Chapter Twenty-Five

Back in London, I spent a few hours in bed, slept only fitfully, waking up each time with a start, my mind replaying the footage of Naysmith’s deadly dive. I got up and viewed Greene Land the whole way through. I was only half watching it, was happy for the comfort it provided – I knew exactly how the narrative would play out and felt all the more secure in that. Plus, of course, Naysmith, or at least a younger version of him, was alive once again.

When the film was over, I went to the bathroom, stood under the shower until the water ran cold, then dressed and left the flat. The river was the only place I wanted to go. I picked up a cup of coffee and a few newspapers, and as I waited for the ferry I scanned the news, wondered if there might be articles about a drowning, even though I knew it was far too early for the story to have got into print. I finished off my drink as I walked down the gangway, felt slightly more of the world.

The boat was jammed with commuters until it reached Canary Wharf, but after that I pretty much had the run of it for the remainder of the trip, aside from a teenage boy who was sleeping along a length of seats in the cabin and a blue-haired girl who hung near the exit, a phone shoved in her ear.

Greenwich was as far as the ferry went, but I hoped the return trip would give me enough time to think things through before I got to the studio. I made my way to the stern where I could feel the even bass of the engines in my bones, watch the propellers thrash the water, taste the metal of the river spray on my lips.

Hegley had been absolutely right when he’d said that presenting himself to the police would kibosh the film. And it was true that we could fess up once the shoot was over for all the difference that would make to poor Naysmith. Yes, we’d be in serious trouble, but the film would be a done deal. They couldn’t take that away from us. It was a rational enough argument. But…

I saw a police inflatable cast off from a jetty in Rotherhithe, pick up pace and rush in the direction of the ferry. My first thought was that they were onto me, my second that there was nowhere to hide. But when the launch was about thirty yards away, its bow twisted away and the craft bounced off towards Tower Bridge, disappeared below its span in under a minute. Life felt very hairy right now.

Maybe if I’d kept better watch when Naysmith had hit the water then we might have got the boat to him in time, pulled him quickly on deck. It could have given Catt some kind of chance to bring him round. I shuddered. Fuck, I’d never seen anyone die before.

But Hegley, he’d barely stuttered, been able to quickly work up a plan to keep the shoot in the frame. Then he managed to persuade Catt and me to go along with it. Was that the kind of man it took to make a film? If so, I wasn’t sure I was up to it.

I got off the boat at the Greenwich turnaround and spent half-an-hour nosing through piles of second-hand books in a shop close to the pier. I found a set of imported pulp novels on the same imprint, all with rakish fifties covers and in great nick. I picked out a small lot that included a Thompson, a Hammett and a Polito, then hurried back to the ferry. I managed to get through the first thirty pages of The Grifters by the time we tied up the Royal Festival Hall. Thompson quickly nailed the story. I really got the characters. I got what they were in the game for. I got that Hegley would always do what was needed to make the film.

The tide was out. I went down the steps to the edge of the river. I picked up a pebble, skimmed it across the water. Got myself another. Hop, hop, hop. I tossed one more. It was now very clear that you had to be as hard-boiled as possible to get the job done. It was time for me to do some heavy lifting if that was what I wanted.

Today I’m sad. And that’s because the news is in that Roger Deakin is dead. In the dailies, you rarely saw his name above the fold, and his obits are unlikely to deplete the nation’s ink reserves. But Roger was big. First of all, there was that book of his, Waterlog – think Burt Lancaster in The Swimmer, and add a green twist. Its full title was Waterlog: A Swimmer’s Journey Through Britain, and Roger actually did travel the country, swimming every river, canal, lake and lido he came across on a trip that started in the Scillies and washed up in the Hebrides. He wrote the aqua-jaunt up as an environmental travelogue in which he made the case for wild swimming. Well, you all know I’m a bit of a water baby, so that played absolutely straight to me. But I was also a devotee of Roger’s filmmaking, and he made super documentaries of places along the Thames, so make sure you look out for them in the next couple of weeks on Beeb Two. I’ve been assured they will pop up late nights. Roger was recently the subject of a fantastic radio programme that included segments of the creaks and groans of his old Suffolk house. Plus there’s audio of him swimming in his moat that I think is pretty choice. On that splash, I’ll tell you that I was actually at the launch of Waterlog at the Oasis open-air pool in Covent Garden a few years back. Like all invitees, I was asked to dude up in swimwear, and I went along in a nifty Victorian one-piece I’d picked up from a charity shop. I remember the band played Loudon Wainwright III’s ‘The Swimming Song’, and so you’re going to hear that piece of music right now. Then I’m going to give you a clip of Roger doing his moat float. Fitting tribute.

I came out of the studio feeling pretty ropey. Recording the Deakin piece got me thinking about Naysmith once again, and I began wondering how his chum Roney might be taking it over in the Jam Factory. I hadn’t heard a thing from Hegley since getting back from Whitstable, and I needed him to get in touch, tell me we were doing the right thing, that nothing was more important than getting the film made.

I had a ton of work to do with Cushman. I’d come across lots of overmatter of Roger Deakin in the swim in the BBC archives and had decided it would be a good idea to deploy some of it, make a bed for the entire piece that we could fade in and out. Cushman had sorted through scads of tape for me to listen to, so I went off to find him in his soundshop.

