‘You’re a hard man, Riley’ said Prosser. He puffed on his cigar and nudged the peak of his cloth cap.
A fair one.
‘Twenty-five grand it is, then.’
The figure wasn’t quite accurate, but it was in keeping with the outward show of honesty. Prosser would pay that handsome figure into the Riley bank account first thing next morning. An extra five thousand was due now, in cash – an exchange that would trouble neither the conveyance deed nor the records of the Inland Revenue.
Prosser had a worn leather pouch of Spanish origin. Having tugged it from the inside of his heavy overcoat, he opened it slowly lowering his hands to show how much he’d brought. Then he counted out the bills, licking his fingers, making it painfully clear that he was handing over far less than he’d expected – that he was a harder man than Riley.
‘Wyecliffe will do the paperwork,’ said Riley and he tossed high a bunch of keys.
Catching them, Prosser replied nobly ‘The traditions of your business will continue.’
‘I doubt it.’
Prosser was jubilant. He sucked air through his teeth, breathing in a mix of furniture wax and butane.
‘When you’re ready’ he said, ‘I’ll lock up. I bid you good day ma’am.’ The last affectation came with a bow for Nancy after which he swaggered outside to linger on the pavement. He winked to an imaginary audience, and licked the butt of his cigar.
Cars smashed over the hump in the road. It was nearing the end of the day so everyone was impatient, even Riley As he checked the limp motes against a light bulb, he became scatty -he was looking at the pictures and not the watermarks – because every action was a movement away Every breath was one less among these standing ruins. He was going to walk with Nancy on Brighton Pier. Something rustled at his elbow.
Nancy was holding out a plastic bag as though it were Riley’s turn for the lucky dip. It was empty and she looked severe.
‘Let me carry the money’ she said, pronouncing each word distinctly ‘It’s my shop, remember.’
Riley didn’t have the guts to refuse – Nancy had been acting funny. Not that she’d said or done anything. It was just a sense that she’d already gone from Poplar and left him behind. He wanted to catch her up. Without a word he wrapped the motes in an elastic band and dropped them into the bag.
‘You can trust me, you know,’ said Nancy under her breath.
She was being funny again, though Riley couldn’t put his finger on how. But she made him think of trust: it had held them together, even in the breaking.
Nancy lifted up her skirt and stuffed the money beneath her tights, across her stomach. Then she went into the back room and came back with a grey canvas rucksack. Riley had found it in the cellar of a mountaineer.
‘I want to pick up some bricks by the canal,’ said Nancy adding proudly ‘for my herb bed.’
Riley was aghast. ‘You want to go along the Cut with five grand in your tights?’
‘No one will look.’
‘Nancy have you ever heard of muggers… villains?’
‘It’s never happened before.’
Prosser called out, ‘Oi! I’m freezing out here.’
‘I want to finish the bed,’ said Nancy flatly.
‘All right, fine,’ sighed Riley giving up. He’d follow Nancy to hell, never mind Limehouse Cut.
They walked side by side, Riley shouldering the rucksack. The sky was reddish brown like a bruised fruit. Beneath it, in the near distance, a bonfire kicked sparks into the air. Smoke billowed and a smell of rubber drifted along the towpath beside the Cut. The hush was a trick. Somewhere ahead was a den of foxes. When it grew dark, they’d scream and it was like a feast of murder. Nancy broke step. She’d seen a brick. Examining its edges, she said, ‘It all begins with Quilling Road.’
‘What does?’
‘Our trouble.’
Riley closed his eyes and stumbled slightly He didn’t want to hear of that place. An old voice came out of him, and he listened, ‘How was I to know?’
He hated the weakness and the whining and the cowardice. But they were weapons, and he’d learned how to use them like an automaton.
‘Of course not,’ said Nancy sympathetically She stepped behind Riley to struggle with the toggles on the rucksack. She dropped the brick inside, and left the flap open.
They walked on, coming closer to the fire. Riley wondered, Could it really be that easy? Was the future an open field? He felt a shudder of excitement. With Prosser’s money he’d buy some new shoes. He’d chuck away that camouflage jacket.
Nancy bent down, complaining about her old knees. With more groaning about her limbs, she picked up two bricks, and said, ‘It was terrible when that boy drowned and the police tried to pin it on you.
The comment was like a smack in the teeth. Nancy had never referred to that before. Like Quilling Road, it was another crater in the dark. They walked around them. But now she spoke as if she were in the laundrette with Babycham.
Smarting, Riley said, ‘Cartwright has never let me go.’ He whistled quietly because he’d strayed to the edges of truth, close enough to fall in.
‘I kno-o-ow,’ sang Nancy sharing his indignation, and he could just see her, nudging Babycham’s ribs.
Nancy put the bricks in the rucksack and Riley shrugged the shoulder straps into a more comfortable position. After that drowning, he’d expected the Major to turn up at Poplar – to target him with that old, quiet urging. But he never came. Their last meeting had been at the Old Bailey when he’d said, ‘They can lock you up, but they can’t stop you taking that first step.’ The Major had been brittle and despairing. Where was he now? What would he tell him to say to Nancy?
It was dim now, and the edges of the canal had blended into its banks. The sky had lost its colour and joined the slate on the straggling warehouses. Nancy’s puzzled voice was muffled while she rummaged near a hedge of barbed wire.
‘So that’s why they hauled you in again?’
‘What do you think?’ Riley made it sound like a ‘Yes’. He didn’t know what else to say. They hadn’t spoken of the arrest since the day he’d been released without charge. She’d been off-colour afterwards, and he hadn’t been able to read her. Suddenly she was tugging at the rucksack.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Nancy as though she were anxious for his health.
‘Fine, absolutely fine.’
Carefully she laid three bricks on top of the others.
‘Steady on,’ he rasped. ‘I’m not…’ – Stallone, Mad Max, Bruce: the hamsters’ names ran into one another like a furry pileup but a name popped out, like it was shoved – ‘… Mr Universe.’
Riley leaned forward and increased his speed, as if to get away from that reminder of Arnold. At the fire, a gang of youths brandished flaming branches. They danced and whooped and stared. A car tyre lay smouldering near the bank. It was almost dark mow. The path narrowed and Nancy dropped back, leaving Riley to move on ahead. He looked aside into the dull, smooth water. And then he thought, as if tripped. Why do I keep remembering what the Major said? Why can’t I just forget an old soldier’s hopes, his insane confidence?
‘I wonder what happened to Arnold,’ asked Nancy faintly.
‘God knows.’
There was a long, withering pause. Then Riley heard Nancy’s feet in the grass, as if she were swishing a scythe. His thoughts became bitter, remonstrating: the journey from Paddington to this point by the Cut owed a great deal to John Bradshaw – for that death had marked his soul – but who took the laurel? The Major? No, that honour went to a hamster. Even in conversion, if that is what it was, I’m a contemptible specimen.
‘That’s the lot,’ she said with resignation. One after the other she placed four bricks into the remaining space.
‘Bloody hell, Nancy’ he gasped, ‘what are you trying to do?’ He fastened the clips across his chest, linking the arm straps. After a few steps, he glimpsed the hunched figure of a man by a wall… someone who was watching him. Riley swung around, wanting Nancy’s help. ‘I’m sorry, there’s too many’ he whispered, genuinely sorry, ‘I can’t carry this lot.’
‘Neither can I.’
‘What?’
Riley couldn’t see her face. She walked slowly towards him.
He knew what was going to happen. Nancy pushed him with a finger and he fell backwards. As he left the towpath, he wondered why it was that he felt relief.