Moggerhanger

Chapter Nine

I’m taking the narrative out of Michael Cullen’s hands, for the moment, because he’s in no condition to write anything, unless it’s his final will and testament. Not only that, but there are happenings that even a picaresque hero can’t be trusted to put satisfactorily on paper. Another thing is that it’s time my own life had another look in because, as will be seen, it has some bearing on what consequently occurred to my erstwhile bastard son.

Mabel told me I could not at this stage write Michael’s story. “Whyever not?” I demanded. “Didn’t Doctor Livesey pull the tale from Jim Hawkins well into ‘Treasure Island’?” This allusion puzzled her, as ought to have been expected, because she’d never read the book, or any other to my knowledge, being one of those who was sent to a good school but came out of the experience more ignorant than before they went in.

I was in an unusually jovial mood on getting out of bed, because a whole novel which had nothing to do with Michael’s was unravelling and reassembling in my head in a very satisfying fashion. Mabel rolled into the warm patch I had left, lying on her back like a Crusader’s lady in a rustic church. Looking at her fondly, I pulled the duvet off as a hint that she should get into the kitchen and make my coffee. When she showed no sign of doing my bidding I opened the curtains and let in daylight to encourage her, but it brought no change to her somnolent posture. My invective was always somewhat tame in the morning, and I said, in response to her murmur that she would like to lie in for another half hour: “You’re so lazy it’s a wonder you don’t have ingrowing fingernails.”

I felt proud of my restraint, human, you might say, not unmixed with some affection towards my darling for bringing it on, which reflection encouraged me to yank away the duvet, lift her flannel nightdress, and place a warm kiss on her resplendent left flank. “Now rise and shine, my lovely Aphrodite.”

I walked out to get my clothes off, and set the bath running to a third full and fairly hot. The steam gave a wholesome iron-like smell due to the ancient plumbing, an agreeably nostalgic odour from those distant days when I was a lad at boarding school.

I sent three plastic union-jack battleships afloat for company, a fleet of Dreadnoughts from Jacky Fisher’s navy. Lowering my body in for a scrub, the displacement set off miniature depth charges, sending the flotilla into rough water. One thing I liked in the morning was to give my head a thorough wash, since my troubles in life had come from that area, and I wanted it to look sparkling clean for the next awkward hand Fate would deal me. Usually I let the shower play there, but this time, thinking to give a treat to such a noble shape, I got on all fours and bent down till it was beneath the tap, in such a position that a forceful rush of warm water could wash away the soap. Finding the process restful — as who would not? — I closed my eyes, the sound blocking off the outside world so completely as to put me back into a somnolent phase.

Now, being tickled in the testicles as a mark of love and affection can be an extremely erotic experience to a man in a big fluffy bed where he may, by the blink of an eye, even invite such a tender caress from his mistress; but when it comes, as it did now, as an unwelcome intrusion and an outrageous shock, the reaction is apt to be catastrophic.

My darling Mabel, unable to foresee the consequences of her fey intention, thought she would return the tender kiss I had planted on her pale delicious flank, not out of malice, you understand, which I could well have seen the point of, but because she imagined such a sensual touch to be the one thing I deserved and required above all others, the utmost she could do to please me at the moment, something which would be vastly appreciated by one such as I. It was rather sad to believe, that after ten years of living together, she knew me not at all.

The upshot of her subtle touch was that the lower back part of my head jerked against the solid metal tap, a distance of a couple of inches or so, but at such speed as to produce the equivalent of a footpad’s bludgeon descending from behind on a dark night in Soho.

The edges of the tap were in no way blunt, but the oval metal hole for the water to rush through was hard enough. After my shout, followed by words which disgraced me for lack of subtlety, the water turned rapidly carmine, so close to crimson in fact that by the time I pulled away I looked as if standing in the water tank of a Roman suicide, blood so copiously pumping from the wound I had to flannel it from my eyes, to make her presence clear enough for the most heartfelt punch of my life into her lower jaw.

By the time I had mopped my head with a bath towel, and could see halfway properly, it was too late, because she had sensibly run away. Resembling a vampire just back from a lavish breakfast in some remote Transylvanian village, I wrapped the soaking towel around me and followed her into the kitchen, where I intended putting her hand into the microwave.

She stood by the sink, hands locked together and thrust towards me, shedding tears as copiously as my injured head was welling out blood. “Oh, Gilbert! Oh, my darling! Oh, I’m so sorry! How was I to know? I felt playful and loving, and wanted to give you a thrill. Oh dear me! It’s the first time I’ve done anything like that. Oh, my dearest!”

