The Midden (3 page)

'Fine fellows who followed the family traditions,' he said and quoted another old family
maxim.' "Where there is a demand, supply it: where there isn't, create one." That is an old
saying that dates back to Enoch Bright, a contemporary of Adam Smith and the truer Tory. The
saying is at the very heart of modern economic practice and Croker is a good example.'

Now, standing in the grey dawn off the Edgware Road, Timothy recalled his uncle's words and
looked on the Bright side. It wasn't at all easy but he did it. He still had his job of a sort at
Bimburg's Bank; he had a flat in a friend's name in Notting Hill Gate and a new motorbike, a
Suzuki 1100, in place of his old Porsche, which he kept in a lock-up garage; but above all he had
the Bright family connections. These were his most important assets and he meant to make use of
them. With their present help and the example of past Brights to inspire him he would find a way
out of his temporary difficulties and Mr Markinkus's threats and make his fortune. With renewed
optimism he hurried back to his flat and spent much of the day asleep.

Over the weekend he racked his brains for a way forward. Perhaps, if he went home and asked
Daddy to lend him some money...No, he'd done that too often and the last time Daddy had
threatened to have him certified as a financial lunatic if he ever mentioned the word 'borrow'
again in his presence. And Mummy didn't have any money to lend. Perhaps if he wrote to Uncle
Fergus and told him...But no, Uncle Fergus had a 'thing' about gambling and had once preached an
awful sermon at his strange Presbyterian Church about 'Gambling Hells' which he seemed to think
of quite literally. There was absolutely no member of the family he could ask for help in his
predicament. 'You'd think someone would be willing to supply the money considering the demand I
have for it,' he thought bitterly. And then on the Tuesday just when he was almost past thinking
and was at his lowest ebb, he received a telephone call at work. It was from a Mr Brian Smith who
suggested that Timothy drop by for a drink at El Baco Wine Bar in Pologne Street on his way home
that night. 'Say 6.30,' said Mr Smith, and rang off.

Timothy Bright considered the invitation and decided he had nothing to lose by accepting it.
Besides, there had been something about Mr Smith's tone of voice that had suggested he would be
well advised not to reject it. At 6.25 he entered the wine bar and had hardly ordered a Red Biddy
when the barman told him that Mr Smith was through the back and waiting for him. Without
wondering how the barman had known who he was, Timothy took his drink through the door.

'Ah, Mr Bright, my name is Smith but you can call me Brian,' said a man who didn't look or
sound like any Mr Smith, or Brian for that matter. Timothy had never set eyes on him before.
'Good of you to come.'

'How do you do?' said Timothy, trying to be formal.

'Pretty damn well,' said Mr Smith, indicating a chair on the other side of the desk. 'I hear
you don't do so good, no?'

'Nobody's doing very well in this depression...' Timothy began, before deciding Mr Smith
wasn't talking in general terms. He also appeared to be cleaning his nails with a cut-throat
razor. Mr Smith smiled or something. To Timothy it was definitely not a proper smile.

'Good, so we understand one another,' said Mr Smith, and apparently cut an errant fly in half
in mid-air. 'You want some money and I got some you can have. How does that sound to you?'

'Well...' said Timothy, still overwhelmed by the fate of the fly, 'I...er...I suppose...that's
very good of you.'

'Not good. Business,' said Mr Smith, now glancing in a hand mirror to assist him in using the
razor to defoliate a nostril. 'Want to hear more?'

'Well...' Timothy said hesitantly, wishing he wouldn't flourish the razor quite so
casually.

'Good, then I tell you,' continued Mr Smith. 'You gotta motorbike, big Suzuki eleven hundred,
yes?'

'Yes,' Timothy said.

'You gotta uncle?'

'Actually, I've got quite a few.'

'Sure, you gotta lots. You gotta one who's Judge. Judge Sir Benderby bloody Bright?'
interrupted Mr Smith. 'Right?'

'Oh yes, Uncle Benderby,' said Timothy, and swallowed drily. Uncle Benderby terrified him.

'Your Uncle Benderby done some friends of mine some big favours. Like fifteen years,' Mr Smith
went on. 'You know that? Fuck.'

Timothy didn't know it but he could see that Mr Smith had just nicked his nose. The situation
was most unpleasant. 'I'm sorry about that,' he muttered. 'He's not very popular in the family
either.'

