He was rummaging about in the front pocket of the car and found the remains of a packet of cigarettes that the previous owner had left there. And Percy lit one with the lighter his mother had given him.
‘And I shan’t go on lifting cars once I’m married. Not when I’ve got Doris,’ he continued. ‘I shall be on the level then. I’ll run my own garage. I’ll do high‐class hire work on the side. And have a secondhand department. I’ll be a Morris agent. I’ll sell car insurance. I’ll have a hydraulic jack and hot air for drying. I’ll do repairs and re‐boring. I’ll charge ’em plenty. I shan’t go on lifting cars after I’m married. Not when I’ve got Doris.’
He was in a stream of traffic by now. He couldn’t drive fast even if he wanted to. But it didn’t matter. Twenty‐five miles an hour was good enough for him. And in any case this was where he turned off. This was where the road led towards Wimbledon. Wimbledon was important – he’d got it all argued out. Supposing some chap was lifting some car from anywhere to take it to some place, would you expect him to start off almost in the opposite direction? Of course you wouldn’t, not unless you were screwy. And suppose some cop saw you driving it in the opposite direction and remembered you, and suppose things got hot afterwards and they started asking you questions, you could prove it wasn’t you because you weren’t going your way. See?
But Percy’s mind wasn’t on coppers for the moment. It was on pleasanter things.
‘Or I might get clean out of the garage line altogether,’ he promised himself. ‘Build sports cars. Boon specials. And race ’em. Have my own team. Pick up some of the big prizes and put Boon Specials on the market. I might get clean out of the garage line.’
Then a more tender and sentimental mood came over him.
‘My little darling,’ he thought. ‘You’re my Destiny. You’re the girl of my dreams. You’ll look all right in furs. You’ll walk beside me. You’ll have a dressing‐table with a glass top. You’ll dwell in my secret heart. You’ll use scent I choose for you. You’re my Destiny, my little darling.’
He could almost feel her sitting there in the seat next to him. He’d only to lift his hand off the gear lever for it to come to rest on her knee. The silk stocking would give a little squeaky thrill as he drove.
‘Oh Cripes,’ he thought suddenly. ‘Let her like me a bit. I’m not good enough for her, but let her like me.’
He was getting into Wimbledon by now, and so far there hadn’t been a single hitch. Everything had worked out exactly according to plan. In consequence, he was feeling better.
‘Cool as ice, that’s me,’ he told himself. ‘Trust Percy.’
Just in front of him stood the Duke of Marlborough. It was at a cross‐roads and from the way it dominated the place it might have been the civic centre of those parts. It was flood‐lit to show up the modern Tudor beams. And in the flagged courtyard there were cars, parked in a double row. A space in the front one gave him an idea. It wasn’t nine yet, and the film, the big film, wouldn’t be over till ten‐thirty. He’d got all the time he could want. So, waving on the rest of the traffic, he turned into the courtyard. He was just in time to capture the empty parking place from a thirsty little Hillman that came sneaking up.
Inside, the Duke of Marlborough was pretty high‐class. Percy liked the lounge. It was a large impressive sort of room with light oak panelling and lots of little separate tables with green leather chairs. The decorations were high‐class, too. There were long velvet curtains that might have come off a stage and some nice pieces of china on a shelf running round the walls. The whole place had just been rebuilt, which was why everything was so new and fresh looking, even the old parts. The antique copper jugs that hung in a row over the bar were brand new, everyone of them. And even the stag’s head that was mounted over the door was bright and glossy as though it had been shot specially for the opening.
The lounge was full to‐night because it was Sunday. And it was hot. Almost as hot as in the cinema. And noisy. Between sixty and seventy people were crushed in there, all talking at the tops of their voices. Above the noise they made was the constant chink of glasses, the rattle of the cash‐register madly recording the shillings and pennies, and the tinkle of a small bell, like a fire alarm in a doll’s house, as someone scored a lucky shot in one of the pin tables. Business was certainly brisk and change was being passed over the counter in wet handfuls.
