by John Gardner
Boysie had the sense not to press. He felt that Snowflake Brightwater was a person who only volunteered information of her own sweet accord; certainly never under duress.
She did most of the talking on the way back to town: mainly surface stuff about her childhood. You felt it was genuine enough but it came out flat, unvarnished.
Her father had been a solicitor: small town; south of England; everybody thinking they knew everybody else’s business. He had gone into local government and began to imagine he was the PM. Her childhood memories were of that drab security which can only eventually breed discontent in growing youth. The house; school, with regulation uniform: “Grey, Boysie. You know. Grey sacks and grey felt hats, grey ankle socks, grey knickers that scratched. That’s the ultimate of English jokes isn’t it? God, they’d have had us in grey vests if it wasn’t too costly.”
Regulations. Keeping up with the Jones’s, the Smiths, the ultramarine Browns. Identical televisions, identical pools in the garden, identical ponies; holidays; church on Sunday and more regulations.
In the end she revolted. A perfectly normal breakaway. “I really felt like a trapped animal. Caged. I saw the rest of my life being swallowed up. They already had a couple of nice boys standing in line for me. I was being chained down while the world, on the other side of the hill, ran past faster than sound. So I gave my virginity to a garage hand and quietly stole away.”
So it was the classic tiptoe down the stairs with the small case, the note, the train and the big city. Her monologue stopped at the big city.
“Does it make sense, Boysie?”
He nodded behind the wheel, the grey ribbon of road being devoured by the singing wheels.
“A lot of sense. You ever go back?”
“Now?”
“Uh-hu.”
“Oh yes, now. That’s where I’m my most quaint. My mother’s the one who really understands. What about you?”
Boysie fired off a couple of well rehearsed salvos of back-ground. The Berkshire village; the downs; war; a lifetime of non-involvement. He went into neither the post-war activities nor the hidden part of youth. It was easy, because he had done it so many times before.
“Do you ever go back?”
“Never.” Quick. A door of ten inch steel slamming in the mind, cutting off the truth.
She guided him to the converted house in Eaton Place. He found a parking space and she asked him up for “smoked salmon sandwiches and whatever I’ve got”.
The apartment reflected her quaint disguise. Clean and perfectly kept yet littered with oddments: a huge musical box, little ornaments, bits of china, exquisite but matching nothing, there was even a small stuffed bird in a glass case.
“He looks so sad and tender, don’t you think?”
Boysie could not tell if she was sending him up or whether that was an area where the quaintness had taken over from her real self.
She hung up her coat, pulled off her hat and shook out her hair. It was, as Boysie had feared, long, auburn and of a texture which made you wish to bathe in it.
“Food?” Her eyes steady on his.
He shrugged. “Not unless …”
“I’m not hungry. But I’m sure you’d like a drink. What is your usual potion?”
“A tincture of brandy, perhaps?”
She smiled, the eyes sparkling. “I have something very special for you, Boysie Oakes.” She bent forward and touched his lips with hers. Miss Snowflake Brightwater tasted good enough to savour at great length. Suddenly she straightened up. Her tone was serious. “Remember. Whatever. I really do like you. Really. Truly.” Like a small child. Then the smile again and softly, “The bedroom’s through there.”
This, thought Boysie, must be the feeling you get when you win the pools.
The bedroom was, naturally, over-decorated; the large brass fourposter looking madly excessive even to Boysie.
“Not in bed yet.” She came in behind him carrying a brandy goblet. “Drink that. It will provide the stamina you need. I won’t be long.” She was out of the room quickly.
You do not argue with the whims of fate. Boysie had learned that many years ago. You took what was offered when it was offered unless you thought there was a chance of a better deal. He sipped the brandy, running his tongue around his mouth.
He took another draught while hanging up his jacket and trousers. It had the smooth bite of age. Another large sip after removing his shirt and socks. This, he considered, was one of the best brandies ever tasted.
Naked, he sipped again and again and felt at peace with the world, greatly taken with Miss Snowflake Brightwater and visibly prepared for any rigours which might follow.
