by Mark Timlin
‘No, I mean it.’
‘Thank you. I was quite pleased with it myself.’
‘A woman of many talents.’
‘You know how to get round me, Nick.’ And she gave me a long look that set the hairs on my spine tingling.
I sat back down and took my cup of coffee. She found cigarettes in her handbag and gave one to me.
It was very quiet in her flat and she didn’t break the silence with music or the TV, just sat and smoked and drank her coffee and looked at the picture she had painted.
‘Penny for them,’ I said.
‘I was thinking about the strange things that bring people together. Two weeks ago I didn’t know you existed, or you me, and now here we are.’
I didn’t think she wanted an answer, so I didn’t give her one.
‘And all because of some horrible people out there.’ She shivered again. ‘Would you like to stay the night?’
At first I thought I’d heard her wrong, or else it was just wishful thinking.
When I didn’t reply, she said, ‘You don’t have to knock me down in the rush.’
‘Sorry. It was a bit of a surprise, that’s all.’
‘I don’t want sex,’ she said. ‘No, sorry. That’s not what I mean – maybe I do, I don’t know yet. But I don’t have anything here. You know what I mean?’
I did.
‘I think my last relationship lasted about as long as a packet of condoms.’ She smiled ruefully at the memory. ‘And if you say you have some, I’ll kick you out right now.’
I didn’t as it happens, but if I’d had a gross of Featherlite in my back pocket I would have denied all knowledge at that point.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t.’
‘Good. I hate men who’re too sure of themselves. I want you just to sleep with me. I think I need some human contact tonight. It’s been a long time.’
‘For me too,’ I said.
‘And you think you can control yourself?’ she said, and looked over at me.
I nodded, with a smile. ‘I think so.’
‘I don’t know if that’s a compliment to your self-control or an aspersion on my femininity.’
‘Neither,’ I said. ‘It’s just the way it is. For now.’
‘I think I like the last bit. I’m going to get ready for bed. I’ll let you know when the bathroom’s free.’
She was gone for about ten minutes. When she came back she’d taken off her make-up and changed into a floor-length nightie that was definitely not one for any self-respecting seductress’s armoury. It was made of blue wincyette, with a pattern of pink roses on it, and it had a high collar that she’d buttoned to the top.
‘Now you see the real me,’ she said. ‘The bathroom’s on the left. The bedroom’s on the right. Use the red toothbrush, it’s new. See you in a minute.’
I left my jacket in the living room and went to the bathroom and used the new toothbrush.
When I was squeaky clean, I crossed the hall and went into Sophia’s bedroom. She was lying tucked up in a large bed, supported by two pillows, wearing a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and reading a magazine.
I took off my tie and undid my shirt, and she said, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t peep.’
‘You’re a flake,’ I said. ‘You know that?’
‘It’s been noted,’ she said, eyes glued to the page.
I finished undressing down to my T-shirt and boxer shorts, and slid beneath the cool sheets next to her. They smelled of her perfume, and I could feel the warmth of her body next to mine.
She took off her glasses and looked at me.
‘Why, Miss Smith, you’re beautiful,’ I said, and she laughed and turned off the light.
We lay next to each other in the faint illumination that came through the curtains from the street outside.
Sophia turned and moved towards me, and I put one arm around her as she nestled close. I had to turn slightly or else she would have speared herself on my erection, and she giggled. She kissed me lightly on the lips and turned away. I knew what we both wanted, but I also knew it would be fatal to rush her, so I just lay in the silence of her bedroom, punctuated only by the sounds of our breathing, and before I knew it I was asleep.
When I woke up I was alone, and the bedside clock read 9.30. I hadn’t slept so well for years. I rolled over on to her side of the bed which still contained some trace of the warmth of her body and breathed in her smell off the pillow. I heard the door slam and she came into the bedroom in a puff of chilled air from outside. She was wearing a sweatshirt over Lycra pants and trainers.
‘So you’re awake,’ she said. ‘Kettle’s on, bathroom’s free, and by the time you’re dressed I’ll have some breakfast ready. What would you like?’
‘You,’ I said.
‘I’m not on the menu this morning, but thanks for the compliment. It’s a choice of muesli, bacon and egg, toast and coffee, or any permutation of the above. I’ve got the papers.’
‘You’re good, you know that?’
‘Better than you deserve.’
‘You know me so well already.’
‘So what’s it to be?’
‘Bacon, eggs, toast and coffee,’ I said. ‘I’ll skip the health food.’
‘And you’ll probably die a horrible, fatty death very soon.’
‘But a happy one. Now get out of here and let me keep my modesty intact.’
She winked lasciviously at me, and left. I hopped out of bed, went to the bathroom, relieved myself, washed, cleaned my teeth and went back to her bedroom for my clothes. When I was dressed in shirt, trousers, socks and shoes I went looking for her. The flat was full of the delicious smell of grilled bacon and I followed my nose.
The kitchen was tiny and spotlessly clean. There were two places set on a table that let down from the wall in front of two high stools.
