Life Goes On (25 page)

If this is living, I thought, I would rather write. ‘Have you concocted any good documentaries lately?'

His smile showed a tooth missing, presumably from when he'd asked one question too many. ‘I'm doing something on the vulnerability of the British coastline, and I don't mean geological erosion.'

I downed my double whisky-and-dash. ‘You mean drugs and gold, and illegal immigrants? I was talking to a waiter about that the other day. Or was it the man from the gas board who came to fix my boiler? My latest novel is about smuggling. I'm on the third draft, so maybe it'll be out before your documentary. And if your documentary's out first it'll help to sell my book. In any case,' I went on, ‘how can an island like ours exist without smuggling? The English are a nation of sailors, as well as traders, and that's an unbeatable combination for making money. What luck that the radar coverage around our coast isn't as perfect as it's cracked up to be. Boats come in and out all the time, not to mention light aircraft flying under the radar screen and landing on one of those disused airfields in East Anglia. They don't even need to land. They just lob out a parachute with an attached radio bleeper when they see the beam of car headlights, then fly away back to Belgium. So if you want to interview me for your programme I'll tell you all I know – providing you buy me a drink. It's your round.'

I don't know why he didn't like me. Margery didn't know whether she liked me or not, which was much to her credit. I didn't know whether I liked myself or not, which was slightly less credit to me. When in the presence of some people destruction is the only form of creation. He swallowed another pint. ‘I know something you don't know. There's someone at the middle of the smuggling ring who's in the House of …'

Margery stopped him. Maybe she was working on the documentary too. House of Lords, my arse. I tried to persuade everybody I met who was in press, radio or television that they should become a novelist. I told them how easy it was to write a novel, though not too easy, and then I flattered them by saying that they had talent, that they were wasting their time in press, radio or television. Many agreed with me, though none gave up their lucrative jobs to test out the truth of my idiotic assertion. I always hoped that one would, but the odds were so great against their having a go that perhaps I was not being malicious after all. I thought that if I tried to persuade Margery to do it, in front of Wayland Smith, who I patently wouldn't try to persuade, I may at least sow discord between them. I lifted my glass. ‘You're far too talented to be working for the BBC.'

Wayland jutted his chin.

‘No, Margery. I've heard her commentaries, and seen them printed in the
Listener
.'

She blushed under her Damart vest. ‘I just knocked them off.'

‘They read as if they've been very well polished. That piece about the old lady who was evicted during slum clearance in Richmond was damned good. I'm sure you could write a fine novel.'

‘Stop it, Gilbert.'

‘Or you could write your memoirs. Why don't you?' Wayland turned to studying the beer pumps. ‘That kind of reportage would be just right for you. Your memoirs would be fascinating, the way you'd write them. You'd be certain to get them published by The Harridan Press, or Crone Books. They publish anything these days, as long as it's written by a woman. Surely you can drum up something about a poor little Richmond girl from Eel Pie Island who inherits a fortune and gives nine-sixteenths of it to the Third World? I'm sure you could. In fact the Harridan Press is doing so well that the last time I saw my publisher he said, “Blaskin, old chap, you'll have to write your stuff under a woman's name. You do quite well, but you'd do far better, and so would I. We'll publish any drivel as long as you find a woman's name.”'

I always spoiled it by going too far, but at least Margery was amused, and gave a wonderful and uninhibited laugh that you couldn't imagine her having when you looked at her face in repose. ‘You're such a male chauvinist pig I almost think I love you, Gilbert. It's terrible, I know. Yet I don't think you really hate women. You're far too amusing for that.'

The only answer was silence, so I ordered more drinks and Wayland came out of his trance with a scowl. Everyone has to live, and he had a car and a cottage to keep up, and a flat in West Kensington to pay for. I understood that perfectly, but what I disliked was that he confused earning a living with doing a public service, which would have been unforgivable if it hadn't been so amusing. ‘He's calling at my place to pick up some papers,' Margery said. ‘Why don't you come as well, Gilbert, and have something to eat?'

I was feeling guilty, and a tiny bit disgusted with myself, so thought it a fit mood to go back and do some writing with a high moral tone. ‘I'll eat at home – if I can find anything. My charlady's got half a dozen tapeworms, because no sooner do I fill the flat with food than she eats it all up. My whisky's been going, as well.'

