The Lubetkin Legacy (34 page)

When, after four weeks at The Bridge, the final curtain came down to wild applause,
Waiting for Godot
transferred to the West End. I was pleased, but not surprised. The show had an electricity that seemed to light up the audience in that small space. Transferring to a bigger theatre lost the intimacy, but was replaced by the pulse generated by a much bigger crowd.

Stacey came along once or twice out of loyalty, but I think she got bored with the play in a way you don't get bored if you're one of the players. She was pleased when I was mentioned in reviews and my face began to appear in the better class of newspaper, though admittedly not on the backs of buses. I took it all in my stride without letting it go to my head: the sudden celebrity seemed as unreal and arbitrary as my prolonged absence from the stage had been.

During that time I would often return home after midnight, pleasantly tired in my bones from the long effort of focusing on the stage-moment, flushed with the triumph of a standing ovation or slightly fuddled from a post-performance drink on an empty stomach. The flat greeted me with a welcoming hush after the clamour of the theatre. Flossie was usually asleep, and though I missed Inna's cheerful presence I no longer felt loneliness stalking me like an assassin.

Stacey was at the last West End performance of
Godot
. There were ovations, flowers, tears, farewells, and a long boozy supper afterwards, and in the small hours she guided me towards the little red car that was parked around the corner, and thence
to her bed. We made love, and as I drifted into sleep I felt a pleasant warm sensation which seemed to start in my chest and emanate throughout my whole body. This, I realised, in the sweet moment before sleep whacked me out, is what they call happiness. It was so long since I had felt it, I had almost forgotten what it was like.

Thwack! The blow jerks her into consciousness. She can feel a bruise starting to form.

‘Tell us where you put the papers. Else we kill you.'

The older man is standing over her, while the younger one is tying her to a chair from behind. The third man, the van driver, has disappeared.

‘I don't know what you're talking about. My office is full of papers.' She struggles to control the wobble in her voice. Did Queenie or someone else in her office betray her? Lynette? Could Marc have alerted his client?

‘We know you got papers about Nzangu. You better tell us where you put them, else we rape you then we spoil your pretty face, white bitch.'

She feels something cold and smooth like a blade against her throat. She feels it move upwards until it rests on her cheek. Her heart is thumping like a fish on a deck, but she digs her fingernails into her palms and orders herself to stay cool. Breathe deeply, she tells herself. Keep breathing, in and out, don't let the fear take over.

‘We already got Queenie,' says the first man.

‘We gonna kill her too, if you don't talk,' adds the other.

Have they really kidnapped Queenie, or is Queenie part of the plot? Who told Nzangu about the photocopies? Her brain is fuzzy from pain and terror.

‘I … I can't remember.
Mtu ni utu
, be human, brothers,' she pleads, playing for time. Her voice echoes back to her against the bare walls.

‘This'll help you remember!'

Thwack! A jab of pain rushes down her left temple to her jaw. If only they would stop hitting her, she would be able to think what to do.

The blow has dislodged the blindfold, and she can see that she is in a long low-ceilinged room with a square window at one end. It looks like some kind of storeroom, with things shrouded in plastic stacked up against the walls. What things? She tries to make out the shape. They look like buckets. Hundreds of buckets. The window is closed, and the air is thick and humid. She can smell the men's sweat and the sharp scent of her own fear. A warm trickle runs down the inside of her leg.

‘Waga got your key. He gone search your office. If you tell us, it will go better for you.' It is the older man talking. His voice is less aggressive than the young man.

‘They're not in the office. I … I posted them. Didn't Queenie tell you?'

She hid the copies so casually inside the computer manual that a thorough search of the office would surely uncover them, if somebody knew what they were looking for. She thinks of the re-invoices she posted to Gillian Chalmers in London. She will have got them by now, but has she read them? And even if she has, will she do anything about them? Or might she just as well have posted them to Marc himself?

‘You're lying, white bitch.' The younger man is short and heavily built, with a sneering twang to his voice.

