Devil Take the Hindmost

by Martin Cathcart Froden

  ‘You would say that.’

  ‘Why are you so kind?’

  ‘I’ll be honest with you. I own a house and I’ve got tenants who are about to move out, that’s my business. ‘But I’m a nice man, and since you’re in serious trouble I will give you a favourable rate, don’t worry.’

  He still looks suspicious, I can see that he’s weighing for and against in his head. I go over and pay for the food and when I come back he’s still there, which certainly means he’s not going anywhere.

  ‘Paul, don’t worry, you’ve not borrowed anything yet, and you’re just coming with me to have a look at a room, no obligations.’ He nods so I tell him, ‘Say bye-bye to Belinda, the one in the apron. This is a good, cheap place to come and eat, and you might want to return. When you do, speak nicely to her, she’s a bad apple turned good, and once you can afford it, pay a little extra and she will give you the best bits and a table.’

  Paul walks over to her and even makes her smile. A rare thing with strangers, but it proves me right. He is handsome, and he has a way, an innocent, childlike way. And as he rolls his r’s and undulates his vowels more than one person looks up and smiles. He shakes hands with Belinda, the first person to do that in at least ten years. Maybe he genuinely liked the eel? When he turns Belinda touches her nose with her index finger. I’ll be damned if I can’t get this boy to eat out of my hand, and make me some money in the meantime.

  I take him the long way to the house on Copenhagen Street. It’s not far from the station, but I want to confuse him a little, see what he’s made of. The crowds seem to get to him, but he does well considering. The shouting and pushing masses don’t bother me. It’s second nature. Some people lift their hats when they see me, one or two come up to me to shake my hand. These are the ones I’ve let pay back a day or two later than they should have. To some poor souls, a little rebate on their debts seems to be manna from heaven. If I can afford it I don’t mind these crumbs of perceived compassion.

  We pause so I can light a cigar. Paul cranes his neck and looks down Pentonville Road where it meets Euston Road and Caledonian Road. Says something about the mass of people, and how busy everyone looks. I nod and muse as my Pyramide glows. He turned down my offer of a cigar. Not a smoker, who would have thought? I don’t think I have ever met a man who doesn’t smoke.

  ‘Mr Halkias, look at that, what a beauty,’ he says, pointing across the street, at two women holding bikes.

  ‘Which one? The tall one? I suppose, if you like them gangly, horses for courses. But a word of advice, I’d steer clear of some women, ones dressed up that nicely, loitering on street corners. They’re either married to someone richer than you, or not the marrying kind, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘No, no. The red bike. The BSA. That’s their Path Racer, look at the sloping head tube, that’s lovely. Good quality steel. My bike was good, but no match for that. Look it’s even got aluminium rims. Amazing. People in London must be very wealthy.’

  ‘It looks like a bike to me. Nothing more, nothing less. What’s the idea? Surely a car is better in every way?’

  ‘I’ll never be able to afford a car.’

  ‘There is that. But you could aspire to something more than two triangles with a bit of rubber attached.’

  ‘Horses for courses, eh?’

  ‘That’s the spirit. So you’re a racer then?’

  ‘I’ve cycled on tracks a little. I’ve been to the velodrome at Celtic Park in Glasgow a few times. I cycle a lot on roads around where I’m from.’

  Velodrome cyclists are everywhere down here. They’re celebrities and some of them make more per race than I do in a month.

  ‘Is there a track near here?’ he asks.

  I feel a plan niggling me, and smile at him, ‘Of course. I’ll even take you to Preston Park one of these days. That’s by the sea, in Brighton you know. We’ll make a holiday out of it. Get you a straw hat and a bit of rock to lick. Have you ever competed?’

  ‘No, but my uncle was a racer. Never at national level, just below. He once took me to the track in Glasgow. After, as I was so keen on cycling, kept sending me magazines and clippings about it.’

  ‘Sounds like a nice man,’ I say absentmindedly while looking at a shopkeeper who owes me money.

  Paul continues, ‘He worked at the Park velodrome for the 1897 World Championships, before I was born and I think he once even met Cyril Alden and Horace Johnson.’

