapped eyes on him when, a step behind, followed a man whose appearance delivered a sharp, icy jolt to Finch’s spine. He was a veritable man mountain, a quite extraordinary specimen of a human being. The man was huge – about six foot seven and probably weighing in at about twenty stone, though his body mass seemed comprised almost entirely of muscle, squeezed into a black suit and raincoat that must have been tailored specifically for his unusual proportions. For, what was even more impressive than his size and weight was his physique, his shape. His torso rose north from a trim waist to a pair of broad shoulders that would have seemed excessive on a circus strongman.
Bare-headed, the man had a close-shaved crop, the type beloved of the Prussians, skin that was swarthy, and narrow black eyes that were extremely close-set within a flattish, Eurasian face. More than that he had the thickest neck Finch had ever seen. It was like that of an oversized bull. It was as if his head were made of wax and it had melted down to pool on his shoulders; suggesting the product of some sort of genetic mutation.
Finch’s cold shiver was an instinctive confirmation. He knew right away this was the man who had appeared within the glow of the street lamp last night, not yards from his own house. The man followed closely, barely a pace behind his lavender-scented colleague as they descended the six or seven steps to the pavement where they climbed on board the vehicle. It tipped on one side against the big man’s weight.
The chauffeur went through some fussy ritual about putting a blanket over their knees but the fat-necked man swatted the request away. Under the creak of the lopsided suspension, the driver executed a U-turn and headed back up to the Bayswater Road.
Finch saw a taxi cab clip-clop past to deposit an older couple a few doors down, the woman proudly carrying a brand new hatbox. As the Rover drove off, Finch darted across the road and commandeered their cab, almost shunting the husband out of the way.
‘Cor, someone’s in a hurry,’ quipped the cabbie.
Finch pointed up the road.
‘Please… Follow that car.’
‘I’m afraid that’s just in the penny novellas, sir.’
‘I’m serious. That blue motorcar about to turn left up ahead. Can you follow it?’
‘Where’s it going?’
‘If I knew that I wouldn’t be asking you to follow it.’
The cabbie sucked on his teeth.
‘Not as easy as it sounds.’
‘I’ll double the fare.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
Finch climbed in. The cabbie twitched his whip, the horse whinnied and he worked it up into a trot.
Due to a hold-up at the T-junction, they managed to get within fifty yards of the Rover as it turned left, towards the West End, along the northern edge of Hyde Park. The cabbie was no slouch and weaved aggressively through the traffic, eliciting expletives from the wagons and carts he cut up. He nearly knocked one man off his motorcycle.
The traffic slowed to a near halt, placing them at a discreet distance behind the blue car. Finch could not get over the sheer size of the man with the neck. Viewed from behind, his lavender pal and the chauffeur looked like children sitting next to him, all squashed together on the seat, the lavender man wedged in the middle.
To the right, the midday sun dappled the trees, not all having shed their leaves yet. It glinted on the Serpentine lake, which marked the division between ornate Kensington Gardens to the west and wilder Hyde Park.
Further along, they rounded Marble Arch – Nash’s cod-Roman ceremonial gate to Buckingham Palace, relocated, ignominiously, to the site of the old Tyburn gallows. Curiously, and perhaps appropriately, it now had a police station housed within it.
As the traffic picked up and they crossed the north end of Park Lane, they were clearly going to be no match for a motorised vehicle that could travel at thirty miles per hour. Onto Oxford Street and the Rover was now just a bright-blue speck. The cab got jammed up in the usual London mêlée of carts and cabs and wagons and horse-drawn omnibuses.
The Westminster authorities were still refusing to allow the laying of tram tracks which, to Finch, rendered the West End curiously old-fashioned and chaotic, especially given the pedestrians who swelled on the pavements and were apt to wander out into the road without a second thought. It seemed out of step with the other cities he’d been to, even the London suburbs. The Cape Town of five years ago seemed more modern in its public transport – above ground anyway.
