Devil Take the Hindmost

by Martin Cathcart Froden

‘And I will gracefully accept, but come on now, get out of here so that I can lock up.’

  She puts her hat on, asks him to help her with the feather. ‘You going home now?’

  ‘No, I’ve got a small errand to run first, something Mr Morton asked me to do. Then the baker, the butcher, the cleaner, the washing lady, the candlestick maker, the florist, and whoever else I need to make you happy.’

  She just smiles at him. Out in the street, she says, ‘I’m fine with porridge.’

  ‘Salty?’

  ‘No thanks,’ she says slipping the key out of the lock, ‘just a little cream and a lot of honey,’ she laughs. She slips off into the night, back towards the club.

  Paul walks off, his eyes trained on carts and horses. He walks for almost half an hour, asking people if they will lend him a horse and cart. Some people laugh. Most spit. Even when he offers them money.

  He starts to worry and think of cheese wire and walks faster, tries to cover as much ground as possible, still heading towards Fitzrovia. On a corner outside a pub called the White Anchor stands a huge, blinkered Shire tethered to an empty cart. Paul leans against a lamppost until he is sure no one is walking in and out of the pub, using the cart for deliveries.

  As Paul is used to these hay-munching machines – different beasts altogether from the nervous ballerinas Silas talks about – he makes a big show of not being in a hurry. Despite being about to steal a living animal Paul smiles to himself. Sneaking about in the dark was something he could never do before. Before coming to London, before meeting Silas, before starting to move in the kind of social pond the Greek swims in like a graceful carp.

  Paul straightens one of the horse’s blinkers, pats its flank. He decides to name the horse Terry Grant, after the current, motor-paced champion. He thinks this is very funny as the horse couldn’t be any more unlike the cyclist, who’s a whippet; a lightning-fast starter and famous for not eating vegetables. Unlike the horse, who could happily be munching through bale after bale by the looks of it.

  ‘Meat and bread, cream and milk, boiled sweets,’ the real Terry told Paul one afternoon after a race, ‘that’s my diet, my winning formula.’ Paul had just won the race and Terry had come over to congratulate him. He himself was due to try for a one-hour record behind the motorbike in the afternoon. Paul wished him luck and watched him wheel his curious-looking bike over to the weights and measures table manned by stern judges. It had a smaller front wheel than back wheel, forks turned backwards to make the front wheel come closer to the down tube, and a long low handlebar. All this to enable him to get closer to the back wheel of the motorbike and to reduce the amount of wind he has to push in front of him.

  Paul unites the reins from the railing and slowly, slowly, walks over to the cart and gets up. He slowly rolls away from the kerb, hoping the owner has decided to treat himself to one more pint. To Paul, the clip-clop of Terry’s hooves sound like gunshots in the night, but no one comes running out of the pub.

  Paul heads over to Fitzrovia, sliding around on the well-worn bench as the wheels jump on cobbles. He pats his pocket every now and then to make sure the keys for the apartment haven’t fallen out.

  Finding the right building, he steps down from the cart. He surveys the closed Russian restaurant on the ground floor. No sound, no light, no movement.

  ‘Mind waiting here for a moment Mr Grant?’ he says and ties the reins to a lamppost.

  As there’s no one to receive him at the front he goes to the back staircase, the servant’s entrance. Once in the flat he moves around in the dawn light, going through bare rooms, like a museum robbed of all its riches, counting his steps. It’s as big as a rugby pitch, he thinks. The parquet floors creak a little. The walls still show marks of habitation. The empty spaces of paintings removed. Where cigar smoke hasn’t been able to penetrate as readily, where sunlight has been unable to bleach. All the furniture has been taken away apart from in an office the size of a train carriage. There’s a big desk covered in a white sheet. Six brass lion paws peeking out from under the shroud.

  In the centre of the apartment, nearer the main entrance, is the circular grand hall. An inlaid compass rose, faux marine marquetry, takes up most of the floor. The big double doors open up to the main marble staircase, Paul finds out when he tries one of his keys.

  Just beyond the hall, in what looks like it was the library, he finds the six rolls of carpet on a bottle-green tarp. All tied together with coarse bits of string, all plugged either side with bits of fabric.

