A gas works lying behind a brick building, enclosed by a steel fence; a warehouse; a breaker’s yard; a bath-house of brown tiles standing like a cottage at a junction; and the man in the plum-coloured suit rose and started down the aisle, balancing himself by gripping the seats. He stared directly at Hood but did not see him. When the man was on the stairs, in a corner of the mirror’s bulge, Hood jumped up.
The man walked unsteadily down Bell Green, as if the sidewalk was in motion under him. He turned into Southend Lane and stopped at a house front. Hood memorized the number before he noticed that the man was only tying his shoe. It struck him as comic, the man attending to this detail, thinking it mattered. That morning in Hué Hood had set out his suit for a ministerial reception, and the same evening he was in Singapore; the minister — tearing off a bandage to show the wound — was shouting to the press. The suit remained on its hanger, the dress shoes beside the bed; and Hood was running. A year ago, another life.
On a corner, beneath a railway bridge, Hood saw the sign, The Locomotive, and saw the tall man pause and push at the door to the Saloon Bar. Hood followed him in and stood beside him. On Hood’s right a man in a bowler hat and wearing a heavy suit leaned over and smiled. Hood nodded, but said nothing.
Mr Gawber said, ‘I’ve never been here before.’
‘Neither have I,’ said Hood.
‘Ah, two lost souls! But first things first — what will you have? I’d like to push the boat out.’
‘Large whisky for me,’ said the tall man in the plum-coloured suit on Hood’s left. Then he laughed, ‘Sorry, mate, I thought you was talking to me.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ said Hood.
‘I’ll let you know, but it’ll hurt.’
‘Try me.’
‘Step outside,’ said the man, passing his hand over his face and distorting it with that gesture, seeming to pull his mouth into an expression of rage. ‘They’ll have to carry you home.’
Hood said, ‘They won’t be carrying you home, pal.’
‘You trying to slag me?’
‘Just a minute gentlemen,’ said Mr Gawber, touching Hood’s arm.
‘The geezer’s offering drinks and all,’ said the man to Hood. ‘If he don’t want to pay he don’t have to, but he’s waving that fiver like he don’t know what to do with it. Now get off my tits.’
‘I think he’s upset,’ said Hood to Mr Gawber.
Mr Gawber had listened to the exchange with a kind of horror, and he considered leaving. But he lifted the five-pound note again and said, ‘You don’t have change for this, do you?’
‘No,’ said Hood.
‘I’ll mind it for you if you like,’ said the man, grinning. ‘Stick him with his mates and all.’ He reached into his pocket, took out a wad of five-pound notes the thickness of a sandwich and riffled the edges with his thumb, flashing their blueness. Then he tucked them away and laughed, pushing out his jaw and snorting negligently.
Hood sensed tension in his voice when he said, ‘I think I had you wrong.’
‘I seen you looking at me dush. Listen, I don’t have to touch you. I could have you rompered for a fiver and get change.’
‘No harm done,’ said Hood.
‘Very good then,’ said Mr Gawber.
The man held his finger in Hood’s face. ‘You better watch your gob.’
Mr Gawber ordered drinks: a whisky for the man, a half of bitter for Hood, a bottle of light ale for himself. The barmaid told him the price of each as she set the glasses down. ‘Forty-six pence,’ said Mr Gawber, then he apologized for his speedy addition. ‘You must forgive me — I’m an accountant.’ He handed over his money and raised his glass. ‘It’s a lovely summer evening. I’ve never been here before, and I doubt that I’ll ever be this way again. A long life to you both.’
‘This is to the dogs,’ said the man. ‘First race in half an hour.’
Hood said, ‘Don’t lose your shirt.’
‘That’s nothing.’ The man slapped his pocket. ‘I could lose all that and laugh. But I won’t. Them dogs see me and start running. You don’t know me.’
‘I saw you two come in together,’ said Mr Gawber. ‘I thought you were chums.’
‘This is my dancing partner,’ said Hood.
‘Never seen him before in my life.’
‘There you go, boasting again.’
‘Piss off.’ The man dipped his head and put his mouth to his glass.
‘You forgot to say something, sweetheart,’ Hood said, tapping the man on the shoulder.
‘Get your hands off me.’
‘Say thank you.’
‘Thanks, dad,’ said the man. He turned to Hood. ‘You’re pleading for it. Remember, I can pay someone to have your gob fixed. I could get Bill to do it. Or maybe I’ll do it myself.’ He brushed his lapels.
‘Sorry,’ said Hood. ‘I forgot who I was talking to.’
‘You’re entirely welcome,’ said Mr Gawber to the man. ‘To tell the truth, I came here quite by accident. Normally, I do the crossword on the train and that keeps me awake. But today a most unusual thing happened.’
He told the story of the crossed-line, but he improved on it. The callers, whom he imagined in a dark cellar room muttering blind uncertainties, he made precise and dignified; and he made himself comic, a muddled old man, fussing with the phone, who didn’t have the sense to slam down the receiver. Telling the story he saw how the whole day, from the morning amnesia of fog and the intrusions at Rackstraw’s, to the arrival at the wrong station, had made this chance encounter at the pub possible: it was all preparation to bring his story here. He was pleased to have these listeners and he delivered his last line with solemn comedy: ‘ “macaroon,” I said, “macaroon.” ’
‘I got a crossed-line meself once. I’m always doing things like that. Some bird nattering to her old man. “Never want to see you no more,” she says. “Selfish bitch,” I says. “Hello,” she says, “did you say that, John?” “You leave John out of this,” I says and hangs up the earphone. I’m laughing like a drain.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Gawber, who had winced at the word bitch. ‘One feels as if one has been admitted to a secret. But really the most worrying thing is that afterwards, when you make another phone call you sense that someone is listening. Most of my business is highly confidential, so you can imagine my state of mind.’ It had distressed him at the time to hear Araba say There’s a war on! and he still wondered if anyone else had heard her.
‘Don’t worry about that, dad. The coppers’ll be on to you before long and have you in the nick. Bill hears everything. Just a matter of time.’
‘Oh, I know what they say about accountants. But don’t you believe any of it. We’re much maligned.’
‘Full of angles,’ said the man. ‘You get a good screw.’
‘Less than you might think,’ said Mr Gawber. ‘Though it’s interesting work. We’ve always had theatre people on our books. Sid Hope, Derek James, Max Morris, Araba Nightwing.’ He saw he was making no impression; actors believed in their names, no one else did. He said, ‘Araba’s going to be Peter Pan.’
‘I don’t care how much dush you snatch,’ said the man. ‘I get mine.’