The Unquiet Heart (9 page)

“Danny, about the other night…”

“It’s all right. You don’t have to explain. It was daft. All that excitement…”

“We can’t do it again…”

“I know, I’m sorry. It was great but I understand…”

“Danny, will you shut up and let me finish!”

The girl bringing our tea gave us a look and left us in resounding silence.

She started again. “Danny, we can’t meet again like that. Not at my place. My landlady must have heard something. She gave me such a hard time yesterday. Came into my room
unannounced last night. Sniffing the air like a blooming bloodhound.”

I burst out laughing.

“It’s not funny, you know! Rooms are hard to come by.”

“My place is no palace. You’ve seen it. But it’s snug.”

Her neck flushed again. “We need to go slow. We’ve got work to do. It’ll just get in the way.”

“What will?”

“This! Us. I told you, I don’t have time for men.”

“We could read to each other.”

“Shut up, Danny.”

It wasn’t till the day after we’d gone looking for trouble at the White City dog track that I could persuade her back to my place. I’d scrubbed my bedroom and changed the
sheets just in case, but it still seemed cheap and tawdry when I showed her in. I wanted an Arabian tent filled with cushions and wafting silks for her. She didn’t seem to mind brown lino and
faded carpet. Nor that I kissed her and helped her off with her clothes.

“You must think I’m easy,” she said.

“I think you’re beautiful. I think you’re funny and brave.”

Her head shook in denial. Her shrub of hair tickled my nose. I calmed it down.

“I don’t do this.”

“What, go to bed with Scotsmen?”

She punched my chest. “With anyone.”

“So this is special?”

She shifted her head so she could look at me. Her eyes were anxious. “This is lovely, Danny. But it’s just fun. It’s not anything else. Right?”

“Sure, Eve. It’s whatever you want it to be.”

Suddenly she sat up, supporting herself with her arm. “Danny, listen. This isn’t anything. It’s not going anywhere.” She was fierce.

“OK, princess. Message received.”

She studied my face, looking for the truth. I don’t know what she saw, but she lay down again, and we held each other tight. Just for fun.

A pattern emerged over the next few days. We would keep up the professional façade while I helped her find new stories, but when the work was done – or sometimes
when we couldn’t wait a second longer – we’d make for my place. There, the only guardian we had to contend with was the moggy, and Eve soon had her purring round her legs. Me too
for that matter.

Each time Eve would try to resist the temptation and each time she’d give in. And after each time she would say we had to stop. And we did, till the next time.

Guilt that we might be using her column as an excuse to leap into bed spurred us to put more effort into her work. Of course it would take something special to top the Tommy Chandler story, and
I had nothing lined up that needed the unique skills of Midge, Cyril and Stan. So we began to frequent the seedier dives and haunts of the underclass looking for trouble. Sniffing around and
catching the mood. So as not to kill the golden goose, Eve made it clear to anyone who asked that names and addresses would be changed to protect the guilty. Just as well, for she wrote about the
dog fixers at White City, the protection rackets in London restaurants, and the stolen goods for sale in every open market in town. To read her exposés was to imagine a London corrupt from
top to bottom, a festering swamp of thieving and cheating. She wasn’t far wrong. It sometimes made me wonder how I kept myself clean. And why.

She took me into her newspaper one day when I showed interest in the process. I’d thought about becoming a journalist after uni, but there was more money in the police. She started me in a
room swamped with papers and reporters. A haze of smoke swirling above the jumble of desks. Journalists sat talking together or pounding at typewriters. It was late in the afternoon and there was a
sense of mild desperation in the hangar-like room as they fought to put the next edition together. We passed an office just as the door crashed open and a grey-haired man with broken veins on his
pock-marked face emerged shouting.

“Where’s the bloody lead? That lead was to be on my desk twenty minutes ago.” The sheer volume of his voice was offset by the clean vowels of northern Scotland. I placed him
from Inverness.

A shout from the depths of the hubbub came back: “Coming, Jimmy! Just coming!”

The man turned his glowering eyes on us, and his face softened. “It’s yourself, Eve. Nice piece today. We’ll run with that. But a wee bit too much alliteration. We’re not
a poetry magazine. Who’s this?” he demanded scrutinising me.

