Devil Take the Hindmost Read online

  He can’t breathe for two more laps. He feels the man he just beat pat him on the back, a friendly gesture of defeat, before they both slow down and get off their bikes. Walk, on unsteady legs, back to their bags and woollen suit jackets.

  Sitting down after the race, looking at the winner’s envelope, Paul starts to plan which flat on which street with which colour front door and what food in the cupboards he’ll buy now that he can make so much money in an afternoon just by sweating a little. Or actually quite a lot, as it has been a few hours of cycling. It has been hard work but at times almost enjoyable.

  Harry comes over and pats him on the back, says, ‘You did well today, really well. I missed the start as Silas told me the wrong time, what a dumbbell.’

  Paul nods. Harry continues, ‘Just now I’m late for something but I’ll see you at the next race, if not before.’

  Paul’s head is spinning. Not from tiredness or hunger, but from the prospect of making money as a cyclist.

  An oily little man comes over and demands a thirty percent cut for the booking and handling fee. Paul tries to argue, but the man shrugs his shoulders and says, ‘It’s part and parcel.’

  Paul pays and the man, who promises him more races, then walks off.

  In the middle of his elation Paul realises that there are much faster and fitter cyclists than the Saturday crowd in Peckham. But with that comes the insight that there are races that will pay a lot more to win. Today was good, but he knows he can do better. He will have to train well, eat well, sleep well. Devote himself in a way he didn’t think was necessary. Or imaginable. The prospect of it makes him smile as he gets back on the bike again for the cycle back across the river to his waiting bed, his buttocks only smarting a bit.

  Chapter 6

  I follow him to Peckham. At a distance of course. Just want to see what he is up to. I have no desire to be his trainer or too close to the actual racing. I thought it’d be nice to see his first race, since that would be my first too, fitting that. I get a good seat and wait for things to get going.

  Inside the velodrome is a busy mixture of people. Women from all social strata. Mechanics with oily rags hanging out of their back pockets, competitors eating gruel, smoking or drawing deep nasal breaths of ammonia or one of the new powders you can get in a paper cone if you know a chemist. The ones that make you extra alert, but sad in two days’ time.

  Paul stands still next to his bike, his skin like marble. An Apollo in tight woollen shorts. He looks tense and lost, like a farmhand recently made knight.

  I signal for a drink, down it and ask for another. ‘Less crème de menthe, more gin, and the real stuff. Not your back room poison this time,’ I shout. I’m on edge.

  I close my eyes for a minute while Paul completes a wobbly exhibition lap, like they do at Kempton Park.

  The starter gun sounds, and I’m pulled back to the racing and the reality of the monetary risk I’m taking on this boy. At the moment it’s not much, but if things go well I’m going to have to introduce him to Mr Morton, the vulture always perching above me.

  At the moment I’m in Mr Morton’s good books, and by extension so is Paul. This veneer of understanding is easily cracked. Debts and insubordination are just two ways to rile Mr Morton. As the current leader of the Elephant and Castle Gang, recently reinstated after that debacle out in Bradford, Mr Morton owes me a huge favour. If he chooses to honour it. A terrible temper on that man, but rich pickings if you can play him right.

  I light my Punch Petit Pyramide and toast Paul, who’s sweating profusely now.

  Against my hopes and wishes, I am now part of Mr Morton’s awful family, but I have made a good living from the scraps he has thrown me. There’s no denying that.

  The men down on the oval are surging. I can’t see the numbers from here, but there’s an attractive girl turning a flap over every lap, once the leading man has passed. I’m disappointed to see it’s not Paul. If I’m going to make a go of this cycling thing maybe I should be on the lookout not only for handsome cyclists, but ones that actually win races. To my delight though I notice that Paul is second. Didn’t recognize him at first, bent double and as red as a tomato.

