Devil Take the Hindmost Read online

  Devil Take the Hindmost

  Devil Take the Hindmost

  Martin Cathcart Froden

  First published 2016

  Freight Books

  49–53 Virginia Street

  Glasgow, G1 1TS

  www.freightbooks.co.uk

  Copyright © 2016 Martin Cathcart Froden

  The moral right of Martin Cathcart Froden to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without either prior permission in writing from the publisher or by licence, permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 0LP.

  A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-910449-91-2

  eISBN 978-1-910449-92-9

  Typeset by Freight in Plantin

  Printed and bound by Bell and Bain, Glasgow

  Originally from Sweden, Martin Cathcart Froden has lived in Canada, Israel, Argentina, almost Finland and London and worked as a drummer, avocado picker, magazine editor and prison teacher. He won the 2015 Dundee International Book Prize with this novel, and his story ‘The Underwater Cathedral’ won the 2013 BBC Opening Lines competition. He has just embarked on a doctorate in creative writing/criminology/architecture in Glasgow where he lives with his wife and three young children.

  For Lucy. I can’t thank you enough.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  It’s Good Friday 1929 and a record crowd has paid to see the cyclists. Down on the oval I watch Paul focus on his hands. Hands that used to handle white-eyed horses, deliver lambs, right fence posts blown over in Campsie gales and put his drunk father to bed.

  The Herne Hill grandstand sits dignified along the home strait of the velodrome and today it’s full of clueless celebrities (Barbara Hepworth, Vita Sackville-West, Lord Pritchards, Riccardo Bertazzolo, the boxer) and people in the know (A. A. Weir, F. T. Bidlake, G. Hillier – and me). The arena heaves under the pressure of people fighting, betting, spilling gin and smoking.

  The cyclists line up, then Crack! With a jostle of elbows and straining thighs they’re off. We’re all cheering, all drinking, all hoping the weather will hold up so that we can see the boys swirl round the concrete bowl like so many eggs whisked for an omelette.

  Paul gives himself over to the centrifugal force and to the animal he usually keeps caged in his lungs. Today he can’t settle for anything less than a miracle. He lives by his lungs and by the grace of Mr Morton. I dry my hands on my trousers, something I’ve not had to do for many years.

  About a third into the race Paul drops down in the field. His grimace says he’s hurting. My hands are now sweating so much the cummerbund of my cigar has become attached to my ring finger. I claw at the piece of paper like a married man given a once-in-a-lifetime chance to spend the night with Vilma Bánky.

  Halfway through the race I know he won’t win. My heart sinks for Paul, and for myself, as I have to start planning for his disappearance. I stand up, spilling ashes all down my front.

  I walk outside to one of the stands selling Venetian Ice Cream. As soon as I’m finished with my ice cream, I vomit in the gutter. People laugh and ask if the beer’s too strong this side of the river. Standing up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand I hear the shouts from the arena, but can’t bear to witness the defeat. I walk away.

  One of the little grimy boys I have working the crowds for me runs up. Pulling my sleeve, something I never allow, he says ‘Silas, Mr Silas, your man, Paul. Come, come quickly!’

  Chapter 1

  It’s Easter 1928, and a lot of people are travelling. Seeing family. I’m not. I’m just standing here enjoying the spectacle of humanity. For the last half hour I have been watching one man in particular. King’s Cross, with its tangle of tracks and rabid porters shouting and shoving, can be overwhelming, but it’s absurd for such a robust man to pace the same spot. His hat tucked into his armpit. His hands – big, strong hands – come up to his eyes every so often. Wiping tears?

  I don’t usually have time to stand and sip coffee in draughty train stations, looking at men, but I’ve got another few hours before I have to see Mr Morton. I don’t especially appreciate being summoned by the Elephant Emperor, as I now secretly refer to him, but I’m not worried. These days I’m in his good books. Since that little job at Dartmoor, which I pulled off myself, and the one out by the Greenwich docks, which took a few hands, he trusts me. I just hope it’s not something too tiresome this time. I’m not one to shy away from slicing a man up like a ham if it’s warranted, if he’s put himself in trouble, but some of the other boys enjoy it. I wish he could leave that aspect of the work to them. Blood spots are beastly to get rid of.

  After I’ve seen Mr Morton, I plan to quietly celebrate my birthday. No party, no band or cake, no dancing girls or coach trips to the seaside to ride on deathly tired ponies. Just a drink or two with the son of a very wealthy shipping merchant. The boy, young, with dark intense eyes, and a sharp sense of dress and entitlement, is in need of a shoulder to lean on, someone to talk with in the dark hours of the night. I have no interest in becoming his go-to, but I am happy to be a rung on the ladder, and I’ve never regarded being paid for one’s troubles in champagne much of a chore.