“Jim, this is the man who’s been helping me with those scoops. This is Danny McRae. Danny, this is my boss, the editor, James Hutcheson.”

“You’ve been costing me a wee fortune, Mr McRae. But so far it’s been worth it. Any more adventures like that warehouse job in the offing?” He raised one of his huge grey
eyebrows in inquiry and reached out a hand to shake mine.

“Not this week, Mr Hutcheson.”

“In that case my expenses will be lower, eh?”

There was more than a hint of seriousness in his comment, but he suddenly softened.

“Look, come on, Danny. Call me Jim. You’re an interesting character. Come and have a dram. You’ll take a malt, I trust.” His back was already retreating into his den as
he said this. Eve shrugged and smiled, and we followed him into his nicotine cave. He cleared a two-foot pile of old papers off a chair and dumped them on an already tottering stalagmite of
newsprint. He unearthed another chair and dipped into the top drawer of a dented filing cabinet and triumphantly hooked out a whisky bottle. His desk drawer yielded tumblers of uncertain
cleanliness and we were off.

It was an entertaining half hour punctuated by bellows at his staff and splashings of Scotch. But no matter how much he drank, it didn’t seem to affect his ability to scan a draft. He
flourished his blue pencil with deadly skill and loud scorn for the English education system.

The rest of Eve’s tour was thankfully less whisky-fuelled. My head was already buzzing by the time we reached the bedlam in the foundry. It was like a blacksmiths’ convention:
benches lined with men hammering lead type on to metal sheets and feeding discarded slugs back into the melting pot for re-use. I wondered what it did to your brain to be writing backwards and
upside down all the time.

In the next room, they slid the still-hot plates into the presses, and inked the typefaces before feeding through the first of the sheets from the giant rolls.

Eve handed me the first edition, still hot and wet. I glanced at the headlines and the cartoons, then up and around at this Vulcan choreography. I shook my head – metaphorically; I
didn’t want to hurt Eve’s feelings; such industry and effort for something so slight.

NINE

Eve announced she wanted to move upmarket. In the three weeks we’d been working together she’d written about warehouse theft and dog doping at White City. Now she
wanted to tackle corruption among the toffs, bearding them in their fancy gambling dens.

“The one in Mayfair,” she said. We were walking in her lunch hour through Lincoln’s Inn, sidestepping blokes in wigs and winged collars. It was like the movie set for
David
Copperfield
.

“Carlyle’s? Start at the top, why don’t you? How do you know about that?”

“Danny, it may be illegal but any cabbie will take you. All I need is an escort.” She took my hand and gave me her most winning smile. She knew that I knew she was conning me. She
also knew I was a sucker for her smile.

I tried to be practical. “You also need a sponsor. It’s a very private club. No coppers, no press. Especially no press.”

“Jimmie Hutcheson has it all arranged,” she said gaily. “A friend of a friend who didn’t want her name in the papers. Divorce can be
so
messy.”

“You folk have the morals of an alley cat.”

She waved the notion away. “As Jimmie says, it’s all bread and circuses. The baying crowds want blood. And if it’s the blood of wealthy spivs or the ruling class so much the
better. It makes our fellow citizens feel less guilty about buying that extra sausage without a coupon.”

I laughed and agreed we’d put on the glad rags and enter the den of iniquity on Thursday night.

In honour of the occasion I spent an hour at the slipper baths in Camberwell and came back glowing and gleaming. As I scraped my face with my razor I thought of the night ahead
with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The fact that everyone had heard of Carlyle’s should have meant the place was closed down years ago. But everyone also knew of the existence of
two laws in this country: one for folk who take the bus and one for those who ride in the back seat of a Rolls. Places like Carlyle’s existed in a parallel universe in which the police wore
blinkers and the judges were kindly old men with unlimited reserves of tolerance and compassion. But only for the weak and foolish members of the moneyed class. Or blokes they went to school with.
Usually the same thing.

