Dead or Alive (10 page)

‘I eventually got my Master's, which is a necessity when reading Joyce, although an Irish degree might be more useful.'

‘So
Ulysses
makes immediate sense to you?'

‘Absolutely. Read it from cover to cover in my pub before I was banned. The more I drank, the more sense he made.'

‘Do you hate everything that doesn't make immediate sense?'

‘Hate's a strong word.'

‘Tell me what you hate.'

‘I hate being told lies.'

‘Lies, eh?'

She cast him a challenging glance and asked, ‘OK, where does Rupert the Bear live and what do they call his best pal, the badger?'

‘What?'

‘I've asked you a couple of basic questions about Rupert the Bear. If you're such an expert you'll be able to tell me.'

‘I've forgotten.'

‘He lives in Nutwood, the badger's name is Bill and you don't know anything about Rupert the Bear.'

‘I said I don't like
being told
lies, not telling them. Telling them's a necessary evil we need to get us through life. I hate Rupert the bloody Bear. My dad wanted to call me Rupert, but my mother won the day with Septimus.'

‘If you don't like your name, change it.'

‘What? Change Septimus Ruddigore Black?'

‘Ruddigore? Good grief!'

‘That's right. Ruddigore's a Gilbert and Sullivan opera thing – personally I preferred Gilbert O'Sullivan.'

He emphasised the O.

‘I'm forced to agree with you.'

‘To change my name would be going against my mother's wishes. I once asked her why she'd called me Septimus. She said, and I can pretty much quote her verbatim: “Because you're my seventh child, and Septimus means seven in some language or other. It's because it's a proper name that'll make people remember you. Make you stand out. No one would remember Joe Black … or Fred Black like your dad, but you tell 'em your name's Septimus Black and they'll sit up and take notice. You could be the prime minister with a name like Septimus Black. Why? Do you not like it?”'

‘I told her I wasn't too struck on it. She told me my dad wanted to call me Rupert.' He smiled to himself. ‘If there was an answer designed to stop me moaning about my name that was it. I have five sisters, the youngest is fifteen years older than me, and thirteen years older than our Clive. So by the time I was up and running my sisters were mostly up and married. Clive and I had always been close but I scarcely knew my sisters. They all behaved like distant aunts.'

She looked at his file. ‘It says here you served in Three Commando Brigade in Iraq and were awarded an MM plus a mention in dispatches. Was that after you got your MA?'

‘Yeah, I left uni and joined the army. I'm officially Septimus Ruddigore Black MM, MA – not many of us about.'

‘Why Ruddigore?'

Sep smiled. He always saw the humour in his full name. ‘My parents went down to London for their honeymoon and consummated their marriage in the Savoy Theatre in the Strand during a production of
Ruddigore
. They conceived me into the bargain.'

‘In the theatre? That must have been a bit awkward.'

‘Well, it would have been had that story been true. It's actually something I made up to explain the name. My mother thought it chimed well with Septimus. Mum and Dad were middle-aged when I was conceived.'

‘Were you an officer in the army?'

‘No, if I'd been an officer it'd have been an MC they gave me. I joined as a common soldier and ended up an even more common sergeant.'

‘It also says you come from a mining family.'

‘You didn't ask me how I won my medal.'

‘If I had would you have told me?'

‘No … I don't remember much about it myself – and don't read anything into that. A man's mind and memory often switch off to allow him to do stupid and dangerous stuff, especially in war.'

‘I know that. So, tell me about coming from a mining family.'

‘Yes I broke that tradition. A month before she died my mother told me that I should never go near a pit, never mind down one. I can remember her words to this day:

“It's a dangerous and unnatural world, son, where men only work to pick up a wage on Friday and for no other reason. There's no job satisfaction down a pit, just muck and sweat and an early death. Our men all work together and live together and drink together. It's called a community and once you get stuck in a community you have the devil's own job getting out. I don't want you to be stuck here, son. When you get a job it'll be one you enjoy doing or my name's not Agnes Black”.'

‘So you got a Master's in English then joined the army. Why?'

