Read Online Curtain Call by Anthony Quinn - Free Book Online Page A

‘you’re all from the Albany Street barracks?’
    â€˜Indeed we are, sir.’
    â€˜I’ve done me bit for the King, too. Captain in the Army Service Corps, ’14–’18. Mostly in Le Havre and Boulogne, you know, looking after the horses. Much safer than the front, of course!’ Jimmy thought he should make this modest admission in case he came across as a shirker. Teague at last responded.
    â€˜No shame in supplying a good service, sir.’
    Jimmy heard the ulterior meaning in his words. ‘Quite so,’ he said, taking out his wallet and laying two ten-shilling notes on the table. The sergeant winked, and calmly folded them into his pocket. Jimmy looked around at the other clientele, huddled in convivial clusters. He experienced a stab of panic. ‘These men are all . . . I can trust in their discretion?’
    â€˜Absolutely, sir,’ said Teague, smiling. ‘Allow me to conduct you upstairs. I’ve a couple of friends I think you’d like to meet.’ He signalled to his man to carry up the Scotch and the tankard, and Jimmy followed after.
    At four o’clock the two guardsmen said their ‘g’nights’ and pushed off, each of them ten bob to the better. Jimmy, sprawled on a divan, hauled his trousers back on and went downstairs in search of Teague. He didn’t mind having to do all the talking – in truth he rather enjoyed it. But the sergeant had gone, so there was nothing else for it: home, James. Back on Charlotte Street the facades of cafes and shops gazed out, oddly hostile, the serried upper windows glimmering from the reflection of the street lamps. He headed for Bedford Square, his ears pricked for other footsteps, though there really was nobody about, not even an early milkman. His shadow seemed to gain on him as he walked, and he looked in fright over his shoulder to check he was not being followed. He hated having to walk home – he hated having to walk
any
where – and took to muttering some verses to keep himself company.
    We aren’t no thin red ’eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too.
    But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
    And if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,
    Why, single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints.
    Indeed not!
    He had just reached the British Museum, nearly at his door, when he saw a lone, lean figure strolling in his direction. The helmet gave him away. He had heard stories of policemen disguised as trade, soliciting men like himself. One couldn’t be too careful. A discreet exchange of looks, a descent into the public lavatory – and the surprise snap of the handcuffs. Gotcha!
    â€˜Good morning, Constable,’ chirped Jimmy, with an insouciance he didn’t feel.
    â€˜Sir,’ he replied, with a tap to his helmet, walking on.
    Jimmy wondered how respectful the bobby would have been had he witnessed his recent ‘conduck’ with the guardsmen. The younger of the two had been rather shy when he asked for his usual. ‘What – in there?’ he said, looking at the tankard on the table. Jimmy watched as the man unbuttoned his fly and flipped out his cock, giving it a quick peremptory tug; a few moments later an arc of urine drummed inside the pewter, then slowed to a dribble. The man gave himself a shake, and withdrew.
    â€˜That’s the stuff,’ said Jimmy, taking the remainder of the Scotch and upending it into the tankard. He sniffed a thin ammoniac odour, then put the vessel to his lips and downed it in great gulps.
    He went softly down the hall, shrugged off his coat and peeked into the living room. Through the grainy dark he saw the recumbent form of Tom, his secretary, asleep on the sofa. The bed he had made for himself was, like everything he did, severely neat; he had even tucked in the blanket corners. With tender feelings of relief Jimmy crept into the room to turn down the lamp. As he did