A finger doubled plus nine digits gave eleven, Jack thought, and said "You're saying that to your, luck."
"No, I'm fucking saying it to you, pal," Colloran shouted, grinding the flint with the wheel of the lighter. "Get out while you've got some luck of your own left."
"I'm afraid my luck is why I'm here, Mr. Colloran."
Colloran pressed the wheel viciously, and a flame sputtered up from the lighter. "That's it. I warned you," he said, and pulling his mask down, lit the torch and turned its nozzle towards Jack.
Though Jack was about ten feet away he felt the heat on his chest as if a ray of sunlight had been focused on him. He imagined producing his own blow lamp imagined the Count of Eleven joining combat with the helmeted Black Knight, grinned at the thought of how surprised the eyes behind the glassed-in slit would look except that producing the blow lamp would take time, and Colloran could hardly be expected to wait for Jack to light it. As the mechanic gestured menacingly with the blowtorch, Jack dropped his briefcase next to one door of the dismantled Datsun.
Colloran took a step towards him as Jack grasped the inner handle of the door. "The Count needs no weapon but a shield," Jack said, and lifting it in front of him, strode at the mechanic, almost running.
For at least a couple of seconds Colloran watched him in disbelief, and then he jabbed the roaring torch at him. Jack met it with his shield. The door clanged against the nozzle, knocking the blowtorch around in Colloran's hand. At once the chest of his overalls began to smoke, and he gave a muffled hollow sound of pain and rage as he stumbled backwards. The next moment he trod on a spanner and crashed onto his back on the concrete floor with such force that the mask jerked up, exposing his chin.
He must be stunned, because he didn't move, even though the jet of the blowtorch was pointing straight at his face. His hold on the blowtorch slackened, and it would have rolled off his chest if Jack hadn't placed one foot on it. The damage had been done, and it was best to finish what had started. Jack pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the handle while resting the door against his chest and his other arm, then he let the shield fall and wadded the handkerchief over his nose and mouth so that he could stop holding his breath. He felt the beginnings of a struggle underfoot, but the movements ceased before he would have had to look. As soon as he sensed that it was safe to take his weight off his foot he did so and picked up the briefcase, let himself into the deserted street, wiped the handle of the wicket as he closed the door, climbed into the van and released a long sigh.
He rolled the window down and drove into Birkenhead. By the time he reached the pizza parlour the breeze had blown away the hint of queasiness he'd begun to experience. He kept the window shut on the way home, and the aroma of pizza made his mouth water. As he carried the boxed pizza up the garden path, Julia opened the front door. "How are you feeling?" he said.
"Much better. Starving. I didn't need to send you after all."
"Don't be so sure," Jack told her, and smiled so that she wouldn't wonder what he meant. "Let's get it while it's hot," he said.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The first person Jack tried to phone at lunchtime, a dressmaker by the name of Amy Conning, was represented by an answering machine. "No, no," Jack murmured, wagging his finger at the receiver, and tried Fazackerly of Fazakerly. The phone began to beep like a toy car running wild. A woman with a toddler in a buggy was doing her best to catch Jack's eye in the mirror on the wall of the phone box, but he avoided looking at her until she moved away. He wanted to finish his calls, and he was hoping that at least one of the people he contacted would prove to have responded to his letter.
A tanker thundered towards the motorway, shaking the booth and shrouding it in fumes, as Jack placed the next call. This one seemed promising, even though he didn't believe in what the woman stood for. "Hello," she said almost at once.
"Ursula Gemini, the clairvoyant?"
"It's Ursa, dear. What would you like?"
Jack hadn't predicted her briskness. "I wrote to you a few weeks ago," he began.
"I don't do postal readings, dear. I believe in the personal touch. Would you like to arrange a time?"
"Perhaps I can just talk to you now. It won't take long."
"I only do it face to face, dear. Were you planning to make an appointment? I've a lady here now waiting for her future."