  I concentrate on the race. Seems it’s soon coming to an end. I watch the men straining, bustling, shouldering each other, jostling for position, and realise just how dangerous a fall would be. In a stampede on wheels like this I would hate to be on the ground. Eight laps, seven, six. I like the speed. Four, three. What is Paul doing? Why isn’t he trying to win? Two. Am I backing the wrong man? One. Now there’s a bell. Still, Paul just sits on the wheel of the man in front of him. Half a lap. Now I see movement. I find myself standing up. I’m clenching my fists, I’m on my toes, neck straining to see every inch of the race. There’s a wild shout, a deranged howl of happiness as Paul crosses the line first. Only when I close my mouth do I realise I’ve been shouting. First I’m ashamed, then I realise the men next to me have been shouting too. Not knowing what to do, but feeling that we’ve been through something significant together I turn to my left, then to my right, and shake hands with my fellow spectators. They don’t bat an eyelid. It’s done solemnly, respectfully.

  I leave the arena convinced I’m backing the right man. But I won’t let on.

  Chapter 7

  After training one day, Harry pulls Paul aside. Sits him down on the side of the track and plonks a cup of tea down in front of him.

  ‘Paul, I need to ask you what you take.’

  ‘How do you mean, take?’

  ‘Any medication?’

  ‘I’m not ill,’ Paul says, hands around the mug.

  ‘I mean, you now, none of the other boys are cycling dry. They all have a little something every now and then to help them along.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Capsules, powders and vials from the sports apothecary. Whatever suits them.’

  Paul nods and Harry continues, ‘Benzedrine for quicker legs, Laudanum for the pain after a race. There’s plenty to choose from. Codeine, cocaine, diamorphine, chlorodyne. It’s a list with no end really. We’ll do some experiments, work out what suits you best.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s safe?’

  ‘A cyclist’s private pill box is as important as a good set of tyres and cranks. Sometimes more so.’

  ‘I’m not sure. I feel fine, I feel fast.’

  ‘But that won’t last, you see. I wouldn’t ask you to take anything I haven’t used myself,’ Harry says, ‘Silas will sort you out. I know he has contacts in the medical trade. I’ll help you with doses and timing. We’ll do some training on that as well.’ Harry slaps Paul on the back before leaving him with a parting thought, ‘The next time we’ll talk about endurance races. The ones where you cycle for twelve, twenty-four hours, or six days in a row. Then you’ll understand why you need your drugs. Wouldn’t want you to fall asleep in the saddle. Or be in so much pain that you can’t complete by day five.’

  ***

  Paul returns to Peckham a week later, registered as Paul MacAllister, of Copenhagen Street. The next week he squeezes in two midweek races as well as the Peckham one, where they now recognize and rightly fear him. More and more of his time is devoted to the track.

  He continues to work for the fruit and veg shop. It’s hard going, and he is indeed treated like the horse he replaced, only no one slips him apples or pats him. No one puts a warm blanket over his shoulders when it’s raining. But it’s good training and it teaches him more about the city of London. It’s a city he fears and warms to in equal measures. With the weekday work and the weekend races, he makes more money in a month than his father ever made in a year of hard, hard work on the family farm. Again all his money goes into a tin. This time a Warburton’s one. At the end of the month he finds Silas in Rupert’s office and presents the box to him.

  ‘I’m not hungry. And I wouldn’t want to steal your bread, you’re poor enough as it is,’ Silas says smiling.

  ‘It’s the inside that counts,’ Paul
says proudly, straightening his back.

  ‘So you’ve managed to pay rent this month?’ Silas says once he’s prised off the lid of the tin. He sounds surprised, but there’s a knowing smile playing over his lips. Implying he knows more than he’s letting on. ‘And the bike?’

  ‘I’ve put a little something in the box towards it. Ten percent agreeable?’ Paul says, with a sense of pride that can’t be hidden.

  ‘It is indeed. And is this all fruit and veg money?’

  ‘It’s mostly from smaller races. I’ve not been able to enter as many races as I would like to. Some of them are further away and I would have to go on a train, maybe stay overnight, and there’s no way I can be back for the deliveries on those days.’