  I finish my drink. It has warmed my hands if nothing else. The big man, incredibly, is still pacing. I walk over. It’ll pass the time if nothing else.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I ask. Possibly the least used phrase in London. Sometimes I’m more than half-foreign. More Greek than I like to admit to myself, may my father rest in peace. The man, who is younger than I thought, looks at me like I’ve said something indecent.

  ‘No thanks,’ he says and continues rifling through his pockets. By now he’s probably even run out of lint. Then he looks up, eyes shining, and says, ‘Actually, yes. Yes please, you can.’

  ‘That’s fine. What’s your name son?’

  ‘Paul MacAllister.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ I squeeze his hand and my knuckles roll like marbles in a bag. I put my other hand on his shoulder to steady myself, and also for professional, appreciative reasons. ‘Silas Halkias.’

  ‘That’s an unusual name,’ h
e says, looking at me and the melee of the station.

  ‘There are a few funny sounding names around here,’ I say. ‘I take it you’ve never been to London?’

  ‘I’ve never been anywhere bigger than Glasgow,’ he says and shuffles his feet.

  ‘Now, tell me what’s made you this flustered,’ I ask. He doesn’t say anything at first and I nod my head to coax him on a little.

  He smiles a row of pearly whites, looks both proud and ashamed at the same time and says, ‘Well, it began with a fight with my father.’

  ‘On the train?’

  ‘Oh no, a couple of days ago. Before I ran into trouble here.’

  We start walking, and immediately I sense that he has no idea where we are going. He talks and I smile and nod, ‘I have a bike, or rather, I had a bike. A beautiful thing, my uncle gave it to me,’ he says. When I was getting off the train this boy came up to me and asked me if he could help me with my luggage. I thought that was very friendly, but I told him I didn’t have much. Then he noticed my stub, and said he’d fetch the item for me. Before I could do anything about it I saw him cycle off on my bike.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ I say, but I’m not really listening. I’ve heard this story before. ‘My uncle brought it back from the Meteor Works in Coventry. It was a Rover, the Imperial model. Do you know it?’

  ‘No, I don’t know much about bicycles.’

  ‘Well, it’s the most expensive thing I’ve ever owned, probably the most expensive thing I’ll ever own.’ Here I have to guide him past a flock of a certain kind of women trying to get his attention.

  ‘Don’t be so sure,’ I say.

  ‘I ran after the boy but he was too fast. When I came back I saw two other little boys run off with my bag which had my wallet in it.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

  He nods and continues, ‘Now I’ve got nothing for food or lodging or anything, not even the trip back, if I was so inclined.’

  Judging by Paul’s size, by his ruddy face and straight teeth, he could be useful. I could put him to use in the yard out at Sandown if he knows his way around horses. Or make him a wrestler, smeared in petroleum jelly. His strong arms locked around another man’s waist, in tight black breeches, no top. As we cross the road I make up my mind and say, ‘Right, let’s get something warm into you. My treat.’

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘We’ll think of something,’ I say smiling.

  I guide him out of the station, now with half a plan. I find myself sheltering from the wind behind him. It’s supposed to be spring but the weather hasn’t turned yet.

  There’s a place on Bidborough Street that serves jellied eel with plenty of nutmeg. Not my cup of tea, but cheap. The woman who runs it wasn’t always as respectable as she looks now, and she owes me a favour or two. I’ll stuff him full of as much mash as he can stomach and by then I should know what to do with him. I can tell he’s not used to people being this close to him. The way he bumps into street vendors, the way he looks at fashionable women, the way he smiles at children, the way he says sorry too often, but not to the right people.

  I guide him inside the café. It looks like a miniature chapel, but with two shop windows letting in light. There’s a middle aisle with booths – marble tables and dark wood, touched by many greasy hands, all the way down the rectangular room. The walls are tiled white up to about chest-height, and above painted a light green. Seaside scenes are pinned at regular intervals. It’s nice to come inside. I feel my hands thaw a little. I nod to one of the girls and she moves a dirty man from a good table, wipes it and curtsies.

  Once we’re sitting down, Paul says, ‘Maybe it was a mistake coming to London. I just didn’t know what else to do.’

  I nod, and raise a finger to order for him. Belinda nods from behind her counter.

  As he eats, his high cheekbones become flushed, from being inside. From the smoke and the beer I put in front of him. He seems thirsty but not a very seasoned drinker. Good for me.

  ‘Sounds like you were quite desperate,’ I say while looking around the room for familiar faces. My eyes get stuck on a picture of the Eastbourne pier. It looks awful.

  Paul finishes his beer, and starts on the next one I’ve thoughtfully provided. Wiping foam from his upper lip he continues, ‘My father’s a...’ He doesn’t finish the sentence. ‘I don’t want to sound like I’m the disrespecting kind,’ he says instead, ‘but he’s done a thing, and though I have forgiven him in the past, this time it was too much.’

