‘Where in God’s name have you been Paul?’ I say, shaking with anger.
‘I was held up,’ he says, shrugging his shoulders.
‘It’s almost twelve. Are you crazy? We said ten.’
‘I’m sorry. I had a puncture. And then I had an accident.’
‘I don’t care,’ I say and try to spit but can’t, as my mouth is as dry as sand. ‘You can be late for Mr Morton, once. Only once.’
‘I didn’t realise…’
‘You must be the luckiest Scot in England. He’s been in a meeting with one of his lawyers all morning, and he’s still expecting us. Let’s go and when we get there be so quiet he doesn’t even hear you breathe. Pretend you’re a ghost. A dead ghost.’
‘That doesn’t even make sense.’
‘Shut your mouth. Just let me do the talking.’
Two men, both taller than Paul’s not insignificant six feet and three inches, come outside and look us over. There’s a stage with baby blue velvet drapes, a bar the length of a rugby pitch, and chandeliers wider than buses. Bartenders loiter in white shirts, silver arm garters and matching baby blue double breasted waistcoats with dull silver buttons. Polish glasses with the proud, dismissive smiles of their profession. As there are no tables or chairs the space feels empty. I tell Paul that Mr Morton reasons he can fit in more drinkers if they stand rather than sit.
We follow the impatient security man in front of us through a door and come to an equally large room. This one is carpeted apart from a large hexagon in the middle of the room which is sprinkled with fresh sawdust. There are ten or twelve clusters of comfortable seats with emblazoned antimacassars, all with views of the hexagon. Next to the seats are small tables with kerosene lamps and pedestal ashtrays. There’s a smell of naphthalene balls and spilled whisky. Old cigar and pomade. We walk single file along an aisle of floorboards painted white and red, like a bleeding zebra.
Our guardians march us in single file. I had hoped to prepare Paul. To give him stern pointers. I’m not usually summoned like this. Whenever I’ve seen Mr Morton I’ve been to his other office. This one, this crow’s nest, I’ve never been to. Only heard talk of.
After coming up a carpeted staircase, we stop at an unadorned door. It looks like so many of the doors we have passed. One of the giants knocks once, then opens the door an inch, then they both leave, walking quickly. I motion for Paul to enter.
Swallowing hard, wiping his hands, patting his hair once, twice, three times, he walks in, and I follow. Once into the room he stops. The room is completely white. The first thing I see is a crucifix. A simple cross, one bit of wood slightly longer than the other, tied with a bit of coarse twine, hung on the wall by a crooked nail. Not ostentatious like the rest of the Elephant’s life.
‘I’m a devout catholic,’ Mr Morton says from behind the open door. He waddles over to the middle of the room where he sits down in an armchair, puffing. He wears a white morning coat, white tie, waistcoat with ivory buttons and white trousers, baby blue socks with an Argyle pattern of white and grey, which look to be made from silk. His shoes are grey on white wingtips, polished to an impossible sheen and laced tight. He stretches his hand out for the tumbler on the little table next to him and stares at us. Looking uncomfortable, Paul scans the room, but there’s nothing else on the walls. I know better, I just stand. There’s nothing for the mind to rest on. Nothing but the incredibly fat man in a white Chesterfield.
‘I’m drinking Cointreau,’ he says, but doesn’t offer us anything. ‘Sit,’ he says, and before we have had time to react, ‘SIT.’
We bend our legs and sit on the floor just inside the door. Like schoolchildren.
Mr Morton looks at me and says, ‘Silas, will you undo my shoelaces? I’ve been on my feet all day.’ I stand up stiffly and walk over to Mr Morton where I have to kneel. Cradling the man’s feet in my lap I untie the shoes, first one then the other. Place them next to the chair, not on the same side as the table. Mr Morton then cups a hand under my chin and tenderly tilts my head upwards. He looks at me for twenty seconds.
‘Thank you. That’s better,’ he says and then his eyes turn to Paul.
‘So is this your newest investment, Silas?
‘Hello. My name is…’ Paul says, and I turn to look at him sharply.
‘I don’t really mind what your name is,’ Mr Morton says. ‘But if you’re ever late again your man here will do unspeakable things to you.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You should be. I’ve half a mind to make an example of you.’
I don’t like where this is going, so I gently raise my hand and say, ‘May we talk business, Mr Morton?’
Mr Morton takes a sip and sets the glass down hard on the table.
‘I’m not in the mood. Something about this boy annoys me,’ he says. ‘It’s a shame because as you said Silas, he’s big, he could have been turned into a winner. I know you know better Silas, and I know you’re sorry about your lateness. This boy on the other hand will receive punishment.’
My heart stops. I think I might have grown to like the boy. Mr Morton slowly takes off all six signet rings, inspects them, and then threads them back on. Taking his time. Then he says, ‘Silas will you go downstairs and ask for my man Drago?’