  ‘I see,’ I decide to let the shopkeeper be for another day. I take Paul’s arm as we cross the busy road. His arm is completely solid, like a plank.

  He’s still rambling, ‘I trained with my uncle for a while, even in a velodrome a couple of times, but after mother passed away we saw less of him. With the farm and everything, there was never time, or money to travel for leisure. My father threw away the magazines one day when I was at church.’

  ‘The question is – are you any good at it?’

  ‘I cycle as much as I can. There’s a great big hill just where I grew up and I was always the fastest one up it.’

  ‘So if you were able to make a little money on top of what you’re paying me back would you buy a bike?’

  ‘Without hesitation.’

  ‘And if you were able to race, would you win?’

  I don’t know cycling, I’m happy to admit, but I do know people. I’ve made their motivations, their honesty and varying ability to lie, my life’s work. His conviction is an unexpected bonus.

  ‘I would do my best,’ he says, earnest.

  ‘Would you win?’

  ‘At least now and again.’

  ‘Let’s try you out.’ I smile, thinking that I know horses, and dogs, and boxers and rowers and strong men, and maybe soon cyclists. They’re popular, it’s big business, I know that much, but humans are different from animals. I’m happy to whip a horse, I’m just not sure how to whip a human into winning. ‘Now and again is no good to me. How would I get a racer to win all the time?’

  ‘One way would be to pay his rent,’ he says.

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. But you’re saying you’re pretty good?’

  ‘As there is a distinct lack of farms and useful animals here, I would say yes. Yes I am.’

  I want him to be dependent on me. So I tell him a white lie, and a solid truth. It’s a mixture I tend to use.

  ‘I’m going away for a little while after I’ve shown you your accommodation. Only a couple of days, but once I’m back I’ll look into the velodrome circuit.’

  ‘Fantastic.’ He extends his hand which I ignore.

  ‘Well, don’t get too excited. You’re going to need a job, but I’m telling you to train while I’m away.’

  ‘How can I? I don’t have a bike.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think you’re either a bit slow in the head, or maybe you’re a curse that my mother has put on me.’

  ‘I wasn’t asking for one.’

  ‘But you were, and credit to you, there must be a brain on top of those legs of yours. I’m going to get you one. Take your landlord with you to a shop and he’ll make sure my money is spent well.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Say your prayers, that’s what. You’d better be good.’

  ‘Thank you. I won’t let you down.’

  ‘It’s a business transaction, nothing else. Remember that. I don’t care about you.’

  We get to my building on Denmark Street. It’s dreadful, with plaster coming off in big chunks. The weedy front garden, a step or so long, the three crooked steps, the door swinging open on bent hinges, all mine. All very good for my wallet. No costs, no tax, all below board. We get inside and I point him towards a door where someone has scribbled Ofiss. I’m surrounded by cretins.

  I don’t knock and catch Rupert, the landlord and my smalltime fixer, sleeping, cradling a bottle, his feet up on the desk. I cough loudly, and he wakes up. I won’t shout at him today, but I remind myself to drop in every now and then.

>   The room is dim and full of smoke. Rupert’s desk is small and cluttered, apart from where he rested his feet. Over by the window, I have a bigger desk and a better chair. Both are the cleanest items in the whole house. On the desk sits a metal box with a huge padlock. Inside I keep a giant, starved rat. A nice surprise for anyone foolish enough to steal from me.

  I introduce Paul to the embarrassed Rupert, who, once he sees my wink, tells Paul there are no rooms available. We’ve done this before. ‘But,’ Rupert says, ‘we have got a small place in the attic.’ He then mentions a sum that scares the wits out of Paul. Counting on his fingers he looks like a child in a sweetie shop, one that’s lost his money. Shaking his head he asks to be shown the attic. After we’ve been over the terms, he decides to go for it. I shake his hand and give him a little pocket money to sweeten the deal.

  Truth be told I’m not taking much of a financial risk. I employ the boys who took his bike, and I know how much they’ve sold it for already. I know how much was in his wallet, a cheap imitation one, as Belinda slipped me the money when we were at the eel house. The boys will have left the money untouched. They all remember what happened to their friend who didn’t.

