Muttering “’Scuse me, ’scuse me!” when what he really wanted to exclaim was, “Get outer my fookin way!”, Alex barged through the swarm of American students, leaving them protesting and addressing him as “Sir!” in aggrieved tones.
No sign of Selby. No sign of that duck’s-arse bum. Lost already. She could have gone up Wardour Street, down Wardour Street, along Shaftesbury Avenue, across to Dean Street, in any one of half a dozen opposite directions.
Alex shuttled aimlessly this way and that. It was useless. There were six Selbys around every corner.
But wait. Her mobile. She was speaking on her mobile. With any luck at all, she would keep it activated after finishing her call. She wouldn’t be expecting him to ring at this timer day, anyway. Night was the time for not being able to get in touch with Selby.
He would go back to the Wellington Arms, have a quiet jar with James Flood if he was there, a farewell drink with Ellis Hugo Bell even, and call Selby from his own mobile every ten minutes. All right, then, five. Worth a try, wasn’t it?
His own mobile — now where the fook was it? Left it in the pub? Hadn’t used it in the pub. Hadn’t used it since –
It was in the upstairs stockroom of Stephan Dance’s porn emporium, that’s where it was. He had made one last effort to get through to Selby before trying to get some kip, and he had put the mobile on a shelfer mucky books because it was digging into his thigh.
Nothing for it but to go back for it, then. Risky, but the chance of talking to Selby was worth a risk. With some difficulty he found his way to Compton’s Yard. The white Roller was not parked outside Eve’s Erotica but that did not signify: its owner could have left it in a car stack. But he had three other establishments in Soho, so Alex had learned, so there was a three to one chance that he was not at present in the Compton’s Yard one. Or he could be finishing a late lunch. Or he could be out on the piss with Brendan Barton. On the designer water, rather, far as he was concerned — sinister, that. Or he could be staring out at Alex through the blurry window.
Did he really want to speak to Selby? What had he got to say to her, anyway? That starting tomorrow it was all going to be different? He could hear her saying, sarky little cow that she was, “You mean starting from tomorrow it’ll all be the same.”
But he wanted that mobile back, come what may. They cost good money, mobiles did, and by the time he got back to Leeds Selby wouldn’t be the only one he wanted to talk to on it, not by a long chalk.
He made his way around the derelict building next to Stephan Dance’s porn shop and into the narrow alley. He pushed, as, what was the bugger’s name again? Barry Chilton had pushed the middle of the five railway sleepers guarding the doorway, which obligingly swung ajar. He picked his way across the joists that were all that was left of the floor, and up the rickety stairs.
They creaked. He hadn’t noticed that on his earlier visit. What he had noticed was a faint smell of gas. Now it seemed stronger. Faulty pipes, most likely. There was a lot that stank in So-oh, because the buggers were too stingy to get things fixed, or their landlords were.
He opened the padlocked metal fire door without any trouble and found himself in Stephan Dance’s stockroom. The mobile would be on that shelf there, on topper that piler mags. Grab it and scarper. Shite. The floor creaked even worse than the stairs.
So where was that blurry mobile? Was he sure that was the right shelf?
“No messages,” said Stephan Dance, stepping out from behind a stack of packing cases. He was toying with Alex’s mobile, throwing it up and catching it as if playing himself as a screen villain.
“I suppose that bearded Brummie toerag showed you how to get in,” Dance went on. “Last time he was found up here he had to be given a spank. Seems he’s looking for another one.”
“I thought he had permission,” said Alex lamely.
“I shouldn’t think you did, son. But seeing as you’re here, there’s a small matter of fifty quid.”
“I saw Brendan Barton this morning and he didn’t seem all that fussed about it.” What the thump had it to do with this bugger, anyway? Was he the Soho debt collector, or what?
“No, he wouldn’t be, but y’see, son, you don’t owe it to Brendan, you owe it to me.”
“No, I owe it to Brendan. He gave me the money.”
“He gave you money that wasn’t his to give. You owe Brendan, but Brendan owes me. So cutting out the middleman, I want fifty quid from you before you leave this room.”
His mouth dry, Alex said: “I haven’t got it.”
“Oh dear me.”
Christ, he was getting into real trouble here. Serious Soho trouble, he had read about it. “You can take my mobile if you like.”
“I already have a mobile.”
“Or my watch. It’s quite a good one.” It was, too. Chrissy prezzie from Selby.
“I’ve got six watches.”
There was an awkward pause. Dance seemed to be waiting for Alex to make the next move. He didn’t know what to say next. Offer to send the money on? Very likely. “So what do you want to do, then?” he asked.
“Do?” repeated Dance in amused puzzlement. “I don’t do things, son, not in my position. I have things done for me. That’s what staff are for. Don’t go away, will you?”
Alex couldn’t have moved even if he’d dared to. He was petrified. Dance crossed to a doorway leading to the staircase, where there was an ancient bellpush. He pressed it, and sparks flew from it as it buzzed on the floor below. More faulty equipment. And there was still that strong smell of gas. It was a wonder that Stephan Dance hadn’t noticed it.
Then, before the explosion, it was as though the air caught fire, in a series of brilliant cumulus clouds across the room. And ever after, Alex could never remember whether it was as he went under or as he came round that he thought: This must be what it’s like to be dead.
The smell of gas was replaced by the smell of spearmint. Selby. She was forever chewing gum. They had had rows about it, over her not taking it out of her mouth when they were snogging.
What surprised Alex the most, upon opening his eyes, was that he was not in the least surprised to see Selby standing over his bed in some kind of trouser suit arrangement that at once identified her as a nursing orderly. He would be in Leeds General Infirmary, then. How the fook had he got here?
“No — University College Hospital, Gower Street,” corrected Selby.
“So what are you doing here?”
“I work here. Casualty.”
“And what am I doing here? It wasn’t wunner them fookin nail bombs, was it?”
“Gas explosion. What you were doing in a place like that we won’t ask. When in Soho, I suppose.”
“I had a reason. I’ll tell you, one day.”
“I’m sure you will, when you think it up. But the man you were with — was he a friend of yours?”
“Creditor. Why?”
“He’s dead, I’m afraid. He got the full blast.”
“What about me? Am I dead?”
“You’ll live. Slight concussion and singed eyebrows, otherwise they wouldn’t have left you to my tender mercies,” smiled Selby. She’d had her hair cut. She was looking really good. Lost some weight too. Got ridder that puppy fat. “I’ve just got to have a word with the doctor. Shan’t be a tick.”
It wasn’t a bed he was lying on, it was one of those stretcher things that they wheeled you about on. He seemed to be in a kind of corridor off the main ward. He had all his clothes on, minus his shirt and jacket. Was he on his way to some department or other, X-ray, maybe, or on his way back? He would soon see.