The New Eastgate Swing

by Chris Nickson

  ***

  Markham’s neck ached a little and he had a couple of bruises on his chest after yesterday’s crash. But at least his face had almost healed; he wouldn’t look like Frankenstein when Carla saw him.

  He was washing the breakfast pots when he heard the metal clack of the letterbox. Only one thing, a thin cardboard box, with something rattling around inside. Standing by the window, watching people queueing at the bus, he ripped it open and felt inside.

  He froze.

  Very gently he drew the item from the box. A bullet, the metal cold against his fingertips. He rested it on the sill and look at the package. The same printing as the envelope with the lock of Amanda Fox’s hair. Harker.

  It was his message.

  When he left, the box and bullet were in a jacket pocket, and the gun in his overcoat. Just in case.

  ***

  ‘That Riley downstairs, is that yours?’ Baker asked as he walked in and dropped his newspaper on the card table.

  ‘Yes,’ Markham replied. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Still sleeping when I left.’ He hung up the mackintosh and hat and sat with a contented sigh. ‘Twelve hours and counting. I went out to her place last night and picked up a few bits and pieces. The wife thinks she needs feeding up.’

  Did you get anything in the post this morning?’

  ‘Just bills,’ Baker answered. ‘Why?’

  ‘This came for me.’ He placed the box on the green baize. Baker looked at him for a moment, glanced inside, then at the address.

  ‘A reminder. He’s not subtle, is he?’

  ‘It scared the hell out of me.’

  ‘That’s what he wants. You’re the one he sees as a threat. I’m just the fat old bloke. He’s not worried about me.’

  A threat? How? All he’d wanted was to find Amanda Fox. She was safe; it was done. The rest of it didn’t interest him. For all he cared, Harker could bugger off back to Russia.

  ‘Me?’

  Baker shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me why, but he must.’

  ‘I know; I haven’t forgotten.’ Markham’s reply was icy.

  ‘And you don’t give up. It’s one of the things I like about you. You’re like a bloody terrier.’

  ‘But it’s done. We’ve got her back.’

  ‘Not to him, it’s not.’ Baker weighed the bullet in his large palm. ‘That looks like it’ll fit your Walther. You’d better carry it. Always better to have one spare.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Markham arrived ten minutes early and waited outside the ticket barrier. Leeds station was drab and dull, the night already closed around it. Steam filled the air as a wind blew down the platforms, scattering ticket stubs and sweet wrappers.

  He smoked a cigarette, more anxious that he’d imagined. There was a screech of brakes as the train pulled in, slowly juddering to a halt just before the buffers. Smoke poured up to the dirty glass ceiling, making the lights appear hazy and distant. And then a push of people leaving the carriages. He held his breath as he tried to spot Carla.

  Then suddenly she was there. A brilliant daub of colour in a bright red coat and scarlet beret, standing out against the greys and browns and boring blues, peering ahead intently then beaming as she saw him.

  He held her tight. For a moment it was as if the last three years had never happened, that they’d always been like this. She felt so natural in his arms, so right. Markham closed his eyes, only opening them again as she moved and her lips found his.

  ‘Well hello, Dan.’ She smiled. People parted around them as if they were an island.

  ‘Ready for this?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes. Very.’

  She had two suitcases. He lifted one, surprised by the weight inside.

  ‘I thought you were just coming for the weekend.’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I am. But I thought I’d bring a few things down and leave them here. Less to move later. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘No.’ He laughed. It was so typical of her, the way she’d always been. And he had the room. ‘Do you want to eat first or just go home?’

  There was seduction in her eyes.

  ‘That had better not be a serious question, Dan. Not after all this time.’

  ***

  It was half past eight before he slid out of bed and dressed in shirt and trousers. Carla was dozing, curled up under the covers. Barefoot, he tiptoed around the tangle of clothes she’d left on the floor and into the living room.