  ‘So what does that tell you?’ Silas says twirling a pen.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you want me to tell you?’ He taps the pen twice on the green writing pad on his desk.

  ‘If you think it’s important.’

  ‘It’s your life.’

  ‘Some of it belongs to you,’ Paul says, looking at his fingernails.

  ‘Well, it tells me that you have to speak to your boss and tell him you will need a day off every now and then.’

  ‘Which would be fine if I won the race. If not I’d be losing money.’

  ‘You would have to be pretty successful, that’s true.’

  ‘He only cares about his deliveries.’

  ‘I don’t blame him. But the other thing you can do is to find another job.’

  ‘I tried, and still do whenever I can, but it seems pretty impossible.’

  ‘You should perhaps look elsewhere. You need something which pays more so that you can work less, so that you can compete more, so that you can rake in more winnings with that bike of yours. Or should I say my bike?’

  ‘As of today one tenth is mine,’ he says, proudly.

  ‘Which tenth would you like?’ Silas asks, now drawing a row of interlinked eights on a legal pad.

  ‘The wheels please,’ Paul says after thinking about it for a second or two.

  ‘You can have one.’

  ‘Deal. I can be a circus bear on a unicycle,’ Paul says smiling.

  ‘Tell me more about your… our… finances.’

  ‘It’s hard to make much when I’m forced to pay someone at the various tracks thirty percent of my winnings,’ Paul says, quietly.

  Silas shakes his head and gets up from his chair. Starts pacing the small room, brushing past Paul, who is leaning against a wall.

  Silas stops and says, ‘I worry about you. This is elementary maths. You need to improve your income and lower your costs. From now on I want you to inform me of any races you plan to enter, these other jokers are robbing you of your money. You should leave that up to me.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Good, so, I want to make you a proposition. Any races you win I take twenty percent, any you lose, you pay me ten percent of what the winner made.’

  ‘And if I come second, or third?’

  ‘Then we’ll do ten and five percent.’

  Paul counts on his fingers for a second or two, then says, ‘Deal.’

  ‘Smart move my boy,’ Silas says and extends his hand and they shake on it.

  ‘Let’s see how we get on.’

  ‘Let’s see indeed.’

  ‘So what about the starting fees?’ Paul asks.

  ‘You just tell me in advance where you’re going to be racing, and I’ll make sure you won’t have to pay any starter fee, or anything beyond our deal.

  ‘How will you do that?’

  ‘Not that it’s your business, but I have connections myself, and I work for a man with more fingers in more pies than you could possibly imagine. Sports and gambling is just one branch. It keeps expanding, so you’d do well to be under his protection anyway. Whether it’s financially sound for you or not.’

  Silas opens the door and gestures for Paul to come outside with him. They walk half a block before Silas speaks again. ‘So, if we are going to be a team – you the cyclist, me the financier, you the legs, me the brain – you need to meet Mr Morton. I’ve told him about you and he was quite interested. Not too interested though, don’t flatter yourself. But for various reasons you wouldn’t understand he needs to meet you. So, tomorrow.’

  They’ve come to a stop in front of a newsagent.

  ‘Tomorrow suits me fine,’ Paul says.

  ‘I wasn’t asking,’ Silas replies, and opens the door, setting off the bell. ‘Mr Morton has a place out in Elephant and Castle,’ he continues. ‘What time are you done with deliveries tomorrow? Around ten?’

  ‘I should be done by then.’

  ‘I’ll meet you there. Just go to Walworth Road and ask for the Carousel, that’s his place out there. Everyone knows where it is. Give my name to the orangutans at the door, and they’ll show you upstairs,’ Silas says before going inside to purchase his American weeklies.

  Chapter 8

  May arrives but the weather is still crisp. The irregular cobblestones of Paul’s usual routes glisten in the fleeting sun. He’s had a puncture but the day is sunny and Silas wasn’t all too precise about when to arrive, so instead of looking for a taxi, he looks at the water, eats an apple. He slowly rolls the bike, turning the front wheel this way and that, painting oblong eights in the mud. He walks towards Southwark Bridge asking people if they know a bicycle shop nearby, but no one does.