Her sheets were silk soft, the pillow as he had always imagined swansdown should feel. The whole process of lying there and waiting for the door to open was drenched in a self-perpetuating eroticism.
The door slowly opened and Miss Snowflake Brightwater drifted into the room. She wore a long white gown made up from many layers of diaphanous material.
“Comfortable?”
“Gloatingly.”
“You feel good?”
“As gold. Gold rampant.”
“Good.”
Miss Snowflake Brightwater allowed the robe to slide from her shoulders, revealing slim curves and pink flesh covered only by lavender bra and briefs, characteristically ruffled by bows and lace. Miss Snowflake Brightwater knew how to please and pamper men’s small whims.
Boysie felt the warmth of her as she slid in beside him. Thigh to thigh. His lips sought her and her hand moved, unerring as a missile, for him. He felt her touch; her lips engulfing him. Only at the last moment was there a leap of anxiety: a flash of perception. But it was too late, he seemed to experience the sensation of having his brain sucked into Miss Snowflake Brightwater’s mouth. Disappearing into the darkness, at the moment of departure, he muttered, “What a lovely way to go.”
5
Her hand was on his brow and he had total recall. There was a lot of light. Daylight. He knew about Snowflake Brightwater. He knew she was a beautiful, desirable ethereal lady; that she wore lavender coloured pants; that she had seduced him; that she had conned him.
“You’ve done for me. You’ve bloody taken me for the oldest ride. Lured me.”
“Shshsh. By the most ancient bait, Boysie. But it may be good yet. Does your head hurt? Can you sit up?”
His head did not hurt and he could sit up quite easily.
It was only when he actually did achieve a sitting position that he realised the room was full of people. He was naked. He could tell that. Miss Snowflake Brightwater was clothed: moulded into a smart skimpy black number.
He blinked and tried to sort things out. The room was not so full as he had first imagined. Apart from Miss Brightwater there were three other people, ranged in a line down the side of the bed. A tall, sad-looking man who seemed in need of repair, and a bald benign negro. Between them, in an invalid chair, sat the top half of a small young man. All three nodded greetings.
“What gives?” asked Boysie, his mind a rubbish bin of possibilities. This could be anything. He had been alert to the past creeping up on him before Air Apparent got its claws into his time and energy. For a short period his guard had dropped. The nerves sang and his stomach performed a tattoo of unpleasant spasms.
“Istah U-Ian Oakes?” asked the tall man.
“You what?”
“He asked if you are Mr Brian Oakes,” said the half person in the wheelchair.
“H-h-h-he h-h-h-has an impedi-impediment in h-h-his spee-speech, m-m-m-man,” stuttered the coloured egg-head.
“It would be best if I explained.” The one in the wheelchair had an unpleasant, nasal voice. “This—” indicating the tall man with the cleft palate— “is Mr Frobisher. I am his associate: Pesterlicker. We are from the Investigation Branch of the Ministry of Transport and Civil Aviation.”
Frobisher said something quite unintelligible.
“Quite. We are the
Investigation Branch. This gentleman,” Pesterlicker gestured towards the spade, “is Mr Colefax from the Investigation Branch of the Board of Trade. Is that clear?” The question was menacing.
“Who are you?” Boysie asked Miss Snowflake Brightwater. “I’m Miss Brightwater.”
“We sometimes call her Mata Hari as a jest.” It did not sound exactly like that, coming from Frobisher who began to giggle.
“Very comical.” There was a shade of relief. This was not Boysie’s past giving him trouble. Only the present. Only, he thought. Bloody Mostyn’s caught me by the natural privates again.
“You got ID?” Boysie asked flatly.
The trio moved as one: right hands into breast pockets, producing small plastic flip open books which they manoeuvred in front of Boysie’s eyes. They looked genuine.
“We have questions to ask,” said Pesterlicker.
“By what right?”
“B-b-by th-th-the right that y-y-y-ou’re l-lyin’ in b-b-bed na-naked and there are th-three of u-us.” Colefax pressed his point.