Mr Smith dabbed the end of his nose with a blue silk handkerchief and hurled the razor
expertly at the desk where it bisected a cigar. He got up and went into the toilet for some
paper.

'Got a yacht called the Lex Britannicus? he said while dabbing his nose with the paper.

'Yes,' said Timothy, mesmerized by the performance.

'And your Uncle Benderby sails it out to a place near Barcelona for the winter and brings it
back to Fowey for the summer. Then out again in September. Right?'

'Quite right. Absolutely,' said Timothy. 'It's an awfully rough time to sail. With the
equinoctial gales, you know. But Uncle Benderby says it's the only time to be a real sailor.'

'He'd know, wouldn't he?' said Mr Smith with a nasty smile. The red-stained paper on his nose
didn't improve his appearance. 'Well, you and Uncle Benderby ought to get together. Soon. Like
you ride your flash bike down there with a present for him.'

'A present for Uncle Ben ?'

'That's right. A present. What you do is this...'

For the next ten minutes Timothy Bright listened to his instructions. They were very clear and
to Timothy's way of thinking didn't add up to anything in the least attractive. 'You want me to
catch the ferry from Plymouth to Santander with my bike and drive to Llafranc and meet someone
who will have a package for me and I'm to put it in the sail locker on Uncle Benderby's yacht
without him knowing? Is that right?' he asked.

'Sort of. Except you'll be taking something with you maybe so you earn your money both ways.
That way we know you've done the job proper.'

'But this sounds very dubious to me, I must say,' Timothy protested, only to be cut short.

Mr Smith reached into a drawer in his desk and brought out an envelope. 'Take a look at
piggy-chops,' he said and pulled out a colour photograph and slid it across the desk.

Timothy Bright looked down and saw something that might once have been a pig.

Mr Smith let him savour the sight. 'Right, you want to end up like piggy-chops there all you
have to do is not do what I say. Right?'

'I suppose so,' said Timothy, who definitely didn't want to end up looking like that
indescribable pig. 'I mean, yes, of course. Right.'

Mr Smith put the photo back in the envelope and picked up the razor again. 'You will get the
ferry from Plymouth on the twentieth. That'll give you time to arrange leave from the bank.
You're owed some. Like three weeks, and you're taking it.'

'I suppose so. Yes, all right,' said Timothy with a lopsided smile. The dreadful man seemed to
know everything about him. It was terribly disturbing and frightening.

'So you do what all good yuppie stockbrokers do. Sell in May and go away. Here's your ticket
and some spending money. Anything else?'

'I don't think so.'

Mr Smith picked up the razor again and smiled. 'Oh yes, there is,' he said and leant forward
with the razor. 'And don't you forget it. There's this.' His left hand produced a brown paper
parcel carefully tied with string. He laid it on the desk top and allowed Timothy to study it.
'Don't try and be a bigger smart-ass than you are. You'll end up piggy-chops and no mistake. And
this is your present for the Pedro other end. Lose it and...You better keep this picture for a
reminder like.' His hand went back to the drawer and the photo of the pig but Timothy shook his
head.

'I don't need any reminder,' he said. 'I've got it all straight.'

'So where do you meet the Pedro?'

'Up the hill past Kim's Camping,' said Timothy.

'When?'

'I go past at eleven-thirty every night for three nights from the twenty-fourth through the
twenty-sixth and he'll be there on one of the nights. But how will I know he's the right
person?'

'You don't have to. He'll know you all right. He's got a nice picture of you, hasn't he? One
of the nice "before" ones. He'll pick you up.' Mr Smith took the piece of bloodstained paper off
his nose. 'Then he'll give you the article to put in the sail locker. How you get on board is
your business but you'd better have a good excuse if you're spotted.' Mr Smith's tone had
changed. He was no longer a foreigner and he didn't even sound very London. 'Unless of course you
want to just visit Uncle Benderby, pay him a nice social visit. Nothing wrong with that. You do
what you want.'

'But won't the...er...package I put in the sail locker be noticed?' Timothy asked. It was a
question that had been slowly gaining shape in his mind.

