Young Man, I Think You're Dying

by Joan Fleming

  “Come in and take a seat,” S. Ledge said hospitably; he did not make the mistake of offering them a drink; it was not out of the wisdom but out of the repulsion from those four hard eyes.

  In short: where had he been, could he very kindly give them an account of his movements a week ago tonight?

  “What time?” S. Ledge snapped as though he had trumped a Jack.

  But they knew all about that one and were not falling for it.

  All evening, they replied. From, say, six to, say, eight o’clock the next morning.

  S. Ledge said he was afraid that was going to be difficult; his beloved fiancée who would have been able to confirm what exactly happened that evening had taken her life the following day, and the shock of it had taken away his memory. Somehow or other he managed to make his eyes misty as he told them of the tragedy and they were suitably sympathetic. Still, they believed that if he really tried, he might be able to remember his movements immediately before the tragedy.

  “Let’s see now …” S. Ledge certainly gave the appearance of trying very hard to remember and succeeded in squeezing out of himself the odd drops of information. He and his fiancée had had their tea, after which he had gone out to a sexy film. Alone? Yes, alone, because she did not care for films and had had some sewing to do, she wore these lovely flimsy saris and they needed constant repair.

  And what film?

  He told them because that was actually what he had done, if not exactly at the time in question; he told them what it was about, at some length, enjoying the telling. He said he hadn’t paid as much attention as he might because he had been thinking over turning in the Jaguar; there had been some engine trouble, again he went into details, and added that during his time in the cinema he had decided to change his car.

  And after that?

  After he came out of the cinema he went to the caff in Soho which he usually frequented; there he met some of his friends and talked over the trading-in of the car.

  And then?

  Towards midnight he had strolled along to meet another friend who worked in a pizza bar, whose work was over at midnight. He waited for him and had a pizza whilst waiting. He left with his friend and they took a taxi home.

  Home?

  Here, that is, Fiery Beacon.

  And the friend?

  “He lives here, in this block, round the other side, known him since we was kids.”

  And then?

  Slightly surprised, S. Ledge raised his eyebrows: “To bed, of course.”

  One of them was making notes; after he had finished writing he waited, pen still poised, so evidently something more was expected.

  S. Ledge then continued that he was by then so mad keen to get rid of the faulty car he had telephoned at an early hour to friends who ran an all-night garage in what he called Sarthend Road; they had told him they had a white Rover which had just been turned in, just the job. Naturally he was excited about this and started out early, so as not to be held up by the traffic.

  He was down there, well before eight, and stayed a couple of hours or more, they could check up if they liked, and he gave them the name and address of the garage.

  “What a pity,” he said at last, “what a pity my fiancée is not here to confirm everything you have heard!”

  They asked him what his job was and he answered: “Labourer.” He also mentioned the subcontractors for which firm he had, occasionally, worked; he went even further and mentioned the Barbican building site upon which he had worked for exactly one week, before they struck, or was it striked? His slight smile was lost on the po-faced ones.

  There was a very long silence during which the writer wrote with, surely, exaggerated slowness. And S. Ledge thought hard as to whether he should make the kind of fuss an innocent one would make, wondering how it came that they were making such elaborate enquiries amongst Jag owners in reference to a simple robbery. Exclaiming at the badness of the times, asking if it was yet another bank robbery (surely not! Tch! Tch!).

  Just as they were going the relief was so enormous that he unbent: “Don’t you want the name of the pizza bar where my friend works? And what about my friend’s name?”

  But the casual, absentminded way in which they noted the answers to these questions showed him, without any doubt, that they already knew these answers.

  In spite of his badly drooping spirits he managed to put on a hollow kind of jocular manner as they stood outside, waiting for the lift:: “Well, I’ve told you the truth, and nothing but the truth,” he joked. They received the pleasantry with the shadow of a smile, or even agreement; they nodded to him as they disappeared in the lift.

