Essex Poison

by Ian Sansom

  Miriam was gripping my arm.

  ‘Wow,’ she said.

  ‘Indeed,’ I said. Wow was indeed the word.

  ‘Wow, wow, wow,’ she repeated.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now that’s what I call a show.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed again, ‘he’s very good.’

  ‘And absolutely gorgeous,’ she said – and I suppose he was. He was wearing a short dark military-style jacket with epaulettes, and jodhpurs, and a beret, and knee-length cavalry boots: he looked as though he’d just ridden across eternity to deliver good news. When he finally dismounted the bike and turned off the engine and waved up at everyone the whole crowd exploded with applause as if he were a conquering hero; people were stamping their feet and yelling and it felt like the whole platform might collapse. Quite a show.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, and we descended down to the bottom of the viewing area. ‘Quick.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘We have to meet him.’

  I must admit I didn’t share Miriam’s sense of urgency – I’d met Billy, after all – but anyway I had little choice since the crowd was surging down the steps and on to other amusements.

  We wandered round and then clambered between the wooden and steel supporting beams towards a wide wooden door set into the Wall.

  ‘This must be the entrance,’ said Miriam. She banged on the door.

  ‘Hello?’ she called. There was no answer. ‘Hello?’ she repeated.

  ‘There’s no point asking for your money back,’ called a voice from behind the door.

  Miriam looked at me, perplexed.

  ‘I’m sorry Briton’s not here, but every Sunday is Tornado’s day off.’

  ‘What’s he talking about?’ said Miriam to me.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I said.

  ‘We’re not here for our money back,’ shouted Miriam through the door.

  ‘It’s me, Billy,’ I shouted. ‘Stephen Sefton, from Colchester.’

  The door opened and there was Billy in all his Wall of Death glory – beret, boots and all.

  ‘Billy,’ I said.

  ‘Mr Sefton, sir! If I didn’t know better I’d say you were following me!’

  ‘We’re here writing our book.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. He peeked his head around the door to see if anyone else was around. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Sorry for what?’ asked Miriam.

  ‘You never know who’s going to be here when you’re finished,’ he said.

  ‘Fans?’ said Miriam.

  ‘Sometimes. But sometimes people get very annoyed,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If they’ve come up from London.’

  ‘I don’t see why they should be annoyed,’ said Miriam. ‘You were fantastic!’

  ‘But there’s no Briton,’ said Billy.

  ‘Briton?’ I said.

  ‘The lion.’

  ‘The lion?’

  ‘Yes, Tornado and Marjorie ride the Wall with him. He used to fit on the bike but now he has his own sidecar.’

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  ‘A lion in a sidecar!’ said Miriam. ‘How fabulous!’

  ‘They groom him and clip his claws on a Sunday, see,’ said Billy.

  ‘Very good,’ I said.

  ‘So people are sometimes upset on a Sunday, when it’s just me.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  ‘Well, anyway, we didn’t come to see the lion,’ said Miriam. ‘We came to see you. And you were magnificent.’ Miriam was like a skilled musician: she could make the word ‘magnificent’ last for a very long time and lend it all sorts of depth and colour.

  Billy smiled, clearly delighted. ‘Do you want to come in?’

  ‘Do we?’ said Miriam, meaning ‘We most certainly do.’

  ‘I should tell you, miss, you can’t smoke in here,’ said Billy.

  ‘Of course,’ said Miriam, stubbing out her cigarette.

  He let us into the tiny amphitheatre that was the base of the Wall. I looked up. It gave you some idea of what it must have been like being a Christian thrown to the lions.

  ‘Can I just say again, that was absolutely amazing,’ said Miriam, standing very close to Billy and giving such massive emphasis to the words ‘absolutely’ and ‘amazing’ that they might as well have been banner-advertised on the back of a plane.

  ‘Well thank you, miss, that’s very kind of you.’

  Miriam had already made her way over to the motorbike.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, patting the seat on which Billy had only moments ago been so firmly perched.

  ‘She is a beauty,’ said Billy.

  ‘Indeed she is,’ agreed Miriam.

  ‘She’s an Indian Scout.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She has a 740 Flathead engine,’ said Billy. ‘Made by the Hendee Motorcycle Company of Springfield, Massachusetts.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Unfortunately Miriam was so good at feigning interest that it was sometimes difficult to tell when she was genuinely interested in something. On this occasion, however, she really was interested: she loved anything involving speed, danger and men in uniform.

  But Billy rather misread her interest. He seemed to think she was interested only in the machine, when she was really interested in what the machine could do, and indeed what she could do with the machine.

  ‘Lots of the parts are hand-made,’ he said. ‘The footboards, the fenders. A rider’s only as good as his ride, miss.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Miriam, noticeably wriggling with pleasure. ‘And she’s so low!’ She perched herself sideways on the seat of the bike.

  ‘Low centre of gravity gives her more predictable handling on the horizontal, miss.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You have to keep your body in the centre of the bike.’

  ‘Would you mind?’ said Miriam, gracefully swinging a leg over and manoeuvring herself fully onto the bike.