  With him settled in, and Rupert holding his hand as it were, I am off to see what bee is in Mr Morton’s bonnet this time. Then I’ll go to the Strand for something much more agreeable. Happy Birthday Mr Silas I hum to myself hailing a taxi, thinking of the gift horse sleeping under the eaves.

  Chapter 2

  Rupert gives him a mattress of sorts. Two sacks sewn together stuffed with rags and newsprint. Paul realises that a blanket is another thing he will have to buy, then tries to stop himself from thinking about all the things he will have to find in the future.

  ‘Come and find me in the morning,’ Rupert says, ‘we’ll sort you out.’ Then he climbs out of the attic.

  Lying down on the bed Paul realises he’s made the worst mistake of his life. He should never have come here, should never have left Scotland. Horrendous father or not, there must have been a better solution. But he’s here now. A horse in a mire. No ropes, no rider, no rescue.

  He thinks about the money he kept in a battered Hovis all those years. Money his mother left him in secret. Occasional gifts from his uncle Stephen. His earnings from farm work. That tin was his future, his escape from his father. But somehow the old man found out. He must have been spying on Paul through the curtainless windows. Maybe when returning from the pub? Relieving himself in the garden before being sick on the front step, as was his habit. Maybe he spied through the keyhole? Watched Paul counting, and counting again, planning and hoping.

  A week before Paul’s eighteenth birthday – when he was set to become his own man, make a down payment on a small farm – the tin disappeared. Then his father came back from Glasgow, drunk and proud as a cock. He told Paul the farm was now mostly theirs again.

  ‘Where did you get the money from?’ Paul asked. ‘And isn’t it strange that my savings have just gone missing?’

  ‘How dare you?’ His father spat. ‘You wee upstart! Think you’re a big man, do you? I run this farm and I won’t be told otherwise, especially not by you!’

  ‘That’s not fair! It wasn’t your money to take,’ Paul said, raising his voice.

  Pushing Paul in the chest, his father drew himself up tall. Seething with anger, he hissed, ‘This is the land of my father, and his father before him. Generations of men who have known better than their sons. I’ve kept you. Fed you. Housed you. You think you deserve that money?’

  ‘You haven’t properly worked for years. Not since Mum—’

  Paul’s father gasped, cheeks purple. Then he lunged at Paul.

  ‘You and your brother killed her. You wouldn’t let her have a minute’s sleep when she was pregnant. He wouldn’t let her give birth to him. Then he went and died too. Silly sod.’

  Then his father, panting like he’d been carrying logs, took a step back and said in a calmer voice, ‘Anyway, this is what your mother would have wanted.’

  Paul lashed out, quick as the kick of a mule.

  Silent for the first time in years, his father gurgled blood and finally spat out a shard of a tooth. Cradling his right fist in his left palm Paul walked to his room. He threw some things in a knapsack and retrieved his bike from one of the outbuildings. He cycled for almost an hour before he realised he was shaking and crying. Luckily it was raining so no one could see his tears.

  He had just been paid for some work on a neighbour’s field, the envelope still in his pocket. It wasn’t much, but enough to give him some options. He hadn’t been thinking about where to go, so for want of a better idea he cycled to Glasgow and then got on the morning train to London. He had read somewhere that there were plenty of work opportunities down south. Wanted to be as far away from his father’s land as possible.

  And now he is here, in this room, lying on sacks filled with rotting newspaper for the mice to gorge on. Outside, Copenhagen Street is noisy. Paul turns over from his back and onto his side in an attempt to sleep. With his nose pressed against the wall he can hear the mice scuttling up and down in their passageways. He hears a scream, half laughter, half fear from the street below him. There are pigeons on the roof, endlessly settling and re-settling and a pack of cats ramble back and forward, scratching and whining.

  Paul says his prayers, thanks God for Silas finding him, for the eel supper, the room. He decides the beer he had with his supper was the last alcohol he’ll ever drink and that he will take every measure not to end up like his father. He will never gamble. Never. Then, turning onto his back and clasping his hands he asks forgiveness for what he did to his father. He falls asleep while mumbling and will never know where his confession ended.