“Next time,” I yelled, “just think beforehand, then try a dummy run on somebody else.” A blow can be given playfully in certain situations, but here was something which called for a serious application of brute force, and seeing as how I had just about recovered from the shock, yet was still to a certain extent under its influence (as who wouldn’t be?) I had time to reflect on, and wind up my strength for, a blow which, though it might not draw such a quantity of life-blood as continued to gush out of me, would certainly have sent her sprawling across the table in the living room.

To my everlasting regret the doorbell went loud and clear, and with an agility I had never seen in her before, she sprang away from her Nemesis to answer it.

The pain in my head was biting, and I prayed she would come back before I fainted, so that I could continue where I left off. The towel around my waist barely soaked up blood running down my shoulders and chest, so I took a couple of tea towels from the drawer to carry on swabbing.

Mabel said in her huffiest tone at the door: “You can’t come in. He isn’t dressed yet. Write a letter, and make an appointment. Oh no you don’t. Keep back!”

Considering the peril she was well aware of having in store, her remarks showed character of a high order, when to stop whoever was coming in would save her from immediate retribution. Perhaps she thought it best to get the pounding over with, and not have worse to look forward to when I would be feeling somewhat stronger. In the meantime I padded my bloody footprints across the living room to pour a large brandy.

Whoever it was must have pushed by her. A man with the longest arms I had ever seen stood in the doorway, six feet tall and well built, his smile of nonentity showing a row of crocodile teeth, one of which was missing. “Are you Mr Blood?”

I was quite sharp with him. “What the bally hell does it look like?”

He stepped forward so that Mabel, comprehending the situation more quickly than I was able to at that moment, took the clutch of red roses from his large hands before he thought to let them go willingly. “Sidney Blood,” he said with delight and surprise. “So I’m meeting the real Sidney Blood at last.”

“My dear chap,” I said, “you couldn’t have found him painted a more characteristic colour. It’s a red letter day for you. I was in the bathroom cutting up an income tax inspector, who came in during the night claiming a hundred thousand pounds arrears of tax. It was sad, really. He pleaded for his life, told me he had children to consider. As if I cared. Cut and thrust. I was demented. No mercy. Cut and slash.” I swigged off half my brandy. “You’re not from the tax office, are you? And if not, who might you be.”

“Kenny Dukes, sir, Mr Blood. I’ve read all your books. I read them over and over again. You’re a genius. I’ve wanted to meet you all my life.”

I turned to Mabel, feeling more human at a fan appearing so early in the day. “Get my dressing gown, and another bath towel for my head. I’ll deal with you later, you stupid playful bitch.”

Kenny Dukes smiled, presumably on hearing sentiments to be expected from Sidney Blood. “You’ve not only made my day, sir,” he said with his diabolical bottom dog lisp, “but a whole years of Sundays as well.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Mr Dukes. You’ve made a contribution to my day as well, so sit down and join me in a brandy.”

“Oh, sir, I couldn’t.”

“When I say sit down, Mr Dukes, you do so. I was a major in the army, and stood no nonsense from the other ranks. Don’t let the fact that I’m covered in blood put you off. I saw far more than this in the War.” I encouraged him further by giving him a half-pint glass of brandy, of which he immediately sent a good part down, his Adam’s apple wiggling as if a couple of amorous cockroaches within were going at it like billy-ho to keep the species on the march. When I asked what he did for a living — such information always useful for my books — he looked me solidly in the eye: “I’m a criminal, sir.”

I flaked half-dried blood from my fingernail, to hide my joy at his artless revelation. “And I’m a novelist, so that makes two of us.” I called into the kitchen for Mabel to bring us breakfast. “We’ll start with porridge.”

“Mine’s a proper trade, sir.”

“Is it, then?”

He emptied his glass. “I’ve been at it a long time.”

“I suppose you served an apprenticeship?”

His eyes, from a sort of phlegmy blue, came even more alive. “Oh yes, sir. I went to a lot of places, but I haven’t been inside for a long time.”

“Why is that?”

“I got good, didn’t I?”

“I assume you’ll have breakfast with me?”

“Oh yes, sir. It would be a privilege.”

“Good at what, though?”

“Nicking things. And GBH. I knock people about. Cut ’em up. I do it so quick they don’t know it happened because I’m a long way off before they feel the blood. Another thing is, if I get witnessed, Lord Moggerhanger puts his mouthpiece Arnold Killisick on the case. The beak loves me by the time Mr Killisick’s finished saying what a good lad I am, and that nobody as innocent as me should even be in the dock. Mr Killisick brings my mother up in a Rolls Royce to sob at the beak how I take her to church every Sunday. She tells him I sing like an angel in the choir, and serve tea to lads at the youth club to stop them turning into juvenile delinquents. By the time she’s finished I’m crying as well. And the beak don’t send me down, see?”

