“How do you know all this?” he asked.
“I watch. And I listen.”
“I’ve noticed. Tell me, who are you?”
She laughed quietly in the dark.
“My name’s Mavis Chesterman, if that helps. It’s not much of a name, is it? What was it you called me just now. Hydrangea? That’s nice. Let’s stick to that. If it’s good enough for that particular moment in a relationship, it’ll do very fine.”
“OK. Hydrangea it is. Why did you hi-jack my plane? What were you doing at Coventry? What’s your connexion with Chaucer?”
She half rose in the bed, turned to him and rested on one elbow. Her breasts lay on his upper arm. He felt that despite the dark she was closely scrutinising his face.
“You won’t like it,” she said finally.
“I’m inured to shocks.”
“OK. I’m a crook. In fact I’m an American crook.”
“With your accent?” he interjected.
“My parents were English. Like you, they got out when the Four Clubs took absolute control. Or rather a bit earlier. My father saw the way things were going and we dropped everything and left. That was about ten years ago. I was eleven.”
She paused as though to look back on that unimaginable state. The darkness, so recently full of terror and then of passion, was now gentle, warm and soporific. Whitey felt himself sliding into sleep, despite his eagerness to hear Hydrangea’s story. He pushed himself upright against the headboard.
“Go on,” he ordered.
“We didn’t take much with us and we didn’t make much in America. But there are ways a growing girl can make a living. Soon, though, I found you can make more by lifting the mugs’ wallets than letting them lift your skirts. And pretty rapidly I started thinking of the big time.”
“Like stealing planes?” he asked ironically.
“No,” she replied seriously. “That was a mistake but a necessary one. You heard about the big L.A. bank job?”
“You mean where they dug the hundred foot tunnel? Yes, I read about it. Some job!”
“Thanks,” she said, ironic now in her turn. “It’s nice when honest citizens admire your work.”
“What! You’re not saying that was you?” He was openly incredulous.
“None other,” she said proudly. “And it was my plan. Perfect. It took a man to cock it up. Or rather a lot of men.”
“But you got away with it!” said Whitey. “All that money!”
“And the rest of the stuff out of the safe-deposit boxes. You’d never believe what we found! It was pretty bulky, you understand. But I had a nice little plan. Oh yes. The building the tunnel started in was an empty warehouse. But next to it was a nice full one, one large item in which was a consignment of tinned goods for a firm in Tokyo. We dumped half a ton of tomatoes in the river and repacked the cases with Our loot.”
“Ingenious,” said Whitey. “Except that you’d have to go to all the bother of stealing it again in Japan.”
“No sweat,” she said. “The Tokyo firm was an office and a dockside storeroom. Owned by me. So we split up after the job and headed for Tokyo by different routes. That’s when things started going wrong. One of us didn’t turn up. He let himself get picked up on a speeding charge and when they saw who he was, they started questioning him hot. Worse though, the loot didn’t come through. I rang the L.A. firm. They were sorry, an urgent order was found to be incomplete and had been made up with our consignment, but more tinned tomatoes were being sent express. Where had the original consignment gone, I asked. England, they told me proudly! That’s why.it was so urgent. They were among the first to be taking advantage of the new thaw in trade relations.”
“And the man they captured?” prompted Whitey.
“Oh he talked. They all do after a time. Third degree, psycho-yuss, truth-drugs, something works in the end. We expected it as soon as an L.A. contact rang to say he’d been taken. So we were right off to the airport, me still in my oriental gear. Our plan was to do a few short hops round the Pacific. You sit on a plane too long and there’s somebody waiting for you at the other end. Unfortunately the only plane with vacant seats leaving within less than three hours was the Sudan flight. Who wants to fly to a war? Still, we took it, even knowing that they’d be waiting for us at the other end. Then came the brilliant idea. Kill two birds with one stone. Take over the plane and head for England which (a) did not have an extradition treaty with the U.S. of A. and (b) did have our loot, all done up to look like packs of canned tomatoes.”
“So the hi-jack was spur-of-the-moment stuff?”
“You bet. I mean, with the precautions they take nowadays, who premeditates a hi-jack? We were fantastically lucky. Till we got here. Then we stopped being fantastically lucky. Our claim to be political refugees soon had them laughing all the way to the dungeons. I don’t know what happened to the others, but you saw what they did to me. When I got out, I had to stick with Chaucer, you understand that. He was on his feet and active. There was a chance there. You were lying on your face in your underclothes. I couldn’t chance being captured again.”
He felt her shiver convulsively at the thought and put his arm round her comfortingly.
“You were quite right,” he reassured her. “Absolutely right.”
“I know. Just as you’d have been right to keep your mouth shut and chuck me on that fire at Coventry.”
“You can’t be a crusading journalist all your life without something rubbing off,” he said lightly. “But you haven’t explained just what you were doing there.”
She shrugged so that her breasts moved interestingly against his chest.