If not quite as chi-chi as the Bond and Regent Streets that crossed it, Oxford Street had succumbed to the march of commerce. The few residential buildings left were fighting a losing battle against the spread of shops and entertainment venues: the Princess Theatre, the John Lewis drapery shop, the department store owned by American retail magnate Harry Selfridge.
The explosion of advertising grew more and more astonishing every time Finch came here, the whole place geared up to sell you something from every conceivable angle – signs and hoardings, even on the sides of buses, imploring you to drink Guinness… Bass Ale… Ovaltine… or wash with Pears Soap.
There were posters for the latest West End shows… at the Daly’s Theatre… at the Apollo… and, at the Duke of York, home of the new fairy-tale sensation, J.M. Barrie’s The Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up.
At Oxford Circus, a bobby with white oversleeves stood on a box and blew a whistle at the traffic, trying to impose some order. Up ahead, the blue Rover was long gone.
Finch told the cabbie to stop, paid the exorbitant fare, which was gratefully received (though with hand still extended for a tip), and decided to take the long walk back up to St Pancras and a train home.
No sooner had he done so than a flash of cobalt blue streaked across Oxford Street – as if the Rover had turned around somewhere on the north side and was now cutting back to the south. It was heading into Soho… Wardour Street, it looked like.
As fast as his stiff leg would carry him, Finch took a right onto Poland Street then a left onto Broadwick Street, weaving around the fruit and vegetable stalls and bustling crowds of Berwick Street market, the barrow boys hawking their produce at the top of their lungs.
The bustle of activity and the narrow streets had slowed the car. Finch loitered in the doorway of an ironmonger’s as the Rover pootled past. It then dog-legged onto Dean Street – Finch following at a distance – where it puttered to a halt.
The two mismatched men got out and the car drove off. They crossed the road and Finch watched them enter an alleyway – the lavender man going first with his thick-necked beast of a friend very close behind.
Finch caught his breath, dabbed his brow, composed himself, pulled his collar up, turned his hat brim down and walked past on the opposite pavement. He glanced up to see the pair ascend a metal stairway, much like a fire escape, and go through a cracked and faded pale-green doorway.
Opposite the alleyway was a pub, the York Minster – a typical artsy Soho hangout, Finch assumed. Though once inside it seemed rougher, the saloon bar full of drunks, tattooed lowlifes and those for whom booze was just another medicine. There were a couple of scrawny women at the bar, tartily dressed, with decaying teeth and sporting too much make-up.
One thing the bar did have was a window overlooking the alleyway, so Finch ordered himself a pint of overpriced, watered-down ale and parked himself up against it, lighting up a cigarette. He waited for twenty minutes, keeping himself to himself, but the pale-green door at the top of the stairs remained closed. No entries, no exits.
He’d been in the pub long enough to know that tension was brewing, the scent of violence in the air. A surly individual asked him what his business was, to which he replied that it was to drink his pint in peace.
He lit another cigarette to calm his nerves, gave another away to someone who asked if he could bum one, but it was clear he was an object of suspicion and had outstayed his welcome. At the far end of the bar, through the fug of smoke, voices were raised, though it seemed to be an internal dispute of
some sort. A burly man in a baggy cap was threatening to administer physical justice to someone or other and was having to be calmed down. A petite woman with straight, copper-coloured hair was screeching at him.
Just as the situation seemed to have been defused, it happened. The burly man swung a fist and the woman was sent sprawling across the sawdust into the middle of the room. Even in a place such as this, so obvious and public an act of violence conducted towards a female caused howls of indignation. The large man was sent packing, staggering off out into the street.
The woman was in her late twenties and wore a tattered long blue dress; the copper-coloured hair Finch had noted was actually a wig, which now sat askew upon her head. But it was her skin that was her most striking feature. She was ebony black, the kind of person you saw in parts of London, in the communities from West Africa or the Indies. It reminded Finch of his time in South Africa… of that accursed refugee camp near Paarl.
