A Cool Breeze on the Underground (24 page)

29

Colin hated living this way.

He had scrunched himself down in his grandda’s flat, a dingy cellar in the Old East End. He had a mattress in the corner of the sitting room and he could see the street through the one tiny window. He tried hard not to watch every pair of feet that came by, but the thought that Dickie Huan was tracking him down made it tough.

The room was a pit, a real trash heap, and the old man smelled bad, what with the steady diet of cheap sausage and cheaper beer. Plus the filthy old codger watched telly every second that he wasn’t down to the pub, and he liked those quiz shows where fat old bags in pink frocks won holidays to Brighton for knowing the Christian names of every Prime Minister since Christ was a road guard, or the titles of every ultraboring song they used to sing before they took a quick poke up the old canal and started breeding. If Colin had to sit through one more episode of
Poldark,
he thought he would just let Dickie Huan slice and dice him into pigeon feed. It might be less painful.

And the old one couldn’t shut up, either, not for a moment. He engaged in a never-ending monologue about the war, and then it was Gerry this and Gerry that until Colin would scream out that he wished Gerry had won the bleeding war, anyway, so that at the least the beer would be worth drinking.

Or the old boy would maintain a running dialogue with the quiz-show contestants, shouting out the answers, all of them wrong, and then heaping abuse on the stupid cows when they rejected his well-intentioned advice.

His other hobby was getting on Colin. He enjoyed the spectacle of his big-shot grandson creeping hack to the old neighborhood to hide out, and he never let Colin forget that he owed his existence to the old man’s sufferance. The dirty drunken bastard would deliver lengthy soliloquies about the evils of drugs and fancy ladies, about ponces and ’hores, and dope peddlers, and above all poofters and buggerboys. He was convinced, or pretended to be, that Colin fell into the last category, so he made sure to spice his anecdotes with references to “sodomites” and “bumjockeys” he had known in the Navy, replete with tales of dark and murky deeds done in hammocks.

“Ye’re not such an effin’ great deal now, are ye, Colin lad?” he’d ask while gumming a sausage. “Wi’ yer toff suits of clothes and yer leather shoes all nice and shiny. Now yer content to have a cup of tea with yer old gentleman’s gentleman, who ye haven’t bothered to as much as send a pack of fags to, and a year gone past. No, you were too good, then, wi’ yer ’hores and yer poofters and floggin’ dope like a Chinaman.”

Which brought up a touchy subject.

His grandda had tremendous stamina for such an old croaker, Colin thought as the coot launched into yet another diatribe against him. Colin’s only solace was that his grandmother had died, so he didn’t have to listen to this in stereo.

Colin tuned him out and reflected on his own misery. Not only did he not have Alice, with her delicious body and the delicious things she did with it, neither did he have his twenty thousand quid that bastard Neal had done him out of. Worse than that, his hard-won drug and prostitution business, which he had spent years building up, was going to skat because Colin didn’t dare show his face aboveground, lest he be chopped into Tuesday’s lunch special. Which brought him back to brooding about Neal, who had caused this whole mess. And here he was, living in a root cellar with a crazy old man who smelled like a dead goat, dribbled his breakfast egg down his one decent shirt, and talked to the telly.

Weren’t you the one, Colin asked himself, who swore he’d get out of this neighborhood and never come back? Now look at you, Colin lad, with one shirt to your own back, and afraid to go home. He had to find Neal and Alice, and that was an end to it.

Life was no holiday for Crisp these days, either, what with two Chinamen following him every step that he took.

They had let him up off the floor that night, pushed him around a little for emphasis, and told him they’d be watching him. He’d better lead them to Colin, they said, or they would hold him responsible for the money. The girl, too. And they gave their opinion that it would take this girl one long time to work off twenty thousand pounds.

So now they followed him, not even bothering to be subtle about it, confident that he was frightened enough to lead them straight to Colin. He would, too, if he could figure out where the bugger had got to. He wasn’t anywhere on the Main Drag, or on King’s Highway or at Paddington or Victoria or any of the clubs. He had buggered off, left his old china (no pun intended) holding the old bag. He was probably in France by now, soaking up the rays on the beach, but Crisp wasn’t going to tell his twin shadows that. They might get upset and go back to work with the knife. So for the time being, he settled for the uneasy status quo, and wandered around London as if he was looking for someone.