“Chaucer got me out of London. I don’t know why, perhaps I gave him a bit of cover. But since getting here, he’s put me to work for him. I’ve no idea what it’s all about most of the time. A couple of days ago he sent me off to Coventry. I had to make contact with a certain Supporter, whisper a couple of magic words, receive a packet and take it back to Chaucer. Only, I picked the wrong reffer. The rest you saw. It was very nasty. I’m beginning to think I’ve paid Chaucer what I owed him. Still, I’m a naturally grateful girl.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed,” said Whitey, pushing himself down in the bed. Her hands were no good, but she made a few exploratory motions with her body. He smiled in the dark and kissed her gently on the cheek and after a while she lay still in his arms and he felt that she was asleep.
Sleep of all things seemed best to Whitey also at this moment. There had been a time when he prided himself on being a four-or-five-times-a-night man. But that had been another night. Perhaps even another man. And there was always the morning to look forward to.
He closed his eyes and dropped into oblivion.
When he awoke it was broad daylight and Hydrangea was gone.
So much for his pre-breakfast plans, he thought swinging his legs out of bed. He washed and dressed quickly and took a look out of his bedroom window. There was a superb view over wooded parkland to a distant fold of hills. Something of the old England remained, perhaps even something worth barricading yourself in for, he thought as he caught a glimpse of a Striker with an Alsatian patrolling the grounds.
But it wasn’t patriotic sentiment that had caused Chaucer to build up this defence system, it was realistic fear. He must be a very important Management man to be able to command such protection. The Coventry Strikers had known who he was and it was this as much as his superior armament that had enabled him to yuss them. But it had been a yuss, not an unqualified act of co-operation. There was a tension between the Management and the University Supporters’ Clubs which might eventually bring something about. The Disciplinary Committee’s use of psycho-yuss was symptomatic. True, the crowd had got carried away in the end, but Chaucer’s Strikers looked as if they would merely have toasted the truth out of the girl from the very start. An interest in confession and conversion rather than just information could only spring from a passionately believed-in philosophy of the Club. He had got
a whiff of it from Sheldrake, the Athletic trainer. History had proved that philosophy was usually the death of revolution. Once people stopped acting intuitively and sat down to rationalize their actions, disagreement was inevitable; and, persuasion having proved futile, the only way of resolving debate was violence. In private life in the old days, the courts had gone some way towards condoning the crime of passion. In public life, it was the crime of reason which met with general approval.
He turned from the window, unable to see where it was his thoughts were taking him. It was difficult to decide which path was best for his country. The way of the Clubs? or the way of King and his terrorists? or was there a third path which he himself might help people to find? Surely it was just a question of finding a way to harness the fanatical loyalty to the Club he met with everywhere.
Even Hydrangea, he thought tangentially, had displayed an amazing amount of loyalty in standing up to the psycho-yuss for over ten hours when she had nothing to lose by telling them whatever they wanted to hear. And her loyalty had been rewarded. Chaucer himself had come looking for her.
He took the thought down to breakfast with him.
“You’ve got two minutes,” said Chaucer as he entered the dining room.
“Two minutes for what?” Whitey replied evenly.
“For breakfast. You’re coming with me to Birmingham.”
Hydrangea was nowhere in sight, though a used coffee cup indicated she might already have eaten. Whitey would have liked to help himself to the full range of dishes which had been prepared, but Chaucer proved to be a very precise man.
“Let’s go,” he said after what Whitey suspected was exactly one hundred and twenty seconds.
Outside, a small rather old and anonymous car was waiting for them. Chaucer motioned Whitey into the passenger seat and himself climbed behind the wheel.
“Fasten your seat belt,” he ordered.
Whitey obeyed, asking, “Is this your public image car?”
“No. It’s my private safety car. It doesn’t offer itself as a target.”
“I see. And just the two of us? Aren’t you a bit worried about me?”
Chaucer laughed, a little hurtfully.
“Not much. Why should you want to escape? Your underground friends tried to kill you to stop you talking. You’d have a hard time persuading the wankers you hadn’t talked. In any case, you’re not going anywhere without my agreement.”
Whitey was puzzled by this until he thought to try to release his seat belt. It was locked fast across his chest.
“You can release this eventually, I hope?” he murmured.
“Eventually,” said Chaucer. “You’ll just have to hope we don’t have a crash.”
“I’ll think about that one,” said Whitey and settled back to enjoy the ride.
Nixon Lectures : Fifth Series
Documentary Material
2 (f) Extract from HANSARD report of Question Time in the House of Commons January 23rd 1986.
Mr. Butt: Does the Secretary of State for Home Affairs approve of the tendency of our regional centres to take on an individual identity sometimes at odds with our national identity?
Mr. Corbridge: If I rightly understand the question, my answer must be that I see no reason why Yorkshire, say, should not remain Yorkshire, rather than try to emulate Norfolk. (laughter.)
Mr. Butt: Is the Secretary of State perhaps unaware that in the matter of film censorship, say, films shown quite freely in London are not permitted to be written about, let alone seen in certain parts of the country?
Mr. Corbridge: I was aware of this and I greatly regret any inconvenience caused to the hon. Member. If he cares to mention the film he has missed, I am sure we can arrange a private viewing. (Prolonged laughter.)
Mr. Butt: That’s about your level, man. Bloody frivolity.
