That notion of protection irritated Nick. It was demeaning. It was a kind of pity that insinuated measurement: it cut love down to size — for Nick, not knowing all, had therefore not loved all. He’d loved only partially His father failed to realise that Nick’s heart was greater than his needs or expectations; that the woman of his dreams was Sonia, the prostitute in Crime and Punishment. But he hadn’t said that out loud.
The revolving deck groaned suddenly on its rails, sending a stab of fear through Nick. He threw his eyes to work, spying the Inns of Court, and further on, the Isle of Dogs, where towers were being raised from the mist at Canary Wharf. Nick’s attention shuddered to the east, to things known but out of sight, to Hornchurch Marshes and the Four Lodges. He thought of the cold wind, the small shaved head, the lingering torchlight; and he heard again the unnerving pity in that voice.
Nick’s parents had never fully resolved the disagreement, though Charles won the first round on points. While Elizabeth urged Nick to find a practice in Primrose Hill, Charles pushed for paid indolence in Australia. (He wanted his son out of the way while Elizabeth went after Riley. If it came to nothing, then Nick would be left unscathed. Should an arrest become imminent, then, perhaps, the matter could be re-examined.)
The word ‘unscathed’ also irritated Nick, because it was the twin of ‘protection’.
The second round began when Elizabeth turned to letter writing, those lures of affection and melancholy while Charles (guessing the stratagem) countered with more temptations of distance and wonder. This last had been a subtle ploy for Charles was drawing on what bound father and son together: the dream of escapades and foreign peril.
‘In the end, she was several moves ahead,’ said Charles affectionately spilling whisky as he poured from the decanter. He was weary, his sleeves rolled up and a tartan tie askew A shirt-tail hung out like a waiter’s cloth. ‘I knew nothing of the key or Father Anselm’s role as her unwitting understudy’ He paused as if ashamed by the complaint in his own voice, the hint of resentment. ‘For your sake, I’d hoped that this business would pass you by; as still it might.’
‘For your sake,’ repeated Nick quietly As still it might?’
‘Let’s get back to normal,’ said Charles, with a sudden note of beseeching. ‘Let’s … let’s go to Skomer.’
Nick laughed, not so much at what Charles had said, as his appearance: the red face, the clothing in disarray and the precariously sinking glass. Charles took the laughter for assent and joined in heartily.
London kept turning and Nick kept watching, high above all that had happened, glad that it was over, perhaps grateful — if he were honest — that he had a protective father. When the twenty-two minutes had elapsed the floor stopped, and Nick was facing St John’s Wood.
‘The lift moves at six metres per second,’ said Mr Smyth, more relaxed, hands in his suit pockets. Nick guessed that he was the sort of executive who liked to don the hard hat and chat with the lads about the tricks of cable installation.
As the narrow compartment plunged down to ground level, Nick ignored some more statistics, marvelling rather at his father’s determination, his refusal to compromise with his wife, the captain of matters practical. This time Charles had taken the lead and called the shots, forcing his mother’s hand. It was the sort of bull-headed drive the bank had wanted and never got.
‘Who’s Mrs Dixon?’ Nick had ventured, before going to bed. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’ Charles had rolled down his sleeves, pulled his tie up and dabbed at the spillage with his shirt-tail. Nick watched him carefully … and he just couldn’t be sure: was this the truth or another species of protection?
The lift doors opened and Nick showered thanks on Mr Smyth. It was, he replied, the least he could do, adding, as if he hadn’t been heard the first time:
‘I must say your mother was a quite remarkable woman.’
4
‘You’re a hard man, Riley’ said Prosser. He puffed on his cigar and nudged the peak of his cloth cap.
A fair one.
‘Twenty-five grand it is, then.’
The figure wasn’t quite accurate, but it was in keeping with the outward show of honesty. Prosser would pay that handsome figure into the Riley bank account first thing next morning. An extra five thousand was due now, in cash — an exchange that would trouble neither the conveyance deed nor the records of the Inland Revenue.
Prosser had a worn leather pouch of Spanish origin. Having tugged it from the inside of his heavy overcoat, he opened it slowly lowering his hands to show how much he’d brought. Then he counted out the bills, licking his fingers, making it painfully clear that he was handing over far less than he’d expected — that he was a harder man than Riley.
‘Wyecliffe will do the paperwork,’ said Riley and he tossed high a bunch of keys.
Catching them, Prosser replied nobly ‘The traditions of your business will continue.’
‘I doubt it.’
Prosser was jubilant. He sucked air through his teeth, breathing in a mix of furniture wax and butane.
‘When you’re ready’ he said, ‘I’ll lock up. I bid you good day ma’am.’ The last affectation came with a bow for Nancy after which he swaggered outside to linger on the pavement. He winked to an imaginary audience, and licked the butt of his cigar.
Cars smashed over the hump in the road. It was nearing the end of the day so everyone was impatient, even Riley As he checked the limp motes against a light bulb, he became scatty —he was looking at the pictures and not the watermarks — because every action was a movement away Every breath was one less among these standing ruins. He was going to walk with Nancy on Brighton Pier. Something rustled at his elbow.
Nancy was holding out a plastic bag as though it were Riley’s turn for the lucky dip. It was empty and she looked severe.
‘Let me carry the money’ she said, pronouncing each word distinctly ‘It’s my shop, remember.’
Riley didn’t have the guts to refuse — Nancy had been acting funny. Not that she’d said or done anything. It was just a sense that she’d already gone from Poplar and left him behind. He wanted to catch her up. Without a word he wrapped the motes in an elastic band and dropped them into the bag.
‘You can trust me, you know,’ said Nancy under her breath.
She was being funny again, though Riley couldn’t put his finger on how. But she made him think of trust: it had held them together, even in the breaking.
Nancy lifted up her skirt and stuffed the money beneath her tights, across her stomach. Then she went into the back room and came back with a grey canvas rucksack. Riley had found it in the cellar of a mountaineer.
‘I want to pick up some bricks by the canal,’ said Nancy adding proudly ‘for my herb bed.’
Riley was aghast. ‘You want to go along the Cut with five grand in your tights?’
‘No one will look.’
‘Nancy have you ever heard of muggers … villains?’
‘It’s never happened before.’
Prosser called out, ‘Oi! I’m freezing out here.’
‘I want to finish the bed,’ said Nancy flatly.
‘All right, fine,’ sighed Riley giving up. He’d follow Nancy to hell, never mind Limehouse Cut.
They walked side by side, Riley shouldering the rucksack. The sky was reddish brown like a bruised fruit. Beneath it, in the near distance, a bonfire kicked sparks into the air. Smoke billowed and a smell of rubber drifted along the towpath beside the Cut. The hush was a trick. Somewhere ahead was a den of foxes. When it grew dark, they’d scream and it was like a feast of murder. Nancy broke step. She’d seen a brick. Examining its edges, she said, ‘It all begins with Quilling Road.’