Sod Colin, anyway. Sod and double sod him.

In his mind, colin kept going back to the flat on Regent’s Park Road. To be sure, it was a painful and humiliating memory, and he knew he had made mistakes there, but he knew it was his only starting point. As he lay on the filthy mattress, he went over it again and again, asking himself the same questions. Whose flat was it? Why bad Neal gone there?

To sell a book, perhaps?

Or perhaps to take one home.

Colin knew only one way to find out.

30

Much to his surprise, Neal liked mornings best. He had always been a night person, but in the cool and quiet of the Yorkshire mornings, he found contentment of a sort. He got up long before Allie, who still had tough nights a week after her last fix. As she slept off her exhaustion, Neal would start the fire in the stove and fireplace and then haul water to the bathtub. He’d force himself into the cold water, even coming to the point where he found it refreshing. He’d wash his hair quickly, towel off, and trot back inside to stand by the fire. He’d put the water to the boil, make himself a strong pot of tea, generously heaping in milk and sugar. Then he’d make toast over the open fire and eat it outside with his second cup of tea. All he found missing was a newspaper, but after a few days, he hadn’t even missed that. He didn’t care about who was killing whom, or even how the Yankees were doing. It didn’t seem to matter up here.

Sometimes in the early cool of morning, he thought about just disappearing and not dealing at all with the troubles he knew were waiting. He recognized it as a fantasy—Graham would track him down through Keyes; he would run out of money; Allie would recover and want to move on with their deal—but he was surprised at its appeal. The quiet and seclusion were powerful drugs. He started to forget about Colin, about John Chase, even about Levine fucking him over. There’d be a time to deal with all of that.

Not necessarily this morning, however—or any particular morning.

So sometimes he’d read a book along with the second and third cup, and other times he’d just sit—something he never thought he’d do—and enjoy the morning as it brightened and warmed. He’d watch the mist clear over the wood in the valley, and watch the shepherd and his dog move their sheep over the crest of the ridge.

He’d have maybe an hour of this quiet before Allie would wake up. He would hear her pad down the creaky stairs, stop and look for him in the kitchen, and then come outside. She would bring her cup with her and pour the last tea out of the pot. She liked it sticky sweet, and would spread gobs of butter and jam on the toast he’d make for her.

They spoke little on these early mornings. Sometimes she would tell him about her dreams from the night before, but mostly they just sat and listened to the morning. Sometimes she would fall asleep in her chair for a few minutes, and he would know that her dreams had been bad and her sleep shaky. Other mornings, she would light one of her few remaining cigarettes and smoke it slowly with deep, long drags. She’d sit far back in her chair and stare at the sky, and Neal didn’t have to ask or wonder about what she was thinking.

It was always Allie who broke their reverie, suddenly standing up and carrying the teapot and cups back into the cottage. She’d come back a few minutes later, dressed and her hair brushed, and gently kick the leg of his chair, where he would be taking a catnap. He would get up and they would walk over the top of the hill. The first time they did this, three days into her withdrawal, they made slow progress, and she leaned on his arm for the few minutes that they walked. He knew it embarrassed her. He watched her determination take over as their morning walk became a symbol of her independence, her shift from passive victim to active participant, and he always let her set the pace. She was recovering quickly.

The crest of the hill was a revelation, as it sloped steeply on the other side to a deeply wooded valley, which lay in stark contrast to the bleak beauty of the moor. The first few times that they climbed to the crest, they were content to stay there and enjoy the view: the short tufts of stubby grass and heather giving way to the lush green meadow, a brook, and then the wood. But on the third morning, Allie wordlessly set off down the slope, leaving him to follow or not. He did, staying well behind her, letting her lead them to the side of the brook. He sat down beside her on a fallen log. She was puffing, fighting for air, and her face was flushed with the effort. She was smiling. They sat for a long time until she could catch her breath, and the climb back up to the cottage was hard for them both.

“You’re going to owe me sixteen thousand dollars, mister,” she said between gasps, “and I’ll have earned every penny.”