“It sounds as if you live in a criminals’ paradise.”

“I do, sir. In this country you can get away with anything. One of the beaks had been a social worker, and he let me right off. I didn’t even get fined. He gave the police a right bollocking.”

“As long as your mother stands by you.”

“Oh, she does. She’d do anything for a box of chocolates. Loves the ride through Streatham with all the neighbours looking on as she waves from the Rolls Royce like the Queen.”

His mention of Moggerhanger reminded me that three years ago the latter had asked me to ghost his autobiography, and paid a generous advance, but my stomach turned, yes, even mine, over the material that came to light. So I pulled out of the contract, much to his annoyance, and I still haven’t returned the money. I wondered whether this call by one of his henchmen wasn’t a ruse to extract it from me, though I couldn’t imagine it, because even he would be wary of getting on the wrong side of Sidney Blood. “You said your employer was Lord Moggerhanger?”

Kenny’s eyes gleamed. “I’ve been in his employ nearly twenty years, and I’ve never known a gaffer like him. He’s lavish. He looks after his own, he does. Treats me like a dog, but he’s a real gentleman. I’m not working today, though, so I’ve come to see you.”

“I’m happy you did, Mr Dukes, despite the awkward moment, with all this red paint over me.”

“You can’t kid me, sir. I can tell blood when I see it. Nobody better. It’s what I expected from Sidney Blood the great writer.”

It was like having a giant in the flat, and if he’d had one eye I’d have called him Polyphemus. “What would you like to know, then, Mr Dukes?”

“Not Mr Dukes.” His tone was close to that of a pansy simper. “You can call me Kenny, Mr Blood.”

“What about Kenneth?”

A big hand spread across each kneecap. “That wouldn’t be right, would it? My full name’s Kenilworth, and if the old man hadn’t been murdered already I’d have done him in myself for giving me a monicker like that.”

“All right, Kenny.” But Kenilworth as a name would meld well into my next Sidney Blood saga. I was invariably inspired on meeting one of the genuine lower orders. “And I’ll allow you to call me Sidney.” Wanting to keep the oaf tame, I contemplated turning him onto Mabel, to make up for the pain still banging around in my head.

“Thanks very much, sir — Sidney.”

I asked how he had found where I lived.

“Michael Cullen works for Lord Moggerhanger, don’t he, and he told me, or as good as did. He thinks I’m an ape who knows nothing, but he said you used the name Blaskin, so I looked it up in the phone book.”

“A brilliant bit of detective work.”

“Nar, it was fucking easy.”

Mabel busied herself setting the table, still too terrified to look at me. “Shall I change your towels. Gilbert dear?”

“Don’t use my middle name, you crazy moll. You know it’s Sidney.” For Kenilworth’s delectation I made as if to give her a bang across the head, which she easily avoided, as for once I hoped she would, while Kenny, at the prospect of violence, and especially to a woman, looked as happy as a baby with two rattles. “And don’t burn the scrambled eggs,” I told her. “As for changing my towels, you can do that a little later. The fact that my period hasn’t finished yet should be obvious to the meanest intelligence.”

He was unable to look at me too closely, understandable I suppose in someone who had never seen a genius before, his fried-egg eyes observing Mabel’s back as she went into the kitchen. I popped three aspirin with my brandy to quell the headache and, as is usual with extreme measures, the effect was beneficial. Or perhaps it was Kenilworth’s admiration that lifted my morale high enough for pain to float into insignificance — not to mention wafts of bacon and coffee from the kitchen.

Mabel put a salver of breakfast between us. “Come on, Kenny,” I said, “set to.”

He needed no second telling. “Who’s the broad?”

“Well, she is, rather. How observant of you. But show some respect. She’s the person who keeps me alive. Her name is Mrs Drudge-Perkins.”

She spread a napkin over my knees.

“Darling,” I said to her, “the delicious odour of bacon is becoming overwhelmed by the stench of burning bread. Only don’t throw a bucket of water over it as you did the last burnt offering. I know carbon is supposed to be good for the stomach, but it’s a sin to waste good bread.”

She’d already gone. “How’s my friend Michael Cullen faring under the flatulent influence of Moggerhanger?”

“You talk just like somebody in a Sidney Blood book,” he said through his mouthful. “I’ll never forget today. I’m having breakfast with the great Sidney Blood! Well, Michael’s gone to Greece, in one of Lord Moggerhanger’s Rolls Royces. But it’s like this, Sidney, if I was to tell you more than that and the boss got to know about it I’d lose three of my fingers.”

