Life Goes On (5 page)

‘Get on with it.'

‘It was a lovely day. I was on top of the world. My cigar tasted like the very best shit, a newspaper was under my arm, my hat was set on my head at the usual jaunty angle – and then it wasn't. Somebody knocked it off, and when I bent to pick it up, before lamming into them, I was lammed into by three of the biggest bastards you ever saw, and a shooter was stuck at my ribs. I didn't have a chance. They made sure I'd got my passport, and before I could say my name was Jack Straw or Bill Hay or Percy Chaff or whatever it was at the time (I honestly forget) I was on the plane to London and no messing.

‘Everything looked normal as I walked to the check-in desk at Geneva, but there was one bugger behind me at four o'clock, and another chiking from eight, so that one false move and I'd have been bleeding all over the excess luggage labels. I went as quiet as a lamb. You see, they thought I'd left the money in England. Why? I'll never know, although I can speculate. The chief of the Green Toe Gang employs one of the best psychologists to help out with any problems, personal or otherwise, that come along. Every consultation probably costs a cool hundred. Mostly it pays off. So I assumed that in my case they put the problem before him, and wanted to know where in his opinion I'd gone and what I'd done with the money. So after much sweating at the temples the twit comes up with this scenario that even the big chief of the Green Toe Gang couldn't quibble about, since it had cost him so much. They traced me to Switzerland, which wasn't very clever of them. I could have done the same. This Dr Anderson chap must have told them that before leaving Blighty I'd stashed the cash in a hiding place I knew of, and that they would never find it until they got me back to the Sceptic Isle and made me talk.

‘You see, Michael, the gangs aren't so cosmopolitan as they were in our day. They're too insular. They couldn't credit the fact that I would leave with the money and be happy to potter around continental resorts of pleasure for the rest of my life. They'd probably fed into this psychologist's computer-brain all the facts they knew about me, and he'd told them I had buried the cash under the floor boards of the house I was born in in Worksop – which had gone in slum clearance years ago. Well, when I said I'd left the money in Blighty they didn't even listen. They knew, poor sods.

‘They got me back to London Airport right enough. Easy. There was a hire car waiting for us. All according to plan. When it comes to organisation, those boys are second to none.'

‘They should run the country,' I said ironically.

‘They do, Michael, they do, believe me. Anyway, we steamed onto the M4 and I pondered on the fate they had in store for me. My imagination wasn't up to it, though my expectations kept tormenting me. What those lads can do to you don't bear thinking about, but they try the sophisticated way first by locking you in for a couple of days with Dr Anderson. It usually works. Not a mark on you. But if it doesn't (and it wouldn't with me) out comes the tool kit. I was just about ready to be sick, but keeping a good face on it, when the car slows, to curses from the driver. A car in front had braked and we were too close to swerve out and overtake, so had to brake with it. Another car behind homed in. We were topped and tailed, the oldest manoeuvre in the book. My brain clicked into action. When I'm not using my brain I think it's turning into a cabbage and that I'm a walking case of senile decay. I can't remember anything at times, or think through the simplest problem. But when it's a matter of being in peril, a time when action is needed, I'm as clear as tissue paper and as quick as a snake.

‘The two cars were from Moggerhanger Limited, and I knew they wanted me safe in their manor because I was worth close to a hundred thousand when they got me. This was the hijack. The Green Toe Gang hadn't known that Moggerhanger had suborned me, so clearly they didn't expect it. Kenny Dukes got out of one car with three of his pals. One of them was Ron Cottapilly, the other was Paul Pindarry and the third I'd never seen before. Cottapilly had once been on footpad duty nicking wallets and jewellery after midnight in the West End. He held me up once with a knife – a terrible mistake for him, because I punched him so hard all round the clock and up and down the compass that he ended up pleading for his life. Him and Pindarry worked for Jack Leningrad, remember? Now they're going straight, being employed by Moggerhanger.