Margery dropped me there on her way to Richmond. On unlocking my door, it seemed I'd made a mistake. Absent-minded, but by no means drunk, I'd gone to the wrong flat. There was the sound of music, for one thing, and my place was supposed to be empty. I could tell ‘The Nutcracker Suite' anywhere, though I hadn't played it for twenty years. When I looked into the living room I saw this chap sitting at a low table with a feast spread before him of the sort I hadn't partaken of for a month. His jacket was on a chair, and he sat with shirt open and sleeves rolled up, a man with a brazen look and a thin face, hard grey eyes and short hair. Dismal sat nearby, and it was obvious that they were as thick as thieves. The man smiled at me, then threw the dog a goodly chunk of Hungarian sausage, followed by a piece of rye bread which he had shorn off with a carving knife.

‘Who the hell are you?'

‘I could ask the same about you, my old duck. Bring the bottle of milk in from outside the door, or they'll think the place hasn't been burgled yet and break the door down.'

‘I'm asking
you
.'

He smiled. ‘Shall I explain, or would you like me to run you through with this kukri-type bread-knife?'

I took off my hat and coat. ‘If you're a burglar I'd rather you emptied your pockets and got out.'

He stood and, to my surprise, offered his hand to shake, after he'd wiped it up and down his trousers. ‘You've got a lot of nice gew-gaws in here, but I wouldn't touch anything, because I think you must be Michael's father.'

‘And you,' I said, ‘have been helping yourself to my food. It's a good thing I caught you. I'd intended smearing it with poison.'

‘You wouldn't do that to Dismal, would you? Listen, I owe you an explanation.' He poured a glass of Nuits St Georges and went on eating. ‘Why don't you get a plate, a glass and some eating-irons and join me?'

It's no use saying I wasn't intrigued.

‘My name's Bill Straw, late staff sergeant, Sherwood Foresters. I'm here because I'm a friend of your son's. I told him that the Green Toe Gang was out to cut my throat. So is Moggerhanger's outfit, and Michael hid me in your rafters. It's bloody cold up there, and a bit lonely at night, though your whisky was a help.'

‘Why didn't you order half a ton of coal?'

He laughed, in such a way that I couldn't doubt his good nature. ‘Next time I will. But seriously, my life's not worth a light at the moment.'

‘And I thought I had bats in the belfry, hearing all that to-ing and fro-ing in the roof.' The food was very good as well. He had boiled potatoes, cooked cannelloni, opened ham, laid out sausage, hacked various breads, and made a delicious salad. I was enjoying it more than any food for a long time. ‘You certainly know how to look after yourself.'

He rolled up a sheet of ham and threw it at Dismal. ‘I'd have made a special effort if I'd known you were coming back.'

‘And the wine's good.'

‘Best I could find.' He winked. ‘They didn't call us the Sherwood Foragers for nothing. I was only going to stay a few more days. I didn't want to impose on you.'

‘I'm glad I was made to help.'

‘As soon as I step outside I'm a goner. Though you never know: I might beat 'em yet. Life's full of unpleasant surprises. I wouldn't mind if only one gang was after me, but to have Moggerhanger's Angels on my back as well is a bit rough.'

I poured a second tumbler of wine, and at his resentful glance put another out for him. ‘What do you know about Moggerhanger?'

He drained his glass. ‘Everything.'

‘Yes, but how much is everything?'

He crammed a potato into his mouth, but his speech was clear. ‘Let me put it this way: I've been involved in all his enterprises for the last fifteen years. There's nothing I don't know about Claud. I'm familiar with all his girlfriends, for a start. I've met his wife and daughter, and his son called Parkhurst who's an even harder case than his father, except that he's bone idle. I know all his clubs – and I mean
all
. You'd be surprised where some of 'em are.' He leaned forward as if walls had ears: ‘Moggerhanger has houses from Carlisle to Thanet, from Berwick-on-Tweed to Black Torrington. I expect he'll be training Michael to know where they are at the moment, making him a chauffeur-guide on how to get from one to another by minor roads so that anyone following would be lost within five miles – and there's no such thing as traffic jams. All the places tend to be hidden and somewhat humble from the outside, and often they actually are, though one or two have concealed fall-out shelters, because Moggerhanger has contingency plans in case of a nuclear war to establish a regional seat of gangsterdom.'

