‘What the fuck are you doing here, Bowden?’ demanded a familiar voice.
Harry looked up. Even recumbent, he didn’t have far to look to see Banty Pierce. Awkwardly, he began to scramble to his feet.
‘Sit down for fuck’s sake or someone’ll see you,’ said Pierce.
He squatted down alongside Harry. He too was carrying a long-necked brandy bottle and it was almost empty.
‘I often come out here,’ he said. ‘Only fucking place where a man can get a bit of peace in this stinking hole.’
Harry looked at him in amazement. The little corporal’s voice was suddenly pitched at a level and in a tone which made it almost unrecognizable. It sounded … Harry sought for the word … ordinary! Ordinary and conversational, like the way a fellow in a pub might address an acquaintance.
And slightly slurred too, like a fellow in a pub.
It occurred to Harry that Pierce was drunk, much more so than himself. He felt sudden envy and took a long suck at his bottle.
‘That mate of yours, the one with the thumb, or rather without the thumb,’ said Pierce. ‘He’s dead, did you know that?’
Harry nodded.
‘Yeah, of course, you did. That’ll be why you’re here likely, getting pissed. It’s an expensive habit, getting pissed when your mates die. You’ll find that out if you live long enough, which isn’t fucking likely!’
He laughed raucously in a sudden return to his usual contemptuous manner, took a long last drink and hurled the empty bottle away.
Harry spoke for the first time.
‘What do you get drunk for, Corporal?’ he asked.
‘Me?’ Pierce glowered at him as if deciding whether to take offence at the question. ‘Me? Not for some fucking stupid bastard who doesn’t know enough to keep his thumb out of the way of a cocking-handle, that’s for sure! I get drunk because …’
He made an expansive gesture with his left hand.
‘… because I like to get fucking drunk, that’s why! You using that bottle or just keeping it warm for a friend?’
‘Help yourself,’ said Harry, passing the brandy.
Once more, Pierce drank deep. Looking at the level in the bottle, Harry saw his own escape route considerably endangered. For a while he thought that the draught had finished the corporal off, so still and silent did the little man sit, his head slumped forward.
But when Harry tried to take the bottle from him he sat up at once and swore fiercely and drank again.
‘Fair do’s, Corp,’ protested Harry.
‘Fair do’s! What the fuck do you know about fair do’s? There’s no fair do’s out there, Bowden, you’ll find that out too fucking soon!’
Harry started to struggle to his feet, but Pierce’s hand shot out and seized his arm and held him fast.
‘You think I’ve been hard on you, don’t you, Bowden?’ said the canary. ‘You think you’ve been hard done to! Well, I’ll tell you something, I haven’t been hard enough! I see you come here, and what do I see? A big good-looking lad with a smile on his face and nothing in his head, and they’ve put a uniform on his back and called him a soldier. Soldier! Dead fucking soldier! Like this one!’
He drained the bottle and hurled it into the fast falling darkness. His grip did not relax, and now his newly freed hand came round and took Harry by the other arm and turned him so that he was facing the little corporal.
‘That’s all I see. Big handsome chap, but soft, soft, dead soon. Save him, toughen him up, help him so he’ll come back, but they never come back, Harry, never come back, you’ll be the same, just the same, my failure, I’ve failed with you, failed, failed, failed … Harry …’
Inexorably, by force of will as well as by sheer power of muscle, Harry felt himself being drawn towards the canary. With horror, he saw the man’s face, stained with tears, swim closer and closer till he could smell the spirit-tainted breath as he repeated ‘failed … failed … failed …’ Now the night, so light not long before, was dark with a blackness which seemed to ooze between them like an oily liquid, so he could not see Pierce’s face, just hear his voice as he murmured. ‘You thought I did it out of hate for you, Harry … not hate, lad … not hate … love … love … love.’
The next morning Harry was up even earlier than their early entrainment required.
All his gear was packed and stacked ready for putting on.
‘Tommy,’ he said to Carruthers. ‘Would you watch that lot for me?’