After that, they pushed their walk a little farther every day. They found some stones on which they could cross the brook without getting wet, and it led to a natural footpath through the thick green wood. It was cool in there, cool and dark. Birds they didn’t recognize fled in short hops in front of them, scolding them for their intrusion. Sometimes Neal and Allie would sit in the dark of the wood and listen to the birds. Other times, they would walk straight through and come out the other side to a meadow bordered by a rail fence. The meadow was oval-shaped and at the far end was a narrow gate that opened onto a trail leading back up the slope to the open moor. Some mornings, they arrived to find the shepherd there. The old man would lean on the rails of the fence, smoking a pipe, a shotgun cradled in his arm as he directed the efforts of his dog.

The frenetic Border Collie would gather the sheep into a rough circle, and then the shepherd would shout, “Gate!” and the dog would drive the sheep headlong through the gate and up the trail, barking and nipping at recalcitrant heels. Other times, the shepherd would walk well ahead, his mind on foxes and stouts, and Neal and Allie would hear his shout from a distance. The dog didn’t care; he knew his job. The voice was good enough. This ritual became a favorite part of their day, and they tried to time the walk to the rhythms of the dog and the shepherd.

As Allie got stronger, she would push herself farther, leading them out of the meadow and up the hill on the other side. Much to their surprise and delight, they found a small, deep pond over the opposite hill and decided that one afternoon they would go back and swim.

The return walk was usually slow and leisurely, but they rarely spoke. It was as if they feared words would bring the real world back, and the real world was too full of memories, and pain, and problems.

And heroin. And Colin. And heroin.

The walk always made them hungry. After the first week Neal trusted her enough to leave her at the cottage while he hiked down into the village to replenish their stores. He didn’t want to attract any more attention than he had to by bringing the Keble, London plates and all, into the tiny village.

For lunch, they would have bread, cheese, and fruit. Canned soup on colder days. Sometimes thick slices of ham with mustard. Allie’s appetite improved by the day, and Neal always ate like a pregnant horse anyway, so lunch was a big occasion. They ate outside when the weather let them, on a table they had made from an old door and two sawhorses. They drank cold tea, syrupy lemonade, or plain water. Neal would have loved a beer, warm or no, but was afraid to let Allie have any, and equally reluctant to be selfish by drinking in front of her.

They napped after lunch. She would fall exhausted into her own bed in the large bedroom, while Neal would settle into his own bed in a guest room. At first, he didn’t sleep—suspicious that this nap bit was a dodge for her to sneak off. But she was truly tired, especially if it had been a rough night, and the exercise and fresh air did her in. Him, too. He’d try to read but would fall asleep after a few minutes. One of those deep, heavy sleeps. One afternoon, they climbed the stairs together, arriving at their respective doors at the same time. They stood in the hall for a long moment before Neal turned and went into his room. He shut the door behind him and realized that he had never done that before. He opened it quickly, to see her standing there, looking hurt and scared, and they both laughed a nervous laugh. She reached out and took his hand, gave it a quick and gentle squeeze, and went into her room. She left the door open.

He went to his own bed and flopped down on it. Jesus, Neal, he thought. Just Jesus, that’s all. He meant to brood on the whole thing for a long time but fell asleep instead. After that afternoon, it became another ritual. They would climb the stairs together, pause in the hallway, she would squeeze his hand, and they would go to their separate beds.

They would sleep for a couple of hours or so, rising in the late afternoon to start the preparations for their supper and her bath. She began to take over the chore of heating her own water, and after a couple of days could easily manage getting in and out of the tub, to Neal’s simultaneous relief and regret. The late afternoons could get heavy, with doubts and fears sneaking in with the approaching dark. She would really start to feel the need again, and get jumpy and edgy—hostile.

It often rained in the late afternoon, the day brooding along with them, the dark sky mocking their darker thoughts: she of dope and parents and lover left behind, he of the reality that was coming fast as summer waned, of those same parents, and Friends of the Family, and nominations to high office, and decisions that could not be put off much longer. They thought about a truth she didn’t want to know and he didn’t want to tell.

So it was a tense silence that colored their late-afternoon teas. Forced inside by the weather, they would sit by the fire and sip their tea, pointedly reading old paperbacks, and the quiet was not something they shared but something that divided them.

They were in the cottage for two weeks when the visitor came. Neal returned from a supply run in the village one afternoon, to find Allie pouring tea for the shepherd. The collie lay by the fire, savoring an oatmeal cookie. The shotgun was in the corner behind the door.

