Alan Hunter - Gently Go Man

‘There’s this morning, too,’ Gently said. ‘I could guess a little bit about that.’

‘I’m warning you, screw,’ Bixley said.

Gently puffed over his head. ‘You were out riding this morning, Sid,’ he said. ‘You’ve done a lot of riding today.’

Bixley came right close to him. ‘Keep going, screw,’ he said. ‘But just remember how handsome you look when you’re healthy. Remember that.’

‘I’ll remember,’ Gently said, ‘and thanks for the compliment, Sid. You went out riding the heath roads this morning and I doubt whether you met a single soul.’

Bixley relaxed. ‘You’re the most,’ he said.

‘Right again?’ Gently asked.

‘You should be on TV, screw,’ Bixley said. ‘The way you know answers is real comic.’

‘I’ve heard so many,’ Gently said. ‘The trouble is they’re not true. Now Elton’s story sounded true. I wonder why there’s such a difference?’

He was on his feet and the chair kicked away from him before Bixley’s fist began to travel: the fist missed by six inches and Bixley was clubbed down with a right. Hallman swung a blow that connected but then somehow he dived into the floor. The others were struggling up from the table when the table heaved forward and sent them in a tangle. Alfie decided to keep out of things. Tony had vanished behind his counter.

‘Get that bastard!’ Bixley was shouting, spitting blood from a cut mouth. ‘Don’t let him get away. We’re going to do the bleeder now!’

He wobbled furiously to his feet, but he was obviously shaken by the blow he’d got. The others didn’t seem keen to second him. They were sorting themselves out from the furniture discretely. Gently stood calmly, back to the wall. His pipe was still between his teeth.

‘You think too slowly, Sid,’ he said.

‘You bastard, I’ll get you for this!’ Bixley spat.

‘Perhaps you’re short of chocolates,’ Gently said.

Bixley swore, but with little conviction.

Tony rose tremblingly from behind the counter. ‘P-please,’ he stuttered, ‘p-pleasa, p-pleasa!’

‘You’re all right, Tony,’ Gently said. ‘Give Sid some water to wash his mouth out.’

‘Like what’s going on here?’ inquired a voice from the door. Deeming stood there. He looked immense in his crash helmet.

‘Hullo, Dicky,’ Gently said. ‘I had to quieten them before you got here.’

Deeming wasn’t looking pleased. His eyes went frostily to Bixley. There was a sudden silence in the cafe. Nobody seemed inclined to break it. Jack Salmon was still on the floor and he remained where he was. Jeff Cook was picking up a chair. He let the chair stop in his hand. The rest went similarly still. Only Tony was hugging and wringing himself. The sound of a passing car came precisely. One could also hear Bixley’s heavy breathing.

‘I thought,’ Deeming said tightly, ‘I told you to keep it down with the screws. Like flipping the lid was square action. Like jeebies ought to be above it.’

Nobody said anything. Bixley dribbled a spittle of blood on the floor. Deeming came slowly out of the doorway, took a stand before Bixley.

‘So what’s it about, Sid?’ he said. ‘You seem to have been in amongst it. How come you got that poke in the mouth and like there’s been a landslide in the neighbourhood?’

‘He was needling me again,’ Bixley jerked. ‘Like I can’t stand that screw needling me.’

‘Yuh, he was needling him,’ Hallman said. ‘That’s how it was, ain’t it, blokes?’

‘Yuh, he was needling him,’ several of them repeated. ‘That’s how it was. He was needling Sid.’

‘So then all you cool cats flip your lids?’

‘Like I couldn’t help it,’ Bixley said. ‘He jabbed me rotten. He was being smart. Like he was trying to make me poke him.’

‘And like he succeeded,’ said Deeming scathingly, ‘if the blood you’re spitting is anything to go by. I thought I could depend on you, Sid. I thought I’d talked some cool sense into you.’

‘Yuh, but there’s a limit,’ Bixley said.

‘A limit like yours,’ said Deeming, ‘is dangerous.’