‘Three blokes got out of the other car. One was Toffeebottle, one was Jericho Jim, and the other I didn't know. All of them had claw hammers, and Kenny had a shooter. While the others smashed the windows, Kenny shot the tyres. Two of the blokes came for me, but I hit one, kneed the other, and was up the bank with more bullets whizzing at my brain box than I'd heard since Normandy. I zig-zagged. Do you know, Michael, every chap should do military service. A stint with the Old Stubborns is absolutely vital, because there's bound to be some time in your life when you need the expertise, either to defend your country, or to defend yourself from it. It don't matter which. But the old infantry training's saved my life more times than I care to think about. Breaks my heart to see fat young chaps riding about on motorbikes or lounging on street corners. They should be learning unarmed combat, weapons handling, fieldcraft, marksmanship – basic training for life.'

My scornful look stopped him. ‘I've had none of that, and I can take care of myself.'

‘Ah, happen so, Michael, but you'd take care of yourself a lot better with it. Anyway, you're different. But to cut a long story short, one of 'em chased me up that bank, but at the top I turned and kicked him so smartly under the chin he went rolling right back onto the hard shoulder. I don't know what they feed people on these days, honest I don't, because the others down by the cars, instead of coming up after me, just watched me kick this bloke as if they was at the theatre and we was actors on the stage. Honest to God, I thought they were going to clap. I'd have waited if I hadn't seen Kenny Dukes reloading his shooter. Then I was off towards some houses in the distance.

‘It was afternoon and would soon be dark, so I had to get my bearings and reach civilisation. I tell you, Michael, I felt like an escaped prisoner of war, because listen to the state I was in. After landing and getting through the customs, while we were in the car park, they took my wallet and passport and my shoes as well. Would you believe it? I'm surprised in a way they didn't give me the needle to keep me quiet till I got to a dungeon under Westminster Abbey or the London Mosque. They didn't think the expense was justified, I suppose. Even so, they were taking no chances, though an ambush wasn't expected.

‘Another thing was that when I shinned up that bank I didn't realise I'd got no shoes on. Such was my impulse to get away I'd have run through hot coals and broken bottles. As for no money, a mere trifle. Identification papers had never bothered me. I'd never known who I was anyway, except that I was myself, and that's all that mattered. If you know who you are, other people can get at you, and we don't want that, do we? I can see those questions burning behind your eyes. Well, I'm in a right mess, I thought as I came to a lane. Luckily I'd done a bunk just beyond Junction Three, the London side, so the next exit for eastbound traffic wasn't till Gunnersbury, about six miles away. It would take them fifteen minutes at the soonest to turn round, come back to Junction Three and swing north to try and head me off. In that time I could do at least a mile and lose myself in the streets of Ealing. I'd driven so much around London I'd got an A to Z in my head – of the main roads and districts anyway.

‘But money was the problem. It always is. It was what got me into the mess in the first place, and now it would have to get me out. I'd a few Swiss francs in coins in one pocket, and the equivalent of ten bob in the other – very useful for a bloke on the run, though not much cop for the likes of me. I had to think fast. I was walking so quick that in about twenty minutes – they hadn't taken my watch – I got to Southall station. The sodium lights glowed, and I skulked along as if wanted by every police force or outlaw gang in the world. This wasn't how I was feeling, Michael. It was tactical. I was really out of my mind with happiness at having got away. I knew that if they were looking for me they'd be expecting to spot an over-confident tall thinnish fellow walking along as if he owned the world – barefoot or not. So I pulled up the collar of my hundred guinea bespoke suit, fastened all three buttons, pulled my tie off and looped it round my waist, and sloped along in the shadows like a wino who'd just been given a talking-to by a do-gooder from Eel Pie Island. And as for that railway station, don't think I would go into it in my present physical state. Not on your big soft cock. If they swung off that Gunnersbury roundabout and looked at the map that's the first place their eyes would light on. They could be as tactical as I was when they'd been thwarted. I hope this tale's something you're learning a bit from, Michael. It's a bit cautionary, like, in more ways than one.'

I gave him a nod.

