A Little White Death

by John Lawton

He slept. The bonfire was warm. When he awoke it was cold. The day was sunny and he knew from the angle of the sun slanting in through the broken windows that it was way past noon.

  An hour or so later the boy reappeared and gave him a Mars Bar and a Sherbert Fountain to eat. Afterwards, Troy decided to try his legs. They weren’t exactly steady, but they got him upright. He leant on the boy, who seemed both frightened and delighted by this action. They hobbled round the floor of the warehouse together, and Troy realised sharply that he had glass embedded in his feet. He had the boy lower him onto the pallets, and swung his foot upward to inspect the damage. He couldn’t see anything for dirt, but then he couldn’t walk either. Something had to be done.

  ‘Is that where they went?’ the boy asked suddenly.

  ‘Where what went?’

  ‘The nails.’

  ‘Nails?’

  ‘He thinks you’re Jesus,’ said a familiar voice from the doorway. ‘They’ve all been to see that film Whistle Down the Wind at the Troxy down the Commercial Road. And when you told ’em you’d fallen from the sky . . . what with the blood on your hands and feet.’

  It was George Bonham, retired Station Sergeant Bonham, his old boss from his days as a constable. The man Kolankiewicz had as good as told him he neglected. A man seven foot tall in the blue pointy hat, now looming large and hatless over him.

  ‘What have you been up to, Freddie?’

  ‘Wish I knew, George, wish I knew. How did you find me?’

  ‘Betty Spenser. The little girl as give you her teddy. She cried to her mum that their Julie had made her give her Teddy to Jesus. It all came out then. Their mum came to see me. No point in retiring from the force ’round ’ere. You’re still a copper as far as everybody else is concerned. Sort of village headman. O’ course I’d already heard from Kolankiewicz that you’d gone missing, so I put two and two together. It would be typical of you to fall from the sky after all.’

  ‘Have I been here long?’

  ‘’Bout two days I reckon.’

  ‘Can you get me out of here?’

  Bonham hauled him to his feet as though he weighed no more than a couple of pounds. Tucked him under one arm, Teddy under the other.

  ‘All arranged,’ he said. ‘Your carriage is waiting.’

  They emerged onto the street. There was the Fat Man, waiting, almost smiling and tut-tutting at the same time.

  ‘No,’ said Troy. ‘Not that fucking motorbike again!’

  ‘Language, Freddie. There’s kids about.’

  Indeed there were. The three kids of yesterday had been joined on the pavement by half a dozen others.

  ‘I meant I’ll rattle to pieces.’

  ‘Nah,’ said the Fat Man. ‘When Sergeant Bonham explained the mess you were in, I went and got the Bentley. You’ll be snug as a buginarug.’

  The car was parked around the corner. Bonham stuck him in the passenger seat. He did not feel like Jesus; he felt like a scarecrow. He must look like a scarecrow. He had no jacket, just a filthy white shirt and his trousers. His wallet had gone with his jacket in the Thames.

  ‘George. Could you give them something? I’ve no money. I rather think they may have saved my life.’

  Bonham fished in his pocket, found half a dozen half-crowns and a few florins.

  ‘Jesus would like to give you something,’ he said as he dished out the boodle. He turned back to Troy, winked and beckoned the Fat Man to drive on. The little girl made a dash for him and retrieved her Teddy.

  Jesus, thought Troy. Jesus. ‘Get me home,’ he said to the Fat Man.

  ‘Home,’ said the Fat Man. ‘Home be buggered. You’re going to the nearest hospital.’

  Shit, thought Troy.

  The Fat Man swung the car up onto The Highway and seemed to be heading for the London Hospital. Troy could see no point in trying to stop him. The Fat Man was bigger than he was.

  ‘Did you fall from the sky?’ the Fat Man asked.

  ‘No I was pushed. Knocked senseless and pushed off the Hungerford Bridge to drown.’

  It was as well the Fat Man had asked. It had forced Troy to remember.

  § 115

  The London Hospital X-rayed his head and pronounced it whole. A bone in his right hand was broken. They bandaged it up with a wooden splint like a lollipop stick. Told him he was lucky it was just the one bone. His left hand had ceased to bleed. They cleaned the wound and bandaged that too. They picked the glass out of his feet with tweezers and stuck Elastoplast over the cuts.