  He carries them down, straining a bit as they’re heavier than they look. After six trips, up and down the slippery, worn marble stairs, he’s happy to lean against the cart. Terry hasn’t moved at all. A statue of a horse without a general on top stealing the limelight.

  Paul takes the reins and, only stopping for a cup of tea and a roll – a well-deserved breakfast he feels – takes the cart to Copenhagen Street. He dumps the carpet rolls by the door to 2C. Once they’re all up he opens the door, now ready to duck for bats. Only this time none come out. He pushes five of the rolls over the edge and is just about to push the last one over the threshold when one of the fabric plugs comes out. Trying to put it back, and accidentally reaching inside the roll he feels something odd. Something soft. And wet.

  He takes out his hand and it’s covered in red. He can’t understand what it is at first. Then it hits him. His hand is drenched in red blood, and strands of dark hair cling to his fingers like seaweed. His stomach lurches as he realises what he’s seeing. He prods the carpet with his foot, now suddenly afraid of it. It stays still. He kicks it again. It’s the same weight and girth as the other ones. With shaking hands he unties the rope and slowly unfolds the carpet. One quick look shows him a small, dark man. Dead. Hair matted and plastered with blood. Skull caved in, a dark hole where his forehead used to be. Eyes wide open.

  Paul carefully closes the carpet. Then he’s violently sick. Holding onto the door frame he hacks up phlegm, bile, and what feels like all the food he’s ever eaten. He hangs there, face cold with sweat, arms seizing up from holding on, head spinning from the disgusting reality and the terrifying implications.

  Then a door downstairs opens and he hears slow steps come up towards him. He doesn’t think to move the carpet. David comes around the corner of the stairs out onto the landing and walks slowly towards Paul.

  ‘How you getting on?’ David asks looking at the carpet.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Paul says dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. It becomes wet with saliva and vomit.

  ‘You look terrible.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Nothing to apologise for. I take it you’re doing Mr Morton a favour?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t really tell you this, but you would have found out sooner or later anyway, and being as close to Silas as you are, you must come across some pretty interesting scenarios.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean. I mostly just cycle.’

  ‘Sure you do. I mean, did you really think we were bakers?’

  ‘Are you not?’

  ‘And did you really think we were pouring flour down the shaft?’

  ‘What were you pouring?’

  ‘Is that carpet roll full of what I think it is?’

  ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘A body.’

  ‘The last of six.’

  ‘We call that a medium-sized batch of bread.’

  ‘I see,’ is all Paul can say.

  ‘Come on, let’s go and get a couple of bags of flour,’ David says gently pulling Paul back from the precipice.

  ‘Flour?’ Paul asks.

  ‘Lye,’ David smiles sadly. ‘It eats up the flesh and dissolves the bones in a couple of days.’

  ‘You do this all the time?’

  ‘Every now and then. It pays the rent.’

  ‘It’s not right.’

  ‘I know. I used to get angry too. I used to be sick as well,’ David sa
ys looking at Paul’s splattered shoes. ‘But over time I’ve become immune to it. My brother, on the other hand, can’t handle it. It drives him to drink.’

  ‘I’m going to be sick again I’m afraid.’

  ‘Go outside, get some fresh air. I’ll tip this last unfortunate bastard in. Meet me by my door for the flour?’

  Paul runs down the stairs, and outside to a drain. However much he heaves there’s nothing more to come out of his stomach. After a while of sitting on the ground thinking of nothing, absolutely nothing, he hears Terry snort. He’s still standing where Paul left him. He walks over to the horse and puts his head against its flanks. Paul’s cheeks are wet and he thinks of the ticket he made up, and how his silly mistake, and the weather, has now killed at least seven people. If not more.

  Eventually David shouts at him from the front door, and Paul unties Terry. Kisses him on the twitching ears, then slaps him on the flank, sending him into a slow trot. The name and address of a brewer is printed in large letters on the side of the cart so Paul hopes someone will take the horse home. Or that Terry like a giant homing pigeon will find his way to the White Anchor.

  Paul returns to the house to help David carry the massive bags, marked Flour, up to 2C. Holding their breath they pour lye down into the black hole, onto the bodies of men he’s carried but never known.

