Dying to Read

by John Elliott

  The speaker introduced himself as Euan Donald, Professor of Philosophy at University College London and thanked them for coming. Hamish cast another glance to his right. Her profile was now in view, her cheek pale with a minimum of make-up. She wore a three-quarters yellowy green smock-style dress over her black jeans. Her feet were encased in what Hamish seemed to remember were called granny boots. A charity shop jumbler or someone with a distinctive dress sense of their own? He couldn’t quite decide. He switched his eyes back to the front.

  Professor Donald was getting into his stride. It turned out from his opening remarks that the ancient cynics were not at all what Hamish had assumed. No. In Roman times respectable citizens, male by definition, cast off their normal workaday personas at the weekend and roamed the town behaving like disorderly dogs in obeisance to the anarchic spirit of the Greek cynics. Evidently the word cynic was derived from the Greek word for dog, kynikos. ‘Twas ever thus, Hamish thought. Accountants on Saturdays became football yobs. Civil servants binge drank. Merchant bankers snorted lines. Off duty policemen went to open air rock festivals and mixed with the other middle-aged kids getting down.

  ‘Diogenes,’ Professor Donald explained, ‘when he moved from Sinope to Athens in the 4th century BC became through practice and story the fount and inspiration of Cynic Philosophy.’

  Hamish had heard of him and recollected that he had lived in a tub. This, according to the professor, had come about because tiring of waiting for a cottage to rent Diogenes, on observing a mouse’s ability to adapt to any circumstances, decided he needed no conventional abode nor any other conventional amenities. This adaptability became the cornerstone of Cynic training. Yet the best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley as Hamish’s grandfather, Peter, was wont to quote from Rabbie Burns.

  Meanwhile across the aisle the intriguing young woman delved into a canvas bag and laid out pieces of food on the empty adjacent chair: flat bread, olives, cheese and a tub of something gooey. She tore off a piece of bread and dunked it into the tub. After swallowing it she popped an olive into her mouth. Hamish waited until, sure enough, she delicately extracted the stone and deposited it on a bit of paper.

  Professor Donald smiled. ‘A timely intervention,’ he said. ‘Geraldine there eats in the lecture hall.’ All eyes moved to search for the subject of his remark. She looked up seemingly unperturbed by the attention and with one hand rubbing her stomach waved the other holding some cheese aloft.

  ‘Well illustrated,’ the professor continued. ‘In those times it was against Athenian convention to eat in the marketplace and yet there Diogenes would eat, and when reproached he explained that it was in the marketplace he felt hungry. Another time when asked how to avoid the temptations of lust he began to masturbate and when again reproached he replied, “If only I could soothe my hunger by rubbing my belly.” In broad daylight he was often seen carrying a torch or a lantern round the marketplace. His reply to questions as to what he was doing was, “I’m searching for an honest man.” The inference being that he continually found nothing but rascals and scoundrels. Thus for the Cynics convention stood below nature and reason in importance. What could be done in private for them could be done also in public.’

  A melancholy conclusion, agreed Hamish. We shine a torch not only into nooks and crannies but amidst public life, and what we usually find is ill will, stupidity and greed. Augustin Cox’s life was still hidden away, but give it time and it, too, would be fully exposed to public gaze.

  Geraldine — her name was Geraldine — had finished her light repast and was now dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a tissue. The temptations of the flesh, referred to from the platform, were near yet also far away. Hamish had tried to catch her eye without success. She had either been concentrating on the lecture or her impromptu picnic. He resolved to try and speak to her when it was over. Professor Donald obviously knew her name. Was that a bad omen? Or was she one of his students? He tried to guess her background and if she wasn’t a student puzzle on what she might do.