‘Sure. But we’ll be off soon. Where’re you going anyway?’
‘Oh, just taking a last look around.’
Carruthers laughed in amazement.
‘Blimey, Harry. I’m beginning to think Banty Pierce was right about you! A last look at what, for fuck’s sake?’
But Harry had already gone.
He made his way to the sand dunes of the Bull Ring and climbed up a dune till he could see the sea. Across there lay England, an England which Bert Pogmore would never again see. He wondered indifferently if he himself would.
If Corporal Pierce was right, his chances were very slim.
And what, he wondered, of Corporal Pierce’s own chances?
He turned so he could look down upon the bayonet-course. The first row of dummies dangled like corpses after a dawn hanging. He studied them carefully. To his knowing eye, the third from the left hung a little heavier, looked a little bulkier than the others, but that was probably delusion. In any case, he doubted if anyone else would notice.
Despite the earliness of the hour, the sun was already hot. What better for waking a man than the heat of the morning sun? Though whether its reviving touch could easily overcome the torpefying effects of a couple of pints of brandy he did not know. He doubted it.
Cold steel was another matter.
Soon the first batch of bewildered trainees, driven by their attendant flock of canaries, would be here. Soon they would be urged to advance, to charge full pelt with screams of exultant hate. Perhaps the screams would awake Banty Pierce. Perhaps he would add his own unheard scream of pure terror to the soaring choir.
Perhaps there would be a moment between the rip and the twist when he would know that he had not failed after all.
Harry Bowden turned away and strode rapidly back to his billet where men were already helping each other, with bitter joke and blasphemous complaint, to lift their heavy packs on to their shoulders prior to marching to the line of horse-trucks which formed the train waiting to take them on their slow and winding journey to the quiet waters of the Somme.
auteur theory
Nothing in this story is what it seems.
You should remember that.
I am standing, sunlit and windswept, in the middle of the lawn of an eighteenth-century country house. To my left is a fat middle-aged woman wearing a twin-set, pearls, and an expression of solemn piety. To my right is a fat middle-aged man wearing an old black suit and a white shirt which must be of some very rough material as his hand is constantly inside it, scratching. At our feet is a hole. Beyond it, is a truck with a crane mounted on the back from which depends the eight-foot-tall bronze statue of a nude woman.
In the hole lies a scatter of human bones.
‘You are in charge here?’ the woman says to me.
‘No, ma’am. Mr Dalziel here, Detective-Superintendent Dalziel’s, in charge.’
She looks in disbelief at the fat man who belches and says, ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Miss Disney, deputy principal,’ she snorts indignantly.
‘Oh aye?’ says Dalziel. ‘You’re the one that passed out, right?’
‘I swooned.’
‘Is that right? Well, Sergeant Pascoe here will take your statement just now. Hold on. Are you the one that shouted, “It’s Miss Girling” before you went down?’
‘I may have said …’
‘What made you say that?’
‘Association of ideas, Superintendent. This statue is – or rather was – a memorial to our late Principal. The bone
s cannot of course have anything to do with her.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Miss Girling died abroad, sir,’ I interpose. ‘Four years ago. Buried there. An accident. Hence the memorial.’
‘Is that right? Smart lad, my sergeant, Miss Disney. Joins up his letters when he writes. Is there owt more?’
‘Superintendent,’ said Miss Disney, her bosom swelling. ‘When are these bones going to be removed. These premises are occupied by sensitive young people …’
‘I’ll watch out for them,’ says Dalziel. ‘Not many left these days, not like when we were young, eh, love? Why don’t you run across to the kitchen now and make us a cup of tea? We’ll be over in a second.’
Disney retreats in majestic indignation.
‘What makes her tick, do you reckon?’ wonders Dalziel.
‘Sexuality repressed, maternalism diverted, ambition thwarted, I’d say at a guess.’