“Four of you,” Boysie corrected, looking nastily at Miss Snowflake Brightwater.
“Three of them,” she said sweetly. “I do jobs like this for money. I work for them but I don’t get involved more than I can help.”
“You’ll have to be this time.” Frobisher had stopped giggling but was still difficult to follow.
“We will see.” Miss Snowflake Brightwater played tantalisingly with the hem of her skirt which was hoisted splendidly high.
“You ought to get something done about your speech problem.” If it was going to be on the personal level, Boysie reckoned he could play the game as well.
“I huppose ooo hink hat’s hunny?” countered Frobisher.
“Sh-houldn’t w-w-we ge-ge-ge-t on w-w-with th-the b-business?”
“Yes,” snarled Pesterlicker. “The business. The business is Mr Oakes. Question one. Are you the Managing Director of a company known as Air Apparent Limited?”
Boysie shrugged. “Yes.” The heat was on.
“Are you aware that you have contravened the regulations laid down by the International Air Transport Association, the Board of Trade and the Ministry of Transport and Civil Aviation?”
“No.”
“Well, it is our duty to inform you that you have. In fact you have contravened some thirty-eight clauses in these regulations and ignorance of those regulations is no defence in law.”
“When did I do it?”
“Over the past few weeks and specifically last night.”
“I want to be legally represented.”
“Why?”
“I feel I should be represented. If you’re going to throw the book at me then I should have a qualified defence.”
“Nobody said we were going to throw the book at you.” A terrible jumble of words.
Pesterlicker gave Frobisher a look which bade him to shut his deformed vocal exit.
“W-we d-don’t w-w-work li-like th-that, ma-ma-man,” grinned Colefax.
Pesterlicker sighed. “This is not the middle ages, Mr Oakes. We do not act like the Inquisition or the Star Chamber. I will admit that we do a nice little line in intrigue. But, when we’ve got something good going for us we are not anxious to louse it up by introducing legions of lawyers.”
“You want a cut.” All seemed revealed. “Well I can’t say yes or no. There are other people involved.”
Pesterlicker shook his head. “We were told that you were a person of basic motivations and instincts. They are too basic. We are representatives of Her Majesty’s Government and you don’t think representatives of Her Majesty’s Government would run a protection racket?”
“Is that the sixty-nine dollar question?”
“We know there are other people involved. It is the other people we are after.” Pesterlicker allowed what passed for a smile to linger momentarily on his lips.
“They are soliciting your aid, Boysie,” whispered Snowflake Brightwater.
Mostyn, thought Boysie. That’s who they wanted. At last someone had really caught up with the little, oily-haired, tight-arsed, plum-mouthed, hogwash-piddling, steam-blowing, foot-licking, gut-shaking, nerve-breaking Mostyn.
His mouth split into the friendliest of grins. “Someone else you want?”
Pesterlicker smiled and nodded like a youthful buddah. “Several persons. To that end we are prepared to overlook the charges that could be brought against you in your capacity as Managing Director of Air Apparent. In fact, for a time we are even willing to allow you to continue.”
“Ah.”
“On the understanding that you report to us and keep your eyes open.”
“For what?”
“For anything untoward. Especially concerning the aircraft you charter. But we want everything, no matter how small.”
“Done. How do I contact you?” Boysie saw a quick way out. If he got rid of this unfortunate trio he could resign and be away. His share of the present loot would at least get him out of the country for a while.
“You don’t contact us.” Pesterlicker looked grave. “You do not seem to have grasped one essential fact.”
“We are agents.”
“Y-y-yea. W-w-we c-come and g-g-go w-w-with st-stealth.”
“They’re like wraiths. Hush-hush men.” Snowflake Brightwater gave Boysie a sympathetic look.
“Oh yes.” Boysie jerked his head. “I mean you’re just like ghosts, aren’t you? Melt into the crowd and all that sort of thing. Once seen immediately forgotten.”
The three investigation men nodded. “That’s it. You will use Miss Brightwater as a post office. All information will be transmitted through her. You agree to this?”
The prospect brightened. “I agree.”
