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.