‘It’s a bit twee, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘And rather small, but it’s the best I can afford on my wages.’
‘It’s fine with me. You should see my place.’
‘A bachelor’s den?’
‘Something like that.’
She served out the food, and I glanced at the headlines of the papers as she did so. She’d bought all the Sundays, and they all had articles about John, and Peter Day, and Sunset Radio. And me. Even the driest of the qualities.
‘Still making news,’ I observed as she sat down opposite me.
‘I thought I’d better get everything.’
‘You’re going to have a busy day if you read this lot.’
‘I’ve got nothing else to do. You?’
‘I’ve got an appointment later. Apart from that, nothing.’
‘What kind of appointment?’
‘Strictly business.’
‘Sunset business?’
I nodded. ‘I’ll tell you about it another time, all right?’
‘The big man and his secrets?’
‘Sophia, it’s what I’m being paid for. If it’s anything important, you’ll be the first to know. After Tony Hillerman, that is.’
She nodded then said: ‘Nick?’ I lowered my forkful of food. ‘About last night. Thank you for being so understanding.’
‘It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.’
‘Seriously, I’m grateful. Most men would have tried it on all night, and sulked if I didn’t give in.’
‘I’m not most men.’
‘I knew that when I asked you to stay. But you confirmed it. I like you, I really do.’
‘And I like you, Sophia. But next time, if there is a next time, maybe I won’t be such a gentleman.’
‘And next time, if there is a next time, maybe I won’t want you to be.’ And she smiled, and I leant over the table and kissed her lips that tasted of the marmalade she was eating.
I begged a copy of the Observer for the crossword, put on the rest of my clothes and left.
We embraced at the doorway, and she made me promise I’d call her at the station the next day.
I agreed without hesitation. I was already looking forward to the next time.
19
I met Chas and his photographer at opening time in The Bull at Norbury as arranged. It was a cold and miserable sort of place, all dark wallpaper and reproduction leather furniture that was made of plastic. I suppose the brewery wanted to make the place look like something out of a TV adaptation of a Dickens novel. All it managed was to look like somewhere you wouldn’t want to spend a Sunday evening.
Since my photo had been in the papers, I tried to look as different as I could without getting out my Sherlock Holmes disguise outfit. I hadn’t shaved, wore a dark grey woollen hat pulled down low over my forehead and the tops of my ears, a pair of thick-rimmed glasses with slightly tinted, plain glass lenses, and a huge shapeless overcoat.
I think it worked because I had to go right up to Chas before he realised who I was. ‘Christ!’ he said. ‘You look like a sexual pervert in that outfit.’
‘That’s the idea,’ I said. ‘What better way to infiltrate a bunch of Nazis?’
‘It’s all a bit over the top, isn’t it?’ said Chas, and introduced his sidekick. ‘This is Piers. Piers, this is Nick Sharman, the Norbury flasher.’
Piers was a willowy youth who didn’t look like he’d be much good in a ruck, which was possibly just what we were going into. But I said nothing. For all I knew, he might be a black belt in Kendo or Aikido or something equally exotic.
I shook his hand and said, ‘I hope your camera’s well hidden. We don’t want any embarrassment at the door, do we?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ve played this game before. They won’t suss me out.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
He smiled, and Chas went off to the bar to get me a pint of Guinness. Don’t ask me why I chose Guinness to drink that night. It just seemed to go with the mood of the evening.
When he got back, he asked me if there was anything fresh on The Midnight Crawler as he needed an angle for his story in Tuesday’s edition of the paper. I told him I knew as much as he did, which was true. I thanked him for putting in the piece about Prince, and asked him how his date with Sheila Cochran had gone.
He denied that it was a date.
I told him that wasn’t what I’d heard, and I swear he blushed, hard-bitten news hound that he was.
‘It was just business,’ he said.
I told him that I believed him but the population of China probably wouldn’t. He shut up and sulked for a few minutes, then revived when Piers went up to the bar for re-fills. At eight we went off to the Masonic Hall. It wasn’t exactly buzzing, but a couple of hard-looking lumps were standing at the door checking everyone who went in.
We stopped, and they gave us the once over. ‘What?’ said the first lump, an acne-scarred veteran of many an encounter with a tube of Clearasil.
‘We’ve come for the meeting,’ said Chas.
‘What meeting?’ said the second lump, an older man with a nasty scar the length of one cheek.
Chas looked up and down the street. ‘You know,’ he said.
‘We know,’ said Pizza Face. ‘But do you?’
‘Sector 88,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. Smithy sent us.’
‘Who?’ Scarface this time.
I grinned and winked through my glasses. ‘Mr Smith,’ I said.
Scarface grimaced, then looked at his mate, and the pair of them patted us down perfunctorarily. I looked over at Piers but he was cool and they found nothing. Scarface gave us one more dirty look then stepped aside. ‘In you go,’ he said. ‘But we’ll be watching you.’
I grinned again. ‘Thanks, mate,’ I said. ‘See you later maybe for a drink.’