  Washed and clean, in hospital-loaned pyjamas, he lay in a single room, in peace and quiet, watching the evening sky turn black. He had not asked for the room; the Fat Man must have arranged VIP treatment for him. It was the same room he had lain in in 1944 after Diana Brack had shot him and blown away half a kidney. He had lain here and watched the big windows blown to crystal by a doodlebug. And Onions had stormed in and all but read the riot act to him.

  Onions’ days were over. Just when he needed Onions he got Coyn. All buttons and bows in his Commissioner’s uniform, with a look of deep concern – how neutral concern was, how devoid of any specifiable feeling – where Onions would have blazed with rage.

  He came in quietly and drew a chair up to the bedside.

  ‘This is most unfortunate,’ he said. ‘The South Bank is become a robber’s haven. Something will have to be done.’

  ‘I wasn’t robbed. You know I wasn’t robbed.’

  Coyn did not look at him, ignored what he said. He would say what he had come to say regardless of Troy.

  ‘Make a statement when you’re up to it. Describe him if you can. We’ll catch this villain, Freddie.’

  ‘I can give you his name. Wallace Curran.’

  Coyn ignored this too. Looked at a spot on the wall rather than catch Troy’s eye.

  ‘I’ve had time to think while you were away. We received a report from the psychiatrist Blood was seeing. It seems that Percy was a deeply disturbed man. The coroner will likely as not record a verdict of suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed. You’ll have to give evidence of course, but it should be little more than a formality now we have the medical report. Blood was mad. It explained a lot of things. Why he killed himself, why he killed poor Mary and why he killed Fitzpatrick. It wraps up a lot of loose ends. We none of us suspected Blood. It was excellent police work on your part. First rate.’

  No it wasn’t – it was obvious police work. Blood was a blunderer.

  ‘And of course it also explains why he killed young Jackie Clover. He’d become obsessed with finding her. I shall have to talk to her grandfather.’

  If Coyn was waiting for Troy to volunteer for that task, he would wait for ever. He muttered platitudes about a speedy recovery, get back to work as soon as you can, if there’s anything, anything at all, just call me, I’ll look in on you later in the week, and then he put his chair back neatly where he had found it, forced a smile and headed for the door.

  ‘Don’t you want to know who Wallace Curran is?’ Troy said.

  ‘I didn’t hear that, Freddie.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know who Wallace Curran is?’ Troy yelled.

  ‘The case is closed, Freddie. That’s final. That’s an order.’

  Troy yelled it all the louder. Coyn closed the door behind him. Troy yelled at the closed door until a nurse came in and firmly and politely told him to shut up.

  Five seconds after she closed the door on him it opened again. Jack came in, clutching a small suitcase. It was an oh-so-familiar moment.

  ‘Clean shirt, new suit, socks, shoes, the lot. The Bentley’s in the car park. Coyn never saw me.’

  Troy threw back the covers and swung his feet to the floor. He’d never in his life been quite so glad to see Jack. And he’d lost track of the number of times Jack had shown up in a hospital ward to bail him out.

  ‘Am I going to spend the rest of my life getting you out of scrapes, Freddie?’

  They made it out to the car park, Troy s
till buttoning his shirt, the nurse trailing after them in protest until Troy firmly and politely told her to fuck off.

  ‘Where to?’ said Jack.

  ‘Hampstead. I have to see Rod.’

  ‘Rod?’

  ‘Coyn closed the case on me. I have to go over his head. Through Rod to the Home Secretary.’

  ‘Playing with the big boys, eh?’

  ‘If you like.’

  Jack steered with one hand and fished in his pocket with the other.

  ‘Then I think you’ll find these a useful combination.’

  He handed Troy his warrant card and the bottle of Dexedrine.

  ‘I went in to pick up your clothes after the Fat Man phoned me. I found these on the kitchen table. I rather thought you wouldn’t want to be without either.’

  Troy pocketed the warrant card – felt armed again, like the gunslinger in the western holstering his gun – and swallowed two Dexedrine. He held the bottle out to Jack.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Jack.

  Jack’s metabolism worked quicker than Troy’s. Roaring up Rosslyn Hill, he said, ‘Thar she blows,’ and grinned at Troy like an idiot.