  ‘Alexander the Great’s meeting with Diogenes has become one of the landmarks of Cynic disputation about power,’ Donald continued. ‘First he tells Alexander to move aside so his shadow does not block the sun in which he was warming himself. He points out that wherever he goes Alexander needs bodyguards and troops whereas he needs no-one and is free to roam wherever he chooses by day or night without danger. “Do you not know,” he asks, “that a man who carries arms is afraid, and an afraid man has no right to be king?” His taunts anger Alexander to such an extent that he is about to hurl his spear. Diogenes ripostes, “Of course you have the right to kill me but if you do so it will be the act of a coward who is afraid to hear the truth. For I am the only man from whom you will hear the truth. All others are less honest than I am and more servile.” Then Alexander was amazed by the courage and fearlessness of his interlocutor and asked him what made a good king. “No-one can be king except in a kingly way just as one cannot pilot a ship except after the manner of pilots.” So the lesson for Alexander is he cannot be regarded as a king by royal birth, marks of divine status or by superior power and force of arms. In order to be truly kingly he must adopt the ethos of the Cynic philosophers.’

  Alexander stayed his spear, but the murderer of Augustin continued with their fatal blows. The deceased obviously was no fearless Diogenes and perhaps had had no opportunity to talk to his attacker. The latter, however, Hamish guessed, was at least in part afraid of his victim.

  The lecture was over, and it only remained for Professor Donald to thank them for coming and to ask for any questions. Two came from the back of the hall. Hamish waited hoping that Geraldine would speak so he would hear her voice as well as know her name. To his disappointment, however, she remained silent. Professor Donald disappeared from whence he came and the audience began to leave. Hamish remained seated trying not to stare at Geraldine too conspicuously. At last the subject of his inner thoughts got to her feet and strolled towards the door. He followed making sure he didn’t quicken his pace. I must speak to her. I can’t let the chance drift, he told himself. Have the courage of the cynics. For now, of course, the word had taken on a different meaning. He would have to invent a new one for those he had thought of as cynics before. Be doglike. Wasn’t that what Pat had said? ‘We’re tenacious to the end.’ Just like a dog that won’t give up a bone. Once outside the lecture room he saw she was still standing in the hallway. It was now or never. ‘Are you waiting for Professor Donald?’

  She turned round and gave him a studied stare. ‘No. Why do you think that?’

  Hamish felt himself blush. He had got off on the wrong foot. ‘Well he knew your name and I wondered.’ His voice tailed away.

  ‘Yes, we know each other’s names. I’ve attended quite a few of his talks. I’m a convinced Hellenophile.’

  ‘Pitta bread, feta cheese and Kalamata olives no doubt. I saw you eating earlier.’

  ‘This time you have made a correct assumption.’

  ‘Then in that case I was wondering. I’m going to a club now, and if you weren’t doing anything planned I wonder if you would consent to accompany me.’ Well however garbled, and in spite of one too many wonderings he had managed to get it out.

  ‘Consent to accompany you, eh?’ She laughed.

  It was music to Hamish. At least she wasn’t hostile.

  ‘You are somewhat prone to wondering I see. That’s not a very doggy cynic approach. More—’

  ‘Platonic,’ he suggested.

  ‘Don’t go there. There will never be a place in his Republic for anarchists like me. So where and what is this club of yours if I did consent in an unguarded moment to accompany a complete stranger.’

  ‘It’s Latin American dancing. Salsa, samba mostly. It’s in Stockwell.’

  ‘I prefer bouzouki, Theodorakis and rembetika myself, but Stockwell sounds interesting. Yes why not. Cynics fear nothing. I’ll go with you,’ she paused, ‘but I can’t just call you you.
’

  ‘Hamish.’

  ‘Geraldine, as you already know.’ She turned her right cheek towards him. He kissed it then moved his lips more clumsily to her left one. ‘When in Wandsworth,’ she said, ‘do as the Wandsworthians do. In Stockwell I’ll have to wait and see.’

  She was flirting with him. Something Eunice never had time for. With her he had been a matter of fact live-in lover, the steady, reliable DC Plod who might or might not qualify to be marriageable material. A pleasurable thrill tickled inside him. It spread from his elbow to his fingers. He felt it aerate his lungs and oxygenate his brain. His eyes had been right to take an interest in her, to single her out. He laughed. ‘I’ve never been to Stockwell, and now I’m going there for the first time with you.’

  ‘Into the unknown. It’s the only place to go.’

  ‘Your accent. I’ve been trying to place it. Now I’m guessing a trace of Irish.’

