Paul hears the engine come closer. He knows it well. Twelve cylinders of relentless power, so different from the horsepower his legs produce. The revs of the engine are awful but what comes after is worse still. The screeching tyres, pushing loose gravel into two straight lines, maybe ten, fifteen yards long. Then the silent engine. Around the corner, in the alley, Paul inches even closer to Silas. Two doors open and they hear the heavy puff of a fat man and the deadly tread of Drago. Mr Morton tells the driver to stay where he is, to keep an eye, then they both enter the building. Paul lets out a breath, nods to Silas and then they both run.
Before they get far there is a shrill, castrato shout behind them. Wordless anger. Drago comes running into the alley, a filleting knife, held flush against Rupert’s throat. Drago pushes Rupert away from him, slashing him vertically down the arms. Ripping Rupert’s coat, leaving long, bleeding lines.
Paul, exhausted from the race, and Silas, in slippery shoes, a man who’s not been forced to run for many years, sprint down the alley. Drago is quickly catching up and Paul gestures for Silas to give him the other suitcase. At first Silas won’t do it, but when he sees how close Drago is getting, Silas hands over all the money he’s ever made to the ginger giant.
Carnegie Street, busy as always, is just in sight at the end of the alley. Caledonian Road, with its crowds and mass of vehicles, beyond that, and further still the river. Drowning seems like a good way out at the moment.
Drago is now so close that they can hear his steps, and the end of the alley, where there will at least be potential witnesses, is just beyond them. They enter Carnegie street with the man in black just behind. Hear a screech and a dull thud. Turning back, they see Drago on the ground, bleeding from the head, and Miriam holding a brick.
‘Belinda can hide us,’ Paul says.
‘I don’t know,’ Silas answers, struggling to breathe, hands on his knees.
‘I’ve been down in the basement, for sarsaparilla, it’s huge.’
‘I don’t want to involve her.’
‘Mr Morton won’t look for us there.’
‘He will. He might already have.’
‘Why?’
Silas straightens up, pulls a hand through his damp hair. ‘She’s my wife.’
Paul looks at him, wide-eyed. ‘I didn’t know you were married,’ he says.
‘Mr Morton doesn’t trust unmarried men. I saved Belinda from a man. She saved me from women. Apart from a trip to Eastbourne we have never stayed under the same roof.’
‘Let’s go,’ Miriam says, her voice high and broken. ‘But not to Belinda’s.’
By running through houses, through peoples’ homes, by going into pubs with two doors, entering one, exiting through the other, by moving for almost an hour, in taxis, on buses, on trams, running, always running, they leave Mr Morton behind. Their combined knowledge of the streets, in different social strata as well as false cul-de-sacs and shortcuts through parks and greens now comes in very useful.
They come to a standstill in a street neither of them know. Wet and shivering, despite the mad dash. This is the first time they have allowed themselves to stop. Paul’s pupils are pinholes and he has a buffoon’s smile plastered across his face. The last time he was lost was in the rain in Marylebone. He’s not used to it. Silas stands shivering on the pavement, eyes half-shut. Paul tries to backtrack, talks out loud, but can’t remember much.
Miriam has turned her back to the street and is leaning against a wall, her forehead resting on a film poster of Spangles. The celluloid beauty of Fern Andra’s melancholy face level with Miriam’s. Paul gently turns her away from the wall, picks up her hat from the pavement. Her golden feather is missing. Silently he makes her move. To move is to stay warm, is to not be found.
Silas urges them along the street, but they are walking, not running. Both because they are too tired to run, and because walking people attract less attention. Paul’s in a daze and keeps tripping on invisible things. He asks Silas, ‘Where will we go?’
‘You or you two?’
Miriam takes Paul’s hand and says, ‘Us two.’
‘And you, too, Silas. You can’t stay here,’ Paul says.
‘I’m not emigrating again. It broke my heart the first time.’
Paul opens his mouth and starts saying something, but Silas cuts him off.