Mr. Speaker: The hon. Member is out of order.
Mr. Butt: I apologise. Let me put my question another way. Is the Secretary of State happy that he could swear in Swinton but would be heavily fined for it in Sunderland, that he could send his children to nothing but ‘free’ schools in Derby and nothing but nineteenth century classics-and-games establishments in Bournemouth, that his wife could be arrested for the shortness of her skirts in Carlisle but could go around with her tits hanging out in Peterborough …
Hon. Members: Withdraw! Withdraw!
Chapter 11
The journey to Birmingham was uneventful. A little knot of Supporters attempted to flag them down at one point, but Chaucer had merely pointed the car at them and accelerated. No one was actually hit, but he left them scattered over the road by their efforts of evasion.
“You don’t give autographs then,” observed Whitey.
“No. Just make my mark.”
“Tell me,” said Whitey, “what are you in this for?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s a dangerous business, isn’t it? You’ve had plenty of chance to salt a few dollars away. Why don’t you take off and enjoy your old age in the sun?”
“Reff me!” exclaimed Chaucer. “You really do think like your articles, don’t you? Despite everything you’ve seen, everything I’ve said, you still think I’m some kind of gangster.”
“Look at the facts,” said Whitey. “The American mid-century gangsters ruled by terror; they demanded unquestioning loyalty to the gang, punishing any breaches of faith by death; they carved up their country into separate territories, each distrustful of the others and in a state of constant alert and occasionally open warfare; by one means or another they gained influence over the forces of law, the judiciary, the arms of government itself. Spot the similarities?”
“You’re thinking in journalese,” said Chaucer, unimpressed. “You could just as well have been giving me a history of European civilization.”
“I was scared you’d say that,” said Whitey gloomily. “The worst gangsters of all are those who forget about money and start thinking about history.”
Suddenly Chaucer laughed.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I think you just want to be shown we think you’re important enough to try and convince you. An earnest of survival!”
Whitey looked at him with cool indifference.
“That’s one way out of an argument,” he said. But inwardly he felt greatly discomfited at the truth in his companion’s comment.
“Where are we going?” he asked now, determined not to relapse into a silence which might reveal his concern.
“To work,” said Chaucer. “Deep down inside me, I’m just a commuter.”
Birmingham didn’t seem to have changed much since Whitey’s last visit some six or seven years earlier. The days of urban development were long past and the only visible signs of change in most of England’s cities was the steady encroachment of shabbiness. Slum-Clearance had allegedly reached its triumphant peak in the early eighties, but neglect, disruption of services, and years of social uncertainty had resulted in an even more intensive period of slum-creation, reaching almost to a nineteenth century level.
Their destination turned out to be the one which Whitey had anticipated, Wanderers Heights, the monolithic skyscraper headquarters of the Club. Four Strikers appeared with guns ready as they drove into the brightly lit basement car-park, but they stiffened to attention as they recognized the car. Chaucer parked it neatly in a slot marked ‘Manager’.
“Ambitious,” commented Whitey.
“No. Just promoted,” replied Chaucer. “A policy disagreement left the vacancy. I’m on my way to accept the post formally now.”
Which explains the rush, thought Whitey, amused by Chaucer’s obvious delight.
But who is it who actually offers such a post?
A Striker joined them in the lift which rocketed them up to the top floor, and he followed them into a small windowless room, furnished with a single armchair.
“You wait here,” said Chaucer.
“For how long?”
Chaucer shrugged.
“Depends how it goes. May be for ever.” He smiled as he spoke but Whitey was not amused.
“You won’t be lonely,” continued Chaucer, glancing at the Striker who had taken up an alert position by the door. “Compose an article. Or think of—what do you call her?—Hydrangea.”
He turned and went out. Whitey heard the door being locked from the outside.
So, he thought, he knows about Hydrangea’s visit last night. A plant—or just good internal security? And did it matter?
“Sit,” commanded the Striker.
He sank into the armchair which was surprisingly soft and luxuriously upholstered. They treated their prisoners well here. Or perhaps, he decided more realistically, perhaps it wasn’t just his comfort they were thinking of. To launch a sudden attack from the depths of this chair was almost impossible.
He began pushing himself upright to see what would happen.
“Take a look at the back of the chair, mister,” said the Striker mildly.
He twisted round and examined the floral-patterned upholstery. A neat repair job had been done but the dozen or so bullet-holes were still visible to the careful eye. Whitey nodded an acknowledgement at the Striker, sank back in the chair and remained quite still till he heard a double knock at the door. The Striker replied and only then was the door unlocked. Two more Strikers stood there, guns at the ready. They’re not very trusting, thought Whitey, rising at a gesture from one of the guns.
They took him only a few yards down the corridor stopping before a shining stainless steel door marked BOARDROOM. One of the Strikers knocked. Another pause, almost certainly for some unseen scrutiny.
Then the door slid open and Whitey walked through into a small blank ante-chamber with yet another steel door before him. This slid open as the one behind him snapped shut and he found himself looking into a spacious, airy room in the centre of which was a long polished table around which sat perhaps a dozen men. One of them was Chaucer.
Singleton's Law Page 11