  Then David says, ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Something Rupert asked me to do, something nice. On a decree from Silas I think. Nothing to do with this,’ he says and nods towards the open door. Then he reaches in and closes it. ‘You’ll see in the morning. It’ll make you feel better I think.’

  David walks off whistling a Christmas carol. Paul trundles upstairs and up the ladder. It’s not easy going to sleep, but he takes some of his after-race pills. Neutralisers, Silas calls them. Paul’s heart rate drops and soon his thoughts are treacle slow. He can’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up thirsty and dazed.

  Downstairs there is the sound of someone screaming and cursing. Paul comes down his ladder and finds David standing with folded arms in front of the Sorensen’s door. Mr Sorensen is shouting. First at his wife, telling her to take the children downstairs. Then he turns to David. ‘You can’t do this. We have always paid on time. We are only late by a day. Come on.’

  David just shakes his head and points to the stairs. Mr Sorensen starts walking away, then he suddenly turns and lunges for David. Quicker than a bird in flight David punches Mr Sorensen in the nose, then follows in with a left hook to the eye. After that he steps to one side, and Mr Sorensen, still carried by his own momentum, goes down. He falls into the wall and comes up shaking his head, bleeding from a cut eyebrow.

  ‘Goodbye Mr Sorensen. Now please leave before I ask Henry to come and help me escort you out.’

  Then Mr Sorensen notices Paul standing on the other side of the landing. He points and shouts, ‘Your pimp did this. This is all your fault.’

  David gives Mr Sorensen a shove in the back and the man stumbles down the stairs, spattering the stairs with blood. David starts down the stairs after him and says to Paul, ‘Rupert asked me to do this. You can move in your things this afternoon if you fancy. We’ll just have the cleaner make it a bit nicer.’

  ‘What about rent?’

  ‘It stays the same.’

  ‘Did Silas do this?’ Paul asks, incredulous.

  David just nods, before shouting to Mr Sorensen to get out of the house.

  In one trip Paul transfers his belongings from the attic to the vacated room. He carries the bike down the ladder, like always. He’s relieved he doesn’t have to show Miriam his attic space. The house is bad enough as it is, but at least he now has a room where he can stand straight.

  He places his belongings on the little table by the window. The room is bare, nothing on the walls or in the two cupboards mounted to the wall above the single ring cooker. There is a wide mattress though which makes him smile. It’s old and well used, probably twice his age, but it’s sprung – and it’s not too lumpy, he decides after a quick test. He wheels his bike in from the corridor. He leans it against the wall by the sleeping alcove. He still can’t believe his luck at getting his hands on such a fine bike. It’s been his most trusted friend since coming to London.

  He decides to buy an offcut of carpet that can house the bike, have a special place for it, like a favourite dog. He wants to treat it better in the future, now that he has the space to fiddle with it standing up. He makes a shopping list in his mind. First the carpet, then oil, the best Mr Lauterwasser has, maybe even a bit of polish for the chrome and new bar tape.

  Laughing softly at his own silliness for treating the bike like a pet he strokes the saddle. The leather is scuffed but not beyond repair. The shape perfectly formed, a mould of his hardworking buttocks. On the list in his mind goes leather saddle soap. Maybe even a new chain. On top of all this – a giant bag of dried apricots. Very expensive, but a treat to have when he’s out and about.

  Then he stands by the window for a moment or two, watching Copenhagen Street. It’s a river of people, buses, bikes, carts, horses and stalls. Then the magic happens. Feathers of snow, slowly at first, but quickly increasing in size and weight, start to whirl in the air. It’s icing sugar on a grey world. Soon people are pulling scarves tighter, putting up umbrellas and looking for taxis.

  Getting a pen and a paper out of his knapsack Paul walks around the room, like a potential buyer. First he writes down all the bike-related things. It’ll be nice to see Jack at the bike shop again, he thinks. Realises it’s been ages. Then he writes: curtains, a pillow, a warm duvet; the thickest he can afford, now that winter is here. He writes a list of essentials.

  A knock on the door surprises him. As he puts his hand on the handle, he realises it feels like a great luxury to have a door again. No more ladder, no more always banging his head, no more of the lumpy mattress. The cleaning lady stands outside, and though he tries to tell her the room is fine, she tells him Silas would kill her if she didn’t do her job. He lets her in, takes the list, but leaves the bike, that’s a novel feeling too, and heads out into the gentle snow.