It was some time before Percy could get served. And in the interval of waiting he changed his mind several times. Originally he had just meant to order a bitter. Then he thought of a Guinness. Then a whisky‐and‐soda. Finally, the man in front of him ordered a large pink gin. And Percy asked for the same.
It might have been far better if he’d stuck to a bitter. But of course he wasn’t to know that at the time. And because the pink gin seemed just what he needed – ‘I’ve earned it, haven’t I?’ he asked himself. ‘I’m only human, aren’t I?’ – he made his way to the bar a second time and ordered himself another one. It was about nine‐fifteen by now and after he’d finished it he decided that he might as well be going. No hurry. You understand. Just getting the job over and done with.
He couldn’t get out immediately, however. The party at the table behind him was just breaking up and the man with the crushed‐in sports hat and the roll‐top pullover was just leaving.
‘Ta‐ta,’ he said to the girl at the table. ‘You’ll be hearing from me.’
‘Ta‐ta,’ the girl answered.
Percy found himself looking at the girl. And then suddenly he realised who it was he was looking at. It was the Blonde. At the same moment the Blonde looked up and saw him.
‘Hallo Percy,’ she said, smiling at him under her eyelashes. ‘Fancy meeting you.’
He paused.
The Blonde stroked the empty chair beside her.
‘Come and sit down,’ she said.
He took a step, but no more, in her direction.
‘Just going,’ he told her.
‘What’s the hurry?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied grudgingly.
That was just the point: he couldn’t admit that he was in a hurry. ‘Well, come on then.’
He came over, and sat down on the extreme edge of the green leather cushion. It was obvious that he didn’t mean to stop long.
‘You are matey,’ she said.
Over by the door, the man in the crushed‐in sports hat turned and waved. Percy just caught a glimpse of him and then he was gone. He envied him being able to walk out like that.
‘Aren’t you drinking anything?’ the Blonde went on.
‘Finished,’ Percy told her. ‘I was just going when I saw you.’
‘Well, have another one with me,’ she invited him. ‘A short one. Then I’ll be coming along, too.’
He thought rapidly, going over all the possibilities in his mind. He needed time to figure things out. It was no use simply standing there.
‘O.K.,’ he said feebly. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Same as before,’ she answered. ‘Gin and orange.’
When he got back, the Blonde moved her chair closer to his. She let her hand droop down so that he could hold it.
‘Going straight back?’ she asked him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go to… to Victoria.’
The Blonde pouted.
‘I thought perhaps you might have dropped in to see me if you felt that way,’ she told him. ‘But it doesn’t matter.’
Percy felt his heart begin to thump as she said it. He forgot all about Doris for the moment. But he was careful. He wasn’t going to let himself go all to pieces just because he’d been invited.
‘No good to‐night,’ he said. ‘I’m delivering a car for someone.’
The Blonde pouted again and clearly didn’t believe him.
Percy was angry. Now that he’d got over the invitation he wanted to be going.
‘It’s outside in the car park.’
But the Blonde wasn’t giving anythi
ng away.
‘Well, you drop me on the way,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean anything. Just thought you might like to.’
This was worse. She looked more of a blonde than ever to‐night. She’d had her hair done, and her head was covered in a thick fancy work of little yellow curls. If a policeman saw her in a tram‐car he’d guess she’d stolen it.
‘Not supposed to in customer’s cars,’ he blurted out.
Then the Blonde got up‐stage.
‘Oh of course if you don’t want to, it’s different. Sorry I spoke. If you don’t want to be seen with me…’
This wasn’t any better, either. The last thing he wanted was to have her think that he was keeping anything from her. So he grinned politely.
‘I’ll risk it,’ he told her. ‘Only get hanged once.’
‘That’s more like you,’ she said.
She was smiling again now.
As soon as he got outside he realised that the worst had happened. Those three gins had been just one gin too many. He was muzzy. Not badly muzzy. Not swaying or indistinct or anything like that. But definitely not at his best.