  § 116

  Rod seemed so beaming smiley – elated. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ Jack and Troy stood on the doorstep of Rod’s house in Church Row, wondering if he’d tell them what was so marvellous or let them in. ‘What?’ said Troy. ‘He’s gone. The old bugger’s finally gone.’ ‘Who?’

  ‘Macmillan. The Prime Minister! He’s said he’ll resign as soon as the Tories can select a new leader.’

  ‘I thought Tory leaders fell from heaven,’ said Troy. ‘Now, are you going to let us in?’

  ‘Eh? What? Of course.’

  Rod stepped aside. Jack plonked down Troy’s suitcase and his briefcase containing the “documents in the case”, and said, ‘I can’t stop.’

  ‘Nonsense. Come and have a snifter. It’s been ages since we—’

  ‘Sorry, Rod. The job calls. Freddie, you will phone me? As soon as there’s anything?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Troy.

  Rod shifted quickly from beaming to babbling. ‘I mean – ideally one would want him there till the last minute, but it’s always such a buzz when one of them finally goes. He says it’s his prostate trouble, but it’s just as much the Woodbridge business. You’ve only just caught me, you know. I only got back from our Party Conference tonight. It was a cracker.’

  In the living room Troy slumped on the sofa and wondered if he could be bothered to listen to any of this. Rod perched on the edge of his chair – absurdly animated.

  ‘For the first time it actually felt as though we were on the verge of power. Hatchets buried. United. It was great. Wilson even made a good speech. An absolute rouser. “The white heat of the technological revolution”.’

  Troy had closed his eyes. He opened one at this.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Well . . . not meaning anything actually. After all, I should think the nearest Wilson has ever come to grasping technology is playing with his blasted Meccano kit. But that’s hardly the point is it? It’s catchy, it’s new! It’ll appeal to the punters.’

  ‘Is that the ethos of the new Labour Party? Anything for power? Tell the voters any old twaddle? After all, they aren’t so much voters as punters?’

  ‘Freddie – so help me I’ll thump you!’

  Troy held up his white-wrapped hands.

  ‘Ready when you are, Cassius.’

  Rod seemed to notice him for the first time, took in the broken hands, the whopping great bruise on his forehead, the washed-up, washed-out colour of his skin.

  ‘Fucking hell. What happened to you? You look like something the cat dragged in!’

  Troy told him.

  Rod heard him out and then said, ‘Why have you come to me, Freddie?’

  ‘I can’t let it drop now. Coyn is an ass. I have to bypass him. I have to talk to the Home Secretary.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I want you to arrange a meeting with Nick Travis.’

  ‘You’ll have to be quick. Their Party Conference starts this week. With Mac out the way it’ll be a free-for-all.’

  ‘That’s why I’m asking you.’

  Rod thought about this.

  ‘Of course you could just go and knock on his door.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ said Troy.

  ‘He lives on the other side of the Row. The house due opposite.’

  ‘Good Lord. How long’s he been there?’

  ‘About a year. He’s not in now. There’s no lights on, and his wife seems to spend as little time there as possible. I get the impression they fight like cat and dog.’

  ‘Do you see much of him?’

  ‘What? You mean do I nip over and ask to borrow a cup of sugar? He’s a Tory, for crying out loud.’

  ‘I just thought. You work in the same place. Travel the same route . . .’

  ‘We don’t share a cab, if that’s what you mean. He has a Home Office chauffeured car and I take the bloody Northern line. You can’t socialise with the fuckers, Freddie, really you can’t. Cid tried. Popped over to introduce herself to Jane Travis the day after they moved in. Won’t make that mistake again. If there’s one thing Tory wives hate more than Labour wives, its Labour wives with titles. I bet she spat feathers when Cid said “call me Lucinda” after the first utterance of “Lady Troy” – must have choked the bitch to have to utter those two words.’

  ‘Is she a bitch?’

  ‘One of the worst. I think the marriage only holds together because he wants a crack at the leadership. Well – now’s his chance.’

  Troy pulled Rod back to the point.

  ‘No – I can’t just walk across and ring on his bell, this is official.’

  ‘If it’s official, why have you come to me?’

  ‘You’re the Shadow Home Secretary.’