  First thing he does outside is to buy two lengths of fabric. Then he runs straight back up and asks the cleaning lady to help him put them up. She smiles at him, tells him they don’t just go up, he needs a rail and a bit of sewing. Then, seeing his shock, she tells him to fetch a hammer and a dozen nails from her cupboard downstairs, and he puts them up that way. Temporarily, but more cosy than just the bare window. Once they’re done he asks her if she can bake him a cake, and she says she will.

  Later in the evening, after he’s bought wine, and suffered the jokes from Madame Dubois after he realised he didn’t have a corkscrew and went down to borrow one, he boils potatoes, cuts up mint, makes gravy and checks on a joint of meat. While he waits for the greengrocer’s boy to deliver the rest of the things he’s bought he puts on a fresh shirt and polishes his new secondhand boots till he can see his own grinning face in them. There’s a knock on the door and since he’s expecting the cleaning lady with a cake, he shouts for her to enter. Turning around, after rearranging the two candles and the vase of flowers on the table for the fourth time in as many minutes, he sees her: Miriam. She’s early. She’s perfect. His heart skips a beat. She looks different in his house. She’s too beautiful, too clear. Too much for him surely. It must be a trick. For her to like him, to want to spend her time with him, can’t be normal.

  ‘Come in, let me take your coat,’ he says, abandoning the candles and the flowers. She smiles but doesn’t say anything. On his way over he pushes a pile of greaseproof wrapping papers and his wet jacket under the bed. She circles the room, runs a finger along some of the surfaces. She stands by the window for a minute, still with her coat and hat on.

  ‘It’s not much, but it’s mine. Well not mine, but you know what I mean,’ he stammers, suddenly nervous.

  ‘Sorry I’m early
,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘That’s fine. It’s nice to have you here. But how did you know this was my flat? I only just moved in.’

  ‘Your bike is outside.’

  He swears and runs out to get it, bumping into the cleaning woman. She apologises for putting the bike outside, but the floor is nice and clean now, he must have noticed. Paul brings the cake and the bicycle inside, causing Miriam to laugh. Then the little boy turns up with a mountain of bags and boxes, and the little congregation stand on the small landing. Paul is beaming and starts doling out money to the woman and the boy, who both laugh at his happiness. It’s a friendly sound rarely heard in the house.

  ‘Good thing I was inside already,’ she says once the boy and the woman leave. ‘It’s probably better if I’m seen as little as possible.’

  He nods, serious all of a sudden. Puts down the cake on the table.

  ‘It’s nice,’ she says once he’s back to take her coat.

  He shrugs. ‘It’s bare and it’s cold, but it’s the beginnings of something like a home I think.’

  She gives him her coat and stands by the stove rubbing her hands. He pours wine into two glasses and they clink them together. She’s quiet, and he’s fidgety. She’s cold and he’s hot from the running around.

  He pulls out a chair and she sits, unfolding a napkin in her lap. She watches him put clam broth from a tin, in two teacups.

  ‘It’s maybe not Quaglino’s,’ he says, ‘but I really like this stuff. Sorry, I only have two dinner plates.’

  They eat in silence. As if they have known each other for longer than a few months. He likes it. He knows he could ask her things, make her smile, laugh even, but at the moment it’s nice to just chew, and watch, and sip and live.

  After the main course he clears the table. He serves her cognac and himself hot ginger beer in the same teacups they had the clam broth in.

  ‘It’s good to put something strong and warming on top of the meat and potato,’ he says. And onto the crystallized lemon cake the woman made for him. He stretches his legs and she smiles a tired smile, looks at the bed. Without a word they walk over to it. He folds away a thick tartan blanket and the new duvet and pillow as she undresses. Then he walks over to the table and blows out the candles. Not because it’s not romantic, but because he knows he wants to fall asleep quickly. Today he’s made sure to be really busy, to never stop to think. With the events of the previous night he wants to either be distracted by Miriam or go to sleep as soon as possible. They distract each other for a while, until they are nice and warm, then they fall asleep.