‘I’ve to go carefully,’ he told himself. ‘I’ve got to mind my step. I’ve got to go carefully.’
And a silly thought came to him.
‘Suppose when I get back to it the Austin isn’t there? Suppose somebody’s pinched it? Suppose it isn’t there?’
But it was there all right. Over two hundred pounds’ worth of it. The Blonde made her way round to the far door, but Percy stopped her.
‘That door’s jammed,’ he said. ‘You slide over.’
When the Blonde had settled herself in, Percy slammed his door after her. Then he began fiddling about under the dashboard because he’d disconnected the starter.
‘Want a hair‐pin?’ the Blonde asked.
Percy shook his head.
‘It’s O.K.,’ he said. ‘There’s a repair job in this.’
Because he was afraid that he was muzzier than he really was, he was clumsy. He made a mess of getting out of the courtyard. His rear bumper got under somebody else’s mud‐guard. It made a noise like a tin bath tearing.
The Blonde gave a little titter.
‘That’s another repair job,’ she said.
But nobody paid much attention, and Percy didn’t trouble to get out and investigate. He didn’t want to get drawn into a long argument because he hadn’t got time. It was just too bad for someone.
When he got the nose of the car out into the main road he looked carefully both ways before edging into the traffic. The little incident of the mud‐guard had rather unnerved him.
The Blonde noticed this.
‘Why don’t you have “L” on the front?’ she asked him.
‘Not my car,’ Percy told her. ‘That’s why I’m being careful with it.’
‘Do you mean you’ve pinched it?’ she enquired.
She was lighting a cigarette as she was speaking and when it was lit she passed it over to Percy. He took it from her without saying anything and, as he raised it to his lips, he noticed the broad band of lipstick round the butt. Because he was thinking of Doris at that moment, the sight of the wet red cigarette that the Blonde had handed over disgusted him and he wanted to throw it away.
The fog had thickened by now. It was damp and clinging. He started up the windscreen wipers.
‘If I hit anybody I’m finished,’ he kept saying to himself. ‘One tap and I’m out. A ruddy dog’d be enough. If I hit anybody I’m finished.’
‘You talking to me?’ the Blonde asked, and Percy realised that he’d been saying those things out loud.
He shook his head and drove on more carefully than ever. If he was saying things out loud it showed that he must really be muzzy and not just imagining it.
They had reached the outskirts of the Common by now and the silver birches showed up in the headlamps of the car.
‘This is where I can let her out,’ he told himself. ‘This is where I begin to drive.’
The needle of the speedometer started to swing round. Thirty‐five. This was more like it. Forty. Forty‐five. It didn’t matter to him if the car hadn’t been run in yet. He wasn’t going to keep it, was he? Besides this was the authentic thrill of motoring. Nearly fifty. Real open road stuff. Over fifty wouldn’t be safe with this fog about.
‘Look where you’re going,’ the Blonde advised him. ‘You’ve got me in the car, remember.’
Percy started. She’d been quite right to warn him. He’d simply been driving with his eyes fixed on the speedometer: he hadn’t been looking at the road at all. So he stiffened up in his seat and stared grimly out through the windscreen.
Then he saw what the Blonde had really warned him about.
Right in front of him, only fifty yards or so, stood a policeman. And he was flashing his torch at him. Dot, dot, dot, the little beam of light went. Percy felt his jaw drop. Then it tightened again. So They’d got on to him, had They? Somebody had put the word round. They were after him. Well, They weren’t going to get him. Not without a chase. If They wanted him They’d got to come for him. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator and drove straight on.
‘You gone crackers?’ the Blonde asked. ‘He’s trying to stop you. There’s been an accident or something.’
An accident! He didn’t properly hear the words until he was right on top of it. And by then there had very nearly been another one. All he saw was a man lying stretched out flat on the side of the road with his collar open and the two ends sticking up, and his hat all smashed in, lying beside him. That – and the policeman jumping to one side as Percy and the Blonde shot past him.