‘America, that’s where you two are going. It’s got to be somewhere where he can’t reach you.’
‘I don’t know anyone in America,’ Paul says.
‘You’re a big boy now. And besides, cycling is big business over there too. Much bigger than here in fact.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What’s the alternative? Stay and pretend nothing’s happened? Don’t worry. You’ll quickly find your feet, just make sure you change your name.’
‘But I left my bike at the velodrome. Only got to use it once.’
‘You can get a new one once you’re there. A better one.’
‘How will we even get there?’
‘By boat, you lunatic.’
‘I don’t have that kind of money. I can’t just go up to the ticket office and get a ticket,’ Paul says. Miriam looks at her shoes, ruined.
‘You do. You do, Paul. It’s not the money that’s the problem. It’s your name, your looks, and the fact that you have neither a passport nor a visa. And that Mr Morton will have people at train stations and port offices,’ Silas says.
‘So what should we do?’ Paul asks.
‘I know a boy. His father owns ocean liners. And he still owes me a portrait,’ Silas laughs.
They come to a run-down café. It looks closed but through the grimy windows they can see a woman shuffling along behind a counter. Silas hands Miriam some money from his pocket as Paul still looks too groggy to be trusted. Silas tells them to wait, to be careful, and sends them inside.
Two hours later Silas comes back, tells them a reservation of sorts has been made for them on a ship, at no insignificant sum. Then he sits down across from them. His hands are shaking almost uncontrollably. Miriam gets up and brings him a cup of tea, and he nods at her thankfully.
Once he’s had his cup of tea and a piece of stale pineapple cake, Silas tells them he has secured passage between Southampton and Ellis Island. He can’t tell them much more than to ask for a stevedore named Raul once they get there. Apparently someone else is going to get caught in customs tomorrow, and Paul and Miriam will take their cabin.
‘Beyond that you’re on your own.’
Silas waves to the woman to get another cup of tea, but she can’t see him, so Miriam gets up and comes back with a teapot. Silas looks Paul straight in the eye, and puts an urgent hand on his arm. ‘Make sure you wear your racing top when you’re boarding the ship.
‘The one I’m wearing now?’ Paul says and unbuttons his jacket a little. ‘The one you gave me for Christmas?’
‘Well, the one Jack gave you first...’
‘Will you say goodbye to him from me by the way? And Emrys?’
‘No I won’t. You send them a letter. Just no return address please. You need to use your head a little in the coming months.’
‘Why should I wear the racing top? Don’t I want to look nice and respectable for the trip?’
‘For luck.’
‘But it’s sweaty.’
‘Paul, when you’re properly out at sea, once you can’t see land any more, and as soon as you’re convinced no one has recognized you or followed you, go to your cabin. Lock the door, then, and only then, take a pair of scissors to your top.’
‘Why? It’s my lucky top.’
‘You see, there’s a lump, a little bag with five lumps, under the three.’
‘Lumps?’
‘Each about a carat.
‘Rings?’
‘Diamonds.’
‘Yours?’
‘No, no. Mr Morton’s.’
‘Won’t he miss them?’
‘Yes, immensely.’
‘And I’ve been cycling around with that since Christmas?’
Silas nods and finishes his tea. His hands now a little steadier.
Paul says, ‘Thank you Silas. You’ve always been too good to me.’
‘If you play your cards right, it could set you up quite nicely. Just don’t sell them too cheaply.’
‘I won’t. I wasn’t born in a barn you know.’
‘I know you were, so just be quiet.’
Paul laughs, and when he falls silent they look out into the street. Then they shrug into their coats and walk out into the street. Silas looks at his hands and then at Miriam.
‘Miriam, this is goodbye. I know you understand the magnitude of what’s happening. I appeal to you.’ Silas opens his arms as wide as he can, and she comes to him for a hug. He whispers loud enough for Paul to hear, ‘Take care of him. Promise me you will.’
Her eyes well up, start to glitter, and she swallows several times before giving up on speaking. Just nods.
