Flying in a Jumbo at night was like being in a long cellar underneath a laundry doing temporary duty as an air raid shelter, in which you sat until the all-clear went. After four hours I was hungry, but the smart young stern-faced stewardesses were still selling high octane drink, as if wanting us all to be too blindoe to know how foul the food was when it came, or not to care when the plane went into a spin. An occasional tray passed up and down the gangway, but the flight crew were eating first, and then the cabin staff. The smell of food was as fake as the music, which was also out of a can.
People were queuing for drinks near the galley, and when a woman pointed to water all over the floor I said in a loud voice as I squeezed by: ‘Never mind, love, as long as it’s not petrol.’
After the meal I tried to sleep. There were stars outside, and the movie this time was a long saga of ships bursting into flames. I regretted not having brought a few Sidney Bloods to pass the time. My brooding about Agnes lost its intensity as the journey went on. Misery evaporated, though the hours went by like weeks. Was she only another of my twenty-four-hour passions?
While looking out of the window at the green fields of Southern Ireland the stewardess reached for my breakfast tray which still held half a Danish pastry. As the meal had been one of the most meagre in my experience, and catching sight of her intention out of the corner of my eye, I stopped the tray in mid-air and pulled it back. She snorted and walked off. A gentleman a few seats along, being somewhat frailer than me, had perforce (as Blaskin might say), though after a somewhat spirited struggle, to relinquish the final crumbs of his blueberry muffin to a more determined young woman. They had a schedule to stick to, and no goddamned passenger was going to spoil it.
When we landed I got my luggage from the roundabout and headed for the. Nothing to Declare gangway. A hatchet-faced customs officer called me over and thrust his little board in front of my face, as if I had to pass a literacy test before being allowed into God’s Little Acre. He made me empty my case, and even felt along the seams and linings. I didn’t take the trouble to manufacture a supercilious grin — not having more than my allowance of Philip Morris fags and Jack Daniel’s whisky. The search was so thorough I couldn’t help thinking that somebody must have tipped him off that I was a notorious hash merchant. Yet no one knew I was coming back, and those who knew I had gone hadn’t expected me to return alive. He made me turn out my pockets and when he found nothing asked to see my jacket. My patience and forbearance seemed to encourage him, but he stopped short at a body search. ‘Sorry for the inconvenience,’ he said.
I was back. Watch out, Moggerhanger. I walked towards the taxi through the beautiful odour of real English rain. They couldn’t water that, at least.
Nineteen
Going over Hammersmith Flyover, a maroon Rolls-Royce told me I was back in Mogland. Pindarry wore his funny little Austrian-type hat with a feather up the side, and I recognised Moggerhanger’s big head in the back. He leaned against the window and, having much to think about, didn’t see me. At the moment only he was in my mind and I thought it a bad omen that I should spot him so soon after my arrival.
The presence of Harrods reassured me and it felt good to be safe home again. Letting myself into Blaskin’s flat, there wasn’t even Dismal to greet me, nothing except a couple of letters on the lounge table.
Dear Michael, [the first said]
I’ve decided to cut and run. I couldn’t stand it any longer. Not that Gilbert isn’t a gentleman. He certainly is that, the way he treats Mrs Drudge. We had some good times together. I had all the food and booze I wanted, but as soon as I finished writing his Sidney Blood story I lost interest in living here, and wanted to get out. Another thing was that that Mrs Drudge was getting on my wick. Every time I laid my hand on her arse she jumped a mile, as if I was going to rape her, or as if I wasn’t fit to touch such a person as her. I ask you, what kind of life is that? She wasn’t to know, I suppose, that it was only a friendly gesture. She also complained that I didn’t make my bed. Me make my bed! Anyway, I knew it was either her or me, and as I didn’t want to inconvenience Major Blaskin, Sergeant Straw had to get back into the wilderness and live under fire. Well, it makes a change.
Another thing is, I got so stir-crazy yesterday I went out for a walk as far as Harrods. You know my weakness for the place, well I went in for a look around. I saw that pillock Cottapilly in the toy department buying a fire engine. He’s got the best collection of toy fire engines of anybody I know. He’s very queer for fire engines, I can’t think why. Anyway, I don’t think he saw me, but I can’t be sure. If he did it’s only a matter of time before they come and get me, or before they tip off the Green Toe Gang so that they can come and get me. Life’s not easy, Michael. It never was, not for yours truly. Oh, and another thing. I’ve taken Dismal. I’m sorry about that. I know you’re fond of him, but with me it’s a matter of life and death. I’ll buy a white stick from the Blind Shop, and with dark glasses and my coat collar turned up like on the pictures, I’ll be an object of pity and respect to all passers-by. I’ll have an impenetrable disguise, what’s more, and be able to pull in the odd penny or two if I don’t think it’s safe to go to my room and help myself to proper financial collateral from under the floor-boards. If I find I can’t cope with him I’ll put him in a basket and send him back to you by British Rail. That’s a risk, I know, because he might well end up in the engine sheds at Swindon running in and out to buy teabags. I’ll try and look after him, though. I hope you had a restful trip to Canada. See you some time.
Your old pal, Bill
PS. The probability is that by the time you read this I’ll be on some island in the South Pacific being served pineapple brandy by a smiling young girl in a grass skirt and no top.
The other letter, also in Bill’s handwriting, was from Lincoln Prison, on official notepaper:
Dear Michael,
I have been arrested but they’ll let me go if you send twenty-five pounds for the fine to the above address. I’ll explain later.
Bill Straw
I needed a long time to think about that one, but his peril was also mine, so five minutes later I put the money into an envelope, and paper-clipped it to a covering note as from Upper Mayhem. Then I went out and dropped it in the postbox so that it would arrive next morning. I needed all the pals I could get. If I didn’t knit myself quickly into some framework of defence I was finished, because whatever had gone wrong in Canada would sooner or later have unpleasant consequences for me. I wanted to throw myself out of the window and smack the ground five floors below. If I had known Moggerhanger was going to be standing underneath I might have done. But to do so otherwise was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I would just have to survive. My feet hadn’t touched the ground nor my soul the sky for almost a week. I recalled Agnes like the wet dream I always hoped would come true while going to sleep, and had to pinch myself into believing I’d seen her, though without our meeting on the plane I would have walked to my death in Toronto. She saved my life. The phone went and I picked up the receiver: ‘New Scotland Yard, can I help you?’
He or she hung up.
I wanted to be with Agnes and hold her close, but she was probably in Hawaii by now, working her emotional way around the world. The phone went again. ‘Natural History Museum. Head Keeper speaking, can I help you?’