‘Christ, you should get on well here, Sergeant. You speak the lingo. Start sniffing around, see what the gossip is. I’m sure you can worm your way into the inner circle.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I say hesitantly. ‘In fact there is someone on the staff here I was at university with. I saw her name on the staff list …’
‘Her?’
‘It was a mixed university, sir. They’re catching on fast.’
‘Piss off, Pascoe. You take the young stuff, I’ll go and charm the oldies.’
‘Yes, sir. By the way, this statue …’
‘What about it?’
‘Seems a strange kind of memorial to the Principal of a Teachers Training College?’
Dalziel looks up at the pendant nude.
‘Don’t see why. Perhaps this Miss Girling had big bronze knockers too!’
‘Cut!’ shouted Andy Adamson. ‘We’ll take lunch.’
He came across to us, frowning. The bright sunlight dimmed from the arc-lights, the wind died away from the wind machine and we were back to a dull still spring day. A microphone boom swung over our heads and hit the ‘bronze’ statue, denting the polystyrene.
‘Jesus Christ, watch it! That costs money!’
‘Sorry, Andy.’
Adamson halted in front of us, but didn’t speak, though I could hear his white teeth clicking away in the explosion of black wire he called a beard.
‘Was that OK, Andy?’ asked Griffin, as always eager for praise.
‘You were fine, Gordon,’ said Adamson. ‘Sam, can I have a word? Come and have a sandwich with me, if you’ve got no plans.’
‘What’s there to plan in a dump like this?’
He led me round the far side of the old house to the tatty old trailer he always lived in on location. He was probably wise. It was at least as comfortable as the room I’d been allotted in one of the campus halls of residence.
He had things well organized, you had to give him that. A nice little girl with orange hair and a cute behind arrived simultaneously with a pile of sandwiches and a pot of coffee. I’d have preferred Scotch, or beer at least, but I wasn’t making a fuss.
I smiled sweetly and said, ‘Thanks, darling.’
She didn’t even look at me. So much for stardom.
Adamson said, ‘It’s a load of shit, Sam.’
‘Is it? The script, you mean? Or just the sandwiches?’
‘You know what I mean. We’ve been here just three days and already we’re behind schedule. What’s the reason? It’s you, Sam. The way you’re handling this part. That’s the load of shit.’
‘Could you qualify that?’ I asked. ‘Dog, do you mean? Or horse? Surely not pig? I would be hurt by pig!’
‘I’d like to believe that, Sam, but I don’t. I get the impression you’re past being hurt by anything. You’ve got to be vulnerable, all right? This is your love story as much as anything.’
‘Is that what it is? I didn’t realize it was one of the great romantic parts. Sergeant Heathcliff, that’s what I’ll be from now on. Promising young stage actor responds to brilliant screen direction! I can see the headlines. Come to think of it, I seem to recall I once did see them!’
Suddenly Adamson was very angry.
‘That was a long time ago, Sam,’ he grated. ‘You’re beginning to look your age on the screen as well as off it. What’s promise at twenty is infantilism at forty. And there’s no way back. All that crap you shout about going back to the legitimate theatre after your next movie! Christ, you wouldn’t last a week before you get too pissed off or just too pissed to turn up.’
This stung and I wasn’t quick enough to hide it, so I made a big production of it instead.
‘Gee, Andy, I’m really sorry … I didn’t realize … just one more chance … please!’
He said in disgust, ‘Just fuck off out of here, will you, Sam?’
Suddenly it was my turn to be angry. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t, but when you’ve broken promises to as many people as I have, it seems silly to miss yourself out.
I said, ‘Listen, Andy. You’d be a lot more convincing as the big, tough, hard-talking director if you dished out the crap a bit more evenly.’
‘What’s that mean?’ he said dangerously.
‘It means Wanda, as you well know, your little child-bride. I may not match up to your Himalayan standards, but that girl sticks out like a third tit on a fan-dancer. I need a big hit, yes, don’t we all? But I’m not going to fucking get it teamed up with a refugee from a third-rate rock group.’
