handle.
It worked, in a way.
The doorhandle gave, and I tumbled head first on the ground, followed by my English fruit-cake.
That guy was trained. He took my legs in hard scissors hold, and got my hands in the same one-handed grip as before, except that we were both lying on the ground to one side of the car instead of inside it.
I yelled, and went on yelling, but not for long. The bastard took off his peaked cap and slammed it over my face, holding it with the flat of his hand so that I could hardly breathe, never mind yell.
I thrashed my head from one side to the other as best I could, but he only leaned harder. He said, ‘This way, you get hurt. If you don’t leave Madeira, you get hurt a lot more. When are you leaving Madeira?’
‘Tomorrow,’ I said. Naturally. I put on an agreeing face under the hat and hoped like anything.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You leave Madeira tomorrow, and you don’t ever come back. You understand?’ He lifted the hat a bit, and I breathed.
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘Or I get socked.’
Unwise. ‘Or you have an accident,’ my chauffeur said. ‘A fatal accident. As Kim-Jim Curtis will have, if he ever comes back. Tell him, will you?’
‘I’ll tell him,’ I said.
We lay, breathing at one another. I was waiting for something funny, but nothing happened. It occurred to me that, if I hadn’t resisted, we might just have had an exchange of snash in the back seat instead of a struggle.
Or maybe not.
He said, ‘Tell Curtis that if he comes back, I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. Nothing surer.’
I thought of explaining that Kim-Jim might be fading out of Mrs Sheridan’s life, although Mrs Sheridan didn’t know it; and then thought why bother. I thought of explaining that Kim-Jim didn’t need anyone’s money and neither, come to that, did I, much. He could phone my stockbrokers.
I thought that anyone who had done what this guy had just done wasn’t worth wasting words on. All I had to do was keep agreeing, and then ring up his keepers.
Except that I didn’t know who he was.
He was lifting the cap on my face, slowly, as if he hoped to read my expression in the darkness. As he lifted it, I saw it wasn’t entirely dark. The car door still hung ajar where I’d left it, and a ray of light from inside was shining on him.
Shining on his arm with the shirt riding up, because the cufflink had snapped in the struggle. Shining on the skin of the arm, and on a couple of long purple scars that explained, in a way, all this rubbish.
Panic in Needle Park. The tracks of a drug-taker. And the smell of a drug, now I remembered it.
Heroin. You don’t live where I live without coming across it some time. Or without knowing what it does to people.
I did a silly thing and started to struggle properly. I flung my weight about as best I could, but he was a strong man.
When his grip on my hands suddenly vanished, I hardly noticed, I was so short of air, and the pain in my wrists was so hellish.
I don’t remember anything more, because that time, I didn’t see my gent draw back his fist. I didn’t see anything. I just felt the thud on my jaw, and on the back of my head. And from then on, I had no more problems.
I woke in bed later that evening in Mrs Sheridan’s house, with Natalie Sheridan herself leaning over me. I was aching all over.
I knew it was Villa Sheridan, because the bed was in a smart single room, equipped from a powerful income. Also, my things had been unpacked and stood about everywhere. Including my special cat with the smile, my video tapes and my recorder. Bloody Dodo.
I knew it was evening, because Mrs Sheridan wore crimson silk, jet earrings and Arpège, for a change, and had a small drink in her hand, which she put down as my eyes came to rest.
She said, ‘What a welcome to Madeira. Poor Rita. What on earth did they do to you?’
Her natural voice, I guessed, was clear and metallic. Ten years of hard work had brought it down to clear, warm and
It worked, in a way.
The doorhandle gave, and I tumbled head first on the ground, followed by my English fruit-cake.
That guy was trained. He took my legs in hard scissors hold, and got my hands in the same one-handed grip as before, except that we were both lying on the ground to one side of the car instead of inside it.
I yelled, and went on yelling, but not for long. The bastard took off his peaked cap and slammed it over my face, holding it with the flat of his hand so that I could hardly breathe, never mind yell.
I thrashed my head from one side to the other as best I could, but he only leaned harder. He said, ‘This way, you get hurt. If you don’t leave Madeira, you get hurt a lot more. When are you leaving Madeira?’
‘Tomorrow,’ I said. Naturally. I put on an agreeing face under the hat and hoped like anything.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You leave Madeira tomorrow, and you don’t ever come back. You understand?’ He lifted the hat a bit, and I breathed.
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘Or I get socked.’
Unwise. ‘Or you have an accident,’ my chauffeur said. ‘A fatal accident. As Kim-Jim Curtis will have, if he ever comes back. Tell him, will you?’
‘I’ll tell him,’ I said.
We lay, breathing at one another. I was waiting for something funny, but nothing happened. It occurred to me that, if I hadn’t resisted, we might just have had an exchange of snash in the back seat instead of a struggle.
Or maybe not.
He said, ‘Tell Curtis that if he comes back, I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. Nothing surer.’
I thought of explaining that Kim-Jim might be fading out of Mrs Sheridan’s life, although Mrs Sheridan didn’t know it; and then thought why bother. I thought of explaining that Kim-Jim didn’t need anyone’s money and neither, come to that, did I, much. He could phone my stockbrokers.
I thought that anyone who had done what this guy had just done wasn’t worth wasting words on. All I had to do was keep agreeing, and then ring up his keepers.
Except that I didn’t know who he was.
He was lifting the cap on my face, slowly, as if he hoped to read my expression in the darkness. As he lifted it, I saw it wasn’t entirely dark. The car door still hung ajar where I’d left it, and a ray of light from inside was shining on him.
Shining on his arm with the shirt riding up, because the cufflink had snapped in the struggle. Shining on the skin of the arm, and on a couple of long purple scars that explained, in a way, all this rubbish.
Panic in Needle Park. The tracks of a drug-taker. And the smell of a drug, now I remembered it.
Heroin. You don’t live where I live without coming across it some time. Or without knowing what it does to people.
I did a silly thing and started to struggle properly. I flung my weight about as best I could, but he was a strong man.
When his grip on my hands suddenly vanished, I hardly noticed, I was so short of air, and the pain in my wrists was so hellish.
I don’t remember anything more, because that time, I didn’t see my gent draw back his fist. I didn’t see anything. I just felt the thud on my jaw, and on the back of my head. And from then on, I had no more problems.
I woke in bed later that evening in Mrs Sheridan’s house, with Natalie Sheridan herself leaning over me. I was aching all over.
I knew it was Villa Sheridan, because the bed was in a smart single room, equipped from a powerful income. Also, my things had been unpacked and stood about everywhere. Including my special cat with the smile, my video tapes and my recorder. Bloody Dodo.
I knew it was evening, because Mrs Sheridan wore crimson silk, jet earrings and Arpège, for a change, and had a small drink in her hand, which she put down as my eyes came to rest.
She said, ‘What a welcome to Madeira. Poor Rita. What on earth did they do to you?’
Her natural voice, I guessed, was clear and metallic. Ten years of hard work had brought it down to clear, warm and
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