Authors: Emily Bullock
Jack set off on his own. He kicked at a leg that swung too close to him. Shouts and cries slapped against the wet bricks as he turned on to Camberwell Road. The crowd became one heaving mass and Jack found it hard to tell which arms were his, which two feet he had to keep marching. It was
like drowning. Rosie’s dress had billowed around her head, turning black in a creeping line from the hem to the waistband, before she went under; that was long before January’s North Sea floods burst the banks of the Thames. All around Jack, summer dresses and Sunday suits were soaked through but no one seemed to notice. Everything darkened when the air was full of water. It had been raining that night at Albany Basin; the black muck had stung his eyes as he grasped for Rosie’s blue flowered dress. But he wouldn’t think about that; he tapped the bed of his missing thumbnail. The Anchor was up ahead, wedged between two thin warehouses, set back from the scrabbling of the street.
A wet wall of noise hit him as he pushed open the heavy wooden door. Throaty choruses of some old song, the sort his mum used to like, rolled over the flagstone floor; someone banged their fists on the piano. The notes got lost in the cry. Jack almost toppled over against the weight of it but shoved his shoulders forward to the bar and shouted out his order. He would feel better when he had a beer in his hand, more part of the mass, and the prods and jolts of elbows and knees wouldn’t feel like hands trying to hold him down. That was what they had done on that wet evening years ago. The rusty hook slicing through the black water; trying to swim after the hem of Rosie’s dress, but they had him: landed like a newborn, dragged up on to the mossy cobbles. The bargemen steaming as one sat on his frozen chest, the other pinned his legs: a tangle of limbs like being caught in the bedsheets by a nightmare. And all that time Pearl screamed and screamed until all she had left in her was a high squeak like the swimming rats. Jack was glad she wasn’t with him in the pub. Sometimes he needed not to be near Pearl. He half drained the pint when it came, one swift mouthful, and even joined in a chorus of ‘All By Yourself in the Moonlight’ before he went looking for Georgie.
He found the three of them in an alcove at the back of the pub. She was with a friend, all tightly curled hair clamped
to their heads, clothes that looked ready to slip to the floor at any moment. The boy with them looked as though he was about to slump too: tie yanked down, collar dirtied, and cheap blue suit.
‘Started already, I see.’ Jack sat next to Georgie.
The bench felt warm, tucked away from the door and its draught. The still air was so thick with gin and port he felt drunk just from taking a breath; his limbs sinking and his face tingling. The boy topped up Jack’s pint with gin, drops splashing on the table as his hand shook. Jack took a slug; the vapours kicked inside his chest.
‘Back early from that family do, ain’t you?’ Georgie slurred, dragging out the last word.
Her curled hair unravelled around her neck, her blouse drooping open. Jack wanted to run his finger along the full length of her throat. He inched up against her, felt the rise and fall of her chest.
‘I left them to it. Ain’t really my thing.’
‘Celebrations? Or families?’ But she held her fingers up to his lips, pressing back any answer he was about to give, and snorted down more gin. There had only been him and his mum and Pearl for so long. Pearl was lucky, Jack thought. But she had heard from his mum so many tales of the good days, when all the Mundays had lived under one roof, that sometimes for seconds at a time Jack had even believed the lies himself.
Georgie rubbed at the skin under his sleeve, gold rings tugging at the roots of his hair. ‘You staying out for the night, then?’
He nodded.
‘About time that girl had some fun on her own.’ Her eyes rolled slightly from the drink as she spoke.
‘Expect she’ll turn up soon.’
Jack looked up as the door opened; it wasn’t Pearl. A round girl was sandwiched between two soldiers, spilling out of her dress, turning to whisper behind her hand to each
of them. Georgie squeezed his arm, her breasts squashing up against him. ‘Sure you can trust Pearl to find her way.’
‘Frank’s with her, so she’ll be all right.’ His eyes rested on the next button working loose on her blouse.
‘Frank? He the one you were telling us all about, Georgie?’ The girl stuck her head across the table.
‘Maybe he’ll teach her how to have a good time.’ Georgie winked.
‘Don’t be disgusting – they’re more like brother and sister, just kids really.’
‘I’ve seen that fighter of yours. Bit ginger for my tastes but you don’t have to look at their faces when you’ve got a sportsman like that, does you, Georgie?’
‘I think it’s sweet. They’re both a bit lost, ain’t they?’ Georgie cooed.