  ‘You want more mash?’ I ask. He nods while separating another piece of eel from the block of jelly. I shout for Belinda and one of her little girls scurries over with another plate of the stuff. Makes my stomach turn, but for Paul it seems to do the trick.

  I sit and look at him. He’s huge. Effortlessly so, just by birth and accentuated by regular, manual work. Ruddy and with eyes set wide in a freckled face, cheeks with slight stubble, shifting between ginger and gold depending on the light from the window. One hand around his beer glass, the other steadily forking food into his mouth. He looks so pure.

  I’m tired of being me. This thought creeps up on me like a vicious cat, and it scratches at my heart. I’ve been caught off guard by myself, and I quickly look around to see if anyone’s seen me falter.

  Then, luckily, he interrupts my thoughts.

  ‘Mr Halky, this is delicious. Especially after such a long journey,’ he says.

  ‘It’s Halkias.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise.’

  I remind myself I’m a lender and a promoter, not a lovesick spinster, and that if I play my cards right, he could be profitable. Paul pushes his empty plate away. Leans back and after a short flicker of contentment he starts to look worried again.

  ‘I’m a long way from home,’ he says and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. When he realises I noticed he looks embarrassed.

  ‘Then we need to find you somewhere to stay,’ I say. ‘What are you good at?’

  ‘My father has a dairy farm. I’ve been running it for a long time but he doesn’t own it any more. A man he gambled with owns it now.’

  ‘Well, there are no forests or farms in the city, so I’m not quite sure what you expected.’

  ‘I just presumed with so many people living in the one place there would be plenty of jobs needing done.’

  It strikes me he might not be so good with horses. Maybe farm horses, but not race horses. He is perhaps like a horse himself. A machine you put grain into and get power out from. I sigh and change tack.

  ‘How comfortable are you with violence?’ I ask.

  ‘If an animal is hurt and can’t be fixed we kill it. With some practice I could probably work as a butcher.’

  ‘I’ve no interest in animal butchers. How about humans?’

  ‘I’m not a murderer.’ The poor boy pales, and looks over my shoulder to see if anyone’s heard us. I smile and continue, ‘I know you’re not. I meant human violence. Boxing, wrestling, that kind of thing. You’re a big man, ever tried fighting in a ring?’

  ‘Never liked it much. I’ve been in a few fights, like everyone. Nothing organised, mind you, bar fights. People get excited when they’ve been paid, or angry when they haven’t been, and the whisky’s pretty strong where I’m from.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Lennoxtown.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Very pretty, apart from the chemical works.’

  ‘Like I said, never heard of it. But, how about boxing? You’re a big man, you must have broken a nose or two in your day?’

  ‘Can’t say I have. I’ve been close to it with my old man, but no. I’m strong, but not much of a fighter to be honest. My hands are not very fast, like you see on some. Or maybe people don’t want to pick fights with me because I’m this tall.’

  ‘That’s another thing that won’t be the same here in London. Here people will pick fights for the flimsiest of reasons. Just
to have something to do. The distraction of a good fight has led many men into unforeseen circumstances. Regardless, I might have some work for you, then again I might not.’

  ‘I’ll do anything.’

  ‘Well, judging from how you’ve answered my questions you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Ask me again.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Ask,’ he says, so earnest.

  ‘Fine. If a widow with fourteen children owed you money, and couldn’t pay because all her money went to pay the doctor who couldn’t help her now dead husband, would you kill her youngest daughter? With your bare hands, in front of her mother? Would you set fire to a hospital, starting in the ward with people in wheelchairs? Would you deliberately blow up a boat full of returning soldiers, all heroes? Would you take a shot at King George? Burn down a church?’

  ‘No! No. Is that what you do?’ he says.

  ‘No, I’m just proving that you wouldn’t do anything.’

  ‘I’m an honest man.’

  ‘I have no need for honest men. No one does.’

  ‘Well if that’s the case, it was nice meeting you, and I am very much in your debt, thanks for helping me. If you give me your address I will reimburse you for the meal.’ Paul stands up. He holds onto the table trying hard to look at some kind of nominal horizon. The beer has gotten the better of him. I’m a tiny bit afraid I’ll lose him, but I know that he needs me more than I need him.

  ‘Sit down, Paul. As I was saying before you turned into Saint Andrew. I think I can find other uses for you. In the meantime you need somewhere to stay until you find a job. I have somewhere you can stay. I’m lending you a month’s rent, plus some money for food and such. Don’t ask me why. If you decide to disappear, I will find you, wherever you go. Lennoxtown, Macedonia, or Antarctica. Just trust me, I will. That’s my job.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to.’

  ‘I’ll pay you back as quickly as I can.’

  ‘I know you will. If you’re a bad apple, I will know within the hour.

  ‘I’m a good apple.’