  ‘No – I’m your brother. In coming to me you want a favour. You’re pulling a string. So it isn’t official.’

  ‘Yes it is. If I go through channels, as I’ve every right to do, it’ll take days maybe even a couple of weeks to get to Travis. I need to talk to him tomorrow. The favour you do me is that you create the access – a hotline if you like. Once we get there, it’s official.’

  ‘You’ll have to give me something in writing.’

  Troy held up his hands again.

  ‘I can’t type.’

  ‘I can. You’re looking at the fastest two-fingered typist in Westminster.’

  ‘You mean you’ll do it? You’ll make the call?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll call him first thing in the morning. And I’ll drop off whatever we bash out tonight. But I’ll warn you now. If you’re going to bang on about the spooks and this Curran chap, forget it. The shutters will come down like closing time at the fishmonger’s. Travis won’t even consider seeing you.’

  ‘Curran is my suspect. More than that, he did it. He had Clover killed. He had me sapped on the head and dumped in the Thames.’

  ‘Take my advice. If you mention M15 to Travis you’ll get nothing but silence.’

  ‘OK,’ said Troy reluctantly. ‘If that’s the way it has to be.’

  They moved upstairs to a box room Rod laughingly called his study. He had a prewar manual Corona typewriter set up on a tiny writing desk, a beautiful machine, bright with chipped green paint and gold lettering, the sort that still dealt in guineas rather than pounds. It had belonged to their father. He had personally typed up an account of Lawrence’s entry into Damascus on it more than forty years ago. There was probably sand in the works to this day. In amongst the parliamentary bumf there was just enough room for Rod and Troy.

  Troy thought, spoke, Rod typed; Troy thought, spoke, Rod argued.

  ‘Keep it simple, Freddie. Travis is going to give this about five minutes flat. Just stick to the facts. Stop speculating.’

  Troy dictated again. Rod was right. He was the fastest two-fingered typist in the West. All the same, they had
taken an age to get through three pages, and they weren’t done yet.

  Rod’s wife, Cid, brought in beef sandwiches and beer. She kissed Troy on the forehead. Told him he’d used up eight of his nine lives.

  Troy realised he had scarcely eaten in more than three days. He wolfed the sandwiches and left Rod the beer. When they had finished it ran to five typed pages, and struck Troy as oversimplified, but Rod pronounced himself pleased with it.

  ‘It gets to the point. And above all you won’t trigger his alarm bells. When you’re writing to a politician that’s the first thing to remember. Political man is wired like Fort Knox, designed to go off at the slightest sign of trouble. Now—’

  He looked at his watch.

  ‘You’re staying the night.’

  ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘Yes you are. You look like shit. And as my wife so rightly says, you’ve only the one life left. Time you took better care of it. Sleep in in the morning. I’ll call home as soon as I get any word from Travis.’

  Troy stopped arguing. Clean sheets could be such a joy.

  § 117

  The phone went around ten fifteen the next morning. Cid woke Troy and told him Rod wanted him.

  ‘He’ll see us. Straight after lunch. Two thirty.’

  Troy pondered the ‘us’, but accepted it. That was the price he paid for dragging Rod into this.

  He rose slowly, accepting everything Cid set in front of him. Fresh, strong coffee. Porridge. He could not remember when he’d last had porridge. He never made it for himself. The washingup afterwards always seemed like too much trouble. He walked around the kitchen. What was it L.P. Hartley had written? “Only a cad eats his porridge sitting down”? Looked at the shelves of cookery books. Cid had the same one Clover had used; Troy had never thought of Cid as ever having lived in a bedsit. Said hello to the family tom who hissed and lashed out at him and retreated under the stove. Then he got stuck into bacon and eggs and fried bread. All in all, it was bliss.

  At ten to three, he sat in the Home Secretary’s outer office listening to two typists rattle away. Every so often the shift arms would be pushed at the same moment and the banality of synchronicity would ring forth. Somewhere in the civil service hereafter, the great typing pool in the sky, a shorthand angel got her wings. When he got bored with this, he thought, he’d try seeing faces in the wallpaper. But there was no wallpaper, only an off-white paint, sort of eggy-creamy. Why did these bastards always keep you waiting? Why was Rod late?