  ***

  In the morning he goes downstairs to find Rupert, but no one seems to be in the office. Paul walks up and down the stairs a couple of times, hoping to bump into him. After a while he decides to speak to his neighbours, to see if they know where Rupert might be.

  There are three storeys, with three doors on each landing. Seeing that all the doors on the third floor are boarded up he decides to ask Rupert why he can’t have one of the rooms on the third floor instead of the little space he’s been assigned.

  Walking downstairs he knocks on 2A.

  ‘I’m ill,’ a coarse voice shouts. Paul knocks again. When he receives no answer he shouts, ‘Can I help?’ through the door.

  ‘Go away,’ the same person shouts.

  Paul tries the doorknob of 2C and to his surprise it comes loose in his hand. He tries to put it back but the screws must have landed on the inside of the door. He pockets it, thinking he might be able to sell it or swap it for an onion or an apple. He pushes the door open with his foot. A black lump hangs from the doorframe. It’s as big as his head, shrouded in what looks like dusty cobweb. At first he thinks it’s a hat and reaches for it, then he notices a snout and wings. The mass of bats screeches and flaps past him, and he jumps backwards, trying to make himself small. The black horde disappears upwards in the building. There must be an exit somewhere up there he thinks, hoping it’s not his attic space they’re after.

  He crawls up to the door on all fours. Looking into the room he realises there is no floor. The room is just a shell with a deep shaft going down into the basement. Finding one of the screws from the doorknob on the floor in the corridor, he throws it into the abyss but can’t hear the sound of it landing. Whether that’s because of the drop, the dirt floor, or whatever other organic matter might lie at the bottom, he doesn’t know.

  Getting up on shaky legs he pulls the door shut, shuddering.

  On the first floor he knows there’s no need to try 1C, as he’s seen the shaft extend far beneath the first floor. 1A is Rupert’s office. In 1B, as the door swings open from his soft knock, he finds a very drunk man.

  ‘Have you checked the yeast?’ the man asks, fumes of alcohol rolling out of him like storm clouds.

  ‘No, my name is Paul, I�
��m your new neighbour.’ This seems to upset the man greatly.

  ‘Go and check the yeast. It can’t, I mean, it cannot get wet,’ the man grunts.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Paul says opening his arms in a half pacifying, half questioning gesture.

  ‘Oh, don’t play games with me!’

  ‘I’m not, I’m your neighbour.’

  ‘Have you checked the yeast?’

  Paul gives up, and tells the man that yes, he has checked the yeast.

  ‘You stay away from that yeast!’

  The man attempts to stand up, waving his arms wildly, trying to reach for Paul. ‘If I find that you’ve been stealing yeast again, you bastard!’

  Paul backs out of the room, only to bump into a man covered in flour.

  ‘Don’t mind my brother,’ the man says.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was just passing by. I live upstairs,’ Paul says trying to negotiate past the man.

  ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Henry, and the drunk is David. And unless we help him, he’s going to be late for work. Would you mind fetching a bucket of water?’

  ‘There’s water?’ Paul asks.

  ‘In the tap in the cupboard on this floor only,’ says Henry.

  Paul goes off for the water, and when he returns, Henry, now in shorts and a vest, chucks the whole pail over his brother. David comes up screaming and clawing the air. Henry calmly punches him in the nose.

  ‘I don’t like doing it, but it’s the only way to wake him up. Cold water and adrenaline. Then off to work for him.’

  ‘Speaking of work, you wouldn’t know of any going? Anything?’

  ‘We’re bakers. Not much trade at the moment, so I’m afraid not. But with your size surely you could get something. Lots of cargo ships I hear at St Katherine’s.’

  ‘I haven’t tried yet. I’m very new to London.’

  ‘Well, we’re all beginners in the beginning.’

  Paul nods and says goodbye. He’s not eaten anything since the eel supper and he’s famished. He goes out to buy something to eat, but quickly realises the money Silas left him won’t buy him much. London prices are very different from those at home. He buys a bag of apples and thinks about the bike he’s been promised. About how weak he feels.