“My dear fellow, if you don’t tell me”—I poured more coffee, and went on in the manner of a Sidney Blood to emphasize my point — “the razor that cut me up this morning is itching to have a go at someone else. Sidney Blood’s razor is no idle instrument. It likes to be gainfully employed all the time. My head hardly blunted it, if you catch my meaning. Michael is a family relation, so I’m naturally interested in his whereabouts.”

“Just like Sidney Blood again. I can’t believe it.”

“Straight out of my latest effort.”

He rolled a sheet of Harrod’s best smoked streaky onto the fork, and put it into his mouth. “You’re writing one now?”

“It’s on my desk at this very moment. But any information you care to impart about Michael will go no further than this apartment.”

He looked at me with barely controlled pig-eye cunning: “You won’t put it in a book?”

My laugh cracked a patch of dried blood on my skull. “Sidney is very particular where he gets his copy. It had to come out of his head, red hot, as it’s doing now.” A rub at the skull, which made little difference to the ache, decided me to give Mrs Drudge an extra kick up the posterior so that she would never forget her senseless prank. “Sidney Blood insists on making his imagination work. Anyway, he most often sets his stories in the Big Apple or LA. Quite a bit of material has already poured out this morning. Mrs Drudge-Perkins stands over me with a bull whip to keep my Sidney Bloods going. Now you know how I do so many.”

He winked. “A bit of a terror, is she?”

“You’ve no idea.”

“Keeps you at it. That’s good. I’ve read every Sidney Blood you’ve ever wrote, some of ’em five times.”

“Now you know the process.” I pointed to my forehead, the finger coming back bloodstained. “It’s all in here. So you can tell me about this geezer Cullen. He’s always telling me to stop writing Sidney Blood books, and I sometimes think he’s right. He’s very persuasive.”

“The cunt! Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs Drudge”—she had come in with marmalade and fresh toast. “Forget me language, didn’t I? My mum threatened to wash me mouth out with soap only last week.”

Mabel smiled at her most Chelsea. “You’re forgiven, Mr Dukes.”

He took a thumb-scoop of marmalade to smear his toast. “Ain’t she lovely?”

Mabel blushed, and I could see that she was taken with him, so I snapped more harshly: “Bring the hackleberry jam. You know I abominate marmalade.” What a revenge it would be to throw her into the arms of Kenny Dukes. It would serve her so right the notion made me feel faint. “She fancies you,” I said to him.

He blushed as much as his freckled visage could show. “You think so?”

“I’ve never seen her so impressed. She can be a handful, mind you.” She came back with my favourite preserve. “Can’t you, darling?”

“Can’t what, my love?”

“Be a handful. You see these towels around my head, Kenny? She hit me with a rusty spare tap when I got out of bed this morning — and for no reason at all.”

“I’ll never forgive myself.” She went weeping back to the kitchen. “I thought I was being affectionate.”

“She did that?” Kenny said. “She hit you? Would she do that to me? My mum would be ever so glad if she did. She always says I deserve to have my head kicked in.”

I thought the moment had come to go back to the only matter which interested me. “And what happened to Michael Cullen?”

“That berk? I’ll tell you one thing, he won’t be coming back in a hurry to tell you to stop writing Sidney Bloods. Lord Moggerhanger’s set him up proper. As soon as the Roller was out of the yard me and the lads fell about laughing. Parkhurst — that’s Lord Moggerhanger’s bone idle son, who’s called Parkhurst because he’s done bird in that place — well, he told us what Michael was in for. He shouldn’t have, but he hates his old man because he won’t pay his gambling debts. Michael’s gone to Greece to do the hardest pick up job of all. Moggerhanger thinks the Green Toe Gang will get onto him, and it’ll stop them chasing Jericho Jim and Fred Pincher, who’ve gone to Cadiz to pick up a load of snuff from the Canary Islands. I’d be surprised if you see anymore of Michael Cullen. You can have a terrible accident, the way he’s gone. He gets too big for his effing boots, though. And to think he wants you to stop writing Sidney Bloods.”

“But why did they have to send Cullen?”

“Looks real, don’t it? Showed Moggerhanger meant business. Any old fool at the wheel, and the Green Toe Gang wouldn’t bother. They must have tracked him from the Channel. A little hint, of course. There’s no flies on Lord Moggerhanger. If there was he wouldn’t be a lord, would he?”

I gave another wipe at the place where my blood itched. “This is all pukka gen?”

“I remembered it, didn’t I? I’m not stupid.”

I put an arm around his shoulders. “My dear chap, Sidney Blood looks on you with such favour that he will show you into the sanctum where he actually writes the books you like so much. If you would kindly pull the remains of breakfast from your chin, and come with me, I’ll fulfil one of your deepest wishes.”