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Billy.

  As Miriam positioned herself into a low comfortable riding postition I was reminded for a horrible moment of Pasiphae, wife of King Minos and the contraption she’d had Daedalus construct so that she could consummate her passion for the bull. I managed to put the image quickly from my mind.

  ‘You can use the footboards during the stunts, miss.’ Billy unself-consciously assisted Miriam to position her high-heeled feet into the appropriate position.

  ‘The saddle is so wide,’ said Miriam.

  ‘Again, for ease of handling. And if you look, all the controls are on the left-hand side here and within the handlebars, to keep them away from the rider’s feet.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Miriam, rather breathily, I thought, firmly gripping the handlebars and rotating her wrists back and forth.

  ‘That’s because the bikes were originally developed for the Chicago police,’ continued Billy, ‘so they could keep their right hands free to shoot off their revolvers.’

  ‘Shoot off their revolvers. Of course,’ said Miriam, pretending to fire a gun. ‘And hence your outfit, I presume?’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Billy. ‘I’ve never really thought about it. It’s Tornado’s idea.’

  ‘Mr Smith?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr Morley did want a photograph of Mr Smith, for the book,’ I said, vaguely recalling one of Morley’s endless requests.

  ‘I have signed photos if you want one,’ said Billy.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That would—’

  ‘And can I ask,’ interrupted Miriam, ‘what’s it like, actually riding the bike?’

  ‘Well, to be perfectly honest, miss, once you’re up to speed it’s just like riding on a very long very straight road.’

  ‘Does it not give you a headache, going round and round like that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘No. The faces of everyone sort of blur together, which can be a bit confusing at first, but as long as you concentrate on
the tricks and the ride you’re fine.’

  ‘Yes, but what does it actually feel like?’

  ‘What does it feel like?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miriam, with a hint of a purr, I thought. And was she batting her eyelids?

  ‘It feels pretty good,’ said Billy. ‘It sort of takes your mind off things.’

  ‘Like meditation?’

  ‘I don’t know, miss. Takes a bit of getting used to anyway. Like anything. But it’s worth it in the end.’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Miriam.

  ‘At first when you go round and round the blood sort of rushes to your hands and feet. But you soon adjust to it.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Miriam. ‘And tell me, how on earth does one end up riding on the Wall of Death?’

  ‘I only ride once a week, when Tornado Smith is off.’

  ‘But how did you learn?’

  ‘Well, I ride a motorbike anyway, so it only took about six weeks to learn to ride the Wall.’

  ‘Just six weeks?’

  ‘Or thereabouts. You start off just going round and round the bottom here until you can do it smoothly and then you put one wheel on the bottom of the ramp’ – he stamped on the curved bottom of the Wall – ‘and you keep doing that until you’re confident. And then eventually you just have to take your courage in your hands, get her up to speed, look up and lean left and … well. You’re away.’

  ‘How exhilarating!’ said Miriam.

  ‘It is,’ said Billy. ‘That’s just the word for it, miss: exhilarating.’

  Miriam was by now settled very comfortably on the saddle and was leaning forward. ‘I don’t suppose?’ she asked.

  She was always keen to try new things. And she was never shy to ask if she wanted something.

  ‘No, I don’t think so, miss,’ said Billy.

  ‘Under no circumstances?’

  ‘Absolutely not. It’s against the rules, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You don’t strike me as someone who necessarily plays by the rules,’ said Miriam.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss.’

  ‘I’m sure I can’t be the first girl to ask? Please?’ She reached out and touched Billy’s arm, looking at him with a mixture of determination and pleading, her eyes wide.

  Billy looked at me. I looked at him.

  ‘Well, I suppose, if Mr Sefton is happy enough to let you.’

  ‘Mr Sefton is not my keeper, I’ll thank you for knowing,’ said Miriam, stiffening slightly in the saddle.

  ‘If you’re sure?’ said Billy.

  ‘Do you know, Billy, I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of anything,’ said Miriam.

  And then this is what happened. It all happened very quickly. I wasn’t able to prevent it – and it’s possible I wouldn’t have prevented it even if I could. Billy produced a length of rope from a box of tools, moved Miriam into position in front of him on the bike and asked me to help lash them tightly together. Which I did. There were things that had happened in Spain – and this was an uncomfortable reminder.

  ‘You can’t stay down here, Mr Sefton, I’m afraid,’ said Billy. ‘Just in case.’

  ‘Just in case of what?’ I asked. My mind had wandered.

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen, Sefton,’ said Miriam.

  ‘Are you sure about this, miss?’ asked Billy again, once they were tightly bound.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ said Miriam, her voice low.

  I banged the wooden door behind me, looked back nervously, just once, and then ran up to the top of the viewing platform as Billy began revving the engine. I wondered if Miriam had any idea how dangerous it was. By the time I reached the parapet they were slowly circling the bottom of the Wall – and then Billy accelerated and the two of them became a blur as they raced past, once, twice, three times. The sight had a strange effect on me that even now I find difficult to describe. Suffice it to say that I was both glad and disappointed when they finished.