‘Why not? My alternative was to be a teacher or something. Can you see me being a teacher?'

She shrugged, saying, ‘Did you enjoy your job as a copper?'

‘I did, yes. I think I'm suited to it. The army's a young man's game.'

‘You looked upon it as a game did you?'

‘I enjoyed it up to a point, yes.'

‘That point being?'

‘Having to kill people. That's not an enjoyable part of the job.'

She paused to ponder this, then asked, ‘And do you enjoy being called Septimus?'

‘I loved the person who gave it to me, which is all that counts in a name.'

‘And no one poked fun at your name?'

‘I just thumped anyone who did. Oops! Admitted to being violent. Done it again. Hoist with my own petard! Bit of Shakespeare that –
Macbeth
I believe – and petard is a french word for a fart.'

‘It's from
Hamlet
,' she said, ‘so much for your Master's – and a petard is a kind of siege bomb used for blasting a hole in a wall.'

‘Madam, I will have you know that petard is a French word for a loud discharge of intestinal gas … as well as a word for that siege bomb of yours and, as for that boring bugger Shakespeare, he wrote the same play thirty seven times then he switched things around a bit, gave people different names and gave the plays different titles just to fool us. If he was around now he'd be writing for
Coronation Street
. So, am I going to need one of your petards to get out of this joint?'

‘Mr Black, you've just covered the Lottery, colostomy bags, Rupert Bear, James Joyce, Shakespeare and whether or not a petard is a siege bomb or a fart – and now you want me to pronounce you sane.'

‘Could an insane man talk intelligently about such diverse subjects without losing the thread?' countered Sep.

She opened her mouth to respond to his argument then thought better of it. ‘Look,' she said, ‘I can't release you without notifying the court and they might decide to have you do the remainder of your prison sentence in jail. If I keep you here for another month I can guarantee that won't happen. So, all you have to do is hold your act together for another four weeks. Or you could buy a lottery ticket and try to buy yourself out.'

‘Do you have any other wise words to get me back on the road to normality?'

‘From where you are now, it's a hard road.'

‘Dead or alive,' sang Sep.

‘Pardon?'

‘Nothing. You just reminded me of an old blues song of that name.'

‘Woody Guthrie,' said Gilmartin.

S
ep had lost a lot in his life but he'd kept his car – a classic Audi Quattro, bought and paid for and in pretty good condition. He was sitting in it outside the Sword and Slingshot the day after he'd been discharged from the Nunroyd Clinic with written confirmation of his sanity. In fact he had it in his pocket when he saw Winnie approaching. She was a creature of habit and always turned up at around seven. Sep gave a short blast of his horn. She looked up and waved, indicating that he come across and join her in the pub. Then her wave turned into a flap of the hand when she realized this wouldn't be possible. She made her way over to his car got in and sat beside him, asking, ‘Have you escaped from the loony bin?'

He took his discharge letter from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Nope, I got an honourable discharge yesterday. Written proof that I'm officially no longer a loony. How many people have written proof of that?'

Winnie took out her pipe and proceeded to load it up with tobacco from a pouch. ‘Not me,' she said, ‘mind you, with me it's my insanity that keeps me going. Does this mean you're a free man?'

‘More or less. Free to do what, I'm not too sure.'

Winnie lit her pipe and blew out a perfect smoke-ring. Sep buzzed down the window to let it out.

‘Take me for a drive,' she said. ‘I know some stuff that might interest you. Jesus, Sep! You really are some scruffy sod! Does it ever occur to you to go to a barber?'

‘Why do women keep telling me that?'

‘Because you look like Ben Gunn.'

‘Ben who?'

‘Him from
Treasure Island
. He hadn't seen a barber for years. I used to quite fancy you.'

He almost said he felt the same way about her, but he didn't want to drop his guard – the guard that kept a distance between him and any other person who might let him down and hurt him. He looked at her until she said, ‘What?'

‘Oh, nothing.'