Poor Kenilworth followed me like the vile dog he was. “You can even sit in the armchair in which I think up the juiciest plots.” I went to my desk, to sort a few sheets, and wrote a hurried paragraph. “This is the latest. I’m thinking of calling it ‘Blood Brings Home the Bacon.’ What do you think of that for a title?”

He persuaded his eyes away from playing marbles with each other. “Smashing, Sidney.”

“That’s all right, then. If as assiduous and knowing a fan as yourself likes it, then so do I. Therefore, relax, old chap, and allow me to read you a line or two, something I’ve never done for anyone, not even for Michael Cullen:

“Sidney Blood always ran upstairs when on a job, but was careful to walk down slowly. He knew danger when he saw it. Running up, you caught your enemy at a disadvantage, and walking down you could enjoy the satisfaction of having cut him up without the peril of tripping on a ragged carpet. In any case, witnesses were more likely to remember a running man than one calmly walking. Lighting a cigarette, he noticed blood on his fingernails …’ How does that strike you?”

“Smashin’. I wish I could hear it all.”

“That would take another week.” I reached into a drawer. “Let me make you a present of a signed copy.”

“You mean it? My mum will be ever so proud when I show it her. She loves your books as well. Nick’s ’em from the library, then keeps ’em on the parlour table with a Bible on top.”

I scribbled: ‘Best Wishes from Sidney Blood, to my most fervent fan Kenny Dukes.’ My brain was working feverishly, as Blood might say, on something more important. “Can you tell me when Michael Cullen left? He was coming for tea this afternoon, and if he’s away I can work on Sidney Blood instead.”

His stereoscopic arm reached for the book. “He left yesterday. Put his car on the train to Milan, didn’t he? Should be in Jugoslavia by now, unless the GTGs got him in Italy.”

A padded envelope from the waist basket was good enough to put his book in. “If an old lady recognises it on the street she might take offence, and snatch if from you to burn in her stove.”

“I’d like to see her try.” With a hideous grin he took a knuckleduster from his pocket, polished it with halitosis breath, and buffed it up on his jacket sleeve. “I’d land her a real knuckle sandwich, wouldn’t I? I like to make my day now and again.”

He didn’t know that Chelsea women would smack him to the pavement in a trice and send a spiked heel into each eye. How was it, I wondered, that a walking arsenal such as him was allowed to roam without let or hindrance, while someone like me could be sent to the lock-up for not paying income tax? “And now I must ask you to leave, because priority number one is that I get on with the novel of which you’ve just heard an immortal part. The fact is, Kenny, another chap writes Sidney Bloods, though he has no right to. He’s the bane of my life, and only does it to spite me.”

Mabel was in the living room scooping up the breakfast detritus. “Who is he?” tinkled from Kenny’s lips.

“A chap called Delphick, a performance poet who pushes a pram with a panda on top up and down between here and Yorkshire.

“Next time I see him I’ll drive him off the hard shoulder. I’ll break his fingers, then he’ll have to write with his toes. Slow him down a bit, Sidney. You can rely on me.”

“You mustn’t do that. All’s fair in love and writing.” His arm came towards me for a farewell handshake. “Not too firm, or I shan’t be able to write, either.”

He grinned. “We don’t want that, do we, Sidney?”

Closing the door, I rubbed my hands in anticipation of taking Mrs Drudge-Perkins to task, giving her a dressing down, talking to her in no uncertain terms, having it out with her with regard to our unfinished business. My head was throbbing again now that no one was here to amuse me.

The front door was stout and thick, but through it I heard Kenny Dukes call out, as if to some blameless individual making a way upstairs: “Who are you, fuckface?” to which the bark of a somewhat military response was: “No nonsense from you, or I’ll bundle you in the lift and cut the cable so that you’ll fall fifty feet to a timely death.”

The grill clashed open, and Kenny Dukes boarded the lift for the descent, so I went into the living room, to open another bottle of brandy, and ponder on what could be done for Michael Cullen. He may be a bastard as far as I was concerned but I didn’t want to see him up excrement’s creek without a paddle, as the roughs in my platoon used to say, when I was close to getting them into exactly that situation.

But first I had to settle the score with Mabel. A pleasure was all the more piquant for having been deferred, though at the same time it shouldn’t be allowed to wait too long. Her hands were rattling dishes in the sink, and on hearing me come in she turned round: “No, Gilbert, don’t. Oh please don’t. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t mean it.”

It must have been her lucky day, because the door bell rang again, long and loud, as if whoever leaned on it would continue to do so till he fell down and the undertakers had to be called. Everything was conspiring to stop me writing, but the bell, which always rang for me alone, in spite of what Donne said, had to be answered, since the period between its noise and a normal opening of the door wouldn’t allow sufficient time for me to give Mabel the drubbing I’d intended. Nevertheless, I would tell whoever it was that if it was me they wanted I no longer lived here.