Though Jack felt he had been out manoeuvred he was more amused than irate. "How long is a session?"
"That depends on how clear you are, dear. A trial is usually about half an hour."
"Monday morning?"
"I could fit you in at eleven."
"Perfect. I'll see you then." Jack said, and was lowering the receiver when she said "I need a name."
Names raced through Jack's mind like the symbols in a fruit machine, two of which came to rest. "Bernard Onze," he said.
"Can you spell that for me, dear?"
Jack did so and rang off. She didn't sound much of a clairvoyant she hadn't seen through his false name but if anyone should believe in the power of the letters, she should. He tried the plumber's number again, and this time he got through. "Fazackerley of Fazakerley," a woman said.
"Could I speak to Mr. Fazakerley?"
"I'm sorry, he's not here at the moment. Can I take a message?"
"It's rather difficult to explain. Have you a number where I could reach him?"
"How urgent is it?"
"Very."
"You could, I suppose, but I don't know what good it'd do. He's out on a big job, and he does them all by himself." She rustled papers like a pet building a nest, then said "Here's the number, anyway. Bill doesn't like to let anyone down."
That's kind of him."
"In case you don't manage to get him, who shall I say? This is his wife."
"Don't worry, I'll get him," Jack said, depressing the receiver rest gently. As he dialled he found himself willing her husband to have responded to the letter, or failing that, to be open to persuasion. He didn't like to think of causing her pain.
The phone rang eleven times, then eleven. Jack imagined the plumber busy with a blowtorch, and willed him to turn it off. Five more pairs of rings, and perhaps one more had just begun when the phone was lifted. "Aye, who's this?" said a slow male voice.
"Bill Fazackerley?"
"Aye."
He must be alone in the building, Jack reflected, and tried not to begin thinking prematurely along those lines. "Your wife told me where to find you."
"Aye."
"I'm sorry to trouble you at work," Jack said, making a wish as he took a breath. "It's about a letter."
"Oh, aye." Fazackerley's tone had become guarded. "What kind of letter would that be?"
"About good luck."
"Oh."
Jack closed his eyes, feeling heat waver through him as though he was turning into it. Fazackerley's syllable a weary groan seemed to have told him all that he needed to know. "Mr. Fazackerley," he said into the blaze behind his eyelids, "if I could just—"
"God love us," the plumber said with such ponderous force that each word sounded like a knell. "Don't tell me you're another."
"Another what?"
"Another she sent one of them letters."
Jack steadied himself by pressing one hand against the hot glass of a window. "Who?"
The wife."
"Forgive me, but are we talking about the same letter?"
"The one about thirteen bringing you good luck."
"The very one," Jack said, opening his eyes to a world renewed by sunlight. "I just wanted to let you know it works."
"Oh, aye."
"Believe me," Jack said, for Fazackerley sounded less than convinced. "I didn't tell your wife, but I hope you will, and thank her for me. Good luck to you both."
"Aye," the plumber said, retreating with what might have been embarrassment into his initial brusqueness, and Jack hung up at once. He felt enormously relieved for the Fazackerleys, and grateful to them for confirming his impress
ion that anyone sympathetic must respond to his appeal for good fortune. "Let's keep this simple," he said to the mirror as he placed the next call.
"Doctor Globe's surgery."
"Could I speak to the dentist?"
"What concerning, please?"
"It's easiest if I explain to him." Then a child started crying in the background, growing louder, and the receptionist said "I think he's finished. Who shall I say?"
"He won't know me."
"I see," the receptionist said dubiously, and Jack heard her hand cover the mouthpiece. After a few seconds the seashell hollowness went away, and a male voice said "Edwin Globe. Is there some problem?"
"Sounds like it," Jack admitted as the crying was done away with by the slam of a door. "I'm following up some correspondence."
"What firm are you?"
There's no firm, just you and me. I wrote to you a few weeks ago inviting you to improve your luck, and I was wondering—"
"That's the reason for your call." The dentist gave a sound too curt to be called a laugh. "Professionalism gets everywhere these days."