The other couple went back to clinking glasses, wet lips and heavy-lidded eyes sagging from the booze. Georgie’s tongue darted to check the lipstick at the corner of her mouth. But he didn’t care about that smudge of red.
‘Not all girls need it regular like you do,’ Jack whispered against her ear.
‘I’m not complaining, just said it’d be nice for her.’
‘She’s got her head stuck in some comic most of the time. She’s a good kid really.’
‘You saying I’m bad?’ She ran a finger along the ridge of his thigh.
‘Right down to your marrow – that’s why I’m here sat next to you.’ He pressed his lips to her neck.
‘Cheeky bastard.’
‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’
A thin bloke stood next to the table. Jack was just about to tell him exactly what he was doing; but there was something familiar about the shiny suit and peaked features.
‘How did you enjoy the whisky, Jack?’
The burning peat taste in his mouth, the cool shadows of the changing rooms, the silky feel of Georgie on his fingertips.
It all came back to Jack as if someone had sucked him right out of the pub and dumped him on the cold cobbles. The Thin Suit blocked off the rest of the room with his coathanger shoulders.
‘The whisky,’ Jack repeated the words like a stuck gramophone.
‘My boss likes quality.’
The Thin Suit didn’t seem to be moving at all, not even breathing. But his big pale eyes protruded further from his head with each blink.
‘Your boss…’ Georgie’s friend started to laugh. Her bloke had enough sense to shut her up, gave her arm a yank; the Thin Suit blinked again as she popped free of the table. Those narrow-set eyes watched the couple push their way up to the bar. He sat down in their place, smoothed a wrinkle from his dark suit, his head rising above the back of the booth. Jack wished the pub would go silent to make sure he caught every word the man had to say.
‘That was a nice snifter.’ Jack tried to keep the excitement out of his voice, but under the table his leg started twitching. Georgie laid a steadying hand on his knee.
‘That’s why my boss likes your fighter. Quality.’ The Thin Suit opened his mouth wide to pronounce the last word.
‘Frank’s going to be the best…’
He didn’t bother to finish the sentence; the man knew all about that or he wouldn’t be sitting opposite Jack.
‘My boss has been keeping an eye out for a boy like yours. Both of you are getting quite a name for yourselves round here. Didn’t take me long to find you.’
The Thin Suit lit a cigarette, fingers long and unbending like sticks. He offered the packet to Jack, who shook his head, but Georgie grabbed at it. That was another mark on Jack’s slate.
‘Who’s your boss, then?’ She blew smoke across the table.
‘Why don’t you go and help with the drinks.’ Jack stood up to let her out.
He was pushing his luck, he knew that. She clucked deep in her throat but went up to the bar anyway. Jack watched her leave and sat down so fast he nearly slid clear across the bench.
‘Thank the boss for the whisky.’ He raised his voice as the piano kicked to life again. He wanted to lean across the table, shake the man’s hand, grasp at any offer with both fists. But he leaned back, folded his hands away behind his neck, pretending to hold back a yawn. Every game had its rules.
‘My boss would like to be friends with you and your fighter.’
Jack shrugged. ‘We’ve got friends.’
‘My boss understands that there’s only so far you can go on your own. He thinks you could make some special progress together. I’m acting on his instructions. To you, right here and now, I am the boss.’
Jack slapped his hands on the table, leaning forward. ‘I don’t deal with middle men.’
He couldn’t help himself; he felt that tightening hand around him, wanted to kick free. The Thin Suit nodded his head slowly, running his hand down the back of his neck as if he was counting the bumps on his spine.
‘But let me get you a drink, a thanks for the whisky.’ Jack took out his wallet.
The Thin Suit smiled, the front teeth off-centre, and rose out from the alcove. ‘It was just a bottle, nothing more than that. I’ll talk to my boss.’
He gave a nod and snaked his way out of the pub. Let the
boss
come to him, Jack was someone now. He stuffed his empty wallet back into his trousers, and made his way into the crowd. Georgie popped out from the mass around the piano, grabbing his elbow. She squeezed him into the space between the wall and the upright mahogany. Jack let himself become one of them again, but he was on the up. Before long the Thin Suit’s boss, and, who knew, maybe a hundred others, would be after making deals. He wedged himself
close behind Georgie, warm and solid, her buttocks grazing against the front of his trousers. Jack was thirsty for it: for her, the money, the deals. He grabbed her breasts from behind. ‘Where’s that drink?’