‘Talking about anyone I know, Sam?’ said a woman’s voice.
I turned. The door had opened. Standing on the trailer steps was Wanda Sigal – now Wanda Adamson – her face pale with fury. Behind her, with a restraining hand on her arm and a worried look on his face, was Mickey Defoe, the film’s producer.
‘I doubt it, Wanda. I very much doubt it,’ I said, pushing by her down the steps. She went into the trailer, slamming the door so hard, the whole thing rocked.
Defoe came after me.
‘Sam, what the hell’s going on?’
‘Teething troubles,’ I said over my shoulder. ‘When you deal with infants, that’s what you get, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not serious, is it?’
‘Oh no. It usually works itself out in a couple of years, I believe, Mickey. A couple of years should see everything fine!’
I am in Ellie Soper’s college flat. She is wearing a dressing-gown.
She says, ‘You might as well have a drink, now you’re here.’
I say, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize there was a college curfew.’
She says, ‘I just felt flaked out. The intellectual life can be very exhausting too, remember?’
‘No, I don’t remember that. I seem to remember falling into bed around two a.m. most nights.’
‘I don’t remember that.’
She hands me a drink. She doesn’t take one herself.
‘I’m sorry I was rude when we met before,’ she says. ‘It was a shock.’
‘Also it wouldn’t help your image with the students,’ I say. ‘Swinging sociology lecturer in cahoots with cops!’
‘You still see things very simply, Peter. Is that why you joined the police?’
‘Now who’s being simple?’
I finish my drink and stand up.
‘I’d better be going,’ I say.
‘But you haven’t questioned me!’
‘Tomorrow. Tonight was social.’
I move to the door. She follows me.
‘Social, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case, you may kiss me good night, Sergeant.’
She offers her cheek coquettishly. I seize her by the shoulders, pull her towards me and kiss her passionately.
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘Cut!’ yelled Adamson. ‘Sam, what the hell’s wrong now?’
‘Ask this cow,’ I snarled. ‘She’s been chewing garlic!’
‘I like garlic,’ sneered Wanda. ‘It’s good for keeping off vampires and creepy-crawlies o
f all kinds.’
Adamson approached and sniffed.
‘For Christ’s sake, Wanda, go and rinse your mouth out.’
She saw that she’d really angered him and left without demur. Adamson doted on her, but when it came to mucking up his shooting schedule, he was unforgiving. If I thought that, for once, I was getting off blameless, I was wrong.
‘As for you, Sam, you’re supposed to be an actor. That means you act! All right? If the script says smile and there’s a wasp crawling up your trouser leg, you still smile!’
‘Yes, of course, Andy,’ I said. ‘I should have realized Wanda was just trying to cover up her halitosis. Jolly decent of her, really.’
One of the lighting men tittered and Adamson glared at him.
Jake Allen, the cameraman, said, ‘Are we doing the whole scene again, Andy?’
Adamson hesitated. He’d planned the scene as a single take. Some directors shoot film like they’ve got shares in Kodak. Adamson shot it like it was strictly rationed and he wanted to put editors out of business. This was a tight budget movie in terms both of money and time. Defoe had got the college premises cheap for the three-and-a-half weeks of the Easter vacation. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but Adamson had found all kinds of faults with the interiors. The rooms were too small for a man who liked to work his cameras, and their sound properties were odd, so with a couple of them, including Ellie Soper’s flat, he’d ended up building a set in the college drama hall. He’d treated the weather with similar distrust. Spring weather was likely to be windy and sunny, so he created wind and sunshine in every outdoor shot against the moment when this spell of dull calm weather would come to an end.
‘I don’t know why I bothered to rent this place!’ moaned Mickey Defoe. ‘We should have stayed in a studio.’
And it was undeniable that sod’s law seemed to be operating. When you’re on a tight schedule, things don’t go smoothly.
Perhaps a lot of it was down to me, but not this present cock-up. That was all Miss Wanda’s.
There are No Ghosts in the Soviet Union Page 13
