by John Gardner
Boysie’s simple logic and experience told him they were up to no good. They had the sniff of Paul and Charles about them. The gut churn and desert at the back of the throat. His father ended up with a cut throat. With that kind of luck running in the family he would probably finish with his head being blown off. The thought had a rough effect on Boysie’s stomach. Then he felt the hard lump at his back. They had not even made an attempt to search him. The Diamondback was still there in his hip pocket.
He tried to concentrate on where they were taking him. It was a great pity, he thought, that Mr Colefax’s gentlemen, or even Griffin’s minders, were not keeping a leery eye on him as well as Snowflake Brightwater.
They were heading up the Tottenham Court Road by this time. A turn left, then one to the right. Another to the right. Boysie lost track.
Ten, fifteen minutes later, Boysie recognised the uncertain features of Finsbury Park. They pulled up before an unloved building. Across the street a pair of young dark men in 195os Brando-type leather jackets did the Harpo Marx trick, holding up a Cypriot restaurant by leaning against it.
“Everybody out.” He had the Twist-Lock on again.
“All right,” yelled Boysie. “I’m not resisting. What the hell?”
The pressure was relaxed.
A narrow doorway. Steps, uncarpeted. They came to the first landing and, as they turned the stair, Boysie took action, wrenching free and leaping forward, his right hand moving faster than Lee Marvin in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valiance; faster than anyone; faster than Sammy Davis, even; the Diamondback came out as he swung round.
“Okay. Thread the fingers over the heads and quick.” The three paused for a moment and did as they were told. “Higher,” said Boysie, tipsy with power. They pushed upwards. It looked uncomfortable.
“Good. Now back up … er, down. Get down those stairs.”
“What the devil’s going on here?” slurred Frobisher from behind him. “Put that gun away.”
Boysie lowered the gun. Looks of relief passed over the faces of the men on the stairs.
Frobisher was standing in a doorway. Behind him, in a shabby paper-strewn room, Pesterlicker rocked to and fro in his wheelchair.
8
“What in the name of Satan’s second cousin are you playing at?” Boysie leaned against the wall and let his wrath flow out diarrhetically. “You wave luscious lumps of lovely at me, then she spikes my drink. No sooner do I turn round than the both of us are heaved into a car and taken off for lead injections by a pair of killer maniacs. Then Mr Colefax and his singing swingers arrive and we get blood and guts all over the place; and to top it all you have me picked up by this bunch of oafish dolts. It’s not good enough, Mr Frobisher, not good enough at all. You might have got people killed employing this type of person. I nearly shot one of them just to show it was for real. I could have filled them tight: tighter than an apple in a hog’s mouth.” It must have been the gun in his hand that inspired this last piece of old time Western talk.
“Come and have a cup of tea,” mouthed Frobisher.
“Go down and wait in the car, boys.” Pesterlicker’s voice had not improved. “When you’re involved in undercover work like ours you have to accept strange bedfellows, Mr Oakes.”
“Strange bedfellows I don’t mind. It’s the feeble-minded, asinine, maundering attitude. You lot ask for bloody violence. If you wanted to see me why couldn’t you send for me after some normal fashion?”
“It had to be quick,” Pesterlicker grated.
Boysie went into the room and Frobisher closed the door behind them.
Boysie felt suddenly exhausted. The hand holding the Diamondback revolver shook and all the symptoms of post-terror took over: the stomach, pumping heart, constriction of the chest, sloppiness around the limb joints.
“You’re playing at it,” he said weakly. “Flaming amateurs playing cowboys and indians.”
“You don’t look too good.” Frobisher was pouring out what appeared to be an impotent strain of China tea. “Milk and sugar?”
“Plenty of sugar.” Boysie knew his Pears Medical Dictionary, having suffered the symptoms of most diseases in his time. He knew you had to have warm, very sweet drinks when in shock. Two abductions in a matter of days constituted shock.
“I’d better do the talking.” Pesterlicker manoeuvred his wheelchair to a position near the desk.
The office was a shambles. Boysie could understand that. This lot obviously worked on a low budget, and if most of it went on strong arms such as those in the car below, or Colefax’s impressive squad, there would not be much left over for the niceties of living.
Frobisher handed him the tea. It tasted like sweet warm water.
“We are concerned.” Pesterlicker had very small eyes. Boysie had not noticed before.
“Concerned,” repeated Pesterlicker.
“Good.” Boysie slurped the tea. “About what?”
“About the situation with Miss Brightwater. You were to have paid her a visit tonight?”
“To make a report,” Boysie got in quick.
“Mr Colefax’s agents have pointed out that she is being watched from another source.”
Boysie grinned. “Not to worry about that.”
“This is most disturbing.”
“No, it isn’t. I fixed that one.”
“You fixed it?”
“The minders. The other watch. They’re there on my behalf.”
“Are they now?” Pesterlicker sounded displeased. “On whose authority?”
Boysie’s anger returned in a belch. “On my own bloody authority. That business the other night was bloody unnerving. Anyone can make a mistake, even Colefax’s commandos. I wanted a second string. Snowflake Brightwater’s a nice kid.”