It was also said that in the case of Carlyle’s, illegal didn’t have to mean squalid. Behind the reinforced doors was a set-up as lavish as anything this side of Monte Carlo. Which
meant we had to dress the part. I was renting a tux for the first time in my life. I plastered my hair down, crammed my neck into a winged collar, and spent ten minutes wrestling a bow-tie into
submission. I felt both an idiot and a prince as I sauntered into the American Bar at the Savoy where we’d agreed to meet. It would put us in the right mood, Eve said.

My mood was controlled panic. This was a different species of watering hole from the George. The floors had carpets, not sawdust. Smart waiters in white gloves served you, not a fat-chested
blonde with black roots and a fag in her mouth. The pianist was playing Irving Berlin, not
Knees up Mother Brown
. And I was supping a Tom Collins, not a pint with a chaser. If my dad could
see me now, or his pals from the working men’s club.

As the alcohol hit and my panic subsided, I began to speculate how I could live like this on a permanent basis. Then a vision walked in and stole a dozen men’s hearts. Mine had been
purloined weeks ago. I got to my feet, collar suddenly too tight, as she walked down the four stairs into the lounge bar. Two flunkeys were at her side in a flash, taking her cape and throwing rose
petals in her path.

The dress was silver and ankle length. It clung to every curve like the skin of a salmon. Her neck and shoulders were bare except for a silver chain with a small amulet pointing into the
magnetic groove of her bosom. Fine white gloves clothed her hands and arms up to above her elbows. How does a reporter afford such finery? Her jungle of russet curls had been twisted and tamed into
a soft crown of red and gold. For a second I was jealous; other men’s eyes could make out the lines I had grown to love so well. Then I felt fear; how could someone this beautiful and smart
want someone like me? Then she was with me and I could tell the flunkeys were disappointed in her choice. Her eyes – wider than I ever remembered them – looked hesitant and anxious.

“Is it all right? Do I look all right? Not too…?”

“… lovely? Absolutely. You are far too lovely for this shabby place and this poor suitor.”

Her face broke its serious mask and she grinned. “And you look very distinguished.”

“I feel a prat. What will you drink?”

“Same as you, darling.”

My insides melted at the word. I nearly called for the bill and a cab to whisk us straight back to my hovel, but this lady deserved to be on show. We took our cues from the other smartly dressed
drinkers and reclined gracefully in our chairs, pecking at our drinks and smoking, as though we did this for a living. I tried not to look too smug, or to catch the eyes of the men that kept
staring at her.

“The
Trumpet
pays better than I thought.” I indicated her ears. “Are those real pearls?”

She touched the little clusters that hung from her lobes. Her neck coloured again.

“Family heirlooms. My mother’s. I’m sure they’re artificial.”

“And the dress? A jumble stall in Petticoat Lane?”

“Mum again. I had it taken in.”

“I hope Carlyle’s has polished the silver.”

We left after our second drink and before our heads became too fuddled. I need to approach gambling sober, before I start believing a three-legged nag is a sure-fire bet just because it’s
called Scottish Warrior or Highland Miracle. The flunkeys grovelled all the way to the door and into the cab.

As we moved off into the Strand I glanced casually around. I let my eyes slide off him. He was reading a paper on the corner, and in the wing mirrors of the cab I saw him fold it and wave to
someone behind him. A minute later a car settled behind us, not too close, but not so far away as to lose us.

“Anything wrong, Danny?”

“What could be? Just watching your loyal subjects out there. Wave to them, princess. They expect it.”

She laughed and took my hand and I wished to god that my mind was playing tricks. But I knew better. There had been watchers on us for two weeks now. Correction: not us; her. I never saw them
when I was alone. They were tailing her. A team of four. They were good, but I was better. I tried to put it out of my mind. I didn’t want to spoil the evening. And for a while it worked.

I was prepared to be turned away at the door, but old Hutcheson’s blackmail had worked; that and the five guineas a head. They checked us off a list at the door and we
passed through into what must have been an old ballroom. Now it was aglow, with chandeliers sparkling in resonance with the diamonds on the women’s throats. Short-skirted cigarette girls
wound their way through the crowds at the tables, dispensing free cigars and cigarettes. Waiters offered a constantly refilled tray of cocktails and champagne. Our entrance fee began to seem less
exorbitant; it covered everything except the chips on the tables.