  The record was still spinning on the turntable, the needle clicking in the final groove. He replaced it with The Amazing Bud Powell, Volume Two, piano, bass, and drums like a soft undercurrent in the flat.

  He peeled and diced potatoes, putting them on to boil, and lit a cigarette as he gazed down at the street. For tonight, the world could go away. It was just him and Carla, locked and bolted safely in this place.

  He’d forgotten what it was like to be so eager for someone, to feel how they were moving, for everything to become so urgent that nothing else existed. But that was how it had been, just like the old days. With Georgina it had been fun, but without that fiery edge of passion.

  ***

  Corned beef hash. The only rationing dish he’d ever enjoyed. Simple, quick. He turned over the LP and went back into the bedroom, rubbing her shoulder gently.

  ‘I’ve made something to eat.’

  ‘God, you’re a lifesaver. I’m famished.’

  She stood and stretched, not self-conscious about her body, pulling on a turquoise Chinese-style dress from one of the suitcases before turning her back to him.

  ‘Can you zip me up?’

  Everything felt natural. The small talk over the food, the shift in musical mood as he replaced Powell with the concentrated intensity of Mingus’ East Coasting. Carla raised her head as the trumpet came in on ‘Memories of You’.

  ‘Is that more by the chap you sent me?’

  ‘No. That was Miles Davis.’

  ‘That’s right. This is good, though.’ She listened for a few seconds more. ‘It’s like these splashes of prime colours peering through a very delicate background.’

  Markham grinned. That was exactly what it was like. And of course she’d see it like a painting.

  ‘Tell me about your work,’ he said. ‘What you’ve been doing.’

  ‘I can show you, if you like.’ She padded to the other side of the room and pulled a small packet from her large handbag. ‘One of the blokes in the art department loves photography. He wanted to take a few snaps. They actually came out quite well.’

  He’d worked in colour, not the black-and-white of holiday pictures developed at the chemist. Markham went through them slowly. There were ideas he remembered from the things she’d done when they’d known each other before. But she’d developed it in startling ways.

  Some of them were abstracts, but containing the ghost of something real, as if it had only just departed. Others took objects but changed them, transformed them.

  ‘Wonderful,’ he said when he eventually pushed the pile back towards her.

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘I do.’ He meant it. He might not understand what she was doing, but it touched him. What was inside her that she could look at the world and see things that way? He spooned coffee into the pot she’d brought back from her trip to Italy three years before, added water, and put it on the gas.

  ‘What about you, Dan?’ Carla reached across and stroked his face. ‘It’s not as bad as you said.’

  ‘Better than a few days ago.’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  He told her about Amanda Fox, the dead Germans, Simon Harker, even the bullet, watching her mouth turn down into a deep, concerned frown. He couldn’t blame her; she’d suffered once because of him. Why would she want that again? But he needed to be honest with her. He wanted her aware.

  ‘God,’ she said when he finished.

  He stared at her.

  ‘After last time I want you to know everyt
hing. If you don’t want to get involved, I’ll understand.’ He swallowed hard, wanting the answer but fearful of it. She took a cigarette from his packet and lit it. Carla stayed silent until she finally ground it out in the ashtray.

  ‘How long before it’s all over?’ she asked.

  ‘Soon,’ Markham told her. ‘Very soon. Long before you move.’

  ‘I hope so, Dan,’ she sighed and put her hand over his. ‘I really bloody hope so.’

  ***

  On Saturday they trailed around Headingley and Hyde Park. Postcards in the windows of newsagents’ shops showed flats for rent. Some she dismissed without even going inside. Others needed inspection but didn’t satisfy.

  Finally, about three o’clock, she spent a good half hour in one of the flats. He sat in the Riley, reading the newspaper. Today was good. This was normal life. Real life. Made up of mundane little tasks and favours. Right now, at least, it made him happy. But he’d still kept his eyes open and checked the mirror regularly when they were driving.

  By the time Carla emerged, smiling triumphantly, he’d finished the paper and set it down on the passenger seat.