Paul starts to speak but Mr Morton’s hand waves him silent, before he continues, ‘Silas, now be a good man and ask Drago to come up, and tell him to bring ropes and piano wire. We’ll see what this boy is made of. Can’t have latecomers in my organisation.’
I try to catch Paul’s eye, but he looks petrified. Maybe it’s dawned on him just how badly this meeting has started to slide.
Before I have time to go downstairs, the door opens and a woman saunters in. I’ve seen her before but we have never spoken. The fact that she doesn’t knock or seem to need an excuse to walk in on us in the middle of a meeting sends a shiver of respect down my back. She walks up to Mr Morton and whispers something in his ear, not even glancing at us. Again we’re like wheelbarrows – just tools.
Mr Morton smiles benevolently and says, ‘Miriam, will you excuse us. I was about to make an example of this boy. He’s insubordinate and he was late. You know I don’t like time-wasters.’
She looks at us, swallows once, then turns to Mr Morton and says, ‘He was helping me. I’ll take the blame.’
‘You must be joking. This half-wit, this ginger dog, helping you?’
‘He did. Punched a man in the face. Knocked his teeth out, kicked him in the head.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Mr Morton says.
‘Have a look at his leg. See the blood? That’s not his. It’s the other fellow’s.’
‘Really? I find that hard to believe. No one bothers you. Unless they don’t know who you are.’
‘I was tired. Forgot to think. Left my purse on the shop counter, next thing I knew someone was running for the door, and this man, what’s his name?’
Demonstratively Mr Morton turns to me and asks, ‘What’s his name?’
‘This man, Paul? Paul, runs after the thief and, well, gets my purse back,’ she says.
‘You’re losing your touch Miriam,’ says Mr Morton.
‘Maybe,’ she says.
Mr Morton continues, ‘So, there’s more to you than meets the eye, Paul,’ says Mr Morton. Paul looks hard at the woman. I’m keeping completely still. I honestly don’t know what to think. She’s got lovely eyes, great sense of clothes and a nice cloche hat. She’s pretty. Too pretty for him.
‘So it seems Miriam can vouch for your arms, and Silas here has been talking about your legs,’ Mr Morton says. ‘Fine. You’re forgiven. All I want to do is ask a few questions, regarding your head, and depending on your answers I might have a job for you.’
Paul looks at me, I nod, and look down at his hands. They are shaking. I don’t like it. Mr Morton’s voice jolts me out of it, ‘Silas, run downstairs will you and fetch my abacus. It’s behind the bar. I want to speak to Paul here. Miriam, you can show Silas out. You can also bring the abacus up, and bring another bottle of Cointreau for me and a drink for Paul.’
‘I’d be happy to stay,’ I say.
‘And I’d be happier if you didn’t,’ Mr Morton says, looking at Miriam’s legs.
I stand up as Mr Morton leans forward. ‘What’s your poison Paul?’ he asks looking down at his empty glass.
Paul says ‘Sarsaparilla,’ and in the deathly silence which follows Mr Morton looks at him, weighs him on a scale no one can understand.
‘Are you a woman under those trousers?’ Mr Morton asks, then waves away the notion of an answer. ‘Miriam, bring up two bottles of sarsaparilla, one AJ Stephans, and one Bickford’s – so we can have a little taste test, Paul and I – and two frosted glasses. Seems Paul needs to feed himself sugar lumps dissolved in water. As for me I would still like another bottle of this French orange liqueur, I feel it’s very good for my joints.’
‘Yes Mr Morton,’ says Miriam, while I say nothing but I look at Paul as though we are now on either side of a ship snapped in half by a torpedo, one side sinking, the other floating.
‘I’ve got a proposition for you Paul,’ Mr Morton says. ‘I understand you run deliveries for a fruit and veg man? Well that ends today. You work for me and no one else. I will ask you to deliver messages. An envelope here. A small package there. Silas tells me you’re fast and I know you’re harbouring dreams of becoming a velodrome racer, which is fine. Just remember I own all your time from now on. You understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever seen a cheese wire?’
‘Yes I have.’
‘Your thighs are of more or less the same consistency as a large Italian hard cheese. Keep that in mind.’
Mr Morton suddenly turns to me and shouts, ‘Why are you still here? Off you go. Both of you.’
While I stand up and Miriam walks over to open the door, Mr Morton leans back in the chair and asks Paul, ‘So how long before you’re an Olympic champion?’ Paul looks at us standing in the doorway. In my nose the smell of lemon, geranium, pine tar, Miriam. As Miriam and I leave, again accompanied and kept quiet by the two big men, Paul turns to face the full moon of Mr Morton’s face.