She groaned and sat up. There was a trickle of blood from the left side of her mouth. Her eyes were out of focus. Despite giving her assailant short shrift, no one seemed that bothered. No one went to help her.
Finch leaped from his seat and crouched down at her side. He helped slide her over and propped her up so that her back rested on the bar. He handed her his fresh white handkerchief and she pressed it to her mouth.
He pestered the barman for a pint glass of water and got the young woman to sip. He felt around her jaw, determined that there was nothing broken and performed a rudimentary test, asking her to focus her eyes on his index finger.
It was only then that he noticed…
‘Thanks, sugar.’
…the Adam’s Apple.
‘Oh… that’s okay… really.’
She stroked his face.
‘My knight in shining armour.’
Momentarily flustered, she noticed him blush.
‘Don’t be shy now.’
Her voice, not too deep, but still a giveaway, betrayed an accent from the Caribbean.
‘I’m not shy… It’s just…’
‘You mean you never met someone like li’l old Lulu before?’
He ignored the comment.
‘Come on, let’s get you on your feet.’
She put her arm around his shoulder and he helped her up. The rest of the pub got on with its business. At her request, he walked her over to the toilets.
‘Er… which one…?’
‘Now that would be telling… Hero,’ she said and disappeared on her own through the main door to leave that question tantalisingly unanswered.
Five minutes later she came out, face cleaned up, wig pinned back in place. She had also applied some powder. She had spotted Finch back in his window seat, where he was back on lookout, and took the stool next to him.
‘You mind if I have a smoke?’ she asked.
Finch offered her his packet of Navy Cut. She took a couple, tucking the spare behind her ear.
‘Keep them,’ he said, and offered the whole box.
When he lit a match for her, she cupped her hands round his and pulled them in close. The touch of her palms and the confident, suggestive way she did it made him feel awkward.
Who knows, amid the commotion, if he’d missed any activity from the door at the top of the stairs across the road? He gazed at it again.
‘Something bothering you?’ she asked.
‘I didn’t like you getting thumped like that.’
‘Not the first time… nor the last.’
‘Who was he… that man?… What was it about?’
‘Nuthin’, honey… but that’s not what’s really bothering you. Is it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve been here half an hour, you’ve spent most of it staring up at that door across the street.’
‘That’s my business.’
She shrugged and rolled her eyes.
‘If you say so.’
The barman came over and plonked another pint of ale in front of Finch. He set a glass of port down in front of Lulu. Finch reached to pay for them. He feared a clip joint scam – that the woman’s drink would end up costing a fortune, to be extracted from him by some burly bouncer if need be.
‘No need. Present from the lady,’ said the gruff barman.
Discreetly, Lulu flashed a stuffed wallet at Finch that looked like it wasn’t hers.
‘You gonna take a slap, might as well make it worthwhile.’
She grinned. Finch stifled a chuckle. He raised his glass.
‘Thank you, Lulu. Good health.’
She clinked hers in return.
‘Charmed, I’m sure.’
She… he… she had kind, liquid eyes.
She leaned in and whispered.
‘You know I can give you a proper thank you if you like. No charge… On the house.’
Finch spluttered into his beer.
‘Lulu, you know I appreciate the offer, really I do, but I think I’m just going to finish this drink and leave.’
Chapter Fifteen
Mordecai sat in front of the fire and smoked a meagre roll-up. There were barely any coals left but – what hell – the code of communal living had been broken by everyone else in the house. And, besides, he hadn’t eaten properly. He was cold. He’d endured hours of back-breaking work for no money. He was exhausted. He’d been humiliated. He felt sick to his stomach.
There would be kids – street urchins – round later, selling stolen fuel. They brought it on a sledge door-to-door, coals pilfered from the railway yard. His pals would be back when the dockyard hooter sounded. Let them shell out some pennies then.