  ‘More than a trace, partial stranger. I’m from Kilkenny where the cats come from and will the cats and the Cynic dogs—’

  Lie down together, Hamish wished.

  ‘—find common cause before the night is out? Hamish, that’s the Scottish equivalent of our Seamus, yet I don’t detect a Scots burr.’

  ‘No. I’m from Corby, Northamptonshire. Once a little Scotland in its own right. My grandfather and grandmother like many others came south of the border to work at Stewart and Lloyds steelworks. They still live there like my father and mother.’

  ‘Don’t go on. It’s better to keep a stranger strange and thus attractive.’

  ‘You mean the less we know.’

  ‘Mm. Anyway by what means of transport shall I accompany you to use your phraseology?’

  ‘I’d like you to accompany me,’ he emphasised the word in response to her gentle teasing, ‘in the back of a taxi.’ His boldness astounded him.

  ‘You’re not scared I might scratch?’

  He shook his head. ‘If we walk back to the junction we should find one there.’

  ‘To taxis and Stockwell then.’

  In the event it was more than pleasurable sitting next to her in the back of the taxi. They didn’t actually touch at any moment. No hand accidentally brushed against an arm even when the driver braked sharply or cornered a little too fast. No leg or thigh inadvertently drew too close. Each sat in their own individual space, their eyes occasionally drifting to the other’s face and then withdrawing. Hamish prattled on about the north-south London divide, the club, La Perla Escondida, they were going to and no, in reply to Geraldine’s question, he hadn’t danced to Salsa music before.

  ‘I’m talking too much,’ he said.

  ‘Silence can be restful, but not everyone is suited to it. I expect there’s going to be plenty of noise where we’re going.’

  She’s put me in my place, Hamish thought, and instead of moving his hand closer to hers he kept it resting awkwardly on his knee.

  ‘Why are we going to this particular club?’ asked Geraldine ‘You haven’t really said.’

  Don’t let the Augustin Cox affair foul things up, Hamish warned himself. Treat it like it should be. Now you’re on a date with her and you’ve picked a night of salsa dancing. Salsa dancing! He had two left feet at the best of times never mind salsa. His palms were getting more and more sticky. Perhaps she thought he was an accomplished Latin mover and groover. What a disappointment lay in store! Instead of answering her question he snuck a look. To his relief she was smiling. ‘You’re happy,’ he said, feeling happier within.

  ‘Tolerably, thank you.’

  Things were going to be okay. After all he was off duty. Nobody had sent him to follow up Augustin’s possible frequenting of the dance club. Concentrate on her. Let the dead man and the job go hang at least for tonight. He smiled back at her.

  From its outside appearance La Perla Escondida was neither hidden nor in any sense of the word a pearl. Surrounding tower blocks dwarfed the nondescript street which housed it, bounded at one end by the outer walls of an older Peabody Buildings estate and at the other by a parcel of waste ground leading to a railway viaduct. Above the entrance a failing blue neon sign missing the ‘r’ of Perla and the ‘sc’ of Escondida proclaimed they had arrived at their intended destination. Flyposters had covered the two blacked out windows and the lower part of the wall with obscure drum ‘n bass and grunge gigs whose dates were by now long gone.

  ‘You do know where to take a girl,’ said Geraldine smiling at Hamish’s frowning face. ‘Up West has nothing on this. Still Diogenes could go anywhere by day or night totally unafraid so why not us?’

  Without replying Hamish pushed the door open and ushered her in. Big band Latin mambo music reverberated in the shabby hallway. A turning flight of stairs with again poster-clad walls took them down to the basement where a man and a woman sat at a table collecting money and issuing tickets. The man wore a Brazilian football shirt and a black homburg hat. The woman boasted a scarlet dress and a white flat cap. Nothing particularly surprising in that. What was surprising, however, was they were both at least seventy years old.

  Jesus, thought Hamish, did Augustin Cox come to an old people’s dance club? Beside him he could see Geraldine was finding the whole situation more and more amusing. He paid for them both.

  ‘I’ll get a round of drinks since you got that. Lager okay?’ Geraldine said and then to the couple at the table, ‘I’d hoped there would be live music.’