The squeal of her laughter melted into the next song. Jack was in there, shouting himself hoarse with the best of them, ‘God Save the Queen’, his hand sliding down to Georgie’s waist. Frank already had five fights and five clear wins to his name – not big purses, granted, but people were taking notice. Jack bobbed to the surface every time; nothing could keep him down.
Bunting and flags hung sodden from the trees and littered the ground: a dawn without sun. The house tilted out into the street as if it wanted to slump face-first into the gutter. But it hadn’t fallen yet. Nothing moved, not a twitching curtain or stray mog. Jack made himself go down the alley. It wasn’t anything but a stinking dark place, no different from half the passages in London. Gin coated his mouth and he spat the taste of it into the mud. Pearl never showed up at the pub but that wasn’t what had kept him awake at Georgie’s; it wasn’t even the threat of the landlady coming back early from her sister’s in Eastbourne. He couldn’t sleep anywhere else but that rotten house. When he stayed there, at least he had those few brief seconds, before fully waking, when he felt Rosie’s shape patted into the mattress next to him. There didn’t seem much point in sleep without it.
Jack stood at the back door. Mrs Bell’s ginger tom waited on the step; it was always trying to get into the house. Jack raised his foot, and its slit green eyes widened, but a noise drew his attention.
Frank was running up from the far end of the road, his footsteps a thudding heartbeat in the empty street. But Jack wasn’t the only one watching. Someone stepped out from the bomb site on the other side. Frank came to a halt then slowly
started to run again, only this time on the spot. Too far away to hear what they were saying, too long just to be passing the time; Jack knew who the lurking figure was. Who else but Spider would be squatting in dark spots? The stooped shoulders and thick neck, hat pulled down tight. Jack wanted to call Frank back, bring him quickly into the house, but Pearl was sleeping upstairs. No point the whole street waking early.
The house was dark, no decorations hanging from the windows or doors. It was as if yesterday had never happened. But he still felt himself walking tall after that visit from the Thin Suit – despite all the gin, he remembered that clearly. The rest, he had about drunk enough to forget.
Frank turned towards the house, ran across the road. Jack stepped out from the overhang of the front step. ‘Morning.’
Frank pulled up sharp. ‘Hello… Jack. Didn’t… see you there.’ He was out of breath; been wasting it all on that fool Spider.
‘Good run?’ Jack smiled at him.
‘Not bad.’
‘That chat at the end must have put some seconds on your time, though.’
Frank glanced over his shoulder to the spot he had just come from and then down at his feet, his face puffy as the clouds tumbling overhead.
‘I know… I said I wouldn’t… go round with Spider no more but he came to see me. Just… hello… check how I’m getting on.’
‘You’re on the up, Frank, can’t afford for old connections like that to drag you down again.’
‘I know, Jack. I said so to Spider… After telling me about this department store –’
‘I don’t want to hear what it was.’ Jack snapped his teeth down on the words.
‘I told him I couldn’t… told him it’s all about the fighting now.’ He did a couple of jabs at the shadows.
Jack put a hand on Frank’s neck, guided him through the front door. Just enough light to see by in the hall. Jack hung up his jacket.
‘Where did you and Pearl get to last night?’
Frank paused long enough to get his breath back. ‘Nowhere. I mean, it was so busy Pearl didn’t want to get pushed around in some crowd, so we came back here. I got an early night for training this morning. Pearl went straight to bed. I don’t know what else she did.’
The words came out in a rush of steam. Frank hugged his arms around his damp jumper, shivering like a soaked cat.
‘Get those clothes off. Get some breakfast down you. I’m going to get a couple of hours’ kip then I’ll see you at the gym.’
‘Right you are, Jack.’
The floorboards groaned as Jack made his way along the upstairs landing. He knew every crack, every loose nail of that house, but there was light on the landing that morning. Pearl’s door was ajar as if someone had just left the room. Jack crept to the edge of the carpet-runner. A fingerprint of blood marked the crumpled sheet, and he wondered how she had damaged herself this time. Pearl wasn’t moving, just a bundled-up lump lying under the blankets. He used to watch her sleeping as a baby, plump legs and arms protruding from hand-knitted woollen suits. His mum liked to keep herself between him and Pearl. No one to stop him now. Pearl’s breathing, the slow rush of air, was like a draught from the window. He didn’t cross over from the rough carpet-runner to the warm boards, but he didn’t shut the door either.