  Disappointed at their lack of warmth, he stepped back to his flat. He had, in fact, deliberately not said “the whole truth”; but he sought to tell the truth because, as he always said, the best lies are the ones that are nearest the truth. The truth minus he called it; it didn’t always work, of course.

  CHAPTER X

  IT WAS ALL RIGHT, he told himself, as he dressed carefully in his courting kit, which he had not worn for months. It consisted of a pale apricot silk shirt, with a stand-up polo collar, the buttons being at the back, very, very smooth, and, in fact, not easy to do up, alone. Over this he wore a shiny black alpaca jacket which had but two buttons, fastening diagonally along one collar bone; it went on over the head. And as to trousers, he wore stretch pants in luminous acid yellow, so that in the pitch dark one could see these moving trousers: very giggle-making indeed, many girls had almost fainted with the shock and pleasure of it.

  He looked at himself in the looking-glass with distaste; his black hair was a good disguise but did not go with the effective orange and lemon ensemble, which had been chosen to make the best of his flaming topknot. It was all right but the whole effect would not make people turn to look at him as they passed him in the street, which was just as well, perhaps. Under the circs.

  Since it was quite clear that nothing was to be had out of the Bogey couple regarding Frances Smith, and incidentally about anything else, including their son Joe, he would have to find Joe and make sure that Frances was actually living in the Bogeys’ flat and if this was so, W. Sledge was going to winkle her out somehow, if it meant watching the flat all day and night. He had now only one ambition left in the world and that was to “make” Frances Smith. Nothing but good could come of it. Since she was clearly a minor, there could be a reward put out by the rich parent for her return or for information. The parent might put an ad in one of the posh papers asking her to return and this Sledge would dutifully persuade her to do, himself taking her to her father’s mansion as his bride. What could the old father do other than give his blessing to a young man who had so honourably … and so on. There were endless permutations and combinations in the Good Luck line, as fore-told by Madame Joan.

  Now that he was going straight (and oh yes! he mustn’t forget that!), now that he was going straight, everything must be straight in line with that; such as marriage in a register office and the lot.

  It might not be long before he, too, had strings attached to his name, like that junky in “I Was Napoleon’s Mistress” … the Honourable. It sounded good and carried weight.

  He would leave his car in the underground garage and take a taxi up West; even though Frances Smith “had it written all over her” this was going to be done the right way, with no fumbling business in the back of the new car.

  He gave himself a final long look in the looking-glass which Amrita had had fixed to the back of the bathroom door. (Bless her, it was tactful of her not to be present this afternoon, when the dicks came!)

  Considering how his nerves had played up today, all that sickness and that, it was marvellous how good he looked. He glanced round to make sure the flat was neat and tidy before he left and closed the front door after him. He flew down the concrete stairs in the old way, like he and Joe did when they were small boys. It made him feel good.

  The day’s shocks were not yet over, though, for wh
at did he see when he went along a little before midnight, as he had so often done when Joe was on late shift? Above the crowd and the smoke, Miss Frances Smith, in a chef’s hat and striped apron, serving pizzas.

  She was extremely busy and did not appear to see him, but that stuck-up ass d’Ambrose saw him and strolled casually towards him. It was disappointing that his dyed hair was not more of a disguise but, of course, d’Ambrose may have been working his way across to him without recognising him, merely to greet another customer. W. Sledge did not wait to see, he slid out and sauntered casually up and down the pavement until he saw Frances Smith emerging from the pizza bar.

  “Hallo!” he greeted her eagerly.

  She simply hurried on; he had to run to keep up with her: “Don’t you recognise me?” He caught hold of her shoulder and jerked her round to face him; she gave a sharp cry of surprise then looked at him contemptuously: “Had your hair dyed, I see!”

  “I’m in mourning … I want to apologise. I’m sorry I behaved so badly; it was a joke.”

  “What was?”

  “Snatching your baggage like that.”

  “Very, very unfunny!”

  “Go on, say you’ve forgiven me.”