  ‘You like it?’

  ‘I’ve taken it,’ she announced excitedly. ‘Do you want to come and see?’

  It was the top floor of a small, detached Edwardian house, with stairs up to an empty attic. Four rooms, including a small kitchen and a bathroom.

  ‘Look at this,’ Carla said once they were in the attic. ‘Windows at each end. There’s plenty of light. It’ll be perfect.’ He hugged her. She seemed to be buzzing and glowing with pleasure. ‘There’s a garden at the back. I’ll be able to sit outside in the summer. And it’s cheap. It’s perfect, Dan.’

  The plans gushed out of her. She was going to learn to drive and buy a car. Travel more.

  ‘We need to celebrate,’ he said when she slowly wound down. Her face was flushed with excitement for the future.

  ‘My treat,’ she said firmly. Before he could object, she added, ‘My work sells reasonably well these days. I can afford it.’

  ‘I’m happy for you.’ He was smiling. ‘I am, really.’

  ***

  A meal at Donmar. They didn’t even need to discuss it, it couldn’t be anywhere else. It had been their place before, now it would be again. She wore a dress with vivid slashes of burgundy and blue, bright against the tired grey of a Leeds winter night.

  She talked about the things she’d do with the flat. The living room was large; she’d break it up with a Chinese screen from a junk shop. Find an old velvet settee.

  He listened happily, sipping at a glass of Chianti, then a cup of the strong coffee once they’d finished eating. It was still only ten. Carla took hold of his hand and started to pull him playfully down the street. He looked around; no one was watching them.

  ‘Studio 20,’ she insisted. ‘Come on, Dan, we have to.’

  Just a few yards from the restaurant he could hear the sound coming from the club. A tenor sax built on a melody, then trumpet took over, the player trying hard to sound like Miles Davis. But who could ever really pull off a trick like that, Markham thought? Good, but not good enough, and not original enough.

  The noise grew as they went down the stairs. He nodded to Bob Barclay and they found a pair of chairs back against the wall. The rhythm section of the band was cooking – double bass, a drummer careful with brushes on the snare and cymbal. And a guitarist he’d seen earlier in the week, leading the skiffle band. This time, though, he was concentrating hard and holding his own.

  There was a poster on the wall advertising Georgina’s appearance. Georgina Taylor. Coming very soon. He’d have liked to see her win over the crowd. But stay away, that was what she’d told him, and he’d do it. She deserved that. It would be her night, her triumph. He didn’t want to ruin it.

  Then the door to the stairs opened and she appeared, as if he’d just summoned her out of thin air. Georgina glanced around and saw him. For a moment they stared at each other. Then she turned quickly on her heel and left again.

  Carla watched it happen, glancing from one face to the other. She leaned close to him and under the music said, ‘That was her, wasn’t it?’ All he could do was nod. She put her hand over his. ‘We can leave if you’d rather.’

  ‘No.’ He gave her a sad smile. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘She’s rather lovely.’

  How could he begin to answer that?

  They stayed for an hour. After a few minutes the music reeled him in. Not perfect, but there was passion behind it as well as thought. The guitarist took a solo, gaining confidence halfway through the first chorus then letting rip as if he’d spent a long time listening to Charlie Christian’s playing. Nothing like his work with the skiffle group. By the time he handed off to the trumpet he’d let the music spiral up to a climax that deserved the applause it received. He smiled bashfully, taking a moment to push back his quiff.

  Hand in hand they walked back to the car. After eleven but the Saturday night people were still moving around. Drunks wandering home from the pubs, couples who’d been to the pictures or the theatre, a few haunted stragglers who seemed to have nowhere to go. No Harker.

  Chapel Allerton was silent. Just the hoot of an owl drifting down from the park a quarter of a mile away. In the flat, Carla flicked on the two-bar electric fire to warm herself and poured a last glass from a bottle of wine. Over the rim she stared at him with mischief in her eyes.

  ***

  ‘It doesn’t matter, you know.’