Pesterlicker held up a hand. “Should you fail to provide the required information I must warn you that we can be ruthless.”
“Ooee’ll hscroo yoo.”
“Writs, su-summonses and Hi-hi-hi . . . C-courts.”
“You will make your arrangements with Miss Brightwater.” Pesterlicker nodded, his companions bowed and they began to make a painful exit.
“Oy,” called Boysie, tethered to the bed by his natural modesty.
They turned.
“Don’t you think I should know more?”
“No.” Pesterlicker spoke quietly. “We work on the need-to-know principle. All you need to know is that we want every piece of information that comes your way.”
They left, with Miss Snowflake Brightwater in the rear. “I’ll be back,” she whispered, closing the door.
Boysie reached for his cigarettes, lit one, reclined on the pillows and pondered. Mostyn had originally recruited him for that dangerous part of his past he had now put behind him. Yet Mostyn was eternally to be associated with evil. Not evil in any abstract sense, but the real and apparent evil which always seemed to be around on a Mostyn-motivated scene. Death, broken bones, gashed bodies, torture, wilful nerve-grating and the dark fantasies of the night were things that came with Mostyn’s presence. When Frobisher, Pesterlicker and Colefax spoke of getting another person connected with Air Apparent they could only mean Mostyn. It was a thought more comforting than all the television religious programmes that had ever been.
Miss Snowflake Brightwater returned.
“Nice friends you’ve got.” Boysie blew a mouthful of smoke towards the ceiling.
“Quaint.” She came closer.
“What did you put in my drink?”
“I don’t know. They gave it to me. It worked at the speed of light, did it not?”
“Did it not,” agreed Boysie.
She stood quite close to the bed now. “I’m sorry about all that, truly I am. I have obligations to them. But to prove that I am enamoured of you Boysie, darling, shall we carry on where we left off?”
“Betcha,” said Boysie.
“Betcha what?”
“Betcha got black lace pants under that.”
“It’s the English
way of life. As I said last night, dear Boysie, the English joke is knickers; English sex is black lace knickers. It’s the Public School system that does it.” She raised her hem to pull the dress over her head.
*
His full name was Colonel Peter Suffix. His London address was Flat 5, Cardigan House, W.I.
The apartment was austere. No carpets or luxury trappings. True, a few books lined one shelf in the main living room, but they were text books, political and military. Suffix sat at a long bare table: a standard issue War Department table from World War Two. He worked with maps and a compass. The telephone rang.
“Suffix.” He was a man of few words when it came to telephones.
“Oakes spent the night with Brightwater.” The voice at the other end was quiet and sounded young. “They were visited at seven this morning.”
“Who?”
“A spade, a guy in a wheelchair and one other.”
“Not known?”
“Not to me.”
“Follow Oakes. If he goes near the Brightwater again you had better do both of them. Put together, their records are not good. If they’re forming a team better to knock them out early.”
“Right.”
Suffix closed the line and went back to his work.
It was almost noon when Boysie walked into the office. As expected he was greeted by howls and catcalls.
“Her place or yours?” from Alma.
“I don’t believe it. Not that one,” commented Ada.
“She cook breakfast, Mr B?” asked Aida.
“Would you?” retorted Boysie, glowing as he realised there was a pinch of jealousy in the girls’ attitude.
“Anything happened while I’ve been gone?”
“Not awfully much,” said Ada.
“Our precious, Flight E 319 had a spot of bother.” Aida dropped it with a gleam of her teeth.
The loose sensation in the lower gut. “What’s happened?”
“They had to make an emergency landing at Otuka.”
“Where’s Otuka?” Looking about vainly for a map.
“Capital of Etszika.”
“And where the hell’s Etszika?”
“Little democratic republic between Gabon and the Congo. West Africa. No sweat. People friendly. I myself once knew a witch doctor from Etszika. Nice man, cured my grandmother’s warts.” She gave a mock sigh. “Anyway, the trouble’s fixed and Flight E 319 is on its way again. All came in on the magic teletype via Excelsior.”