As he talked, my pencil went over the paper like a hovercraft back and forth across the Channel on Bank Holiday.

‘These hide-outs are places he picked up for a few thousand in the sixties, before property shot up. At his London headquarters he's got a map on his office wall with pins indicating their locations. I have a copy of it. But if you don't mind, I've got to go now.'

He put on his jacket, and belched. ‘Thanks for everything. I'm glad to know that Michael's got such a toff for a father, though we did meet briefly at Upper Mayhem, remember?'

‘What's the hurry?' I said. ‘You haven't had your coffee yet. Nor your brandy. Or Cointreau, if you like. And I have some delicious Jamaican cigars. I had a box of Havanas, but you seem to have finished them. I think we ought to have a long talk about Lord Moggerhanger. I'd like to know what else you have to say on the matter. You strike me as being an observant and self-reliant kind of chap. I'd hate you to get killed when you go out on the street. Moggerhanger's got stalkers everywhere. He'd be bound to know if you skedaddled from this well-stocked haven of refuge.'

I detected a waft of fear over his face as he caught my threat to betray him if he left. He was an unusual kind of chap. With a bit of polish he could pass himself off as a gentleman ranker. ‘I see what you mean.' He reached for a box of handmade chocolates. ‘Dessert!' he grinned. ‘You forgot that. Well, go and sort out your tape recorder, or whatever you use, and I'll put the kettle on for coffee.'

I rubbed my hands. He would as good as write the Moggerhanger book for me, or a big slice of it.

Fourteen

I drove at dusk through the main gate of the Villa Moggerhanger, and didn't feel very good when I looked in the mirror and saw it firmly shut behind me by the garage hand. I had left Dismal at Blaskin's flat and Bill Straw wasn't happy at having a competitor at the trough but, being man's faithful friend, Dismal took obligingly to the parade-ground voice shouting for him to get down. I offered Bill the scraps of food left over from the journey, but he threw them into the trash can with a look of disgust, saying he was taking care of himself quite well, thank you very much, and in the meantime would I like another helping of Parma ham and melon?

On the way from Peppercorn Cottage I had mentally rehearsed leaping from the Rolls-Royce a score of times and fighting for my life, but once out of the car I knew I didn't have a chance of saving myself. I was convinced the yard was empty, but no sooner did I open the car door than Jericho Jim, Kenny Dukes, Cottapilly and Pindarry came towards me. Lights shone from the house, and a set of more callous and incompetent faces I had never seen. And yet, apprehensive as I was, at least I had come back to base and knew I would a million times rather be there than in rat-infested Peppercorn Cottage. ‘I hope you've been good lads during my absence,' I said.

‘The boss wants to see you,' Kenny Dukes hissed. ‘I can't think what for. Maybe he wants to give you a pat on the back.'

If there was something I couldn't take it was the humour of those whose world view was narrower than my own. No retort would have been heavy enough to put him down, so I whistled a fancy tune while walking along the corridor to the door of Moggerhanger's sanctum. Jericho Jim went in to announce me. The boss was smoking a cigar and, dressed in a pinstriped suit and sporting a white flower in his buttonhole, he looked as if about to go out and celebrate his silver wedding with Lady Moggerhanger and the rest of his family at the Kaibosh Restaurant. Cottapilly and Pindarry stood to either side of the door, as if the fools thought I would make a run for it, or plunge a knife into the boss's fat gut. He came from behind the protection of his desk for a better look at me. ‘I've got fifteen minutes to hear your account of the trip. Let's have it. But be brief. I want no lies and no trimmings.'

He went back to his desk and sat down. My legs were giving, but there was no option except to stay upright and tell everything – though without mentioning hitch-hikers. When my kitty was empty he opened his desk and held up a slip of paper. I wondered how I should react to such a signal. ‘Are you frozen to the spot?' he said. ‘Come and get the bloody thing.'