  Tea in bed, the light through the window like slate.

  ‘What doesn’t?’

  ‘Me seeing her. It was bound to happen sooner or later.’

  She was right. Leeds might be a big city but it was also a very small town. Little groups of people always ran into each other, going to the same places, running with similar crowds.

  ‘It’s not as if I expected you to pine away to nothing, hoping for me,’ Carla added. ‘It’s the past now. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Very much.’ He leaned across and kissed her. Markham thought of asking her about the lovers she’d had. But he didn’t want to know, not really. It was safer to leave that cave unexplored. ‘What do you want to do today?’

  ‘Spend a lazy morning. Maybe we could take a walk later. And I don’t want to be too late back to Durham. I still have to prepare some materials for a class tomorrow.’

  ***

  Carla had her wish. They ate and sat around with the News of the World and the Observer as he played records she wouldn’t have heard. Sandwiches and fruit for dinner, then down to Gledhow Valley Woods in overcoats and gloves. The Walther in his pocket. Back by three.

  She packed her suitcases and stacked them in a corner of the bedroom.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind me leaving them here?’

  ‘Not at all.’ It was a guarantee that she’d return. He liked that. In the living room she stood with her arms around his neck.

  ‘How would you feel about me coming back in a fortnight?’

  ‘I’d like that a lot.’ He grinned.

  ‘Maybe you could come up to Durham, too. It’s a beautiful place.’

  ‘And transport more of your stuff down?’

  ‘Well …’

  ***

  ‘How’s Amanda?’ Markham asked as soon as Baker entered the office on Monday morning.

  ‘Improving.’ He sat heavily, unbuttoning his suit jacket to show a grey cardigan over his shirt and tie. ‘The wife’s feeding her up and she’s sleeping normally.’ He pulled out the pipe and began to fill it. ‘You look happy today. Good weekend?’

  ‘It was, as it happens. Have you had a word with her yet?’

  ‘Last night.’ He settled with a sigh. ‘She’s still very scared.’

  ‘You can’t blame her.’ Markham lit a cigarette.

  ‘I told her she could stay with us as long as she needed. She’ll be sick of our Nancy soon enough. The woman’s clucking round like a mother hen.’

&nb
sp; ‘Did Amanda have anything useful to say?’

  ‘Not much. He had her out at Yeadon, then hauled her over to Morley.’

  ‘What does he think she knows? Why did he kidnap her?’

  Baker shook his head.

  ‘She hasn’t a clue. To hear her tell it, he asked her all kinds of things, didn’t seem to focus on one thing.’

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘He did mention the Leeds War Room.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Region Two Leeds War Room.’ He reeled off the official title. ‘Doesn’t mean anything?’

  ‘No.’ Markham had never heard of it. The place sounded horrific, final.

  ‘They keep it pretty quiet. It’s up on Otley Road, not far from Lawnswood cemetery. Glance to your right when you drive up and you’ll see the radio mast.’

  ‘How do you know about it?’

  ‘Part of being a copper.’ Baker shrugged. ‘Anyway, they don’t use it much these days.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Something to do with the change from atomic bomb to nuclear. It doesn’t give the right protection, they reckon. Seems to me that whatever it is it’ll kill us all anyway.’

  They were both thinking of the thousands of cardboard coffins stored at the old Arvo shadow factory; Markham could see it in the man’s eyes.

  ‘With luck Harker’s gone by now,’ he said.

  ‘If he has any sense,’ Baker agreed. ‘But that bullet you got in the post makes me wonder.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any sign of him.’

  ‘Not seen anyone hanging around near us, either. Maybe your package is his goodbye and he really has scarpered.’

  ‘Maybe. I’ve been trying to work out what this is all about.’

  ‘Go on.’ Baker filled his pipe.

  Markham held up a finger

  ‘First of all, we know at least one of those Germans was a spy, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A second finger.

  ‘And we know Mark Fox was quietly working for the Russians.’