Ned Beauman - Boxer, Beetle

What he found on the King’s Road was a sort of military barracks crossed with a newspaper office. Everyone hurried around in black shirts, and Sinner soon realised that these must be the same Jew-haters, led by the same Mosley, that he’d often heard both Frink and Erskine slagging off (for very different reasons) — but it was an easy wage, and, anyway, didn’t it make more sense, if you had a choice, to take your money from a Jew-hater than from another Jew?

Finally he found someone who would stop to talk to him, a very tall man with a handlebar moustache and motorcycle goggles. He was told that they already had more than enough good recruits to keep order in their meetings, but that they might need reinforcements for the march through the East End on Sunday. Sinner explained in turn that he knew his way around the East End, he used to be a champion boxer, and he didn’t mind getting his knuckles bloody for a few shillings. The man said he could come back in three days.

He did, and was given a black shirt which he didn’t even have to pay for out of his wage. The other men made jokes about how he looked a bit ‘Oriental’, and as soon as he realised they meant Jewish, not Chinese, he just said he’d eat as many pork chops as they felt like buying him, and they all chuckled and slapped him on the back and moved on to making jokes about his height instead. As the morning passed, some of them did a bit of sparring to pass the time, and it turned out none of them had a clue how to fight. He didn’t like these Blackshirts much. Erskine had been a wanker and a nobody but at least he clearly knew it.

Finally, at noon, the procession set off, but they only got as far as Tower Bridge before they had to stop. At the end of Royal Mint Street was a line of police horses like a dam holding back the roar of the local mob, a roar with an accent that Sinner remembered from Premierland. Mosley hadn’t even arrived yet. After they’d hung around for nearly an hour, Albertson, one of the senior Biff Boys, had said that if they could get round by the back streets they might be able to charge in and take down the barricade from the other side: ‘Those kikes won’t know what hit them.’ Sinner, of course, knew a route, pioneered in early childhood: down an alley, through the back of some shops, over some low rooftops from which he could almost see into his parents’ window, then across the rubbish dump where he’d often played hide and seek with his sister and where, until he discovered the superior charms of Soho and the Caravan and the Hotel de Paris, he’d sometimes taken local boys. So Albertson promised Sinner an extra gold sovereign to scout the way through, and although Sinner didn’t think much of the plan — they’d get torn to pieces before they brought down the barricade, which now included a lorry parked across the middle of the road — it was more easy money. One of the other blokes slipped him a knife in case of trouble, and within ten minutes he was climbing down into the dump, which was where he caught sight of a frightened Philip Erskine.

Taking the blade from between his teeth, Sinner made his way over.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

‘Hello. That’s just what your friend Kölmel asked me.’ Erskine wished he could have watched Sinner for just a bit longer before Sinner noticed him. He thought back to their unexpected encounter outside the Caravan Club two years ago; why did so many of their meetings have to take on the quality of nightmare?

‘Kölmel?’

‘He sent me here.’

‘What, you mean he remembered you from after that match?’ said Sinner, as if it were an oddity for anyone at all to remember Erskine. ‘Always does remember,’ he conceded.

Erskine gulped and said, ‘But I was looking for you.’

‘Why?’

‘Why on earth are you wearing that uniform?’

Sinner shrugged.

‘You don’t mean to say you’re on their side?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘No, of course not. You’re not on anyone’s side. Short of money, I suppose? And they just let you join up without anyone noticing that there might be one or two factors to disqualify you? I’m not surprised. You do have an extraordinary talent for that sort of thing. You did very well at Claramore.’

‘Wasn’t hard. Why ain’t you in one of these yourself, then?’

‘Oh, not in a million years. The Blackshirts are beyond the pale. This march is just an exercise in intimidation, because they can’t be bothered with anything more serious. Mosley’s moment is past and he knows it. And, as I said, I was looking for you.’

‘Looking for me. Again. What the fuck for this time?’

Erskine looked at his feet. Sinner’s old sarcasm seemed to be gone, just like the flyweight bounce in his walk. He almost missed it. ‘We haven’t seen one another since the day. … You know, Morton and all that. And I rather wanted to make sure that. …’

‘Yeah?’

‘I suppose perhaps I rather wanted — I felt rather compelled — to make sure you didn’t despise me,’ said Erskine.

‘Why?’

‘And also I thought I’d find out what you’d been up to all this time,’ Erskine hurried to add. ‘I hope you’ve been enjoying yourself. For my part, I’ve been busy with my insects. There have been some really fascinating developments. If only you could see what I’ve done with Anophthalmus hitleri .’

‘Answer the bloody question,’ Sinner said, lighting a cigarette. ‘Why do you care what I think of you?’

‘You were my experimental subject for quite a while.’

‘Your “subject”?’

‘I think it’s natural to take an interest in one’s—’

‘Just fucking say it,’ Sinner said.

‘What?’

Sinner came closer. ‘This is boring. You’re always boring. Get it over with. Just fucking say you’re still after my arse, and I’ll let you have it right here if you want.’

Erskine coughed and licked his lips. ‘I’m not going to lower myself to your—’

‘Can’t do it? Here’s another one, might be easier. Say I fucked you and you liked it.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you quite so chatty,’ Erskine mumbled.

‘Come on, you cunt! Just say why you came to find me — say why you give a toss if I hate you or not — and my dick and my arse are yours for as long as you want them. Say it. Might be too late to save the maid now but it’s not too late for that.’

Erskine’s fingernails dug into his palms and tears began to well up in his eyes.

Then Sinner smiled. It was the first time that Erskine could ever remember seeing the boy smile, and it was one of the cruellest smiles he’d ever seen. ‘Or if you like, Mr Erskine,’ said Sinner, ‘you can just tell me you love me.’

Erskine let out a sob that sounded more like a death rattle. Warmly, tenderly, Sinner stepped forward and put his hand on Erskine’s shoulder. Erskine stared deep into Sinner’s eyes. Then Sinner brought his knee up into Erskine’s groin. Erskine howled and fell to his knees in the rubble and slime.

‘Knew you couldn’t. Only reason I said you could have me if you did is ’cause I knew you couldn’t. And, yes, of course I fucking hate you, you cunt.’ Sinner flicked away his cigarette so that it bounced off Erskine’s shoulder. ‘Bye, then,’ he added, in the sing-song voice of a housewife concluding some gossip in the street.

‘Seth Roach!’ Sinner looked up in surprise. Two men were standing down at the edge of the dump. One was Barnaby Pock. ‘Haven’t seen you in a bleeding age, you little shit! Heard you’d kicked the bucket!’ He noticed Sinner’s shirt. ‘What in fuck’s name are you wearing that for?’

‘Stole it off a friend of this schmuck. For a laugh.’

The two other men cheered, and started to make their way up the slope.