His brief holiday ends and the usual summons come from Mr Morton. In rain, sleet and snow Paul delivers and picks up. Avoids and outraces the police. January passes with fewer races, as the crowds are less willing to stand outside, but more deliveries as more people owe Mr Morton money after the holidays.
One lunch time, early February, Paul cycles past Belinda’s place. Realising he’s hungry he doubles back on himself. It’s the thought of a friendly face rather than the food that draws him in. He is directed to a freshly wiped table by one of the girls. Then Belinda comes over, one arm on her hip, the other in her hair.
‘How are you Paul? It’s been a long time.’
‘I’m fine. Busy. I’ve been out and about on that bike for hours.’
‘I can see you keep yourself fit.’ She looks him up and down. ‘You racing tonight?’
‘No, not tonight.’
‘What are you doing with your night off?’
‘Look, I’m sorry Belinda. You know, you’re a delightful woman, really, but I can’t. I’ve got a girlfriend.’
‘Oh Paul, you daft boy, I was just making conversation. I’ve been married for almost six years. He’s an older man, with some money, no demands really. A nice man.’
‘But Silas…’
‘Silas what?’ Belinda smiles a wide smile.
‘He told me you were quite keen on me. On men.’
‘Well, I am. But not that way.’
‘What way then?’
‘I like people. I like chatting. That’s all.
‘I don’t know what to say.’ Paul sits back in his chair, feeling his face go red.
‘So what Silas has said about you trying to get me to marry you?’ he says.
‘It’s rubbish,’ she smiles.
‘And the letters you are always showing me? Were they not to make me jealous?’
‘Not at all. He’s a friend of my brother’s. I’ve always liked him, but I’ve not seen him for twenty years. I told you for no reason.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m a chatterbox, so I’m sure I’ve told Silas a lot of stuff he thinks is private. He’s the sort of man who likes to feel like he knows everything about everybody.’
‘That’s true.’
‘He’s a lovely man, don’t get me wrong. He tips well, he’s dapper, polite, and many years ago, he really helped me out. Lent me enough money to get me out of trouble with a horrible man. Then let me pay back in instalments, no interest.’
‘But you’re saying he’s a bit of a gossip?’ Paul says, now smiling.
‘The biggest one you’ll ever meet. And that’s how he’s survived his arrangement with that Mr Morton, and how he manages to do so well on the horses. Jockeys and trainers and bookkeepers and owners, they all talk.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘I bet he doesn’t know everything about you.’
‘I don’t know?’
‘I bet there’s a special place where you go for a drink, where you can sit with your back to the door and still feel safe. I bet there’s a little lady somewhere, someone who makes you feel at home. Maybe even two or three, judging by the pomade.’
Paul self-consciously pats his hair.
‘Only joking love, you look fine,’ she says laughing. ‘If I was ten years younger and not married, I would have made sure you noticed me. As it is I enjoy my games with Silas and the long string of suitors he keeps bringing here. All trying to save me. It’s good for business.’
‘I won’t tell him.’
Belinda lets out a big chortle and smacks him on the shoulder. She keeps her hand there, and says, ‘Right what can I get you? On the house?’
‘A big portion. But not eel, something else please.’
She walks off, still laughing and starts telling the younger girls what to do. Paul just sits, looks out through the window, delighted to be inside, away from the weather, and relieved not to be moving. Then the food arrives. Cod and mash.
Just as he’s about to tuck into the mound of potato one of the little messenger boys comes up with a note saying he’s wanted at the greengrocer’s around the corner from Copenhagen Street. Excusing himself, and telling Belinda to give his food to someone who’s struggling to pay, he walks out of the café. He’s so hungry he’s seeing stars, but he can’t risk not obeying orders immediately.
Once Paul gets to the fruit and veg man he’s asked to deliver a heavy sack of potatoes, a sirloin steak folded into waxed paper, as well as an apple, a slice of cheddar and a handful of beetroots to Bergholt Crescent, Stamford Hill. This is a lot more weight and mass than he’s used to.
When Paul asks who the delivery is for the man barely nods, just scuttles back down into the basement.
Paul has to stop every now and then to retie the straps across his back and chest.
The house he gets to is small, but clean. The little white gate stands open, and he walks down a crunchy gravel path, his weight, plus all the things he’s carrying, making deep imprints in the path.
There’s smoke coming from the chimney, and there’s a candleholder with nine arms, four on each side and one taller in the middle, in the window next to the door. Next to the knocker on the door he notices a small gold rectangle set on a slant with strange letters on it.
Paul lifts the knocker, and is about to swing it when the door opens. In front of him stands an ancient woman, wrinkled like a plum. She wears a fringed scarf wrapped around her face and a dizzying amount of layers, ending in fur boots. She says something in a language he doesn’t understand and smiles a smile so void of teeth it looks like a newborn’s. She waves him inside.
He bows low, the doorway no higher than his shoulders, enters and puts the sack food on the floor.
A younger woman in her late forties, in a bright, but old-fashioned and foreign dress, comes out from behind a screen and starts wringing her hands. Just inside the door a pair of riding boots, polished to a sheen like a still loch.
Paul tells her she doesn’t owe him any money, but the woman doesn’t react. When he asks if everything is alright, if the delivery is what she expected, the younger woman just replies in the same sibilant language as the older, still beyond Paul’s understanding.
