The Talisman (6 page)

She took a long time removing each item of his clothing, laying them down carefully while he stood frozen, unable to speak. His chest was now bare, and she kissed each nipple until he felt he would scream out, then she began to unbutton his flies, and slowly got down on her knees to kiss him. He gripped her shoulders tight. ‘No, don’t do that, don’t.’

Dora eased herself up and pulled him close, whispering that he would like it, like what she was going to do – but she could feel his strong arms picking her up. ‘I thought I was supposed to be teaching you.’

He laid her on the bed and removed his trousers, kicked off his shoes. He had lost his erection, and he sat on the side of the bed, unsure of himself, but she held him and began to kiss his neck softly, licking inside his ears. Her hands fluttered slowly over his body, and his heart began to thump. He lay down and closed his eyes.

She eased herself on top of him, held his face. Although he tried to reach her lips, she didn’t kiss him, not once, she didn’t want him to kiss her lips. She played with him for so long he thought he would die, and she whispered to him to let it go, let it go, and without ever having been inside her he climaxed. He lay in confusion, not knowing what to do or say.

‘Now then, let’s start all over again, an’ you hold on, understand me, hold on until I say so.’ Dora was an expert, she worked on him, caressed him until he reached screaming point. She liked virgins, enjoyed them, liked the power games, and it was hours before she allowed him to enter her and make love to her. Still she wouldn’t kiss him, every time he tried she bit him so hard it hurt, so he contented himself with sucking and kissing her nipples.

He was exhausted, but happy, and she slept in his arms. He felt so good, and he smiled to himself. Eventually she stirred and muttered that they must get up, but he wouldn’t let her, he held her tightly as if he never wanted to let her go.

‘Alex, come on, I got to work, and Johnny will be back . . . Hey, come on, we can do this again.’

Sid and four of Johnny’s men were picked up by the police as they attempted the warehouse robbery. They were taken to the police station and Sid, terrified, tried to save his own skin by telling them everything he knew. What frightened him most was that he might be named an accomplice to the attack on Taylor. He gave Alex’s name to the police.

Alex was arrested as he left the basement. He ran straight into the arms of two police officers, and was thrown into a Black Maria with three other men and two girls. At Hackney police station he was put in a cell, but was soon led into the chief inspector’s office, where a sergeant read out a report. ‘Alex Stubbs, absconded from Brighton. They picked him up at one of Johnny Mask’s brothels.’

The chief inspector turned, expecting to see a young, seventeen-year-old boy, and was taken aback when Alex swaggered in, looking taller than ever in his pin-striped suit. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and when he was told to sit he slouched in the chair and crossed his legs.

The chief was disgusted. His own son, not two years older, was fighting for his country and this bloody delinquent, with his slicked-back hair and cocky manner, appalled him. ‘You’re going to be taught a lesson, son, but first, do you want to tell us about Johnny Mask?’

Alex stared, blank-eyed, at the chief inspector.

‘Let’s try one more time, son. We want to know where Johnny Mask is. We know all about you, we know you’ve been working for him, so why not help yourself? We’ll make it easier for you if you co-operate.’

Alex remained silent, staring straight ahead. He got a sudden, stinging blow on the back of his head. The chief inspector leaned forward, his face close. ‘That bastard Mask, that stinking gyppo, would sell you, and anyone else who worked for him, for a ten-bob note, and you’re too dumb to know it. But your pal Sid isn’t . . . He’s been very helpful – how do you think we picked you up? Now, you’ve had time to think about it, so talk if you know what’s good for you.’ He slapped Alex’s face, first one side, then the other. The ice-blue eyes never flickered, and there was a slight hint of a smile on his face.

‘Get him out of here. You’re going to the Scrubs this time, son, that’ll teach yer. See how long the smile stays on your face in there. Go on, get him out of my sight.’

Evelyne had to fight to keep herself from weeping openly. Alex had changed, she hardly recognized him. His broken nose had healed crooked, and his hair was combed back from his forehead, the blond curls flattened with grease. The two warders stopped at the door of the visiting-room and Alex walked forward. He put his hand out to her and one of the warders motioned him back. Evelyne was shocked at the coarseness in his voice when he turned on the warder. ‘I just wanna hold ’er ’and, fer Chrissakes.’