"Apparently," Jack agreed through his teeth. "I wonder if you've had a chance—"
"If you're asking after your letter, it went in the bin with the rest of the day's waste."
"I thought it might have. I don't suppose you'd reconsider if I sent you another."
"You suppose correctly. Now unless you—"
"Thank you for helping make my mind up," Jack said, putting a full stop with the receiver rest halfway through the sentence. He'd taken a dislike to the dentist as soon as he'd heard the crying. A glance at his watch showed him that he was due back at the library in a few minutes. He re dialled the dressmaker's number.
Amy Conning. I'm not able to come to the phone just now. If you'd like to leave your name and number—"
"I wouldn't," Jack said, and cut her off.
She could be there in the flesh, listening in order to decide whether to pick up the phone, but if she wasn't he would have had to record a message more explicit than he cared to leave. She would wait, he told himself, and crossed the road to the library, feeling invisible and safe. All the same, his failure to establish whether she had helped his family nagged at his thoughts, and so he resolved to phone her again from the safest place he could think of. He was almost home at the end of the afternoon when he parked the van and went into the police station.
There was no risk. Nobody would overhear him. The counter was deserted, and in any case he was invisible. He fed the phone some coins and watched the display tot them up to thirty-three. "Amy Conning," the voice said after three pairs of rings, as usual. Jack was awaiting the rest of the message when she repeated "Amy Conning."
"Sorry, I thought you were—You sounded like—" Jack watched the display of his credit linger over twenty-three, and began again. "I believe you received a letter about good luck."
"Have you a problem with that?"
"I haven't, no," Jack said, rather thrown. "Have you?"
"I hope not. Why not start by saying who you are."
"I don't think that's necessary."
"Then I won't discuss it over the phone."
"You should have," Jack said regretfully, dropping the phone on the hook and collecting his unused change from the chute. She would find him altogether surer of himself when they met face to face. He thought of phoning again as Bernard Onze, if a name was all she wanted, but it seemed clear from her tone that she hadn't responded to the letter. He pocketed his change, the clown's head nudging his fingertips, and turned to the door. Three policemen and four other people were coming towards him, blocking the width of the steps, and one of them was pointing at him.
Those who weren't policemen were the Evanses, Glint and Lee and Eli and their mother. There he is," she protested at the top of her shrill voice. "He's the one you should be locking up."
Each of the policemen was leading one of her sons by the arm, and the one who had hold of Eli was Pether. He shouldered the door aside and met Jack's eyes as the policeman leading Clint said "Mrs. Evans, I should advise you—"
"Don't you try to shut me up. You wouldn't if I had the sort of money your friend has. Nobody listens to a mother on her own who has to skimp and scrape. It was him and his daughter who he lets run wild who gave my sons a bad name, so whose fault is it if they get into trouble? You'd be taking her away if there was any justice in the world instead of letting them keep the fortune them and the paper tricked someone into sending them at me and my boys' expense."
During her diatribe the policemen had herded the boys onto chairs in a waiting area off the lobby. As Pether stood on guard, Jack went to him. "You won't need me, will you?"
Pether shook his head. "We caught them in the commission of a burglary," he murmured, sounding almost apologetic. "I think you can safely spend any money you've been saving for court costs." As Jack moved towards the door, ignoring Mrs. Evans, Pether added "My father said to thank you for the boots."
"You're in league, the lot of you," Mrs. Evans screamed, and continued along those lines as Jack descended the steps. Screams could be music, he thought with a grin, and hastened home to tell the family as much of his good news as he could.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The early hours of Monday were so hot that Jack dreamed he was in Greece, where the colours burned and the sea felt more like sand than water. He awoke feeling parched and had several glasses of water for breakfast. "I hope you won't have to queue long in this heat," Julia said.
"It'll be worth it to make sure our passports are on the way through the system."