‘We’ve had a strange few years, Miriam,’ Silas says. ‘We’ve both hated working for Mr Morton I think, but we both, up until now, failed to find the courage to do anything about it. Until Paul turned up. But not even then did we combine our forces properly, but pussyfooted around our common enemy for too long. Now we have acted. Maybe because we had something in common? Loving him.’
‘Oh Silas, come with us,’ she says. Silas just shakes his head.
‘What are you going to do?’ Paul asks.
‘I don’t know. Stay here maybe?’
‘That would be insane. You can’t.’
‘Buy a boat and sail to Greece,’ Miriam says.
‘Be serious. I’d drown before I was out of the harbour,’ Silas says. ‘For the first time in many years I don’t know what to do.’
‘You’ll figure it out,’ Miriam says, putting her hand on his shoulder.
‘He knows about all my other places, the flat on Ossington Street. The cubby hole at the Peacock club,’ says Silas wistfully.
Suddenly Paul’s face lights up, and he says, ‘I’m going to give you the farm.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You once said you had had enough of the city. That you wanted a simpler life, something more real, less flashy.’
‘Maybe I did.’
‘And now you need to go and hide somewhere remote where he won’t look.’
‘I can’t take your farm.’
‘I don’t want it. I can never return.’
‘I don’t know anything about farming.’
‘You’ve got a bit of money. You’ve got common sense and you’re savvy, more so than anyone I’ve ever met. You’ll work it out. Hire people, ask people, get to know them. They’re a friendly bunch. They will be once they realise you’re there to stay. Once they realise you’re a friend of mine and not my father’s.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You provided me with a roof over my head when I came to London.’
‘That was different.’
‘You trusted me, took a chance on me, a stranger.’
‘It wasn’t quite like that.’
‘Now I’m repaying the favour. Just you’re not a stranger, you’re a friend.’
‘About that time, the time at King’s Cross when I first met you, I need to tell you something.’
‘Whatever it is, it can wait. We have to go. Thanks for everything Silas. I’ll write. To the farm.’
‘You insolent pup,’ Silas says, ‘I wish you were wrong, but there’s some sense in what you’re saying. I can’t stay. I can’t go to any of my known haunts. Not till this has died down at least. If it ever will.’
Paul runs back into the café and borrows a pen and some paper. He writes a quick note to his uncle. Not much more than his name and that he’s giving the farm to Mr Silas Halkias. He folds up the paper and writes his uncle’s address in terrible copperplate on the back, then rushes out and hands the paper to Silas. Presents his family farm to Silas.
‘Paul, Paul,’ Silas shakes his head, then takes Paul’s hand solemnly. The Greek’s eyes shining. Then Silas looks at Miriam who nods and then he says, ‘Fine. There’s nothing else for it. I need to disappear from the face of the earth and what better place than Lewistown?’
‘Lennoxtown.’
‘What?’
‘Lennoxtown, that’s where I come from. That’s where you’re going. Well first to Edinburgh, to see my uncle.’
‘Wait here you two, I need to use the bathroom,’ Silas says. He motions for Paul to hand him the suitcases. Silas walks off back into the café and navigates past the counter and into the kitchen, suitcases held high. A minute later he comes back and hands Paul one of the suitcases. They are now equally heavy. Paul opens it an inch and peers inside, and Miriam who’s standing next to him sees the stacks of notes too, and gasps, putting a hand to her mouth.
Silas says, ‘So what are you two waiting for? Scram.’
‘Scotland will do you good Silas,’ Paul says, holding the handle of the suitcase extra tight. ‘I know where you are. I know exactly where you are. Take care of the old house.’
Silas stands on his tiptoes and kisses Paul on his stubbled cheek. ‘It’s been a pleasure Miriam,’ Silas says and kisses her on both cheeks. ‘I’ve always loved the way you smell of pine, lemon, geranium,’ he says. She smiles.
‘Come on Little Crow,’ Paul says to Miriam and Silas cries openly as the couple walk off. They are soon swallowed by a curtain of rain.