  By the time I’d got back down Billy had untied Miriam and the two of them were happily laughing and chatting.

  ‘Utterly fearless, isn’t she?’ said Billy.

  ‘Alas,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ said Miriam, giving a little bow.

  ‘So are you heading back to Colchester?’ I asked Billy.

  ‘Yes. Up bright and early in the morning and back in the shop.’

  ‘Where do you work?’ asked Miriam.

  ‘Hopwood, Son & Payne. It’s a jeweller’s on Main Street.’

  ‘We’re heading back that way ourselves. Perhaps we can offer you a lift?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m riding the bike.’

  ‘Well, in that case perhaps you could offer me a lift?’ said Miriam.

  ‘I could, miss, I’m not sure.’ Billy looked at me, seeking, I suppose, permission.

  ‘It’s me that’s asking, not Sefton,’ said Miriam.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Billy. ‘It’s not the Indian. It’s just my Triumph.’

  ‘I’d love to ride your Triumph,’ said Miriam.

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘It’s quite a journey, riding pillion, miss.’

  ‘Oh, I think I’ll cope. Sefton’s fine on his own, aren’t you, Sefton? You don’t need me to hold your hand, do you?’

  I had no choice but to agree.

  Billy locked up the door to the Wall of Death and we began walking through the now deserted Kursaal, the crowds already having departed. Suddenly there was the sound of a siren in the distance, and then all the lights went out.

  ‘What on earth?’ said Miriam.

  ‘Power cut?’ I said.

  ‘Ah, no, I forgot,’ said Billy. ‘It’s the blackout experiment.’

  ‘The what?’ said Miriam.

  ‘The blackout experiment.’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ said Miriam.

  ‘Have you not read about it, miss?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They’re trying these blackout experiments all over the country. Wartime conditions, they say. You get the siren and then the blackout – to give warning of the approach of enemy aircraft. We should get moving,’ said Billy. ‘Or we’ll never get home.’

  And so the three of us ran through the deserted Kursaal, in the dark, to the sound of sirens, Miriam taking Billy’s hand and me following on behind.

  I drove back alone through Essex, thinking all the time about Billy riding with Miriam. The last thing I heard her say was, ‘Non sto più nella pelle.’ She was, I think, referring to his Triumph.

  CHAPTER 24

  OIL AND DIRT

  IT WAS OUR LAST MORNING in Colchester – a damp windy autumn morning that promised only wind and rain and yet more wind and rain. We couldn’t leave soon enough.

  Of all the counties we visited, Essex seemed to me one of the most strange and one of the most difficult, perhaps the most truly incomprehensible; indeed, it was ‘trickier than Tibet’, according to Morley, in The County Guides, and he should know. (See Morley’s Tibetan Tales, 1930, a book more packed with escapade, and featuring more tricksters, more holy men, more princesses and charlatans than any of his other unbelievable tales of adventure.) Essex itself sold more copies than Wiltshire and Hampshire combined, more than Leicestershire and Warwickshire, but many fewer than the books on the Ridings, or even on Northumberland. Which counties sold, and why, remained a mystery to me, though Morley thought it had as much to do with the effects of folk memory as it did with the quality of the books themselves. People think they know Yorkshire, though they may never even have visited. They think they know Cornwall and Devon. These places have cultural resonances. They have mental associations. They have a certain aura. Len Hutton. The Brontës. Amy Johnson.

  But Essex? Who could be said to know Essex? What did Essex represent? What was Essex all about? Many of the counties refused easy summary but Essex seemed to refuse us entirely, defying us as it seemed to defy itself, unable to decide whether it was a place of retreat or a si
te of attack, seaward-facing, London-looking, Janus-faced, unevenly split and equally uncomfortable in its bulging new towns, its dead and dying ancient villages and its scabby Victorian seaside resorts. In the great parade of the English counties, Essex wore the most ill-fitting suit: it was the odd one out, odder even than Bucks and Shrops and Rutland. It was not really a place at all, I thought, except a place of miscegenation, a dumping ground, a departure point, a place of no return.

  I had woken – clearly – in a foul mood. I had barely slept, horribly conscious of being alone and tormented with a sense of both physical lack and terrible desire, a feeling worse even than the morning after some foolish one-night stand and that familiar feeling of being utterly spent and exhausted, yet without satisfaction and still yearning for something more and something better. My mouth tasted gamey and rotten, though I hadn’t even been drinking; it was as if I were chewing through my self. My dreams featured Miriam and Amy Johnson, and not in a good way. I could barely be bothered to shave and put on my suit and tie. I struggled even to get out of bed – yet I was also filled with the impulse to get up and leave and just walk until I could walk no further, until I dropped down, finished, to escape that feeling of entrapment and despair that had haunted me ever since I’d returned from Spain and that may in fact have been with me always, though I hadn’t known it. Sometimes the feeling was overwhelming; sometimes I felt that I was just waiting for it finally to overcome me, and to take me down to where I belonged; it was almost as if I could see it, waiting for me, out of the corner of my eye.