Evelyne withdrew her hand sharply. She was afraid to ask what he had been up to while on the run. He had not made contact with her, and now he sat there like a stranger. She couldn’t speak, and began to wonder if all the terrible things she had been told about him were true.

Alex’s bravado began to slip. She was so frail, so helpless, and her desperate, pleading eyes made him want to weep. His voice was softer. ‘I love you, Ma, I love you . . . Don’t worry about me. Don’t come to court – fings’ll be all right, you’ll see.’

Their time was up, and the warders led him out. He didn’t look back, he didn’t have to, he could hear her sobbing. Alone in his cell he felt full of remorse, and he vowed he would make it up to her, somehow.

The lawyer Evelyne had hired for Alex came to visit him. Alex told him exactly why he had attacked Taylor, and watched him write copious notes. He listened to everything Alex told him, and spoke reassuringly. He would see what he could do.

Alex did not see Evelyne as he was led into court. She sat alone in the gallery, hands tightly clasped. The lawyer had told her that, under the circumstances, he felt sure Alex would be sent to a borstal for young offenders. He chose his words carefully as he explained her son’s reason for running away from Oakwood Hall, and told her a full statement had been handed to the court and the education authorities.

Alex’s case was heard in fifteen minutes flat. The judge, known for his harshness, dismissed the lawyer’s plea for Alex to be returned to reform school. He sentenced Alex to four years in Wormwood Scrubs, one of the country’s toughest prisons, which had a section for hardened juvenile offenders.

The judge’s voice grated in Alex’s ears. He clenched his hands violently. So much for that sweet-talking bastard lawyer, so much for justice. As he was led down from the dock, he knew his mother was there, and he stared frantically around the courtroom as the warders pulled at his handcuffs to drag him out. He caught sight of her in the gallery and forced a smile, looking up at her . . . But all his cocksure manner had gone, he was just a boy and very frightened. ‘Mum! Mum!’

They hauled him out, but she could still hear him calling for her, his terrible screams, and she could do nothing. She was still sitting in the gallery an hour later when one of the clerks told her gently that she would have to leave, the court session was over.

I
f Edward Stubbs felt any remorse for the murder of his father, he never showed it. Even immediately after the killing all he had felt was relief, that Alex had agreed to say that he’d done it.

He adapted quickly to his new life, putting the past behind him, including his brother. He refused to think about Alex, and was capable of behaving as if he had never existed.

Edward walked out of the local Post Office in Cambridge and paused, frowning. He had miscalculated and was running very low on funds, lower than he had anticipated. He sighed as he put his Post Office book away, wondering if he could touch his mother for a few more shillings a week. He was on such a tight budget he hardly ever had so much as a spare penny in his pocket. Evelyne had calculated the costs of his gown, his books, all his accessories, down to the last penny, and he could see no way round the situation. He shifted his weighty books on to his other hip and worked it out in his mind. If he left the hall of residence, moved into digs, it would be cheaper. Then he could get a bike so he could ride to college and that would save his bus fares.

The sun was shining, it was a beautiful clear day, and here in Cambridge there was little sign of the continuing war, apart from the odd pile of sandbags propped around the doorways of the colleges. Edward walked to the river bank and sat down, going over his money once again. His mother had certainly got him living on a shoestring, and it annoyed him. He had his meals in hall, which was cheaper than eating out, but it meant his social life was a void. He couldn’t really join the crowd in the pubs in case he got stuck for a round, that could wipe him out for a whole week. No one else was really aware of Edward’s financial situation, no one really cared, they put him down to being a bit of a loner. His thick cockney accent amused some of them, but it set him apart from the jet-setters.