“Good morning, Major Blaskin. I hope you remember me.”

“I might, but who the hell are you? Are you from the income tax headquarters? Or did a publisher send you for a manuscript I owe them?”

“Nothing like that, sir. I’m an ex-soldier, Sergeant William Straw, late Sherwood Foresters. I saw service in the War. You were good enough to hide me in your roofspace three years ago, when all the gangs in London were after my guts.” He stood in the gloom of the hall. “If you’ll excuse me saying so, Major, you look as if you’ve been in a bit of a war yourself. You’re covered in blood.”

“Am I?” I stepped back to face the mirror. “So I am. Just a little tiff with my girlfriend.”

“I hope you gave her a friendly one back, sir.”

He was smart, lean, short-haired and erect, a six footer who had invited himself, I now recalled, to hide in the rafters above the flat, until I discovered him one evening in the kitchen consuming my food supplies like Brunel’s soil-cutting machine boring a tunnel under the Thames, smoking one of my best cigars like a Sheffield chimney, and quaffing my wine like water, which it certainly wasn’t.

He smiled. “Is that ravenous dog Dismal still inside? I wouldn’t like him to shred my turn ups. It’s my only pair of good trousers at the moment.”

“What is it you want?”

“Well, sir, let’s put it like this: I’m down on my luck, and Michael said if ever I got to that state I could always call on you to give a glad hand to an ex-soldier.”

“Why don’t you ask him to help?”

“I did, sir, but his lady-doctor wife informed me he’d gone to Greece.”

“You’d better come in.”

He draped his mildewed raincoat on a hanger. “I smell bacon. Is there any left? It’s amazing how hungry you get when you’re poor.”

Mabel came from the kitchen, perhaps to fawn over whoever had saved her from unpleasant chastisement. All I could do was tell her to make the same sort of breakfast as for Kenny Dukes, and bring more coffee for me.

“You’re a real gentleman,” Straw said.

I was glad he thought so, because I had plans that wouldn’t bear mentioning till food had made him truly grateful. I might be a master of invective, and the sort of writer who gives other writers a bad name (so that they would leave me alone) but I could spin plots when necessary with an alacrity which astounded even me.

“What was that tripehound Kenny Dukes doing here, sir?”

“He’s an admirer of Sidney Blood novels, and wanted one of them signed.”

“I didn’t know he could read, sir.”

“He hardly needs to, with that sort of trash.”

“He’s a villain, sir.” He shook half the cornflakes into a dish. “Everybody’s terrified of him in Soho. He looks after Moggerhanger’s strip clubs and gambling establishments. But I never take any lip from scum like that. He knows better than to get on the wrong side of me. I sent him packing just then.” He looked up from the table, and called on Mabel for more toast.

It was a pleasure to watch him eat, after Kenny Dukes’ crude manners, but Kenny Dukes hadn’t been a soldier, and never in a sergeants’ mess, not even as a waiter. “Have you ever been to Greece, Sergeant Straw?”

“I’ve been all over the Middle East, sir, but not exactly there. If you’re thinking of going for your holidays I can caretake the flat while you’re away.”

When he had finished dabbing up the yoke of two eggs I refilled his coffee cup, and offered a cigarette. “Tell me. Straw, how fond are you of Michael Cullen?”

“Fond, sir?” He nonchalantly exchanged the cigarette for a cigar from my open box, and lit it with almost as much pleasure as I did mine. “Let me put it this way: Michael and me are blood brothers. Why do you want to know?”

“Because to say he’s in danger might be something of an understatement.”

“You’d better tell me about it, then, because if anything happened to him I’d be so alone in the world I wouldn’t want to stay in it. Therefore I’d have to kill everybody else in the world to avenge him. We’ve known each other for fifteen years, and been in more scrapes together than I’ve got toes. We always look after each other. United we stand, divided we fall, just like in the regiment.”

“Your sentiments couldn’t be better, Sergeant Straw.” I retailed the intelligence extracted from Kenny Dukes, during which recitation Straw finished his main course and went back to the cornflakes for dessert. He emptied the milk jug over them that Mabel had foolishly left on the table, and spilled in the rest of the sugar. Here was a man I could trust with my life — or anyone else’s — because he ate like a carrion crow and never put on weight. “So you see why I’m worried, and why something has to be done.”

“I’m glad I called, then. It seems like Michael’s got himself tangled in a typical Moggerhanger set-up. Mogg did that to him once before, and Michael only got out of it by a bit of Irish luck, as well as a helping hand from yours truly sitting providentially before you.”

