Pinkie?’
‘Vitriol,’ the Boy said, ‘It scares a polony more than a knife.’ He turned impatiently away from the sea and complained again, ‘That music.’ It moaned in his head in the hot electric night, it was the nearest he knew to sorrow, just as a faint secret sensual pleasure he felt, touching the bottle of vitriol with his fingers, as Rose came hurrying by the concert-hall, was his nearest approach to passion. ‘Get out,’ he said to Spicer. ‘She’s here.’
‘Oh,’ Rose said, ‘I’m late. I’ve run all the way,’ she said. ‘I thought you might have thought—’
‘I’d have waited,’ the Boy said.
‘It was an awful night in the café,’ the girl said. ‘Everything went wrong. I broke two plates. And the cream was sour.’ It all came out in a breath. ‘Who was your friend?’ she asked, peering into the darkness.
‘He don’t matter,’ the Boy said.
‘I thought somehow—I couldn’t see properly—’
‘He don’t matter,’ the Boy repeated.
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Why, I thought we’d talk a little here first,’ the Boy said, ‘and then go on somewhere—Sherry’s? I don’t care.’
‘I’d love Sherry’s,’ Rose said.
‘You got your money yet for that card?’
‘Yes. I got it this morning.’
‘Nobody came and asked you questions?’
‘Oh no. But wasn’t it dreadful, his being dead like that?’
‘You saw his photograph?’
Rose came close to the rail and peered palely up at the Boy. ‘But it wasn’t him. That’s what I don’t understand.’
‘People look different in photographs.’
‘I’ve got a memory for faces. It wasn’t him. They must have cheated. You can’t trust the newspapers.’
‘Come here,’ the Boy said. He drew her round the corner until they were a little farther from the music, more alone with the lightning on the horizon and the thunder coming closer. ‘I like you,’ the Boy said, an unconvincing smile forking his mouth, ‘and I want to warn you. This fellow Hale, I’ve heard a lot about him. He got himself mixed up with things.’
‘What sort of things?’ Rose whispered.
‘Never mind what things,’ the Boy said. ‘Only I’d warn you for your own good—you’ve got the money—if I was you I’d forget it, forget all about that fellow who left the card. He’s dead, see. You’ve got the money. That’s all that matters.’
‘Anything you say,’ Rose said.
‘You can call me Pinkie if you like. That’s what my friends call me.’
‘Pinkie,’ Rose repeated, trying it shyly out as the thunder cracked overhead.
‘You read about Peggy Baron, didn’t you?’
‘No, Pinkie.’
‘It was in all the papers.’
‘I didn’t see any papers till I got this job. We couldn’t afford papers at home.’
‘She got mixed up with a mob,’ the Boy said, ‘and people came asking her questions. It’s not safe.’
‘I wouldn’t get mixed up with a mob like that,’ Rose said.
‘You can’t always help it. It sort of comes that way.’
‘What happened to her?’ Rose said.
‘They spoilt her looks. She lost one eye. They splashed vitriol on her face.’
Rose whispered, ‘Vitriol? What’s vitriol?’ and the lightning showed a strut of tarred wood, a wave breaking and her pale, bony, terrified face.
‘You never seen vitriol?’ the Boy said, grinning through the dark. He showed her the little bottle. ‘That’s vitriol.’ He took the cork out and spilled a little on the wooden plank of the pier: it hissed like steam. ‘It burns,’ the Boy said. ‘Smell it,’ and he thrust the bottle under her nose.
She gasped at him. ‘Pinkie,
you
wouldn’t—’ and ‘I was pulling your leg,’ he smoothly lied to her. ‘That’s not vitriol, that’s just spirit. I wanted to warn you, that’s all. You and me’s going to be friends. I don’t want a friend with her skin burned off. You tell me if anyone asks questions. Anyone—mind. Get me on the blower at Frank’s straight off. Three sixes.
‘Vitriol,’ the Boy said, ‘It scares a polony more than a knife.’ He turned impatiently away from the sea and complained again, ‘That music.’ It moaned in his head in the hot electric night, it was the nearest he knew to sorrow, just as a faint secret sensual pleasure he felt, touching the bottle of vitriol with his fingers, as Rose came hurrying by the concert-hall, was his nearest approach to passion. ‘Get out,’ he said to Spicer. ‘She’s here.’
‘Oh,’ Rose said, ‘I’m late. I’ve run all the way,’ she said. ‘I thought you might have thought—’
‘I’d have waited,’ the Boy said.
‘It was an awful night in the café,’ the girl said. ‘Everything went wrong. I broke two plates. And the cream was sour.’ It all came out in a breath. ‘Who was your friend?’ she asked, peering into the darkness.
‘He don’t matter,’ the Boy said.
‘I thought somehow—I couldn’t see properly—’
‘He don’t matter,’ the Boy repeated.
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Why, I thought we’d talk a little here first,’ the Boy said, ‘and then go on somewhere—Sherry’s? I don’t care.’
‘I’d love Sherry’s,’ Rose said.
‘You got your money yet for that card?’
‘Yes. I got it this morning.’
‘Nobody came and asked you questions?’
‘Oh no. But wasn’t it dreadful, his being dead like that?’
‘You saw his photograph?’
Rose came close to the rail and peered palely up at the Boy. ‘But it wasn’t him. That’s what I don’t understand.’
‘People look different in photographs.’
‘I’ve got a memory for faces. It wasn’t him. They must have cheated. You can’t trust the newspapers.’
‘Come here,’ the Boy said. He drew her round the corner until they were a little farther from the music, more alone with the lightning on the horizon and the thunder coming closer. ‘I like you,’ the Boy said, an unconvincing smile forking his mouth, ‘and I want to warn you. This fellow Hale, I’ve heard a lot about him. He got himself mixed up with things.’
‘What sort of things?’ Rose whispered.
‘Never mind what things,’ the Boy said. ‘Only I’d warn you for your own good—you’ve got the money—if I was you I’d forget it, forget all about that fellow who left the card. He’s dead, see. You’ve got the money. That’s all that matters.’
‘Anything you say,’ Rose said.
‘You can call me Pinkie if you like. That’s what my friends call me.’
‘Pinkie,’ Rose repeated, trying it shyly out as the thunder cracked overhead.
‘You read about Peggy Baron, didn’t you?’
‘No, Pinkie.’
‘It was in all the papers.’
‘I didn’t see any papers till I got this job. We couldn’t afford papers at home.’
‘She got mixed up with a mob,’ the Boy said, ‘and people came asking her questions. It’s not safe.’
‘I wouldn’t get mixed up with a mob like that,’ Rose said.
‘You can’t always help it. It sort of comes that way.’
‘What happened to her?’ Rose said.
‘They spoilt her looks. She lost one eye. They splashed vitriol on her face.’
Rose whispered, ‘Vitriol? What’s vitriol?’ and the lightning showed a strut of tarred wood, a wave breaking and her pale, bony, terrified face.
‘You never seen vitriol?’ the Boy said, grinning through the dark. He showed her the little bottle. ‘That’s vitriol.’ He took the cork out and spilled a little on the wooden plank of the pier: it hissed like steam. ‘It burns,’ the Boy said. ‘Smell it,’ and he thrust the bottle under her nose.
She gasped at him. ‘Pinkie,
you
wouldn’t—’ and ‘I was pulling your leg,’ he smoothly lied to her. ‘That’s not vitriol, that’s just spirit. I wanted to warn you, that’s all. You and me’s going to be friends. I don’t want a friend with her skin burned off. You tell me if anyone asks questions. Anyone—mind. Get me on the blower at Frank’s straight off. Three sixes.
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