  “But I haven’t!”

  “Don’t you see? I did it for keeping in touch!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, how could that ‘keep in touch’?”

  “Well, after all,” he was aggrieved, “I did interdoos you to some of my friends …”

  “God!” she exclaimed, “I do believe you’re half-witted. Leave me alone!”

  “You’ve taken against me!”

  “Taken against you? I was never anything but, surely you can understand that. Do leave go of my shoulder please, or I’ll start to scream.”

  Pavement squabbles are frequent on the stretch of Coventry Street upon which they were now standing; they were not even receiving curious glances. But he did let go of her and hurried along beside her as she went towards the tube station.

  “Where is Joe Bogey?”

  “I’ve no idea!”

  “Taken his job, then, have you?”

  “Temporarily.”

  “Tell me, have the dicks bin after him with questions?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “You can’t kid me, I know you’ve got round Mrs. Bogey to let you stay, I know that. The Bogeys don’t like me, never have; they think I’ve led their son astray. Poor me! Just because I’m the one with the ideers.”

  “Do go away,” she begged, standing facing him now. “I don’t like you, Sludge, or whatever your name is, I really don’t, so eff off, do, and leave me alone.”

  “I’m going your way … I live in Fiery Beacon too.”

  That was the trouble, she had not yet worked out the best way to get there from Piccadilly and wanted to ask a policeman, but she couldn’t see one; the lone bobby soberly stepping it out along the pavement is as obsolete as a hansom cab.

  “Let’s get a taxi!” W. Sledge suggested brightly.

  “Not on your life, boy!”

  “You don’t know the way, do you?” he said slyly. “You’ll have to foller me, you’re lost; don’t know how to get to Battersea, might as well be Timbuctoo for all you know …”

  She darted away from him with extreme speed and jumped into a vacant taxi which stopped so suddenly that the car behind it nearly ran into it and started blowing the horn irritably.

  But he was after her as quickly and trying to wrench open the slammed door, with the other car behind now joining in the cacophony. Inside and holding the door handle, she screamed through the tiny driver’s window: “Quick, quick, don’t let him in and drive to Fiery Beacon.”

  She certainly fired the driver with enthusiasm but it did not matter how enthusiastic he was, with a solid block in front of him and an equally solid block behind, the lights ahead red, the pavements crowded, there was nothing he could do but look wild-eyed, clutch his steering wheel excitedly and rev up his engine.

  A rowdy group of semi-drunken youths were bumping along the pavement, looking for trouble. They got the message upon the instant and with many cries of: “Aw, pack it up, leave the lady be, can’t you see she’s not playing?” they closed in upon Sledge and lifted him bodily, ridiculous trousers and all; laughing loudly and jeeringly, they deposited him with his back to the wall of Bob’s Baked Potato Bar, where it had all started.

  By now the lights had changed and the traffic moving off; Frances looked back through the dark glass of the rear window of her cab and saw him lolling against the wall, an absurdly dressed, white-faced golliwog, his hair having been severely ruffled in the scuffle he could do nothing more menacing to the jeering gang than shake his fist in weak rage.

  Mrs. Bogey had said “Ask no questions” and because Frances loved them and wished to please them, she asked no questions, however agonisingly she wanted to know if they knew where Joe was. She let herself in with the key Mrs. Bogey had given her and heard Mrs. Bogey calling: “Is that you, dear? Come in.”

  She had put Mr. Bogey to bed and, in her dressing-gown, she was drinking some late-night beverage, and occasionally helping Mr. Bogey with his feeding cup. She looked extremely depressed but Mr. Bogey gave Frances a heartening wink.

  “We’ve had the police, dear,” Mrs. Bogey said soberly.

  “But we was bound to,” Pa Bogey said, “as I’ve bin telling the missis.”

  “They brought along a pullover Joe could have worn but, as I pointed out, there’s hundreds of them around.”