“Do I smell orange blossom and rice?” From Frobisher. “The pungent odour of romance.” Pesterlicker was being really unpleasant.
“No. Just a good, healthy mutual attraction.”
Pesterlicker raised a hand in peace. “Be mutually attracted by all means. But your watch will have to be called off. It confuses the issue.”
“It confuses nothing.”
“It confuses Mr Colefax.”
“It’s safer.” Boysie knew the battle was lost.
Pesterlicker took the telephone from its rests and held it out towards Boysie.
“What’s that for?”
“Call them off.”
Boysie shook his head, he was not going to give away his contacts or sources in front of this garbage. “If you can assure me that she’ll really be kept safe by Colefax then I’ll call them off, but I’ll do it in private.”
“What other assurance do you need?” Pesterlicker spread his hands wide. “They saved both of you the other night. They’re on the ball.”
“Yes and we left them cleaning up the mess. There must have been a period when we were not being looked after. I filled that gap.”
“You filled no gap. The Colefax System leaves no room for error. His methods of surveillance have been accepted as standard practice by government departments.”
If you could not beat them, join them. “Okay,” Boysie capitulated. “I’ll call them off later.”
Pesterlicker smiled. “You are not to go near Miss Brightwater tonight. In fact, if you try there may be trouble. There will be trouble until the other watch is removed.”
Boysie looked passionately at his feet. His only hope for companionship and consolation that night had crumbled. Since Mostyn’s bombshell, the big fear was the thought of being left alone to play only with memories. He nodded, eventually. There was no way round this one.
“What have you to tell us?” asked Pesterlicker.
Boysie told them of the two flights planned for the fourteenth of May and tenth of June.
Frobisher had a diary out and was making calculations with a pencil. They both looked worried.
“My gaffer says we’re closing down after that.”
They appeared to be even more unhap
py. At last Pesterlicker spoke.
“From now on you must be very particular in your reports, Mr Oakes. For instance it will be essential for us to know exactly who is booking seats on these flights.”
“Nothing easier.” Boysie was cheered. It meant he would be able to take daily reports to Snowflake Brightwater. The girls always provided him with three copies of the booking list daily. Advantage to Boysie. “Anything else?” he queried.
“Lists of bookings and incidents out of the ordinary. The boys downstairs will take you home. In turn you will de-activate the watch on Miss Brightwater. We will inform her of tonight’s change of plan.” He sounded as though he had made up his mind, so Boysie did not try to argue.
Frobisher came down the stairs with him, giving instructions to the mob in the car. They seemed to understand Frobisher but remained just as silent to Boysie as they were during the drive down.
He made them drop him off in Kensington High Street. Bleakness descended as he walked into the Earl’s Court Road. He decided that a bath, change of clothes, and a night around the town would be the answer.
The front door looked as shabby as the one which led to Frobisher’s office. He went in, and up the stairs to the flat. On his doorstep Aida sat, looking dejected.
“What are you doing here?” asked Boysie.
“Sitting on your doorstep looking dejected.”
“I can see. Trouble?”
“Could be. What have you been doing?”
“Confidential business.” He tried to make it sound sleazy.
“Oh her.” Aida pouted.
“Come and tell me what’s up.” He unlocked the door, allowing her to precede him into the flat.
Once in, Boysie found himself reacting with his usual automatic mixture of gallantry and rakishness. But he was now conscious of it. He wondered whether this was a sign of the intrusion of age, or a conscience on behalf of Miss Snowflake Brightwater. She had become almost a way of life.
He helped Aida out of her coat. Underneath she still wore her crimson uniform tunic. The shape within had a stimulating effect. Conscience departed in a flurry of need.
Boysie sat her in the most comfortable chair and gave her the gin and tonic (“A nip of gin is all I take. Heavy on the tonic.”) that she desired. Only when he was certain that all her immediate bodily comforts had been satisfied did he again ask what was wrong.
“It may be nothing, but I thought you should know …”
She really was a most attractive girl: the milk chocolate skin had a satiny texture while there was an edible quality about the small flared nose and good lips. A particular hunger swept over Boysie. He let his eyes drift down to the legs: pronounced calves, a long steady curve, proportioned thighs disappearing into her crimson skirt.
“Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t catch all that.”
Aida told him that after everyone had gone that evening, she had returned to the office. A key left on her desk or something equally trifling.
“I got the key and I was just going to leave when I realised there was someone outside the door. Two men. East Africans I guess by the way they talked. One of them said, so this was the place it was all being run from. The other was all for using some kind of keys. Bones? Would that be it?”
“What did he say? Precisely?”
“As I recall it was, ‘shall we use the bones?’ The other one said to put the keys away.”
“Yes.” Boysie all knowledgeable. “Bones. Skeleton keys. Go on.”
“They had a mite of an argument. The one guy wanting to come in, the other saying, no, all they had to do was identify the joint and make certain this Air Apparent Company was operating from there. They were only around for about five minutes. I waited for them to get clear before I left. I think I saw them when I got outside. There were two trying to get a cab. Man, they were big boys, but real big. All prettied up in light blue suits and rainbow ties.”