He felt sick when he realised that he’d nearly killed the policeman. Suppose he had? But it was bad enough the way things were, wasn’t it? The cop would be bound to report what had happened. He might even get a patrol out. Then Percy’d be in the gravy all right. He’d have something to think about.
As it was, the Blonde was behaving queerly. Under that hard exterior she’d got no nerves at all. She was screaming at him to stop.
‘Let me out,’ she was saying. ‘I don’t like it. Let me out.’
‘You shut your trap,’ he told her. ‘You get out when I say so.’
He was still driving fast and the fog or mist or whatever it was, was thicker. He turned his headlamps off. The fog was hitting back at him and he didn’t want to go about with a bleeding halo round him. They would be after him now for sure.
‘Let me out.’
The Blonde was clawing at him by now, and the time for politeness was over.
‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll make you.’
‘You try!’
She caught hold of his collar and pulled. She’d got her fingers down inside his neck. She was throttling him. Just as the stud broke and the collar went loose again, he got his hand free and shoved it in her face. The car gave a nasty swerve as he did so. But it taught the Blonde a lesson.
She started whimpering. Then, suddenly, in front of her in the dashboard pocket with the cigarettes, she saw a spanner. It was a large one with a head like a battle‐axe. She grabbed at it and held it over him.
‘Now will you let me get out?’
It was the sort of moment Percy had often read about – when everything depended on keeping calm.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Do it. Then we’ll both be killed.’
He accelerated again as he said it. He knew she’d never dare. But at the last moment just as she hit him he knew that she was going to. His left hand helped to soften the blow. Even so, the spanner went right down into his hat. It hurt, and because it hurt he forgot No. 1 had always told him about keeping cool. Driving with one hand, he wrenched the spanner from her, and hit back. She was trying to stop him, wasn’t she?
And he got her all right. He felt the jar run right up his arm as the sharp end of the spanner caught her. She simply folded up away from him. And that was the end of her. She fell back against the door and the little
wad of paper came out. The door swung open and a moment later Percy was in the car alone.
This time he didn’t care who was following. He just jammed the brakes on and brought the car up rocking. There were nearly twenty feet of skid marks in the road behind him. And almost lost in the mist the Blonde was lying all doubled up just as she’d fallen. He started to run back. When he got to her – it surprised him to find what a long way it was – he saw that she must have rolled over and over when she hit the road. Everything on her was torn.
What was worse was the way she was lying. Her head was twisted right back. And she was looking up at him.
Looking up at him with a dirty lifeless face down which a thick dark caterpillar of blood was crawling.
‘I’m getting out of this,’ Percy told himself. ‘I don’t like it. I’m getting out.’
3
That’s what it was like on the spot. But come up a bit higher, get an angel’s view as it were. What’s it like now? Well, travelling across the South, the red foothills of Surbiton give place to the grey brick forests of Wimbledon. And then, like the primitive jungle itself crisscrossed with tracks, the Common – Wimbledon Common – comes right up against habitation. There are no outposts. It is simply there. You can’t see much of it because of the mist. It is only in patches that the ground is showing. And in one of these patches where the road is gleaming, a crowd is gathered. It is quite a big crowd with two policemen and a tall white ambulance. The ambulance is for the Blonde. But she doesn’t know it. They’ve put a blanket over her.
Then the crowd divides because there is something coming. It is a police car. The police car stops and three men in raincoats get out. The fourth continues to sit there in the back with his ear‐phones on. The others say something to him and begin to move off across the bracken to where an abandoned car is standing with its side lights still on.
Silly wasn’t it, of Percy to leave the lights on? But he couldn’t really be blamed. He’d lost his nerve by then, and wasn’t responsible.
Further over among the bushes a policeman who has found Percy’s snap brim trilby is blowing his whistle. Coming out of the darkness the policeman’s whistle sounds like some melancholy nightbird.
London Belongs to Me Page 23