“Now you know why I’m sending you on a special mission to Greece.”

I expected argument, even protests, and was pleased at getting none. Knowing I was dealing with someone of sound worth, I shook his hand. “You’re a good man, Straw.”

“I’ll go anywhere in the world you care to post me, sir, but I can’t go to Greece in these clothes. I might meet a nice young woman while I’m there, and then where would I be?”

“You’ll meet no such person,” I said sternly. “Red light districts will be strictly out of bounds. No philandering of any sort. I’ll draw up a plan of operations, and you’ll stick to it. As for clothes, choose one of my dozen suits from the wardrobe. We’re a similar build, and though I’m not quite as thin as you I expect you’ll fill out in a remarkably short time with the food you seem set to eat from now on. I’ll have to pay for your messing arrangements, of course, but any tips will come out of your own pocket.”

He seemed about to dispute my largesse. “I won’t fill up much on those skimpy airline meals. Perhaps Mrs Drudge will pack me a parcel of sandwiches. I have a liking for smoked ham, and cheese. And I’d like to take a little plastic bag of pickled onions.”

Since she must have looked on him as having saved her from my wrath I said she would agree to that. “She’ll be happy to clean out the refrigerator as well, and all the cupboards.”

“That won’t be necessary, sir,” he said, head tilted back to give a louche smile. “There is a luggage allowance, you know.”

I called Mabel. “We have an emergency on our hands. I’ll explain all about it later, but in the meantime would you call London Airport and find the time of the next plane to Athens?”

A smile lit her face like a lantern at All Souls. “Yes, Gilbert. I’ll do it immediately.”

I barked at Straw, to show how serious the issue was. “Passport, sergeant? You have one?”

“Never without it, sir. I’ve often had to get out of the country in the nick of time.”

“You’re a man of resource. I like that.”

“It pays to be, sir. I wouldn’t be alive if I wasn’t.”

We opened the AA road atlas of Europe. “You’ll pick up a car — not a big one, understand? — at Athens airfield, then drive north towards Salonika, to intercept Michael. You can’t miss a Rolls Royce on the road in that country. When you make contact, put him in the picture, if he hasn’t been thrown through the frame already. Stay with him till he finishes with Greece. In other words, guard him with your life, and keep him safe from any misadventures. I leave the immediate tactical details to you. When we go out I’ll get some cash for your running expenses.”

“I shan’t need all that much, sir.” A glisten of ferocity came and went over his face. “When I get there I’ll live off the land.”

I feared to think what that might mean, after my experience with soldiers. “None of that,” I snapped. “Never forget that the gallant Greeks were our allies during both world wars.”

“Oh, I know my history, sir. We had wonderful education sergeants in the army. I never missed a lecture. There was always tea and cakes after them.”

“I’ll go with you to Heathrow, sergeant, draw some travellers’ cheques, pay your return fare, and book a car that you’ll collect in Athens.” What a divine invention was the credit card: spend now, and pay when you could.

“Regarding a car, sir, I could always hotwire a reliable vehicle, and save the expense of hiring one.”

“I can’t allow it. The British Army has a reputation to keep up.”

“Oh yes, sir, I know all about that.”

He put the fear of God into me, but he was all I had. At least Mabel was the perfect ATS office worker: “There’s a plane for Athens leaving in three hours, Gilbert.”

I threw her my credit card. “Book a seat for Mr William Straw. Then bring out a suitcase.” I turned to him. “Now let’s get you properly dressed.”

I’ve never seen such pleasure on an old sweat’s face: “You’re going to a lot of trouble for Michael, sir. He’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

“It’s two friends, with your good self. I’ll charge all expenses to his account so that he can reimburse me when he gets back.” I thought this a wise stricture, which might induce him to be more economical. “And if he’s out of funds he can write a Sidney Blood. Two, perhaps. Rescue expeditions like this cost the earth, and people need what Sidney Bloods they can get to lighten their dull lives. But keep an itemised account of all expenses, and bring back the receipts, for me to set against tax.”

“Can I have a few splashes in the bathroom, sir, and a wet shave before I go? I do like to look spick and span when I travel, as befits a gentleman ranker.”

I gave permission. “Don’t mind the blood all over the place. I had a little accident this morning.”

“Looks like somebody’s killed a pig in there,” he called, coming back pink and clean. His clothes fitted well enough, my best navy blue suit with a white handkerchief in the lapel pocket, striped shirt with gold cufflinks, old school tie, elastic sided boots (long out of fashion, but he had taken a shine to them) my best fedora, a fortuitous transformation from a relative down-and-out to a well-dressed man of forceful character who would take no palaver from anyone. The British Army was a good finishing school for a willing learner from the slums.