“Pardon the intrusion,” the shepherd said, getting up. “My name is Hardin.”

“I’ve seen you work the sheep,” Neal said, looking at Allie, who gave him a warm, domestic smile.

Hardin continued: “The missus tells me you’re here on honeymoon. Bit different, that.”

Okay, Allie, Neal thought, if you want to play …

“Actually, I’m working on a book deal.”

“Honey, I thought you wanted to keep it a secret. Neal is very shy, Mr. Hardin … it’s his first big sale.”

Yeah, she wanted to play, all right.

“Lot of money in books, is there?” Hardin asked. He had a face like crinkly leather, etched by wind and sun. Gray eyes peeked shyly out from under heavy gray eyebrows, and his shy smile cracked the heavy bush of his gray beard. Long silver hairs flourished in his ears. He looked woolly, like an old ram.

“In this one, we’re hoping—may I warm that up for you?” Allie asked. She was having fun, and Neal had not seen her have much fun before.

“Perhaps your mister would like some,” Hardin said gently.

“I’m sorry, darling. I’ll be right back.”

Hardin stuck his hand out. “Just to make it proper, Ivor Hardin.”

“Neal Carey.”

“Ohh, your wife uses her maiden—”

“Yes, she does.” Whatever it is. “What’s the dog’s name?”

“Jim.”

“Good name.”

“Good dog.”

Allie returned with a mug of tea for Neal, then sat down. She had a couple of hundred questions for Hardin about being a shepherd, and he was totally charmed by the time he had taken three more cups of tea and five more oatmeal cookies. He lived alone, it turned out, and had for some years, and Jim was the only company he usually had. Mr. Keyes made it up only a few times a year anymore, so Hardin wasn’t used to seeing folks in the cottage. Not folks as pretty as the missus, meaning no offense.

“Life on the moor is lonely, to be sure,” he allowed, “but I wouldn’t live anywhere else and the dog is used to it. It’s as hard to find a good working dog these days as it is to find a good working man, and when Jim gives it up, I expect I will, too. Move to the village and become a nuisance to the widows.”

“I can’t imagine you as a nuisance,” Allie said, and Neal believed she meant it.

“Kind of you, missus, me already having eaten half your biscuits. Next time I come calling, I’ll shoot the rooks out of your garden to pay for my pudding.”

He pointed his beard at the shotgun and winked.

“We don’t have a garden,” Allie said.

“I know,” Hardin answered, springing his little joke. Everyone laughed except Jim, who’d probably heard it already.

Hardin finished off his tea, put an oatmeal cookie in his coat pocket—“For Jim”—and said his thank-yous and goodbyes. Allie told him to stop in anytime.

And he did, usually around teatime.

It was after one of Hardin’s visits, after an hour or so of playing house, that Allie lapsed into a sudden quiet. She fidgeted for about twenty minutes, then asked, “So when we get back to the States, and sell the book … split up the money … then what?”

He was ready with a clever response.

“What do you mean?”

“I go my way, you go yours?”

If I knew my way, Allie.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

She got up and went into the kitchen, and came back a minute later with a fresh cup of tea.

“I thought you kind of liked me,” she said, standing behind him.

“I do.”

“So why haven’t you done anything about it?”

Neal had never really known what the word
nonplussed
meant. Now he thought he knew.

“Jesus Christ, I kidnapped you! What more
could
I do?”

Neal got up and took a walk in the rain.

He was drenched when he came back, and just as confused as when he had left. She met him at the door with a towel and a blanket, then hurried into the kitchen, returning with a hot cup of tea.

“You’re crazy,” she said as she rubbed his head with the towel.

“I won’t argue with you.”

“Like they say in the movies,” she said in a mock scolding tone, “you’d better get out of those wet things before you catch your death of cold.”

Neal climbed the stairs, wondering just what the hell was going on with him. It had started out to be a pretty straightforward job and turned into something different. You’re adrift, he thought, and drifting further away. Cut off from Friends, playing house with a teenage girl. And the only crazy thing you haven’t done so far is go to bed with her. Did you just say “so far”?Jesus Christ. It was July 20, time was running out, and he didn’t know what to do or how to do it.