“Wait till I catch up with him!” snarled Bell. “Where’s Simon, I mean James Flood? Have I got a story for him!”
“He’s already got a story. I expect he’s with that Detective Inspector Wills.”
“Yeah, well, this is a better one.”
Despite having been duffed up, it was plain that Bell had something to be pleased with himself about. His hand hovered over his inside pocket until, with simulated reluctance, he withdrew a bulky and official-looking letter on several typed pages of classy-looking A4.
“If you do see Simon, James rather, tell him about this and say he’ll find me in the French, getting well trolleyed.”
Arts Council of England. In further response to your application of blah blah blah, the Arts Council has now had the opportunity to consider in depth your proposal for blah blah blah. Alex didn’t have to read it all, couldn’t in fact, for it was more soporific than any exam dissertation he’d ever flammed together. Luckily Bell had marked two passages in yellow highlight. The first said that the project as described in Appendix I would qualify for a National Lottery grant of £12,500 (twelve thousand five hundred pounds only) provided always that he could match said sum by such and such a date. The second said that the grant was also conditional upon whatever doorway in which he mounted his rostrum camera possessing or being provided with approved wheelchair access.
“How do you raise the other half, then?” asked Alex, playing the canny Yorkshireman.
“Easy-peasy. This letter is bankable.”
“So you’re in business?”
“Of course I’m in business. I always was in business. Never a shadow of doubt about it. Don’t you wish now you’d bought one of those hundred-pound seed-money units, because as of today the price is two-fifty?”
“I thought that was for the other thing — what was it called again?”
“Kill Me Nicely, working title. First draft script by Kim Grizzard, after some discussion. The poor bastard couldn’t write fuck in the dust on a Venetian blind but at least he’ll give me something to work on. No, I shall do them as a twin project. No reason to bother the Lottery Fund with the small print. Walk On By will seed-capitalise Kill Me. Kill Me will capitalise Walk On By.With this letter,” crowed Bell, brandishing it before stuffing it back in his pocket, “I’m laughing and giggling.”
It all sounded a bit dodgy to Alex but what did he know? He was trying to think of a way of sliding that question of seed-money units back into the conversation — well, his grandma had after all left him five hundred in Premium Bonds and they had earned him sod-all so far — when both he and Bell became aware of something of a commotion outside.
Numbers of people were hurrying purposefully along Old Compton Street, as if late for an appointment. Alex knew a good sprinkling of them, if only by sight. There went Brendan Barton waddling by, huffing and puffing from the exertion of a departure from his usual leisurely gait. There were the two flymen. There was Jenny Wise, minus the soap opera star who was clearly by now yesterday’s man. There was the shit-hot jazz piano player from Gerry’s Club in the spade hat. And who was that, scurrying past? Her with the bum? No, it wasn’t Selby, do leave it out, Ali. Fifth time he’d spotted her this morning.
But there, unaccompanied for once by his claque of Japanese or American tourists, went Len Gates. Barry Chilton, running a battery razor over his chin as he hurried along. Half the riff-raff and flotsam and jetsam of the pubs and clubs of Soho Alex had half noticed on last night’s crawl. Old Else, helped along by James Flood, who as he glanced into the gateau-laden windows of Patisserie Valerie saw Alex and Bell and peeled off to enter the café, leaving Else to hobble along unaided in the rear of the great Old Compton Street exodus. Alex was reminded of some late-night old movie with the townsfolk marching on the sheriff’s office.
“What the hell are you two doing in here swigging coffee?” demanded James, for Bell, in his munificence, had ordered two small espressos.
“I want you!” exclaimed Bell. “Got a story for you.”
“Bollox — you’re taking part in a story. Free drinks over at Mabel’s. Official.”
“What’s that?” asked Alex sharply. Free drinks over at Mabel’s, on whatever pretext, were just what he needed. While awaiting Detective Inspector Wills’s summons, he could spend the morning joining Ellis Hugo Bell in getting quietly trolleyed.
“The New Kismet,” expanded James. “Mabel’s cracked up at last. Drinks on the house.”
“But why?” Bell was genuinely bewildered at the concept of something for nothing.
“Seems she’s suddenly decided to give Soho the elbow. Taking herself off to Brighton. Soho by the Sea. Good tale for the Standard. Come on, before those bastards drink the place dry.”
They had difficulty getting into the New Kismet Club, by reason of the hordes trying to shove their way down the stairs. “If the fire inspector sees this little lot, she’ll lose her licence for sure,” said a concerned James Flood as they edged and squeezed their way through the throng.
“No probs,” said one of the two flymen, just ahead of them. “He’s down there already, on double rums.”
The New Kismet, when they had fought their way into it, was a heaving mass of Soho humanity or in some cases sub-humanity. Jenny Wise had positioned herself behind the bar where she was dispensing trebles with both hands, passing whisky bottles to such as preferred them. Mabel herself, wearing a smart outdoor coat, had clambered up on to a rocky bar stool, from which perilous position she was separating sheep from goats.
“All right, a good half of you can piss off this minute. It’s members only, members only, get back to the Coach and Horses where you belong. Don’t serve that little toerag, Jen, he’s no more a member than I’m Joan of fucking Arc. Are you a member, sir? Go on, then, fuck off, sling your hook.” She glared down at Alex as he struggled to the bar with James Flood. “You’re not a member for a kick-off, sir. Go on, fuck off.”
“I joined yesterday, Mabel,” lied Alex, regarding himself by now as well versed in Soho drinking club ways. “Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, yes,” riposted Mabel. “And don’t you remember me barring you for life? Off you go — fuck off.”
“He’s with me, Mabel,” put in James Flood diplomatically.
“Is he? In that case he’s double barred. No, hang about — it’s Jamesy, isn’t it? In that case you’re both life members. I’ve got a good column for you, Jamesy. End of an era. Queen of the drinking clubs says fuck Soho. I’m selling up, fucking off to Brighton. Soho by the Sea.”
“So I’m told, Mabel. Do you want to do an interview?”
“Make it up, darling, I’ve got a train to catch. Now be sure to lock up, Jen, when they’ve drunk the place dry. Drinks on the house, everybody, members only. All the rest of you can fuck off.”
“I wish you’d get down off that bar-stool, Mabel, you’re going to break your neck before you’ve finished,” urged Jenny Wise.
“It’s my neck to break, now pass me up another gin and I’ll be on my merry way. You, sir — you’re not a member, not even of the human fucking race. Go on, off you fuck!”
“Now before you go, Mabel, are you quite sure I can’t make you an appointment with someone else?” asked Jenny, sounding concerned.
“What — second opinion style of thing? I’ve had a second and a third and a fourth opinion. I’ve had more opinions than the fucking Brains Trust, my darling, and they all say the same thing. It’s the tests, see, Jen. What can’t speak can’t lie.”
“All I can say, Mabel, is one time I thought I had all the symptoms, but at the death it turned out to be a dose.”