Essex Poison

‘I’m fine, thank you, Willy.’

‘You’re in gainful employment?’

‘You could say that.’ My work with Morley was certainly employment – of a kind. But gainful? In what sense it was gainful I wasn’t at all sure. Certainly I was paid; it got me out of London; but apart from Miriam it was sometimes difficult to see the benefits; indeed, because of Miriam it was sometimes difficult to see the benefits.

‘I’m guessing you could always do with a little something on the side?’ said Willy. ‘Am I right, or am I right?’

The Oven was beginning to work its effects on me. I usually lay down on one of the benches to prevent myself becoming dizzy. My head was beginning to feel cloudy.

‘Mr Klein has some business he needs taking care of,’ continued Willy. ‘And he needs someone … presentable to take care of it. A fresh face. A front man. Someone … educated. Someone … like you, Sefton.’

‘And what’s the business that needs doing?’ I asked, trying hard to focus on Willy’s face.

‘You’d have to talk to Mr Klein, if you were interested.’

‘What sort of thing is it?’

‘I can’t go into details, I’m afraid. It’s to do with a little land deal up around Becontree.’

‘Becontree?’

‘Out in Essex, where they’re building the big estates.’

‘No thanks, Willy,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to go to Essex.’

‘What have you got against Essex?’

‘Nothing. I just …’ I couldn’t even picture Essex in my mind. East of London? South of London? Essex was just another county. I’d had enough of other counties. If I could, I’d have stayed right here, in the Oven.

‘Well, anyway. The offer’s there. You let me know if you change your mind.’

‘I will, Willy, thanks. I …’

As I spoke I felt my legs buckling and I began to fall sideways: one of the grotesque men caught me by the arm.

‘Oh God, get him out,’ said Willy Mann.

‘Not used to the heat any more, Sefton?’ said Ned Price.

‘Good to see you, wouldn’t want to be you!’ said John Jacobs, as the door to the Oven slammed behind me and I found myself abandoned, flat on my back in the cool of the pool room.

I somehow pulled myself up onto the stepladder and went up and up and then head first into the pool, all the way down to the bottom. I could feel the burn in my chest and the thrill of light-headedness as the cool water began reviving and cleansing me. I sat at the bottom of the pool for as long as I could before I thought my lungs might explode. Coming gasping to the surface felt like being born again. I felt free. I could breathe once more.

Half an hour later, entirely refreshed and dressed, I said goodbye to Berrak and stepped back out onto London’s streets. Klein’s had worked its magic. My mind was clear.

No sooner did the big scarred metal door of Klein’s bang conclusively shut but two men instantly approached and fell into step behind me.

‘What date is it, Mickey?’ asked a voice.

‘The eleventh, the twelfth?’

‘The thirteenth I thought, isn’t it? October the thirteenth?’

‘The thirteenth, well, well. Unlucky for some, eh, Sefton?’

It was my old friends Mickey Gleason and the Scot MacDonald.

‘There’s someone who’d like to see you,’ said MacDonald.

‘Very much,’ said Mickey. ‘You’ve been missed, Sefton.’

CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_3870ad13-21d1-5934-8483-4882cfc18c2b)

THE RENDEZVOUS (#ulink_3870ad13-21d1-5934-8483-4882cfc18c2b)

Smoke rings slowly spooled and unspooled around Delaney’s smooth fat brilliantined Irish head as he sat by the window overlooking the Windmill Theatre, which extended its chest out over Great Windmill Street and bellowed in neon, ‘CONTINUOUS PERFORMANCE’, ‘REVUDEVILLE’, ‘THE ONLY NON-STOP SHOW IN THE WEST END’.

As usual, Delaney wore a suit the colour of whipped cream and a large diamond ring that might more properly have graced the fingers of some shrivelled, pale-skinned dowager duchess. He was a plush Miss Havisham: the two of them would have got on well. He sat perfectly still. He didn’t move, except to touch his cigar to his lips, slowly and leisurely, as though silently blessing it: Delaney was the sort of man who had time to kill; he was the sort of man with cigars silently to bless. He was a man with wide margins, broad horizons and narrow sympathies. A man who knew the power of being still.

Traffic sounded outside, though it was by now perhaps three or four o’clock in the morning – long past the witching hour. If you are awake and you are in Soho and it’s three o’clock in the morning it’s probably safe to assume that you’re looking for trouble, or that trouble has already come to find you. The sky was as black as your hat, or the devil’s arse – depending on what kind of company you keep. But it was also orange and flashing red from the Windmill. It was set-lighting from hell.

We had been talking for some time. I had been trying to explain to Delaney what had happened to a package of his that I had accidentally-on-purpose picked up at one of his clubs, and why I’d had to make a quick exit without paying my gambling debts. It was a complicated conversation, made all the more complicated by the fact that I was accompanied by my old International Brigade chums, Mickey and MacDonald, who were flanking me like guards, standing heavily at my shoulder as if I were on trial, while Delaney, in contrast, was sitting opposite me, accompanied by an attractive brunette, perched happily on his lap, perhaps twenty years his junior, perfectly proportioned, and dressed in nothing but a corset underneath her silk robe. Her eyes were half shut, out of pleasure or boredom or something else it was difficult to tell, though I was pretty sure that if Delaney had stroked her any more she’d be purring.

The odds were definitely against me.

The room, like many of Delaney’s clubs, was all red plush and cheap-opulent upholstery. Gas-lit, potted palms, reproduction art in gilt frames, and with a day-bed big enough to accommodate at least three blondes. Thick-set filing cabinets sat obediently under the windows, and an inconveniently large desk boasted nothing on it but a telephone. It was a room, like Delaney, that suggested big business and low life. This was Soho and this was exactly the sort of place and the sort of carry-on that had made Delaney such a success in Soho.

‘You are a normal healthy young man, Mr Sefton, are you not?’ asked Delaney. ‘A normal red-blooded young man?’

‘Yes.’ I had the strong feeling this was going to be a trick question.

‘It must be difficult for you then, to have to be explaining yourself in the presence of our innocent young friend Grace here.’ Grace wriggled innocently in his lap.

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

‘Difficult for you both.’

‘It’s OK, Mr Delaney,’ said Grace, in a voice like Betty Boop’s.

‘Run along, Grace,’ said Delaney, and innocent young Grace got up and ran along. She glanced at me as she walked out and I thought perhaps I saw some hint of fellow feeling, but I may have been mistaken. It’s easy to misread the glance of a half-dressed, half-bored, half-drugged beautiful woman. Much of Delaney’s business was based on exactly such misunderstandings.

Delaney allowed more smoke to gather around him before he spoke.

‘Are you a religious man, Mr Sefton?’

My guess was that ‘yes’ was probably the right answer. To say ‘no’ might have led to serious problems. ‘Yes’, as always, opened up possibilities. It kept my options open.

‘Yes,’ I said.