‘Well, thank goodness the district was more like Bombay than Blighty, because I found an Indian Allsort store where I knew I could do a little trading, and went in out of the cold and dark. They had everything for sale, from cheap wristwatches and Russian junk radios to a second-hand clothes department behind a curtain. The chap who ran it was tall, very handsome and wore a turban. A couple of kids played on the floor, and his wife sat by the checkout.'

‘“What can I do for you?” he asked me.

‘“I'm in trouble,” I told him. You have to come straight out with it at such times. I have an instinct, Michael. I can always spot a face that's going to help me. I knew he wouldn't panic, or turn me in after offering me a cup of strong tea with all the sugar I want, like your average Englishman – or anyone else, come to that. I laid my case straight in front of him. “I've been robbed, and this is how they left me. I'd just got off the plane after two years in the States, and these white thugs stuck me up at gunpoint, bundled me into a car, took everything I'd got and threw me on the motorway. Can you help me?”

‘“Piss off,” he said. “Get away from my shop, you National Front pig, or I'll call the police, and even if they beat me up, burn my shop, club my kids and loot any stock that's left they'll still pin something on you for pulling them away from their tea.” These Good Samaritans always begin like that, but after half an hour's chat and several cups of liquid boot polish I sold him my hundred-guinea suit for two, bought a suit and a pair of shoes for a quid that he'd got from a jumble sale for two bob, gave him a quid for the loan of a razor and permission to use it in his lavatory, then gave my foreign coins to his kids in exchange for an old cap, and parted the best of friends. I'll never forget him. He saved my life and, what's more, Michael – forgive me if at this point I get sentimental – he knew it, too. The robbing bastard was the salt of the earth. Ah, Michael, I love people! They never let you down – most of 'em.'

‘If you shove all your platitudes up your arse,' I said, ‘you'll grow into an oak tree. Get on with your lies.'

He scratched his nose. ‘After that, it was easy. I didn't get a train to Wales, or the Cotswolds – if trains run in them places anymore. Nor did I hitch as far out of London as I could get. Not your cunning old Bill he didn't, as that fiendish psychologist would tell them I had when they woke him up next morning. I got into London unspotted, and went to my flat to get money I'd stashed away for emergencies, and a case of things to tide me over. Then I rented a little fleapit room in Somers Town, thinking it better to be in the eye of the storm than on the periphery where an unexpected hurricane can blow up at any minute. That's bad for the nerves, and I don't like things playing on my nerves, especially when it's not necessary. We used to call it the indirect approach, Michael, remember? Nowadays it's known as lateral thinking. When I was a kid it was plain common sense. So then I wrote to you, and put an advert in
The Times
and here we are. And that's my story. Now you can see what a fiendish three-cornered fix I'm in.'

Three

I didn't believe a word of it. The only fact I got from such a rigmarole was that Dr Anderson the psychologist was in the pay of Moggerhanger and the Green Toe Gang. That rang true enough, because he was the brother of the ex-husband of my wife Bridgitte, the father of Smog, and both Andersons were as villainous and devious as they come. The present Anderson was obviously selling information from one gang to the other.

It didn't surprise me but, true or not, Bill seemed relieved that the story was off his chest and that he had found someone to listen to whom the information would be as deadly to know about as it was to himself. To me he was like the plague, and always had been, a carrier of downfall and death. Everything that had gone wrong in my life had been due to him, yet why had I answered his summons to London? He was brother, uncle and childhood pal rolled into one, and with me till the end of my life. It is only fair to record that a lot of the good things that happened had been due to him as well. ‘I'm thinking,' I said, seeing the question on his lips.

‘You'd better be.'

‘I know you're in trouble. I believe it now, but don't you ever learn?'

‘Learn?' He almost jumped off his chair. ‘Learn?' he repeated, as if it was a new word he liked the sound of. ‘Michael, I learn all the time. Every minute of my life, I learn. I go to sleep at night asking: “What have I learned today?” And I wake up in the morning wondering: “What can I learn?” But the sad fact is that I'd need six lives to learn enough to do myself any good. I could learn everything there is to learn and still get stabbed in the fifth rib down by that little fact I've left out.'