But today was Friday, and he would be spending all afternoon holding court in a pub beside the Catford Dog Stadium. Jowls wobbling above a grimy wing collar, his partner scowled back at me through the dusty window of the shop. If he too wouldn’t call the police, he’d not welcome me inside either. The sky had darkened again, and a thin drizzle was starting. A bit of warmth would have been welcome—a touch of mist even more so. But Brockley Rise was far beyond the outermost reach of the pavement heating, and no good was likely to be served by dithering here in full view of anyone who might be inclined to look in my direction.
I smiled at Mortimer’s partner and walked on. I looked briefly left through the bars of the school playground. It was afternoon break, and about a hundred children ran about, playing and shouting in the rain. Hooded or bareheaded, they all had the pale faces of those whose skin hadn’t been touched by sun since the previous October.
I passed a greengrocer’s. Two old women came out as I went by. They were carrying string bags filled with onions and cabbages, and were talking about some neighbour who’d had a child out of wedlock. It was the most normal conversation I’d heard in days. Just beyond, at the entrance to some mews, about a dozen boys in short trousers were smoking and arguing about the football. One of them gave me a suspicious look—though, more, I suspected, from fear of the truancy man than out of any desire to lay violent hands on me. It was all reassuringly normal.
I stepped into a sweetshop and bought fifty cigarettes. I’d pushed my hat back, and my face was on the front page of two of the daily newspapers. But the middle aged woman who served me was more concerned with counting the change of the shilling I’d given her. She muttered about the growing lack of silver since the fall in gold, and loaded me up with coppers.
I stepped out into the chilly breeze and lit a cigarette. I looked briefly at the boys. They were all rather willowy. One had the most disgusting spots I’d seen since America. I wondered if Krellburger had made his way to the bedsitting room in Catford, and how he’d explain himself to the second greatest mind of the past eight thousand years. I smiled and looked left along Brockley Rise. About a mile on, and I’d come to Crofton Road Railway Station. From there, I could get myself up to Blackfriars. No one would find me in the warren of alleys and courts that surrounded St Paul’s. There, I could sit down and think about all that had happened and what I might most safely do next. Vicky had told me to get to the offices of Richardson & Co. There, she’s said, I’d be safe. She’d also mentioned an explanation. That would be very handy. The more I thought about it, though, the more attractive seemed a quick dash to Scotland Yard—or perhaps the India Office. If Macmillan and Foot were scared of Powell, the good offices of that slithery book on legs were surely my own best hope.
I looked right at the telephone box I’d hurried past on my way to buy the cigarettes. A halfpenny would buy me all the time I needed to call O’Brien, or anyone else—this was assuming I’d made up my mind. Perhaps, though, I should get myself up into Town. More time for thinking would do no harm at all. I was still looking at the telephone box when I heard the loud click beyond. At the junction where I’d got off the trolley bus, the lights had changed. My stomach turned over as I saw that black van stopped behind another trolley bus. It was indicating to turn left and come in my direction.
I turned and hurried up the road beside a church yard. Because I was continually twisting round to look behind, I nearly bumped into a woman dressed in a plastic mackintosh. She was pushing a heated pram and impatiently watching a duffle-coated boy as he jumped in and out of a puddle. I croaked an apology and hurried on. After a few yards, my nerve snapped and I broke into a panicky trot. It’s astonishing what speed fear can give to a bruised, aching body. I hadn’t run so fast since a whole mob of youths had once mistaken a friendly nod. I must have covered fifty yards before drawing breath. I knew the only way out from the end of the road beyond this one was an alley where no wheeled vehicle could follow. I was a little hazy about the streets that lay beyond. But I could probably skirt round and get myself to a railway station or to a convenient bus stop. Or I might risk a telephone call.
I looked back from the other end of the alley and clutched at myself with terror. The van was now parked at the end of the road I’d just left, and men were tramping about. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it sounded pretty confident. An hour earlier, I’d thought any pursuit must be hours behind me. A few minutes before, I’d thought it was at least several miles back. It was now a few dozen yards. There comes a moment when the firmest common sense begins to break down. Tracking devices were things you read about in novels where the author was running out of plot development, or saw in the more lurid spy films. But, as I’d already heard the impossible, when Vicky Richardson spoke to me through a car wireless, why doubt the merely unlikely? I went quickly through my pockets and ran hands over the lining of my overcoat. Nothing. Was it worth taking off my overcoat and hat? What if it was in my trousers of shirt collar? I’d have to do something pretty soon if I wasn’t to be tracked through London like a wounded stag. But I had somehow to get a little more distance between me and these pursuers.
“Give me that bicycle!” I demanded of a boy who’d dismounted to shelter under the cover of a doorway. With cold and shaking fingers, I managed to get a sovereign out of my wallet. I pushed it at him, and snatched at the handlebars. Before he could even look at the coin and realise the bargain was well on his side, I’d swung myself onto the saddle and was peddling off as fast as my legs would push.
I hurried along the straight, quiet streets—all terraced houses of red brick and fronted by little gardens. Some of these gardens had their heating on at full pelt, and there was already blossom on a few of the bushes. After a few minutes, I found myself at Honor Oak Park Railway Station. I hadn’t known about this one, and didn’t know where it went. Also, there were no trains in sight. I could carry on up a hill to somewhere else I didn’t know. Or I could continue towards Crofton Park. I knew there was a Blackfriars service at 3:57. Assuming the clock above one of the shops was correct, I could just make that. I might not go all the way into London. But, if I got off at Peckham or Denmark Hill, I didn’t see how anyone would have the foresight to be waiting for me there. I turned down the gentle incline that led back to Brockley Rise. Then I thought better of that idea and took a left into another terraced road. The top gear of the bicycle didn’t work. But peddling fast in third gear got me to a reasonable speed. If I was being tracked, that van couldn’t be far behind. It was a question of keeping out of sight and hoping for alleys or parks where I couldn’t be followed by anything on four wheels. The rain had now stopped again, and the light was fading. I could hear my breath coming in ragged gasps as I pedalled like a maniac and hoped I was going in the right direction.