  The bridge itself is painted bright green and yellow; fresh peas with butter. The lampposts are darker and look like sentries with their arms outstretched, each crowned by a princess’ crown in brass. Children stick their hands out through the gaps in the railings like prisoners, fenced in by gravity and parents. Paul leans the bike against a lamppost and squints at the river full of barges. Double-decker trams are flying both ways. The tracks are screaming in protest as the behemoths, filled to the brink with people, accelerate and stop in a never-ending waltz.

  Paul hears a car revving hard, then an explosion. He turns to look and there’s a blue Talbot crumpled up against a lamppost, smoke coming out of its bonnet. Behind him a horse whinnies, and before Paul has a chance to step out of the way the huge Clydesdale pulling a beer cart is on top of him. Paul’s belt snags on the cart. The man holding the reins is screaming to the horse, and can’t see Paul being pulled along like a rag doll tied to a steam train.

  As the horse picks up speed Paul trips and falls. Now he’s scraping along the ground, hanging from his belt. The massive wheels of the cart are only inches away from his face. He can see the pattern of the spokes, blurry. It’s curious and compelling. He hears the crunch of the ironclad wheels as they destroy everything in their way.

  Time slows down almost to a standstill. Now the horse changes tack. From the middle of the road it’s now veering over towards the right pavement, crossing tram tracks, the man on top cursing. A bow wave of traffic and people in front of it. Paul is squeezed up against the high kerb. He hears glass bottles being crushed, popping like deadly fireworks, under the wheels of the cart. People are screaming and jumping out of the way of the now frothing horse. The paving stones, with their grouting of human and animal sludge, are a blurry mess coming closer and closer to his face.

  His belt snaps and he hits the ground, ending up underneath the cart, between the wheels. He feels the wind from the spokes ruffle his hair and brush up against the soles of his feet, as the cart passes overhead.

  He stands up and looks down the street at the horse, still galloping with the broken cart careening behind it, and almost passes out from the relief. Then he feels the sting of gravel and bits of glass.

  He looks over in panic to see where his bike is. It’s still where he left it and the relief surging through his body almost cancels the pain. He starts to hobble towards the bike then the pain takes over.

  Paul sits down on the pavement, feet in the gutter, his shoes near a pile of cabbage and manure. Stars dance in front of his eyes and he can’t ma
ke his hands stop shaking however hard he tries. He turns his palms this way and that, looks at them like two lobsters he’s never seen before, ones that are alive and will snip off his fingers if he’s not careful. Finally he sits on them, to keep them still. He can’t see anything to either side of him. He’s in a tunnel of relief, but it’s hard to breathe, his chest not big enough for all the air he feels he needs to calm down. He takes off his jacket. Lays it across his legs, building a little tent for his wounded knee.

  A woman runs up to him, asks if he’s ok. She tells him she saw the whole thing. All he can do is nod. When she doesn’t walk on, he straightens up and looks at her. She’s slender but not thin. Wears her clothes well but not ostentatiously. She has a long neck and her face is cute as a button, he thinks, but not without experienced lines. Her eyes are light green, the colour of a William’s pear, and her hair is coppery and chestnut. She’s lost her hat running after him, and a little boy comes over with it. She holds it in her hands, turning it slowly by the brim. It’s one of the modern ones that hide women’s faces. Paul tries to give the boy a coin, but the woman waves Paul’s hand away and gives the boy a little nod. He disappears into the forest of people on the bridge.

  Getting up, groaning a little, Paul tells her he is fine. Smiles as much as he can. Thanks her for her concern, while hiding the wound on his leg from her with his jacket. The shakes won’t subside, but after gulping down air for a while he’s less disorientated. He tells her he needs to be somewhere, which was the he last rational thought he had before the horse almost killed him.