He had tried hard to be part of the crowd, even rubbing his new grey trousers so that they looked worn, scuffing his shoes and rolling his gown in the road so it didn’t look so shiny and new. Most of the students wore baggy cord trousers with white cricketing sweaters, their shirt collars undone and ties hanging loose on their chests, ready to be tightened up fast if they saw their tutors. Edward only had an old, grey sweater Freda had knitted for him, and he wanted a white Cambridge one and dark green cord trousers, wanted them so much and was so frustrated – he couldn’t even afford an extra pint of beer after classes.

The first months had been the hardest, as he had had to adjust to his new life. He found his background such a hindrance that he quickly covered it up as much as possible. All his books had been second-hand, and those he couldn’t afford he borrowed from the university library, like all the students who couldn’t buy their own. Edward was well aware that many students were in a similar financial position, but they were not of the same class. There were very few working-class boys, most of them were middle or upper class, and he was therefore an oddity, knew it and hated it.

During his first few days he had overheard one of the students talking outside his window. ‘Thing is, according to my old man, never make friends in the first term, means you are stuck with them for the rest of your time here. You can get some frightful bores, you know, dreadful fellows, but first-termers are so nervous and desperate for pals that they latch on to quite the wrong sort of chap. I never spoke to anyone in my first term, jolly glad too.’

Edward said ‘jolly glad too’ to himself, using a high-pitched, plummy voice. He took what the idiot had said to heart, and during his first term he watched, listened, and worked like hell. He was reading geology, and his tutors were helpful. He was learning fast, and he didn’t want to appear vulnerable to the other students.

His tutor, Professor Huston, detected Edward’s discomfort with his own background from the word go. He tried to assure Edward that, contrary to being ashamed of his roots, he should be proud. However, his advice fell on deaf ears, and he watched with interest as Edward kept himself to himself. He could not help but notice that the boy was gradually losing his accent.

The process was by no means easy. Night after night Edward sat in front of his mirror, practising the vowels over and over again, gradually interspersing his conversation with ‘Oh, I say’, ‘Jolly good man’ and ‘Whizz-o’. He had no idea that his attempts at aping the upper classes were mimicked and ridiculed by the rest of the students in his tutorials. He was the source of many a night’s entertainment as they copied his broad cockney voice and followed it with ‘Oh, holly hood, old bean.’

Edward had walked all the way across Cambridge to look at his new lodgings. He was very dispirited that they were in a large, Victorian house where the rest of the rooms were let to travelling salesmen, chefs and domestics from the colleges.

All students ‘living in’ bought any furnishings and fittings left by the previous tenant. Edward’s room contained nothing but a small bed, a chair and a desk. The previous occupant did not even bother to ask for payment. Edward brought nothing other than his books to his room. He hung no posters on the walls, it was as bare as the day he moved in. He reckoned that even with his scholarship he needed at least forty-five pounds a term, and that was cutting it fine. He hadn’t joined any clubs or organizations, he didn’t take part in any of the sporting events. He had never played rugby at his school, only football, and he had never been keen on cricket so he didn’t bother with sports at all. He made careful notes in his book, initial expenses, university fees, college fees, board and lodging, personal expenses, and a few possible additions. His mother had bought his cap and gown, had it made up by a Jewish tailor in the East End, and had also bought him two shirts and two pairs of trousers. He hated everything he wore. He wanted a sports jacket in brown, the fashionable colour that year, but all he had was an old black jacket of his father’s and a raincoat.

He lay back on the river bank and closed his eyes. He was free for the afternoon, he had no lectures until the following morning. The sound of someone sobbing made him sit up and look around. He couldn’t see anyone, but the sound continued and he got to his feet and searched around, eventually finding a pair of green cord trousers sticking out from beneath some bushes.

‘You okay? Hello . . . you okay?’

The trousers wriggled and the bushes parted, and he recognized the chap from lectures, but realized he had no idea of his name. He was small-boned, with delicate features and big, china-blue eyes, red-rimmed from weeping. The boy blushed at being caught. ‘Oh God, I didn’t think anyone would be around here.’ He spoke with a very refined, upper-class accent, and took a small, crumpled linen handkerchief out of his pocket to blow his nose. This seemed only to start his crying all over again, and he flopped back into the bushes. ‘I’m so sorry, but I’ve had dreadful news, I can’t cope at all.’