Boysie nodded. They sounded like Mr Colefax’s gentlemen. He made a mental note to report the incident. He could not do it tonight because of the restraint on visiting Snowflake Brightwater. He realised that he had not called off Griffin’s muscle.
“You did the right thing coming straight here, Aida. Just give me a minute, I’d better make a call.”
She smiled and settled back in the chair. With luck she was here for the duration.
Boysie went into the bedroom, picked up the extension and dialled Griffin.
“You can call off the minders, Mr Griffin. They’ve done an excellent job.”
“You’re sure, Mr Oakes? I mean it’s no problem. If you want them a little longer you’re very welcome.”
“Enough is enough.”
“If you say so, Mr Oakes.” Griffin sounded sad. “Nothing else for me, I suppose?”
“Not at the moment.” Then he remembered his father and the man Mostyn had promised him. There had been no thought of revenge at first, but a sudden puff of bitterness now filled him. “I might well have a hairy one for you before long. Around the middle of June.”
“I’d be delighted, Mr Oakes. Delighted. Apart from the money it’s nice to keep one’s hand in, if you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
Boysie went back into the living room where Aida was still snug, nursing her gin heavy on the tonic.
“Rewards.” Boysie rubbed his hands together.
Aida raised her eyebrows. “For whom?”
“For you, Aida. You’ve shown great loyalty in coming here and waiting to tell me about what happened tonight. Rewards in food?”
“Food I could eat.”
They ate Chinese in the High Street. Two number sixes, one number two, a double number twelve, a number fourteen and a number eleven.
It was very filling: especially the number twelve.
The conversation was, scattered; Boysie asking Aida about home, and Aida telling him that home was really here, because her parents had come over when she was seven, so she thought of London as home.
They went on to talk about her painting but she swerved and brought the chat back to shop.
“You really going with that toffee-nosed piece you met at Gatwick, Mr B?”
The question was impertinent and surprising. Boysie looked at her, blank, flat-faced.
“Yes,” he said, finally, choosing words with care. “Yes. Now and then. From time to time. Why?”
Aida smiled and dropped her eyes, the forefinger of her right hand drawing little ovals on the tablecloth. “Hadn’t you noticed?” she muttered. “I got something going for you. In some circles they call it hot pants.”
“Look, Aida, love. You’re only a …”
“A young woman, yes.”
As Snowflake Brightwater would have put it, Boysie was rent in twain. “I’m old enough to be your father. Anyway, I don’t approve of affairs between the office staff.”
“Who’s talking about affairs? I don’t want to go around with you. Anyhow, Mama would be furious. I just want to … Aw come on, Mr B, life’s too short. Your place or mine?”
“Mine,” said Boysie, feeling for his money to pay the bill. No fumbling.
*
“You’ve done it before, haven’t you?” It was midnight and Aida lay criminally naked beside him.
“You’re not exactly unpractised yourself.” Boysie was sated. Batting it around with Miss Snowflake Brightwater was the greatest, but here was a special something to be remembered and savoured in old age.
“Getting late. Time I was home.”
“You’re not going out at this hour of the night?”
“It wouldn’t be proper to spend the whole night here.” Aida was out of bed, and the sight of her unclothed stopped Boysie’s mouth. She took her time dressing, which was another experience of visual delight.
“You want me to see you home?” He did not move from under the covers.
She came and sat on the bed, beside him. “There’s only one thing I want from you, Mr B.”
“Ah-ha.” He leered.
“No.” She put out a hand, to hold him off. “That’s always there when, and if, you need. I want you to take this.” She rooted in her handbag, bringing out a small card. It had her name typed neatly in the top left hand corner. “I would like you to write in the date and your signature, then keep it safe and only produce it when I ask you to do so.”
“Why?”
“There’s no trick. I promise. You keep the card. Put it in the bank if you wish.”
Boysie was distinctly suspicious. However, he signed and kissed her goodnight. Aida quietly left. She had produced exquisite sensations for him and he felt much gratitude.
There was no sleep, however. With Aida gone, the memories closed in and took over. Boysie shut his eyes and immediately the picture returned. The slim man, laughing, his face a tough sunburned colour.
At two o’clock, feeling ragged with new grief, Boysie got out of bed, picked up his keys and went into the living room where he took a strong belt of brandy. Between the kitchen and bedroom doors was a high double-shuttered cupboard. Selecting the key he opened the doors and stood back to look at the clutter piled on the two shelves at the top of the cupboard.
His larger belongings were stowed in the bottom section. The battered multi-labelled tan Revelation that had accompanied him on so many trips. A big green lightweight suitcase that he knew was crammed with rubbish, the bits and pieces collected during a roving life.
He removed the Revelation and the green case. Below was a large polished mahogany box around two foot six long, a foot wide, and eight inches deep. Boysie bent down and took hold of the pair of brass carrying handles attached to each side of the box.
Almost tenderly he carried it across the room to place it on the table. There was a large brass lock inlaid at the front, top centre. He looked down at his bunch of keys and again selected the correct one, inserting it in the lock and turning.
Slowly, Boysie opened the lid. The lid was a door into the long distant past. Even the wood and paint smell which rose from within evoked that other time and that other place.