Paul nods and starts to leave, but the young woman screams, and quickly puts herself between him and the door. The old woman walks over to the door and locks it with a big iron key. She says ‘Mr Morton,’ and points to a chair in the corner. The woman opens the window and throws the key far out into the garden. Then she blows out all nine candles with a single blow. Paul struggles to suppress the urge to vomit.
The younger woman now motions for Paul to sit by the fire. Gives him a chunk of dark bread and a small glass of hot, sweet tea from a massive urn standing on the table.
The younger woman starts chopping the vegetables and salts the meat. She boils the beetroot, and the potato, making a soup. Then heats a griddle iron while she sets the table for four. Then there’s a sound of a key in the door. When he sees the big white shape on the threshold, a wave of nausea washes over him.
‘Paul,’ Mr Morton says, ‘nice to see you.’
‘Pleasure’s all mine,’ Paul manages to say.
‘Are you feeling peaky? You’re green in the face.’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘Will you join us for dinner? Please. You must.’
‘Thank you, but I was hoping to get going. Have a couple of things, deliveries actually, I’d like to get through tonight.’
‘You will join us for dinner. Besides, I know you don’t have any other engagements. I’ve made sure of it.’
The old woman sets steaming hot food on the table. Mr Morton invites everyone to sit. Then he commands them to close their eyes and bow their heads over interlaced fingers. He prays a long, convoluted and flowery prayer to Saint Christopher. When he’s finished, he looks up at them. ‘That’s it. Your souls are now saved.’
The woman serves Mr Morton the steak along with a potato gratin, and on a side plate she cuts up the apple and the cheese for him. Then she pours him a large glass of foamy beer, and he commences to eat.
For herself, the old woman and Paul, she fills a bowl with watery soup called borscht.
Between mouthfuls Mr Morton tells Paul why he’s here. The Russian maître d’ has turned up, and he swears that the note with Ilya’s fateful numbers were different from how they usually look. This both incriminates him, as he shouldn’t know what the notes usually look like, and is probably the truth, as it was the second to last sentence in his life. Mr Morton tells Paul all this, in the same tone as if he was talking about the price of wheat or how to burn a brick. Non-committal, aloof.
The two women either don’t understand English. Or at least they pretend they don’t. All Paul can see of their reaction to Mr Morton being there, apart from fear and servitude, is the way they eye his sirloin steak.
‘Now, Paul,’ says Mr Morton, ‘I’m not convinced about this, but it doesn’t really matter. The last sentence this man said out loud was an accusation. A pretty serious one at that. I can’t know for sure he’s right, as the note itself has been destroyed, but I know from experience that I run a tight ship and that incidents like these are always down to the human element. And never to me.’
Mr Morton chews with his mouth open wide, then continues, ‘I’ve decided that even though you might not be entirely guilty, you are not entirely innocent. So, what I want you to do, which I think is quite reasonable, is to go halves with me on the money that Ilya lost me. That you lost me.’
‘I don’t know anything about this. And either way I have no money, none at all,’ Paul blurts out.
‘I know. So I’m going to lend you some, which you will then bet on yourself in a race, with rigged odds of course, and once you win, you can repay the little debt first, and then see the rest as a first payment towards the larger sum.’
‘Can I think about this? You see I’m not a betting man. Not since my father lost us our home several times over.’
‘You’re a funny man. Of course you can’t think about this. It’s been decided, this is just me being courteous enough to inform you ahead of time. I’m killing two birds with one stone.’
‘How? Is there more to come?’
‘Not for you. But you see the younger woman? She is Ilya’s second widow. I now own her and I’m taking her with me to have her installed in a place over in Ireland. She’s going to be very popular with the customers I think. Look at her bone structure.’
‘Please don’t.’
‘Do you know her?’ Mr Morton asks, looking straight at Paul, as if for clues.
‘Never seen her before.’
‘Then shut up.’
Mr Morton pushes his plate away from him, dries his chin on the tablecloth and stands up.
‘Paul I’m also a bit upset with you for other reasons.’
‘I didn’t do anything. The man must have made this whole thing up.’
‘Don’t worry your head about that. I’ve decided how it’s going to play out and I never go back on a plan.’ Mr Morton’s gaze sweeps the room. He looks satisfied in the knowledge he’s had the last word. ‘Now, I’ve got a niggling feeling you’re maybe getting to know one of my employees too well.’
‘Who? I just pick up messages and deliver them.’
‘Think hard before you speak again.’ Mr Morton looks straight at Paul.
‘You mean Silas?’ Paul says, beads of sweat running down his back. ‘I spent New Year’s Eve with him, quite drunk, if that’s what you mean?’
‘Don’t make me more upset with you than I already am.’
‘I honestly…’
‘I’m leaving now and I’m taking the woman with me, but I’m going to deal with you and this other situation once I get back from Dublin. Think hard about which race you want to win, and how much you need to bet to meet the targets.’
‘How much is it?’
‘Just win as much as you can, then I’ll let you know how far off you are. Either way I have to speak to Silas first, he’s your handler after all. I’m going to let the widow pack while I eat cheese and apple, might even get a cup of tea, then we’re off. Now run along, Paul.’