Winnie was about ten years younger than Sep and unusually pretty for a woman who had led such a dissolute life. She had natural, dark-red hair that hung about her shoulders in a wild way that might look unattractive on another woman, but it somehow suited Winnie who had a beautiful smile, great teeth and a gypsy look about her. Sep had often wondered if she had Romany ancestry. He hadn't asked because that would have shown him to be interested in her, which he was. He drove along the Harrogate Road through the outer suburbs of Leeds.

‘There's a pub in Harewood,' he said. ‘It should be fairly empty on a Monday.'

‘Does it have any stained glass windows?'

‘It might have. It's a fairly ancient place.'

‘We'd better hope they don't know about you.'

‘What's the talk in the Sword and Slingshot about me?'

‘Those noisy kids still come in – pain in the arse. Loud as hell. I think Joyce regrets interfering when you scared them away.'

‘Would she let me back in, then?'

‘Ooh, now you're asking. She's having that window repaired with it being a major feature of the pub. It's costing an arm and a leg according to her.'

‘Is she? Great. Maybe if I paid for the damage.'

‘What? You've got money have you?'

‘Some.'

He tapped his steering wheel. ‘And I could sell this tomorrow for fifteen grand. A lot more if I was prepared to wait for the right buyer. In fact, the way I am for money it might well come to that. Sell this and buy me an old banger for a few hundred; something I can leave outside my hovel without fear of it being nicked. I've been renting a garage to keep this in, so I'll be making money and saving money. The problem is …' His voice tailed off.

‘The problem is what?'

‘Oh, I'm probably being ridiculous, but driving round in this gives me some self-respect – a commodity which is in short supply right now.'

‘You're not being ridiculous.'

They were still discussing this when they arrived at the Harewood Arms.

‘Ah, they've got outside seats. I can have a smoke as we talk.'

‘OK, I'll get the beer in … pint?'

Winnie sat down at an empty table. ‘What else?'

Sep went inside and brought them both pints of Sam Smith's bitter. ‘So,' he said, sitting opposite her, putting her pint in front of her, ‘what's this stuff that might interest me?'

She looked around to see if anyone could overhear her. No one else was occupying the outside seats. ‘Well, it's stuff that might get my throat slit if word gets out that I'm passing this on to an ex-copper. In fact I might get my throat slit if a certain person finds out what I know.'

‘Is this something that might be of interest to me? Because if not you should keep it to yourself.'

‘Really?' said Winnie, nodding her head and sucking on her pipe in the manner of some wise old
éminence grise
. ‘Let me tell you, my boy, a story about Socrates.'

‘Socrates? Are we talking about the Greek philosopher or the Brazilian mid-fielder?'

‘Foolish boy. This is an ancient story – about 400 BC. A student came up to Socrates one day and told him there was a rumour going around that concerned him.

“Will it be of any interest to me?” Socrates asked.'

“Not sure,” said the student.'

“Will it enhance my life?”

“Doubt it.”

“Is it true?”

“I've got no idea, it's just a rumour.”

“So,” said Socrates. “You come to me with a rumour that might not be of any interest to me, it will not enhance my life and yet you don't even know if this rumour is true. I suggest you go away and take this ridiculous rumour with you …”'

‘And?' said Sep.

‘And that's why Socrates never found out that Plato was shagging his wife.' Winnie blew a series of three smoke rings as if to underscore the end of her story.

‘Wise words, oh master,' said Sep, ‘but I happen to know already about the copper who's shagging my wife – as you so poetically put it.'

Winnie spoke in a whisper, despite there being no one within earshot. ‘That copper's working for Vince Formosa.'

Sep gave this time to sink in as he watched a double-decker bus passing by on its way to Harrogate.

‘How the hell would you know that?'

‘Because I've seen them together. I know what they both look like and I've seen them both together. That how I know.'

‘I hope there's more to it than that.'

‘Well, I happen to know Vince Formosa's car. He's got one of them new Bentleys – a black one. On the streets it stands out like the bollocks on a starving dog. It hasn't got blacked-out windows because he's wise to that. The police see a car with blacked-out windows and they see a car carrying someone who doesn't want to be seen, which is why such cars are very likely to be stopped, and Vince doesn't like belong stopped by anyone, least of all the police.