She feels his rough hand cover her breast. She shudders. No one has ever called her white before. Nor a bitch, for that matter. In different circumstances it might amuse her.

‘Who you post them to?' asks the older man, who is thin with greying hair and deeply lined cheeks.

‘I posted them to the office of the corruption investigator of course.' She wonders who, if anybody, occupies that precarious
post at present, since the resignation of Johnny Githongo. ‘On Friday. On my way home.' She hopes they don't press for details, or they will soon realise she's bluffing. ‘Whatever you do to me, he will get them tomorrow. Nzangu and his hangers-on will be in prison, and nothing you can do will save him now. But if you let me go at least you will save yourselves.' Her voice doesn't sound as confident as she intends, but at least she is managing to hold back her tears.

The two men speak together in their own language. She catches the word
ofisi
– office – and the name Waga. Their talk is interrupted by the sound of a mobile phone ringing –
ping-ping-ping, ping-ping-ping
– she listens to it for a few moments before she recognises the ringtone as her own. They must have got the phone from her bag. She hears them muttering as they fumble to switch it off behind her back; the ringing stops, and her grandmother's voice, faint from a few metres away but still distinct on speakerphone, says, ‘
Mpenzi
, where you got to? When you coming for your lunch?'

The men listen but neither of them speaks.

‘Who is it?' asks the older one in a whisper.

Without answering him, she heaves herself forward, dragging the chair on the ground in the direction of the phone and screams, ‘It's Violet! Help! Help! Help!'

Thwack! Her head jolts back as it takes the blow, and darkness falls.

I wished I could stay with Stacey all the time, but her flat was too small for both of us, and it was impossible for her to move in with me because of Monty. As the gloomy autumn days drew in, I resigned myself to shuttling backwards and forwards on my bike. Even happiness has its downside.

One day I got back home to find the message light on my telephone blinking away. I had received recorded messages before, offering me free cruises, computer upgrades, compensation for deafness and suchlike, in hopeful voices that reminded me of Len and his dreams of self-employment. In his memory, instead of shouting abuse, I flicked on the hands-free while I went to fix myself a sandwich. Through the crackles I heard a woman's voice that somehow combined bleating with menace.

‘Hello, Bertie, is that you? This is your beloved sister Margaret. We've seen your show is a hit success and you must be raking it in, but I can't sleep for thinking about our pet bunny who is buried in the garden at Madeley Court. Don't you have any conscience …?' The message ended in a choked sob.

I bit into the sandwich, crunching the lettuce between my teeth. Even celebrity, I mused as I erased the message, cannot protect one from the attentions of lunatics – another experience that I could now share with George.

Another happier consequence of fame was that I had started to get offers of parts and invitations to auditions, mainly for characters experiencing some kind of trauma. I tried for
Hamlet
at
the Barbican, but lost out to Benedict Cumberbatch. Maybe I overdid the stammer. ‘To b-b-be …' However, I was delighted to be asked to audition for the part of Lear's Fool in a new production at the National. It was always a favourite of mine, and it brought back memories of the hours I had spent coaching Inna in this role. I wondered what had become of her now.

As if by serendipity, a letter arrived the same day, asking for my help. She wrote in her execrable English that the subtenants of her flat in Hampstead – she gave the address – had stopped paying the rent, and had not responded to letters and phone calls. She asked if I could go round and investigate, adding on a PS that the key was under the blue flowerpot and she had dispatched Lev to sort them out, who would arrive in a few days. I replied that I was now working and too busy to help, but I forwarded her a cutting of a review of
Godot
in
Metro
, and the contact details of a couple of property agents in Hampstead.