He ran my tortoiseshell comb through his hair, then packed the case with half a dozen of my shirts, three sets of underwear, socks, handkerchiefs, extra ties, and a silk dressing gown. I envisaged myself strolling along Piccadilly in brown paper. “You’re only going for a week at the most, Sergeant.”

“I’m trying not to take too much, Major, but you just don’t know what the future holds, do you?” So in went an electric shaver, shoe polish and brush kit, and a handful of cigars. “A half-filled suitcase looks very suspicious at the customs,” he said. “But I’ll look after everything as if it was my own, and bring it all back. When I stood at your door half an hour ago I didn’t think I’d be sent on one of the most interesting operations of my life. You can be sure I’ll be a credit to you, and get Michael out of any dreck he might be in. If I can’t do it, nobody can.”

I wondered if such a personable braggart could do all he claimed, but there was no one else to rely on. I’d seen so many meticulously concocted schemes go awry in the squalor of conflict, though the odd one now and again had come off well enough to make up for them. “I hope so. I shall want a full report from the field. Meanwhile I’ll draw up your operations sheet, then photocopy it, before taking you to the airport.”

“There are a few other things I’d like before we go, sir, if you have them on the premises.”

My patience wasn’t endless, but I said: “And what might they be?”

“A pair of binoculars and a pocket compass, for a start. Then a length of twine, but not string, because it snaps too easily. Oh yes, some rubber gloves and a pair of strong pliers — rubber handled if possible.”

My blood went down a few degrees. “You aren’t instructed to kill anyone, or go through barbed wire. It’s strictly against regulations.”

“I realise that, sir, but every soldier knows something unexpected is always bound to happen, especially when he thinks it isn’t.”

His attitude seemed appallingly realistic. “You would have done well in my platoon during the War, sergeant, except that you would have been dead in no time, and probably so would I.”

I could only allow him to assemble what equipment he needed, while Mabel, looking on as if happy she wouldn’t have to give out white feathers today, seemed pleased to see me in contact with what she thought was the real world at last. Pulling the bloody rags from my head, and after cleaning up prior to getting dressed, I let her use half a lemon as antiseptic for my wound. It stung like a hot poker when the plaster fell in place as if magnetised, so painful I relished even more taking her to task, or to pieces, on my return from the airport.

William Straw was smoothing another pair of trousers into the case. “Oh, and I’ll take a light mackintosh as well.”

I did my best to put on a sombre expression. “What about a primus stove, to brew tea now and again?”

Straightening, he showed an aspect of reliability no one could fault, marred only by my detection, from the army days, of a slight untrustworthiness. Yet I couldn’t complain, not having had such an interesting time since the War. I almost wished I was going with him, except that an author couldn’t allow himself to be endangered if he was to write about the experience afterwards. Though it was my duty to let others live for me, I was always willing to give them a little help.

“I shan’t need a primus,” he said. “If I want a cup of tea by the roadside I can easily get a fire going.”

Half the damned hillside as well, I shouldn’t wonder. Perhaps it was good I was staying behind. As the salt of the earth he would be uncontrollable, a type I’d met before, recalling how I’d once been told to take my platoon and deal with a machinegun in a house on the edge of a village. Unfortunately we couldn’t move an inch without being killed. My arm was hit by shrapnel, which so enraged Sergeant Cohen, a resourceful chap from the East End, that he dropped his rifle, took out a cutthroat razor, opened it, and zig-zagged into the house, standing at the door a few minutes later to present me with a bag of fingers, saying: “You can come in now, sir. They can’t shoot without these.”

“Do you want a cutthroat razor then?” I said to the current specimen of the apocalypse.

He took it with so much alacrity that I could in no way see him as a suitable emissary for a United Europe. “I work too stealthily to need one of these, but you’re right, sir. You never know, though I’ll try not to make a mess of your suit.” He went through the flat for a final look, as if in the house of an enemy. “I’ll chuck in a pair of these shorts, and this nice flowered shirt, if I may, and these sandals.”

“You aren’t going for a holiday,” I said morosely.

He was not a man for self-pity, only for looking pitiably on those who held views other than his own. “I know, sir, but I might allow myself an hour or two’s leave when the dirty work’s done.” He aimed a playful tap at my ribs. “If you see what I mean,” and gave that knowing, British infantryman’s lantern smile, as if to reassure me that he would survive at anyone’s expense except his own. “Mind you, sir, it’s a million to one against finding him.”

“No it isn’t, Sergeant. All you have to do is get him out. You have your orders. Just think of the kudos when it’s all over.”

“Will do, sir. You can rely on me.” He rubbed his hands with lunatic enthusiasm, “Zero hour, here I come!”