Mordecai looked around the filthy, spartan room which passed as a kitchen. There were wicker laths visible through the gaping holes in the lime plaster, huge and pungent damp stains colonising the walls.
At a time like this, when it was quiet, no one around, you could hear the scrabble of rats beneath the bare, grimy floorboards. By the fire was a blackened cooking pot, with its mouldy green residue of ancient broth. There were cigarette butts stubbed out everywhere.
He thought about a nap, a means to write off the rest of the day before getting up at dawn to try his luck at the East India Dock. But the prospect of the miserable upstairs room which he shared with six others – their thin, stained straw mattresses pushed together and covering the entire floor – did not appeal, even in their absence.
The slop bucket, he knew, would not have been emptied. Even if he did it himself, tipping it into the alleyway out the back, he would still lie amid the lingering stench of other men’s urine and excrement with the wind howling cold through the broken window. Last winter, in the thick of it, they would shiver under moth-eaten horse blankets carpeted with snow.
The house on Sidney Street had become a magnet for disaffected Livonians – Latvians and Estonians. The area of Stepney, too, was a safe haven for Jews like himself, who could go about their business without fear – especially the fear of an oppressive Russian overlord. You could not put a price on freedom. Staying in Riga had not been an option.
But this…?
There was a knock at the door. Mordecai had no watch but guessed it to be about two o’clock. At this time of day it could be anybody: – the kids with the coal sledge; a costermonger with his handcart; a socialist pamphleteer; a do-gooder from the Salvation Army; someone just casing the house prior to a burglary, not that there was anything to steal. Occasionally, of an evening, there would be a desperate hollow-eyed woman – sometimes with a child in tow – offering her undernourished body for rent.
Once a month came the neighbourhood ‘committee’ with their demand for a fee to offer ‘protection’, something that was paid without question. Mordecai did not know who these protectors were. He did not know who his landlord was. Nobody did. The house was a sub-let upon a sub-let upon a sub-let. Mordecai just worked, paid what he owed, kept his nose clean.
He opened the door to a narrow crack and peered out. It had started raining ag
ain. Women were frantically hauling in the lines of washing which had been strung across the street. Standing before him was a thin man in a black suit, his slicked dark hair crowned by a bowler hat, hunched under an umbrella.
‘Mr Plavinas?’
‘Yes.’
The man half turned.
‘If you’d just come this way, sir.’
Mordecai resented the arrogance.
‘Who are you?’
The man turned back.
‘Please, sir. If you’ll come with me.’
‘I go nowhere.’
The man pulled a pained expression, as if it were Mordecai who was being unreasonable and that the prospect of a stand-off was simply tiresome.
‘Please, Mr Plavinas. Let’s not make this any more difficult than it needs to be.’
Mordecai did not budge.
‘Look… Mr Plavinas… sir…’
He tried a different tack.
‘…I… we… hear you’re now out of a job.’
‘How you know?’
‘Please, sir, time is pressing. There’s someone who wants to meet you.’
‘Meet me?’
‘Yes… So, please…’
He beckoned for him to follow.
‘I go nowhere.’
‘Believe me, it will be worth your while. Very worth your while. I can say no more than that. Take it or leave it.’
Mordecai stepped out into the street. He saw, at the top end, a motorcar. It had already been surrounded by curious children. Even a horse cart had slowed down to allow the rag-and-bone man to take a peek.
‘Please…’ implored the man with the umbrella.
Mordecai shrugged. What was there to lose? He buttoned up his collarless shirt, pulled on his coarse wool jacket and his baker boy cap.
The green car, which sat like a shimmering emerald between the grim slum terraces, was unlike anything he had seen – no mere functional automobile but one of absolute luxury, a long-wheelbase limousine. As he neared it, he saw the gold-plated metalwork and lamps, the white-walled tyres and the completely enclosed rear passenger section. There were shades pulled down in the windows. Out the front, in the open cockpit, a uniformed, goggled chauffeur sat under the canopy, minding his own business.
The Cold North Sea Page 11