I don’t think my invitation got me to the top of his social calendar but he ushered us into the foyer of the hall anyway. There was a table set up in one corner. A handwritten sign propped up on it read: COFFEE HERE AT THE END OF THE MEETING. ALL WELCOME.
We went through to the main hall and found seats at the side of the hall. In front of the banks of seats was a stage, maybe three foot high. Across it were drawn a pair of red velvet curtains. Piers whispered that he would need to get closer for really good shots. I held him back. I didn’t want to get too close to the main action. He pulled a face, but stayed where he was.
I looked round the hall. It was hardly standing room only. There were maybe forty people in a place that could hold two hundred comfortably. All men. I wondered what was on TV to keep the folks away from all this excitement.
We sat there for maybe ten minutes, and a further ten or twelve people joined the merry throng. Then the lights dimmed and the curtains across the stage slid back with the whirr of an electric motor.
On stage was a table with four men seated at it. From left to right: a bullet-headed individual wearing a black shirt, white tie and sports jacket. Because of the table and the long cloth on it that brushed the floor of the stage on the audience’s side I couldn’t see anything below the waist.
Next to him, a studenty-looking geek with big glasses, a spotty forehead and an anorak with a ratty fur hood, over a polo neck jumper.
Next in line was a white-haired individual with a suit and tie. He looked like one of those fake doctors in the TV adverts for aspirin.
As I watched, to sporadic applause in which neither Chas, Piers nor myself joined, he rose to speak. At the first screech of feedback from the PA system, I looked at the man on his right, wearing a brown bomber jacket over a white T-shirt. I looked away and then it clicked. I recognised him.
‘Jesus,’ I said, sank lower in my seat, and blessed the fact that we hadn’t gone into the front row like Piers had wanted.
‘What?’ said Chas.
‘The one at the end,’ I said. ‘In the bomber jacket.’
‘What about him?’
‘That’s Eddie Cochran.’
‘What? Summertime Blues?’ asked Piers.
‘No,’ I hissed. ‘The husband of the woman who lost her dog. The one in the paper. Sheila. Chas’s latest squeeze.’
‘Blimey,’ said Piers. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘Well, he ain’t selling ice cream for the interval,’ said Chas. ‘He’s one of the Guv’nors.’
‘Terrific,’ I said. ‘The most perfect little Nazi I’ve ever met… Piers?’
‘What?’
‘Can you get some shots of the committee, and him in particular?’
‘I already have.’
‘Good.’
‘But I’m going to the loo, and when I’m down there I’ll get some better ones.’
‘Go on then,’ I said. ‘But be careful.’
He nodded, and did as he was told. ‘When can I have the pictures?’ I said to Chas when Piers had gone.
‘Ten tomorrow morning. Come up to the office.’ Then he changed the subject. ‘I hope Cochran doesn’t recognise you,’ he said nervously.
‘Why should he? He’s only seen me once and I was Mr Clean that day.’
‘I take back what I said about the way you look,’ he said. ‘If he’d spotted you, I doubt we’d have got out of here with our teeth.’
‘A piece of piss,’ I said. ‘Right is on our side.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Every time,’ I assured him.
At that point, I tuned in to what the white-haire
d individual was going on about. It certainly wasn’t National Socialism he was preaching, just the kind of far right politics you can hear any time in any bar in England. Unpleasant it might have been but Nazism it wasn’t. More or less exactly what Chas had told me his undercover reporter had discovered. And no one had mentioned Sector 88 once. Except me. And there were no Nazi artefacts or uniforms in evidence. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the heavies at the door, it might have been a meeting of the local wine-making club or rose growers’ association.
Piers returned to his seat and gave me a wink. After ten more minutes of boredom that seemed like ten days, I leaned over to Chas. ‘They aren’t going to get into anything heavy now. I reckon that the real dirt gets dished over coffee later. I can’t risk staying and getting blimped by Cochran. What do you reckon?’
Chas looked at Piers who looked straight back and said, ‘I’ve got everything I need. Anything else would just gild the lily.’
‘OK,’ said Chas to me. ‘I reckon your man’s the key to all this. All we needed was a positive ID on one of them, and we can work on that. I reckon it’s about time to split.’
‘Me too,’ I said, and we stood up and shuffled out. A lot of heads turned but we ignored them. We went out into the foyer again and from there into the street. Scarface was still on the door.
‘Not to your liking, gents?’ he enquired solicitously.
‘No,’ said Piers. ‘We thought it was an AA meeting.’
Scarface looked puzzled as we left the building and made our way back to the pub.
20
Chas ordered another round of drinks, and we went to a quiet table in the corner. The place had hardly livened up since we’d left. No strippers, no karaoke. Nothing much but a few dour-faced individuals peering into their drinks as if the secret of life might be contained inside them.
I knew better. I’d gazed into enough glasses myself to know that all you got was a layer of scum on the inside. But maybe that was the secret of life, and I never knew it.
Piers swallowed his beer quickly, and then told us that a darkroom beckoned if he was to get Chas the photos by the next morning. We shook hands all round, and he left.
‘So what do you reckon?’ said Chas after he’d gone.