‘I tell you I wasn’t going to poke him,’ Bixley said. ‘Just lean on him some. I was trying to lean on him.’

‘And like he leaned back.’

‘Yuh,’ Bixley snarled. ‘Like he did. And I took a poke.’

‘Did you think he was a pushover?’ Deeming said. ‘Did you think you could lean on him and he wouldn’t lean back?’ He swung round from Bixley, turned to Gently. ‘So what’s the score, screw?’ he said. ‘Are you hanging Sid up on the grounds he’s taken a poke at you?’

Gently shook his head slowly. ‘It wouldn’t be worth it, would it?’ he said.

‘You dig him?’ Bixley snapped out. ‘It’s all needle, needle, needle.’

‘Like,’ Deeming said sharply, ‘you’ll let me handle this, Sid. This screw isn’t so square as a lot of screws you’ll meet.’

‘Thank you, Dicky,’ Gently said.

‘I could pan him,’ Bixley said.

‘But what you will do,’ Deeming said, ‘is to pick up Tony’s chairs and table.’

There was a scramble to pick them up. Bixley didn’t join in it. He grabbed a chair, flopped on it heavily, sat licking at his lip and eyeing Gently. Deeming singled out Hallman to collect the broken plates and glasses. He gave the pile a casual scrutiny, laid a pound note on the counter.

‘Will this cover it, Tony?’ he asked.

Tony nodded, screwing his face up.

‘Sorry,’ Deeming said, ‘about the dust-up. It won’t happen again, Tony. You’ve got my word for it.’

‘I don’t lika the trouble, Mister Deeming,’ Tony said.

‘Me neither,’ said Deeming. ‘It’s screwball. And like I’ve talked to these guys some more I’ll put some hip into them yet. I’m not a jee for trouble, Tony.’

‘No, Mister Deeming,’ Tony said.

‘That’s not the way to be real,’ Deeming said. ‘That’s just the square action coming out.’

He came back to Gently.

‘I saw your car,’ he said. ‘Like I was just going out for a spin. I wondered if you’d care to ride along.’

‘With you, pillion?’ Gently asked.

‘Sure, pillion,’ Deeming said. ‘Have you ridden a Bonneville before? Man, they’re cool, they’re refrigerative.’

Gently hesitated. All of them were watching him. He dropped a couple of reflective puffs.

‘I’ve come along this far,’ he said. ‘I might as well go the whole distance.’

‘Crazy, you’ll go for it,’ Deeming said. ‘Jack, lend the screw your helmet and goggles. Man, I can guarantee this will send you. I dig your style. This’ll put you way out.’

His slate eyes glinted a smile at Gently. Bixley spat some more blood on the floor.

They rode back into town, down the High Street, past the Sun. The cloud had thinned now to a light haze and the light was golden and the air warm. Gently’s helmet was rather small for him, felt like a crown perched on his head. He felt a little ridiculous straddling the pillion and holding Deeming by his waist. The slipstream plucked at his light trousers though they were tucked into his socks. Where only the socks protected his ankles were two bands of chilled flesh. He had a sensation of insecurity. His seat on the bike seemed precarious. He was naked and unfenced from the streets and buildings that flickered by him.

Beyond the Sun they crossed the bridge and headed, as he knew they would, in the direction of Castlebridge. On the short run through the town Deeming had shown himself a talented rider. He rode steadily, at an even pace, seeming to adjust the traffic to suit himself. Now, as they passed the delimit, he twisted the throttle open with a smooth precision. The machine seemed to be soaring away from Gently, as though it were climbing and he was sliding off. He clung tighter, crouched over Deeming. The slipstream punched him like icy dough. The road, a streaky grey death, unreamed a few inches below his feet. The note of the engine was a pummelling throb and the heat from it was roasting the insides of his shins. Traffic exploded on their right. Sometimes it howled past Gently’s elbow. A monstrous truck rose up ahead, slanted to the left, went by in madness. They were into the trees in under two minutes. The trees were ghosts. They didn’t seem to belong.