  ‘There will be in around half an hour. Tonight’s Gonçalo Pereira. A real good octet.’

  Hamish recognised the name from Augustin’s CD compilation. While Geraldine left to go to the small bar in the corner he took the opportunity to ask the couple if they were here regularly and if they knew a man by the name of Augustin Cox. Yes, they often took the entrance money but people’s surnames they rarely, if ever, knew. Augustin — well it wasn’t uncommon. He produced a facsimile of the photograph provided by Swansea. ‘He’s a little older than this now.’ They both looked but shook their heads. Hamish put the photo back in his pocket. He could see Geraldine watching him from her vantage point at the corner of the bar. Her curiosity was certainly aroused. Was she beginning to suspect he had an ulterior motive in being here? He hurried across.

  Although still relatively early at nearly ten o’clock the club was now quite crowded. On the dance floor in front of the empty bandstand several couples gyrated energetically to the continuing mambo music coming from loudspeakers round the walls. Unlike Professor Donald’s audience they encompassed all ages from the very young, children in fact, to the decidedly elderly. ‘I got you a German one,’ Geraldine said.’ I hope that’s to your taste.’

  He nodded and raised the bottle to his lips. Her eyes, which he realised now he had not been able to fathom either at the town hall or in the taxi, were brown and topaz. Her mouth seemed even more wide and inviting. It was time for at least some of the truth if, as he hoped, he might see her again. ‘So there’s no misunderstanding between us I’d better tell you—’

  ‘There has to be an understanding before there can be any mis,’ Geraldine interrupted, ‘but do go on.’

  How easy it would be to keep stumm, thought Hamish, but as Pat would paraphrase it I’ve started so I’ll finish. ‘I’m a police officer,’ he said. ‘A Detective Constable.’ There, it was out in the open. Nothing now but to stand back and await the aftermath.

  For a moment she appeared dumbfounded, her composure completely blown. Then looking at him even more intently she said, ‘People say you can always tell one in or out of civvies, but you’ve certainly fooled me. I’d never have dreamt that a policeman would be interested in a lecture on such abstruse matters. Unless, of course, he had a special reason for being there. Special? You aren’t Special Branch are you? No. I don’t suppose you’d tell me if you were. The funny thing is you see I’m a detective too.’

  Busy trying to equate her body language with her actual words, the tail end of her reply ripped through his guard and hit him with
the unexpected force of a Ricky Hatton counterpunch. Expect the unexpected was a favourite phrase of Jerzy’s, but this was left of left field. He metaphorically grabbed for the ropes and hauled himself up from the canvas. ‘So what do you detect?’ He tried to keep his tone neutral. ‘Unfaithfulness? Snapping pics of clandestine dalliances or insurance cheats?’ My God, the thought had just surfaced that she might be one of the newish band of Loreleis testing whether husbands or partners were looking for something on the side.

  She ignored his question either out of disdain or a desire for evasion. He couldn’t quite tell which. ‘I suspect you came here for a particular reason.’ She was back on the attack. ‘You would have come on your own if you hadn’t asked me along.’

  Hamish raised a hand. ‘Guilty, your honour. Anyway I’m actually off duty and now I formally declare myself to have abandoned my plan. But tell me about your detection. I’m sorry about my snide remarks.’ The music stopped suddenly and he was aware he was almost shouting in her ear. Several heads turned towards them. Up on the stage someone was tapping and testing the microphone. He dropped his voice. ‘And where do you do whatever you do?’

  ‘I work for the Bones Agency. You could say I am the agency. Nowadays Norma Bones, one of the founders — her sister, Henrietta, the other co-founder is dead — is virtually retired. The bulk of the work rests with me.’

  A crackling announcement with some warped feedback was being made, first in Portuguese, then in Spanish and finally in English. The octet appeared in dribs and drabs. A ragged trumpet and trombone riff offset by tenor and alto saxophones settled down into a moody exchange until — wham! the rhythm picked up the beat and a yell of approval came from the floor.

  Geraldine put her empty glass on the counter. She swayed her hips and tapped the back of her hand imitating the beat of the clave. ‘Mycroft,’ she said. ‘It’s time we were formally introduced.’