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Authors: Randolph Stow
Tags: Classic fiction
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wending their way home to New Tornwich after Last Orders.’
‘The pubs are very quiet,’ Taffy observed. ‘The family men are doing their duty. As this one should be,’ he went on, raising himself on the arms of his chair. ‘Oliver, this has been a very pleasant hour or so. We must foregather again.’
‘I do hope so,’ said the Commander, touched by the rare sound of his Christian name.
‘Sam,’ Taffy continued, on his feet, ‘nice to see you with a little leisure for once.’
‘Never for long,’ Sam said, pausing on his way towards the door. His high-boned face with the everted African lips was grave. ‘I had something to do for a friend, like. Evenin, Commander; quiet old night.’
‘Indeed,’ the Commander murmured, covertly studying his face. Sam, he decided, was not ill at ease, or different in his manner. What he was was unhappy.
Taffy was struggling into his coat. ‘Wait for me, Sam. I see you’re parked beside me. Oliver—till the next time.’
‘Night, Commander,’ said Sam.
‘Good night,’ the Commander said, to their backs making for the quayside door, and turned in his chair to look through the window. He watched them cross the road and pause beside their cars at the quay’s edge, spinning out some polite exchange which Sam evidently found too long, for he hunched himself against the cold and dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
The oppressive sense of another body looming over him brought the Commander’s attention back into the room, and he turned his head and looked up into the face of Frank De Vere, also intent on the two figures under the lights above the water. When De Vere looked back at him he saw that the man was drunk, which had the effect of making his exceedingly blue eyes look rather crazy.
The Commander said, not cordially: ‘Evening, ah—Frank.’
‘Snooping,’ Frank said to himself.
‘Snooping?’ the Commander repeated. ‘Who? Oh, Taffy, do you mean. Good heavens, no. He’s the right sort, Taffy.’
Frank did not answer, but folded his arms and continued to stare through the window.
‘Everyone’s snooping,’ he said after a while. ‘Do you see, behind me, a rather squat-looking bloke at the bar? Scotland Yard, I believe. And our brave boys of the Press, risking their lives for us yet again. Snooping arseholes.’
The two cars backed out and drove away, and Frank went on staring at nothing.
‘Are you all right?’ the Commander enquired. ‘You look a bit keyed up, if I may say so.’
With a sudden movement Frank dropped into Taffy’s vacated chair. Putting his elbows on the table, and fixing the Commander with his crazy eyes, he said after a moment: ‘Yes. Yes, I’m tensed up.’
‘I suppose everybody is.’
‘My wife is, that’s for sure. That’s why Sam was here. He brought young Donna, who I think is his girl, but maybe not, he brought her to sit with my wife this evening. Because she’s in quite a state—my wife, I mean. I’ve told a lie and made a joke of it, but she’s not quite sure, I think.’
The Commander, not being able to think of a thing to say, only gazed at him mildly.
‘I’ve got to get him first,’ Frank said, drunkenly gazing back. ‘Short and sweet—snicker snack—and it’s over.’
‘Am I following you, I wonder?’ the Commander mused. ‘Are you talking about vigilantes, or something of that sort?’
‘Something like that,’ Frank agreed. ‘I’m talking about one vigilante: me. Because he’s threatened my life. Mine, or my wife’s; probably both. So I shall have to get there first, wouldn’t you say?’
‘De Vere, old chap,’ said the Commander, ‘you’re not making yourself terribly clear, I’m afraid. I shouldn’t, myself, have any scruples at all about shooting down this man like a mad dog—that
is
what you’re talking about?—but one must first know who he is.’
Frank De Vere laced his fingers over his chest, still intently searching the Commander’s eyes. ‘I do
‘The pubs are very quiet,’ Taffy observed. ‘The family men are doing their duty. As this one should be,’ he went on, raising himself on the arms of his chair. ‘Oliver, this has been a very pleasant hour or so. We must foregather again.’
‘I do hope so,’ said the Commander, touched by the rare sound of his Christian name.
‘Sam,’ Taffy continued, on his feet, ‘nice to see you with a little leisure for once.’
‘Never for long,’ Sam said, pausing on his way towards the door. His high-boned face with the everted African lips was grave. ‘I had something to do for a friend, like. Evenin, Commander; quiet old night.’
‘Indeed,’ the Commander murmured, covertly studying his face. Sam, he decided, was not ill at ease, or different in his manner. What he was was unhappy.
Taffy was struggling into his coat. ‘Wait for me, Sam. I see you’re parked beside me. Oliver—till the next time.’
‘Night, Commander,’ said Sam.
‘Good night,’ the Commander said, to their backs making for the quayside door, and turned in his chair to look through the window. He watched them cross the road and pause beside their cars at the quay’s edge, spinning out some polite exchange which Sam evidently found too long, for he hunched himself against the cold and dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
The oppressive sense of another body looming over him brought the Commander’s attention back into the room, and he turned his head and looked up into the face of Frank De Vere, also intent on the two figures under the lights above the water. When De Vere looked back at him he saw that the man was drunk, which had the effect of making his exceedingly blue eyes look rather crazy.
The Commander said, not cordially: ‘Evening, ah—Frank.’
‘Snooping,’ Frank said to himself.
‘Snooping?’ the Commander repeated. ‘Who? Oh, Taffy, do you mean. Good heavens, no. He’s the right sort, Taffy.’
Frank did not answer, but folded his arms and continued to stare through the window.
‘Everyone’s snooping,’ he said after a while. ‘Do you see, behind me, a rather squat-looking bloke at the bar? Scotland Yard, I believe. And our brave boys of the Press, risking their lives for us yet again. Snooping arseholes.’
The two cars backed out and drove away, and Frank went on staring at nothing.
‘Are you all right?’ the Commander enquired. ‘You look a bit keyed up, if I may say so.’
With a sudden movement Frank dropped into Taffy’s vacated chair. Putting his elbows on the table, and fixing the Commander with his crazy eyes, he said after a moment: ‘Yes. Yes, I’m tensed up.’
‘I suppose everybody is.’
‘My wife is, that’s for sure. That’s why Sam was here. He brought young Donna, who I think is his girl, but maybe not, he brought her to sit with my wife this evening. Because she’s in quite a state—my wife, I mean. I’ve told a lie and made a joke of it, but she’s not quite sure, I think.’
The Commander, not being able to think of a thing to say, only gazed at him mildly.
‘I’ve got to get him first,’ Frank said, drunkenly gazing back. ‘Short and sweet—snicker snack—and it’s over.’
‘Am I following you, I wonder?’ the Commander mused. ‘Are you talking about vigilantes, or something of that sort?’
‘Something like that,’ Frank agreed. ‘I’m talking about one vigilante: me. Because he’s threatened my life. Mine, or my wife’s; probably both. So I shall have to get there first, wouldn’t you say?’
‘De Vere, old chap,’ said the Commander, ‘you’re not making yourself terribly clear, I’m afraid. I shouldn’t, myself, have any scruples at all about shooting down this man like a mad dog—that
is
what you’re talking about?—but one must first know who he is.’
Frank De Vere laced his fingers over his chest, still intently searching the Commander’s eyes. ‘I do
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