He was next to Mr Martindale, who was still muttering to himself as he stumbled, hands over his ears. Sam called out impatiently, ‘Martindale! Hands down! You’ll fall if you’re not careful!’
The other attendant, a young man who was new, looked anxious but Sam, wanting to show his authority, shouted out again, ‘Martindale! Hands down!’
Frank saw something happen to Mr Martindale’s eyes; they had been cast down but now he looked up and stared at Sam and they were wild. He glanced round at Frank, a terrifying stare that made him step backwards. Then he looked back at the attendants, before plunging across the little piece of lawn in the centre of the airing court towards them with unexpected speed and force. ‘Yo’ fookin’ bugger!’ he shouted at Sam. ‘Can’t you fookin’ leave me alone!’ He threw himself, fists flying, not at Sam but at the young attendant. Frank saw blood spurt from the young man’s nose. His cap flew off and he crashed against the wall. Sam took out a whistle and sounded a long blast. Frank stood there petrified as Sam grappled with Mr Martindale, trying to pin his arms behind him. All the patients stood watching; some stared at the scene, one or two laughed, one young man started jumping up and down, weeping.
Half a dozen attendants appeared, running. Mr Martindale was pushed to the ground; Sam kicked him in the back. The other patients were shepherded quickly inside. On the ward, Frank managed to sidle off to the quiet room again. He sat in his chair. His hands were trembling and his bad hand hurt. He had seen patients cursing and shouting before, had seen people forcefully put to bed, but never open violence like that. He wasn’t safe here, anything could happen. He thought again of the shock treatment, what he might find himself saying. He whispered to himself, ‘I’ll do it. I’ll phone him. David, please help me.’
Chapter Ten
ON FRIDAY DAVID LEFT WORK at five and took the tube to Piccadilly. Carol had asked if he would like to go to another recital the following week and he had agreed; he had been instructed to keep the saucepan simmering, as Jackson had put it, so they still went to concerts about once a month.
He walked into Soho. It was a damp, raw evening, wet, slippery pavements reflecting the neon signs in the shops – Bovril, England’s Glory matches, Emu Australian Wines for Christmas. The narrow streets were crowded, city gents and sharp-suited pimps, theatrical-looking types and soldiers in heavy greatcoats on leave from India or Africa. Prostitutes in the doorways wore their hair in the fashionable German style, blonde pigtails looped behind their ears. A drunk in Blackshirt uniform staggered by.
David turned into the damp alley beside the coffee shop, stepping over squashed cigarette packets and a little heap of dog’s dirt. A group of teenage boys sat in the coffee shop, leering at women passers-by over their cups of frothy coffee. One had an oiled quiff that stuck out inches above his forehead. One Saturday night a few weeks ago some Black-shirts had come into Soho, grabbed all the Jive Boys they could find, and shaved their heads with cutthroat razors. But nothing could keep people out.
The green door was unlocked. A single bulb provided the staircase with a dim light. Damp paint was peeling from the walls. A large middle-aged man, a Homburg hat in his hand, came out of the prostitute’s flat. David, going up, stood aside to let him pass. The man’s sweaty face wore a contented expression. ‘Lovely bit of cunt,’ he said dreamily. ‘Lovely.’
David knocked on the door of the flat opposite. Natalia let him in. As usual, she wore an old shirt spotted with paint, no make-up, her hair untidy as ever. Normally she gave him her warm, knowing smile, but tonight she looked serious. ‘Come in,’ she said.
The big room was cold, smelling of paint. Another painting stood on the easel; tumbledown houses on a steep street, a big square castle in the distance. As in all Natalia’s townscapes, the people on the streets mostly had their faces cast down or turned away.
Jackson was standing by the fire. The big man looked anxious, his lips pressed tightly together. ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice,’ he said.
‘Please, sit down.’ Natalia gestured to the threadbare armchairs round the fire. Often her tone was like that, formally polite. Then her slight accent sounded German, but when she spoke with emotion it deepened and sounded different, the vowels flattening and lengthening. ‘Something’s come up,’ Jackson said, a little uneasily. ‘Something really rather important.’
David asked, ‘Are Geoff and Boardman not coming?’
‘Not tonight.’ His eyes were fixed on David’s.
David took a deep breath. ‘Have we been found out?’
Jackson shook his head. ‘No, no, don’t worry. This is nothing to do with the work of our cell. It’s something else, some information that has come down from people at the very top.’ David glanced at Natalia. She nodded seriously. ‘It concerns someone you knew at Oxford, actually,’ Jackson continued. ‘A man called Frank Muncaster. Does the name ring any bells?’
David frowned, puzzled. ‘Yes. Geoff knew him, too.’
Jackson looked surprised, then said to Natalia, ‘Of course, they were at the same college.’
She said, ‘They didn’t think of that.’
‘It could help us,’ Jackson said.
David had a memory of Frank, sitting with him and Geoff in an Oxford pub; his dark hair long and untidy as usual, his thin face anxious and strained, afraid of almost everyone. ‘What’s happened to him?’ he asked quietly.
Jackson said, ‘I understand you and Muncaster shared rooms at Oxford. You were his best friend.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Odd, shy. Afraid of people. I think he had a pretty rotten childhood. But he was a good chap, never did anyone any harm. And he used to think about things, he had interesting opinions if you let him talk.’
‘You were his protector, perhaps,’ Natalia prompted.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘We know he looked up to you.’
‘Did he?’
‘We think so.’
‘He hung round with Geoff and me, our group of friends. When we went into the Civil Service Frank stayed on at Oxford and did a PhD. He’s very bright.’ Jackson and Natalia were both listening intently. ‘We’ve rather lost touch in recent years. We used to exchange letters, but now it’s just Christmas cards.’ He looked at Natalia. ‘Is he dead?’ David asked suddenly.
‘No,’ she answered simply. ‘But he is in deep trouble.’
‘How?’
Jackson said, ‘Muncaster became a geologist, yes? Some sort of research job at Birmingham University.’
‘Yes. He could never have held down a teaching job.’
Jackson nodded. ‘His father died in the Great War, I understand, and he was brought up by his mother near London, with his elder brother. Both went to a boarding school in Scotland.’
‘You know a lot,’ David said.
‘We need to know more,’ Natalia said. ‘He needs our help.’
David took a deep breath. ‘Frank didn’t talk much about his childhood. But I know his mother was under the thumb of some spiritualist con artist.’
‘What about the older brother?’ Natalia asked.
‘I don’t think he and Frank got on. He went off to America some time in the thirties. He was a scientist, too.’ David frowned. ‘Frank avoided talking about himself. There was some accident at his school, his hand got badly smashed up, but he never said how. I think he had a bad time there. I think he was bullied.’