"Loomis won't stop you—if we get Schiebel. You'll be cleared straight through."
"What about you?" said Pia.
"Honey, all I did was hand you the key to the madhouse," said Craig.
"You're safe and sound outside now."
Her hps closed on his then. Her eyes were shut, and the tears flowed warm down her cheeks and on to his. Craig knew it was good-bye. Soon he would have to look for Selina.
* Chapter 21 *
Extract from an autobiographical fragment written by Edward Billings, known as "O Level Edward." It was composed as therapy initiated by the psychiatrist of the Borstal Institution where Billings was then confined (larceny of motor vehicle, actual bodily harm, obstruction of a police officer in the performance of his duty). The psychiatrist concluded from the fragment's contents that Billings was "utterly and uncurably mendacious," but nevertheless resorted to Freudian analysis. Inevitably he failed. Billings had written the truth.
o o o
Harry is talking to this Arab geezer in a coffee bar, and this doesn't surprise us. Harry doesn't worry about all that color-bar crap; spades or wogs or the Forty Thieves—it's all the same to Harry. And after a bit he starts getting like angry, and leaves the Arab, and Jigger says: "Looks like trouble," but Lonesome—we call him Lonesome on account of his B.O.—he says: "Nah! Harry's putting it on," and he's right, because one thing about Lonesome, he's got all his marbles even if he is a stinker.
So Harry comes over and he says: "That geezer wants us to find a bird for him."
"Let him find his own birds," I say.
"No," says Harry. "This is a wog bird. He claims he's lost her. This bird."
And he shows us a picture of this bird, and I go off Claudia Cardinale for ever, because this is a real crazy bird, believe me.
"Nobody ever lost that," I say. "Nobody's that careless."
"Where d'you get it?" asks Lonesome.
"Mr. Candlish. He says to look out for her too," Harry says. 'That's why I tell the wog I don't know. All he offers is money." What Mr. Candlish offers is anything from a fortune to a belting, depending on success or failure, and we know this. We always act respectful with Mr. Candlish.
"I seen her," says Lonesome. "I seen her yesterday when I was on the bike."
Lonesome has a 1,000-cc. Norton about the size of a cart horse, and he covers quite a lot of country in our corner of Prolyville.
"You're sure?" asks Harry.
"Look at the picture," says Lonesome. "There's only one bird round here looks like that. I see her. With a tall wog."
The Arab gives us a dirty look and we survive it and he leaves.
'There's a tall wog dead in the papers," says Jigger, and pulls out an Evening News, and we read how evil has been done in our fair city and the tall wog has been belted by another of the same, and is fatally dead.
"I'm sorry I miss that," says Harry, and then he looks at Lonesome, and Lonesome's eyes are sticking out like chapel hat pegs, so then we look where he is looking, and we see the bird. And I know that I am right about Claudia Cardinale.
She sits at a table near us and orders meat pie and
egg and chips and when it comes she attacks it like it is her first for many weeks, and I am displeased at this behavior because she is beautiful, and one thing I am not adjusted to is birds with big appetites. She sees us staring, and she looks back at us, and when I see her eyes I know something else; this bird is not only beautiful, she's dangerous. Because we have the gear on, and it is black leather, the best; and Lonesome with the gear on would frighten a Martian—but the bird just looks at him as if she could cool him off without trying. She knows this without having to worry; it's just a fact. Then she goes back to her meat pie.
Then Harry remembers he's the leader and promotes some action. He gets up and we follow, and old Charlie behind the counter says: "Now, boys. Don't let's have trouble," and is silent. Harry gets between the bird and the door, so no one can see her. This is good thinking, and we do likewise.
"Evening," says Harry.
"Good evening," says the bird, and goes on eating chips like there's a famine starts in ten minutes.
"There's a feller wants to see you," Harry says, and she stops eating.
"Name of Candlish." She starts on the egg.
"You're mistaken," she says. "I don't know anybody of that name."
And when I hear the voice I know there is trouble, because I know this kind of voice. Last year there is this other bird comes among us from up West, and she claims she is a reporter from the Whores' Gazette, but what she really is is a seeker after kicks of a carnal nature, and this bird commits unpleasantness with Harry and Jigger and even Lonesome, but not with me because I never joined the three musketeers, and the bird resents this, and she is the one who begins to call me "O Level Edward," on account of my education, and I am unhappy till Harry kicks her out on account of she is ancient. Twenty-six if she's a day. But what she had, besides old age, is the voice: B.B.C. voice, Declare This Bazaar Open voice, I Name This Ship voice, and I am nervous all over again. This bird is debsville. What's she want with the peasants? And I see that Lonesome is thinking the same thing, because like I say, Lonesome is no dummy, only lacking in fragrance.
"He wants to see you," says Harry. "No," says the bird.
"You better," says Harry, "or 111 bust you one."
What bird could resist such winsome charm? This one puts down her knife and fork, and her hands go into her pockets. I think she is looking for a fag—that's how dim I am.
"Sit down," she says to Harry, and lacks a chair out for him, and Harry does so, and I am aware that Lonesome has withdrawn from behind me as the air is much clearer, and I am surprised because Lonesome doesn't usually chicken. Then I dig. The phone is near by, and the jukebox is going loud, and the bird is preoccupied, so Lonesome moves.
"What's in my pocket?" says the bird, and Harry looks down at the shape of her coat, and he can't believe what he sees.
"You're kidding," he says.
"Am I?" says the bird. "Touch the barrel then—but be careful."
Harry's hand goes out, and he touches her coat, like reverently, and he says, "It's a shooter all right," and the bird says, "I told you," sort of impatient, as if she's tired of explaining the obvious. 'You others sit down too," says the bird, then looks up quick, but Lonesome is behind me again and we are okay.
"Why does this Candlish want me?" she asks, and we say we don't know and explain how it's best just to do what Mr. Candlish says and she laughs in our faces and we take it, because this is a bird who does what she wants, and nobody else. Then I say she better go with us on account of the wog who's looking for her, and the wog worries her, but she can handle it, and she asks us do we know a man called Craig and we don't and she is unhappy. But she sees we're okay and lets go of the shooter and goes back to the calories, and even while I realize this is the way out night of my life I think how terrible it will be if she gets fat.
She tells us how she stays with the Chinaman, and about Sherif, and how the Chinaman comes into her when she is like worried and tells her how it's in the paper that Sherif is dead, and she must go because he never takes murderers, and gives her back their money less two quid use
of the room, and she agrees to go at once because the Chinaman has a gun and two assistants. Then she looks at us, one after the other, and she sighs.
"Very well," she says. "I really haven't any choice, have I? Let's go and meet your terrifying Mr. Candlish."
And we go out of the caff, and it is dark outside, and like deserted, and we go to where we park our bikes, and this girl is as wary as a leopard in the Hons' playpen. There is a light by the bikes and we stand under it, reaching for our keys, then suddenly a wog geezer steps out of the darkness, and what he is holding is a gun. And he says: "Stop there." The girl starts to turn. "You too, princess," he says, and two more blokes appear out of nowhere, and the bird is still. "You have a Browning automatic in your pocket," he says. "Take it out and put it on the ground." She does just that.