  Mr. Bogey said comfortingly: “It was a routine call; we don’t know much about each other in this paradise called Fiery Beacon but over the north side the inhabitants did know that amongst Winston’s playmates was our Joe; their kid went to the same school after all, and not so long ago as all that. There’s still the same headmaster at the school; he could have told them, if anybody else didn’t, that Win and our Joe were buddies.”

  “They’re getting very clever, are the police,” Mrs. Bogey mused, “much cleverer than they used to be; and they don’t make jokes any more.”

  “They’ve got to do a lot of asking,” Mr. Bogey murmured, “we didn’t ought to lose our nerves, bothering.”

  Frances, standing at the foot of the bed, said it was Sledge whom she found much more frightening than the police and told them about the scuffle she had had on the way home.

  “If that happens to you again, scream,” Mrs. Bogey advised. “There’s nothing to equal a good real old tonsil-stretching scream. That and not going anywhere with him where there’s no people around.”

  “Silas d’Ambrose warned me; ‘Wait for me,’ he said, ‘don’t go now, that rat-faced Sledge has just been in, with his shock of black hair.’ He went smartly when he saw Silas had seen him. I couldn’t wait for Silas, he was adding up.”

  “You watch out for Sledge, lassie,” Mr. Bogey advised, “and as Mum says, scream.” He made his strange choking sound, “My word, she couldn’t half scream when she was a girl!”

  Mrs. Bogey slapped him gently.

  Frances looked thoughtfully from one to the other. How could they be so relaxed? Did they not realise how worried she was about Joe? Why were they not a great deal more so?

  “Suppose I get into the lift and find Sledge is there?” Frances suggested with a shiver.

  “I’ll come down with you,” Mrs. Bogey said comfortingly. “Not to worry, dear!”

  “I seem to be out of the frying-pan, into the fire,” Frances moaned, making a wry face. “Still, I’d rather have Sledge than, than someone else.” Or would she?

  “What was that, dear?”

  “Oh, nothing,” she said, turning away to go to the room allotted her. So they were not going to tell her, even if they knew, where Joe was; did they not trust her? But who could trust anybody? she wondered. She had known them a very short time; why should they trust her? Why, indeed, should anyone trust her when she couldn’t even trust herself. Home and the wigged-one was better than this. Afte
r all, they couldn’t carry her to the altar kicking and screaming. She could fight the wigged-one tooth and nail so that the last thing in the world he would want would be to be married to the harridan.

  Why had she not thought of that before?

  Answer: because any excuse to get away from home was better than none; on her eighteenth birthday she had taken stock; where have I got myself? Nowhere but settling in as the daughter-at-home-looking-after-father; and now she could see clearly why her father wanted her to marry the wigged-one in his mansion only a few acres away. Married, she could still look after her father, act as hostess when required.

  She had longed to escape, to experience “adventure.” Was this, then, the longed-for adventure? She thought: if it was, then for God’s sake, acting hostess to a lot of boring old men talking about nothing but horses, who pinched your bottom the moment nobody was looking, was better … just.

  And as for “adventure,” here she was, involved in, well, not actually involved in, but on the fringe of real crime, and what happened? This dear old couple were behaving as though they were at a Darby and Joan tea party; soothing words, smoothing-out, calming-down, brushing under the carpet! There is something nasty in the wood-shed, so don’t look, will you?

  It had all sounded so splendid, her father was selling her; poor little Frances Smith, she thought now, living in her gaudy, unreal, whodunnit world, quite alone.

  Scream, Mrs. Bogey had advised. She felt like screaming all right; she flung herself upon Joe Bogey’s ex-bed and screamed, but silently, into the pillow.

  CHAPTER XI

  SLIPPING WAS THE only word he seemed able to formulate. Slipping! He ranged about the streets looking for an excuse to beat someone up. He passed the pizza bar, closed now. If he had half a brick he’d chuck it through the window. He looked up at the windows of Madame Joan’s flat, blinds closely drawn; he could kick the door down.