Then I had a mischievous idea. Inspired in part by the sinister machinations of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, whose fate presages the bloodbath in the last scene of
Hamlet
, I wrote a note to Jenny and Margaret, suggesting that we could meet up on Friday morning at a lovely flat in Hampstead that Lily had also inherited from Ted, which had just become vacant, that might suit their needs better. For good measure, I left a voicemail message on the i4F number for Miss Crossbow and Mr Prang, the fraud investigators, alerting them to suspicious activities at the flat in Hampstead where two individuals, both impersonating Mrs Alfandari, had taken up residence and, I had reason to believe, would be there on Friday morning.

I spent the rest of the day calmly studying
Lear
, and honing my interpretation of the Fool in preparation for the audition. Some directors give the part to a boy actor, and maintain that in Shakespeare's time the same boy might also have played
Cordelia, but I saw him as a mature man, in his fifties, maybe, no stranger to sorrow.

All the hand flapping and eye rolling that I had drummed into Inna now seemed a bit OTT, and I decided to give him a solemn demeanour and just a little stress stammer on the ‘b':
If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I'd have thee b-beaten for b-being old b-before thy time.

Late on Thursday evening, I received a frantic phone call from Stacey.

‘Monty's dog walker has had an accident. Can you look after him tomorrow, Berthold?'

‘Look, I'm sorry, Stacey, I'm too … b-busy …'

‘No problem. I'll drop him off just before nine on my way to work. He won't be any trouble.'

‘But dogs aren't allowed –'

‘I'll hide him under my coat. Nobody will know.'

At ten to nine the next morning, Stacey rang the bell, kissed me on the lips, and handed over the little dog hiding under her raincoat.

‘Don't forget to take him out for his walk.' She gave me his lead.

‘I might take him up to Hampstead Heath.'

‘Lovely. You're a darling. Byee!'

Scarcely had she closed the door than the little beast went and deposited a turd in the kitchen.

‘Now, Monty,' I said as I cleaned it up, ‘we're going out. Try to behave.'

‘Yah! Yah!'

It was one of those dreary autumnal days when the sky is damp with un-fallen rain. Not a perfect day for the Heath, but
I thought it might brighten up in time for Monty's walk. Inna's flat was on one of the roads skirting the Heath in the basement of a grand red-brick house that now had seven doorbells. I rang the one that said
Garden Flat
, and waited. No one answered. There was a blue flowerpot with a dead geranium by the door, but no key underneath. I tried the door. To my amazement it opened. Maybe Lookerchunky had already got here.

‘Lev?' I called. My voice was swallowed up in musty silence.

There was a pile of unopened mail inside the door. Amid the bumpf of banks, bills and pizza delivery, a brightly coloured flyer caught my eye.
Funerals by Orthodox rite. P. Gatsnug and Co.
, and on the reverse side the text in Russian. I smiled. He had taken my advice. A resourceful man, and a kind one.

The flat smelled damp, unlived in, with an undertone of mould and stale cigarette smoke. Monty ran around sniffing excitedly. In the kitchen, unwashed crusty plates and pots were piled in the sink. The sitting room was a wasteland of books, bags, discarded clothing and shoes, random household items and cigarette butts, as though Inna's tenants had upped and fled, leaving their scattered possessions. A growl from Monty startled me. I looked up to see two old ladies tottering down the basement steps.

‘Cooee, Bertie! Is that you? We've come to see the flat!'

One of the twins – Jenny, I suppose – advanced into the flat. Margaret, more frail and stooped, followed, leaning on a stick, clutching a grey rag against her chest.

Jenny sniffed the air and looked around. ‘Dad never told us about this. It needs cleaning up, but it would suit us down to the ground. Wouldn't it, Margaret?'

‘Down under the ground!' wailed Margaret, stroking the grey rag, which on closer inspection looked like a much-laundered cloth rabbit.

‘She's losing her mind,' murmured Jenny to me, ‘as a result
of your callousness, Bertie. You were such a lovely little boy. I never thought you would grow up to be so heartless.'

The pathetic state of the old ladies did prompt a twinge of conscience for the mean trick I had set out to play on them.

‘Look here, Jenny –' I started.