"I could go if you like."
"Don't say that, or you'll have me feeling I'm no use."
"We'll still keep you as an ornament," Julia said.
He returned her grin, though he felt embarrassed by his subterfuge. There wouldn't be many more scenes like this, he promised her. Of course their passports, like everything else in their lives, would take care of themselves so long as he did what was necessary. "I'd better be off before it gets too hot," he said, and made for the van.
The hard-edged sun in the desert sky looked shrunken by its own heat. The tunnel under the river offered the only available shade. The route to the clairvoyant's led through the suburbs of Liverpool into Skelmersdale, a newish town which appeared to have been built in anticipation of a future yet to be filled in around it. Enormous circular slices of lawn interrupted roads split down the middle by fields, and the roadsides were scattered with isolated clumps and rows of identical houses like the first growth of some new boxy vegetable encased in corrugated chocolate bark. Crumpled sheets of greasy paper lay on the verges as if maps had been forsaken by walkers who'd given up trying to find their way or any pavements. When Jack began to suspect that he'd driven around the same roundabout twice he stopped the van and opened the road map.
He was leafing through the book when four children, three boys and a girl, came into sight wheeling a supermarket trolley alongside a row of maisonettes identical except for the patterns of their net curtains. All the children looked about eleven years old. They saw Jack and went into a muttering huddle, then they approached the road with four inventively varied kinds of swagger which were presumably meant to imply that they had every right to be off school or that it was none of Jack's business. The girl glanced at the van and nudged the nearest boy, and the two of them came to the passenger window while the others dawdled past with the trolley. "Do you sell dishes, mister?" the girl demanded.
"Dishes of what?"
She grimaced as though at a childish joke. "You know. Dishes."
For a moment Jack continued to assume that she'd mistaken the van for a mobile cafe both she and her companion were undernourished, their thin pale faces raggedly framed by lank hair and then he remembered the trademark which was still faintly visible on the rear doors. "Satellite dishes, you mean."
"Yeah," the boy said with spectacular aggressiveness. "Give us one."
"I haven't any to g
ive away or even to sell. Can you tell me how to get to—"
"What've you got if you haven't got dishes?" the girl said in open disbelief.
"Nothing much. Nothing you'd like."
"Give us ten pee, then."
"Each," the girl added.
"I might if you tell me Jack said, and imagined being observed in the act of handing money to them as if to lure them into the van. It wasn't that thought which made him break off, however; it was a muffled sound at the rear of the vehicle. "What's happening back there?" he shouted, and sliding his door open, jumped down onto the tarmac.
The rear doors were wide open. As Jack sprinted to them, one of the boys leapt out of the van and flung the briefcase into the trolley. The girl and her crony had already run along the passenger side of the van. They grabbed the handle of the trolley without faltering and raced away along the road.
For a moment Jack didn't know who he was. People might have robbed Jack Awkward, but surely not the Count. He slammed the rear doors and glared after the children. "You don't want to steal that," he said in a voice which cut through the air like a jet of flame.
Perhaps they faltered, but they didn't halt. His power mustn't work at that distance. "I warned you," he said, and bolted after the children, who squealed in chorus. Two of the boys darted across the road, either abandoning their friends or trying to decoy Jack. He was gaining on the trolley when the girl and her companion reached the junction and dashed towards the roundabout, into the path of a car.
The car veered aside with a screech of brakes and a short dirty yell from the driver. The children ran the trolley onto the central island, which wasn't as broad as the distance Jack had yet to run to it, unless the perspective was confusing him. He put on speed, his breath blazing in his aching lungs. He had just reached the edge of the roundabout when the children arrived at the far side of the island.
They couldn't cross. Cars were streaming two abreast onto the roundabout, the gaps between them too small for even these children to brave. Jack sprinted onto the dry grass of the island and managed to suck in enough breath for a shout as the children saw him. "Leave it. I don't want you, I only want my bag."
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