Spend Game

by Jonathan Gash

  I could tell we’d reached the chapel. Tinker was just going to turn right when another motor came close to the van’s side and throbbed in my lughole.

  ‘Stop, Dill.’ Maslow’s voice, the bastard.

  ‘Where’s Lovejoy?’ Oh, hell. Tom Maslow’s voice now.

  ‘He’s, er, at the cottage, Mr Maslow,’ Tinker said suddenly. We all hate talking to the Old Bill.

  ‘With that bird with the big knockers,’ Lemuel said, cackling evilly.

  ‘That’s enough from you.’ The engine boomed and went off in smooth top gear, burning my taxes.

  Lemuel fell about laughing. He and Tinker would be on about having tricked Maslow for months now. ‘They couldn’t find a bottle in a brewery.’

  ‘Where to, Lovejoy?’

  I stayed silent as we trundled towards the main road. The cottage would be like a carnival, what with Maslow wanting my evidence, and Sue charging in on the existing war between Moll and Elspeth. And from the Maslows’ manner they had harsh words for Moll. Maybe Elspeth would catch it, as well, for not informing on me the way Maslow wanted. And Elspeth would fly at Sue for wrongly giving Moll her name that time . . . It was a right mess. The trouble is that absolutely none of it was my fault. Not one bit. I honestly don’t know who gets me in these shambles, but it’s not me, that’s for sure.

  ‘Where to, Lovejoy?’ Tinker said again.

  I was suddenly happy. I held one of the most valuable pieces of post-Georgian silver probably ever made. Me. I was here with it, embracing it. In my very own motor.

  But then I remembered my promise to give it to a museum, the promise which had moved Elspeth so deeply. I’d been really magnanimous, maybe too magnanimous. After all, who’d been sick with terror deep in the earth, down a well full of unspeakable horrors, risking his life hour after hour? Yet I’d promised.

  On the other hand, was my promise spontaneous? Given of my own free will and accord? Or had it been exorted from me? Wrung out of my unwilling soul by Elspeth’s cunning playing on my emotions? Under the blanket I seethed with indignation.

  ‘Lovejoy. Where the frigging hell are we going?’

  Jill’s place is a haven full of hard-working vannies, so that was out. Margaret’s was too near the cop-shop. Lily would instantly phone Patrick, who would be so excited at helping to conceal me for a few days I’d not last an hour. Lemuel’s is a doss house full of fleas. Tinker’s place is so grotty it’s indescribable. Big Frank has so many bigamous wives that he’s always being followed by divorce agents. I ran my mind down the list of friends. And suddenly Helen came to mind. I could see her now in the White Hart, smiling and smoking and stretching her lovely long legs towards the carpet.

  ‘Eh?’ Tinker was asking. ‘You all right?’

  I must have moaned. Helen could be trusted, if I owned up to escaping from Sue and the others. And Helen always had a good string of buyers for precious silver. Well, the bloody museum would want me to give it to them, as a totally free gift. Cheek. After all I’d done. And as for Elspeth, worming that ridiculous promise out of me so treacherously . . . I decided I’d go back to the cottage in a week or so. I like surprises.

  ‘Drop me at Helen’s, Tinker,’ I said, and smiled under the blankets as we took off.