Suddenly Monty stiffened, growled. Jenny gasped. Margaret screamed and dropped the rabbit.

Behind me, a deep gravelly voice said, ‘Put up hands!'

I spun around. A man was standing there – a short, heavy man with a balaclava pulled down over his head. But the main thing I noticed was the gun in his hands, a black blunt menacing piece of kit which was pointing straight at my face. I guessed it must be Lookerchunky, though he looked shorter than I remembered.

‘Look here, Lev, a joke's a joke, but can you point that thing away?'

The gun did not waver.

‘Put up hands, Alfandari,' the man growled, and reluctantly I raised my hands, letting go of Monty's lead.

Immediately the little dog bounded forward and hurled himself at the man's ankles. ‘Yah! Grrr!'

‘Monty, no!' I yelled.

The man pointed his gun down at the dog which was clamped to his leg. I heard a shot, followed by a howl of pain. A fountain of blood spurted up. Monty rocketed across the room, his coat sprayed with red. The man dropped his gun and started hopping, screaming and cursing. Then I saw that the blood was not coming from Monty, but from the man's foot.

Margaret had fainted, and Jenny was trying to drag her out through the door. Monty picked up her rabbit and started racing around the room, dragging it repeatedly through the pool of blood. The wounded man was inching towards his gun. I'm sure George Clooney would have made a dive and grabbed it,
like in the movies, but my head was whirring uselessly with fragments of verse.
Absent thee from felicity a while, and in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, to …

Peeyow! A bullet whizzed across the room and lodged itself in the cupboard behind the balaclava man's shoulder.

‘Put up arms!' Lookerchunky appeared in the other doorway wearing his tight silver suit and pointing a chunky silver weapon at the man.

‘Lev!' I yelled. ‘Who is this man?'

‘Oligarki gangster! Come for Alfandari!'

‘Alfandari's already dead!'

‘I know. He is idiot!'

In the moment that Lookerchunky spoke, the oligarki gangster took advantage of the distraction to grab his gun from the floor and level it at me.

‘You no Alfandari?'

‘No, absolutely not.'

‘Who you are?'

‘I'm Berthold Sidebottom. I'm a well-known actor …'

‘And you?' he addressed Lookerchunky.

‘Lev Lukashenko.'

‘
Oy, bozhe moy!
' He slapped his forehead. ‘I make mistake! And this people?'

He gestured towards the street door where Jenny and Margaret were stumbling up the steps towards the road, shouting, ‘Stop! Stop!' in pursuit of Monty, who was racing ahead with the limp bloody rabbit in his jaws.

‘Monty! Heel!' I yelled and threw myself forward to grab his lead, but I tripped on the top step and landed on my chin. My mouth filled with blood. As I spat it out, I felt a piece of tooth go flying before I blacked out.

‘You okay, chep?' The oligarki gangster was standing over me still holding his gun as I came round.

Suddenly there was a screech of brakes and a thud. I raised my head. A small white van had come to a halt in the middle of the road. Under its wheels, tangled in his lead, Monty was twitching and squealing horribly.

‘Oy-oy-oy!' The gangster shook his head.

Lookerchunky stepped forward and dispatched poor Monty with a single shot from his chunky silver pistol.

Then another commotion of voices erupted from the other side of the van.

‘No! No! Let me go, you moron! It's a mistake!'

I turned my head, to see Jenny pressed up against the wall of the van with Alec Prang, the fraud investigator, trying to get her in an armlock. Anthea Crossbow was already manhandling poor bewildered Margaret into the back of the van. The van reversed, turned, and sped back up the road. I picked up the dead dog and wrapped him in my jacket, wondering what the hell I was going to say to Stacey.

She would be heartbroken.

The gangster had found some TCP in the bathroom cabinet and was bandaging his foot up in a tea towel.

‘We go for drink?'

‘Good idea,' said Lookerchunky.

I applied some TCP to my cut face. Fortunately, the pub was nearby.