Mr Smith shook his head. 'It will be noticed, and then again it won't. He'll have had it
before. Like it's one of his fenders, see. Just like all the others. Nice and worn too. Identical
to the one that went missing a few days ago. And in due course, like June, dear old uncle is
going to sail into Fowey and you'll have been home and comfy in bed long before he gets
here.'

'I see,' said Timothy, with the feeling that he was unlikely ever to be comfy in bed again.
Even his father had admitted he was scared of Benderby Bright and said he found the Judge's
sentencing on the harsh side. Judge Bright had several times given it as his opinion that drug
smugglers and pushers should get a true life sentence without the possibility of parole. And it
was well known that he had been the toast of the evening at the last two annual dinners of the
Customs and Excise Officers Association. The prospect of stowing a fender containing goodness
only knew how many kilos of an illegal substance in the sail locker of the Lex Britannicus filled
Timothy with almost as much terror as the dreadful process called 'piggy-chops'. Not quite. Judge
Benderby Bright was not a dab hand at skinning pigs with razors. Yet. It was hard to tell what
his feelings would be if it ever came out that his nephew had been party to planting a fender
full of drugs on him. On the other hand it was almost inconceivable that the yacht would ever be
searched by the Customs officials in Fowey.

'You got nothing to worry about that side,' said Mr Smith, reading Timothy's mind. 'About as
likely as the Pope handing out condoms in St Peter's Square.'

He paused and toyed with the razor again. 'One more thing,' he said. 'One more thing you got
to remember. You go anywhere near the police, even go past a cop shop or think of picking up the
phone, like your mobile, you won't just get piggy-chops. You won't have a fucking cock to fuck
with again first. No balls, no prick. And that's for starters. You'll have piggy-chops days
later. Slowly. Very slowly. Get that in your dumb fucking head. Now.' Once again the cut-throat
razor quivered into the desk top and stayed there.

Timothy Bright left the wine bar at 8.15 clutching the brown paper parcel and with an envelope
in his pocket containing five thousand pounds. If he did what he was told, Mr Smith had said, he
would get another twenty-five grand when he returned. It was exactly the sum he needed to pay Mr
Markinkus at the casino. That night he got drunk before going to bed.

In the morning he was late in getting to Bimburg's Bank. There was a letter waiting for him.
It informed him that as of 18 May he had no need to apply for three weeks' leave. Timothy Bright
had been made redundant.

At his little cottage at Pud End, Victor Gould pottered across the old croquet lawn to his
summerhouse-cum-study overlooking the sea. From its window he could look down at the estuary and
watch the fishing boats and yachts heading for the Channel. In the normal way he found great
comfort sitting at his desk, but today there was no consolation to be had there. He had just
received a very nasty shock and he needed time to think. Mrs Leacock, who came to clean the house
and see that he was all right, as his wife Brenda put it, had left a note on the hall table to
say that Mr Timothy had phoned to ask if it was all right for him to come down to stay for a few
days.

It was not all right at all, in fact it couldn't have been less all right if Timothy Bright
had deliberately chosen to make it so. It was the worst bit of news Mr Gould had received for a
very long time and it had landed on the hall table just when he was about to enjoy himself, when
something he had been looking forward to for a year was about to happen. He had been having a
very pleasant time on his own (except for Mrs Leacock in the mornings, and he could avoid her)
while his wife was taking an extended holiday in America visiting her relations there. Victor
Gould was all for her visiting her relations so long as he wasn't asked to take part. It had been
one of the trials of his married life that, in marrying Brenda Bright, he had married into her
confounded family as well. Not that he had ever been welcomed there. From the very first the
Brights had made it quite clear that he was not of their class or cultivation. Colonel Barnaby
Bright, DSO, MC and bar, had gone so far as to attempt to dissuade his daughter in her bedroom
the day before the wedding. 'My dear child,' he had begun, deliberately standing on Victor's
trousers and raising his voice. 'You must see that the fellow is a bounder and a cad.' For a
moment the naked Victor in the next room had preened himself. He rather liked being a bounder and
a cad. The Colonel corrected himself. 'A sleazy, greasy bounder, the sort of dirty pimp and
gigolo who hangs around hotel lounges in Brighton and sucks up to rich old women.'

In the dressing-room Victor Gould had flushed angrily and had almost sneezed. Brenda's reply
had chilled him still further.