I wasn’t too far into the task before I realised that a lot of what I’d dug up was sub par, that it was going to be tough finding stretches of clean audio more than a few seconds long. It was obvious Cushman would have to do a huge amount of stitching to make this thing work. I pulled off my headphones. “Maybe this is a bad idea,” I said.

“We’re doing it now.” Cushman twisted a couple of knobs on the mixing board – water sounded loudly in the speakers, bar graphs spiked.

“It wouldn’t be so bad without it.”

“Bit half-arsed, though,” he said.

I nodded, enjoyed that I was working with a pro, even if it was Cushman. “What you mean is, it’d be like black-and-white instead of colour?” I winked at him.

“You say so.” He pushed the slides around a bit, got rid of some of the white noise that was hanging around us.

“But you’ll be doing this for hours,” I said.

“Don’t mind.”

“Work is the new leisure, hey?” I clapped him on the back.

He shot me a look. “You think I need to get a life, that it?”

“Just joking, Cush.”

“Not bloody funny. And don’t call me Cush.”

“Sorry all round,” I said. “Tell me, though, why do you have it in for me?”

“Don’t then.”

“Come on, you get all amped up whenever I’m around. Is it the show? You think it’s crap or something?”

“Bit slick.”

“The material, you mean?” I asked. “Or me?”

“You reckon you’re part of the media-ocracy.”

“Just doing the job,” I said.

“Think yours is so big it drags.”

I laughed. “You’re a nut.”

“Don’t you fucking call me.”

Cushman was up out of his chair, standing right in front of me. His hands were almost in my face. I got an extreme close-up of his tiger-eye ring, thought what a bad deal it would be to get belted with that. Then I remembered Cushman was a lefty. I felt my ribs. I looked down at his shoes. They were thick leather, the uppers tied together with heavy-duty stitching. Almost like moccasins. The idea was starting to fit very well.

I stood up. “You live close to the river?” I asked.

“Bankside.”

“Ever go out for late-night strolls? Ever see canoeists out on the water?”

Cushman was watching the floor.

“It was you, you fucker, wasn’t it?”

He grabbed the ring with a finger and thumb, twisted it around his finger, ground it into a knuckle. “Minona,” he said.

“What about her?”

“She’s dead.”

Fuck, Cushman was about to confess that he’d killed her. Then he’d surely sort me out. He could do me easily, as he’d already proved.

“I loved her,” he said.

He did it. I wondered if I could squeeze past him, pull open the door and get out before he grabbed me. Unlikely. He seemed pretty light on his feet. Perhaps the best I could hope for was getting the first one in, though the last time I’d hit anyone and meant it I was probably still in short trousers. What I really needed to do to come out of this still breathing was to play Cushman a little so that he’d drop his guard. Then I could make a move.

“I’m sure Minona loved you too,” I said.

“Fuck off.”

“Just because she never told you.”

“I knew the two of you had a thing,” he said.

“That why you were always so antsy?”

“Tell me you didn’t hurt her.”

“Why would I hurt Min?” I said. “Jesus, you don’t think I…?”

“The cops were asking about you. I couldn’t believe they didn’t arrest you.”

“So you turned vigilante, that it?”

“I was watching her. That was how I knew it was you. Though I did think for a bit that it might be old baldy.”

“Baldy?”

“That wiry guy who visited her. He always had that bloke with him. Looked like a bouncer.”

“Hegley. Naysmith.” I was finding it hard to take in what he was telling me.

“Who?”

“Just thinking that she was certainly putting it about.”

“Shut it. You’re lucky I didn’t take you out by the river.”

“Know what? You clobbered the wrong guy.”

“You telling me you never, ever … with her?” Cushman began clubbing his thigh with his fist.

“I’m not saying that at all.”

“What then?” he asked.

“Just that I was one of many.”

“Fuck you.”

“And that a one night stand was all she was worth.”

“You bastard.” He was punching the back of the chair.

“She was asking for it, Cush. And I never say no to a lady.”

He stared hard at his feet.

“So I let her have her fifteen minutes of fame,” I said.

“You cunt.”

Cushman threw a huge haymaker that I dodged easily. And then I stuck a firm one right in his gut. He stayed upright for a half-second before going down.

The knuckledusters felt good the way they sat in my palm. I hadn’t been able to put them on properly in my pocket but wrapping my fingers around the brass had done the trick, had given my punch the weight it needed.

Cushman was lying curled up at my feet. He moaned.

Well, now I knew why I’d been worked over. But Cushman certainly hadn’t done Min, had he? Otherwise he wouldn’t have had me pegged for it.

*

I left the studio, went down to the river. I took in a lots of deep breaths, realized I was on a bit of a high. Dealing with types such as Cushman was good for body and soul, no doubt. And it was time I started hitting back. I was ready to make that film.

The problem was, Cushman likely still thought it was me who’d done for Min, and that meant he’d go to the police once he got his wind back. I had to go to ground.

I went home, squeezed a bag full with clothes. On my way out, I chucked the car keys on the hall table – if Callaghan and Co started hunting for me they’d certainly be on the look out for the Beemer.

On the concourse at London Bridge Station, I put in a call to the only person I could trust. I asked him if I could lie low at his place for a few days before heading out to the retreat.

“Stay a f’kin’ year if you have to,” Lofty said.

I bought a single to Blackheath.