Bryce Courtenay - The Potato Factory

Hannah smiled. She could hear the clatter of his mincing high-heeled steps in the hallway and then the silence as he stopped to retrieve his cloak from the proprietor, then a few more steps as he departed the Blue Wren. 'That's gratitude for ya,' she said to herself. 'But that one will be back soon enough for a good spankin' from 'is adorable nanny, nothin' surer.'

Not long after this meeting, Hannah once again summoned Bob Marley. He was surprised to be contacted by Hannah so soon after it would have been apparent that he had duped her in the matter of the raid on the premises in Bell Alley. Hannah was not known for her forgiving nature. Marley was therefore understandably suspicious at her openly friendly manner. She sat him in the parlour where a bright fire blazed and where she had laid out a single glass and fresh bottle of brandy with a plate of oat cakes.

Apart from his initial greeting Bob Marley remained silent, pouring himself a large glass of brandy and helping himself to a couple of the cakes.

'It weren't nice what ya done, Bob Marley,' Hannah began. 'Takin' advantage of a poor woman what was 'elpless.'

Marley, with a mouth full of cake, stopped chewing and rose from his chair as though to leave. 'No, don't go!' Hannah added hastily, smiling. 'We got things to talk about what could be to yer advantage.'

Bob Marley swallowed the cake in his mouth and took a gulp of brandy to wash it down. 'It were you who called me, remember? All I done was take advantage of a situation what was not o' me makin'!' He was still holding the glass and, bringing it up to his lips, paused. 'It would 'ave been unprofessional not to 'ave done what I did. People might 'ave thought I was losin' me grip o' things!'

Hannah refrained from reminding him that there was only herself involved. When she thought about it, she supposed she too would have thought less of him if he hadn't exploited such an opportunity to benefit from her predicament. It was this very self-serving aspect of Bob Marley's nature which she now wished to use to her advantage.

'I needs a job done, no questions asked,' Hannah said finally.

Marley gave her a bemused look. 'There's always questions, lovey.'

'What I means is, I don't want to talk about me motives, I wants ya to accept 'em, no questions asked.'

'No questions costs more money, it means I can't measure the exact amount o' risk involved.'

'No more risk than if ya knew everyfink, you 'ave my word on that.'

Marley waited, saying nothing, and Hannah continued. 'Ikey will come back to London, reasons that don't matter to ya, but 'e'll be back. He can't come 'ome, too dangerous. 'E'll need a place to 'ide and somebody 'e can trust to find it for 'im and act,' she paused and looked at Bob Marley, 'sort of as a go-between 'tween me and 'im.'

Marley took a long swig at the brandy in his glass, prolonging his lips on the rim of the glass longer than would have seemed necessary, as though he was thinking carefully on the proposition. Finally he looked up at Hannah. 'There's a big reward out – I'd 'ave to be paid 'least that, and expenses, mind. Findin' a deadlurk what will keep 'im safe wif 'arf the bleedin' world keepin' a greedy eye out for 'im ain't goin' to be easy!'

Hannah had already taken herself through the process of having to pay Marley the equivalent of the reward on Ikey's head, but she was nonetheless shocked at the prospect when she heard it coming from Marley's own mouth. She swallowed hard, 'For that sort o' money I'd want more,' she said, her gaze steady.

'More? What's ya mean?'

'I wants ya to plant some fake stiff on Ikey.'

Marley brought his palms up in front of his face. 'Hey now, Hannah, we's family people! Ya going to shop Ikey by plantin' snide on 'im, that ain't nice. That ain't nice at all?'

Hannah stiffened. 'Remember, I said no questions. I 'as me reasons, Bob Marley.'

Marley whistled. 'I bet ya 'as, lovey.' He sighed and looked directly at Hannah, 'Sorry, I don't do domestics.'

'I'm not askin' ya to take sides! Jus' to plant some fake soft.'

'I'll not shop 'im, Hannah. I'm no copper's nark.'

'I didn't ask ya, did I? Just to do a plant, that's all.'

Marley looked up. 'Jus' the plant?' He seemed to think for a moment. 'It'll cost extra.'

Hannah laughed and then shook her head. 'Sorry, love, when ya asked for the reward, that be the limit. There's 'undred pound on Ikey's 'ead and I'll pay that, but not a farthin' more.'

Since time out of mind, long before the coming of the great belted engines with their hiss and suck of steam and whirr of wheels and pistons, before the city provided warmongery to the world with its mountains of iron ore, furnaced, hot rolled, steam hammered, pressed, poured and moulded into the fiery spit and spite of small arms, Birmingham had always been the Babylon of baubles. It was here that goldsmiths and silversmiths, in a thousand tiny workshops, made jewellery so wickedly extravagant as to turn many a fine lady into a whore, and many a whore into a fine lady.

As may be expected, where there is gold, silver, plate and wicked little stones with nimble fingers to shape and polish them, there are gentlemen with even lighter fingers to fleece them from their rightful owners into the greedy hands of the unctuous fence.

Ikey arrived in Birmingham at eight o'clock in the morning of his second day out from London, not stopping to pass the night in a comfortable tavern, though several of these establishments existed for this sole purpose – inns where a weary traveller could expect a crackling fire, a sizzling pot roast, a pewter mug of good mulled claret and, upon a quiet word into the landlord's ear, a bed warmed by a ploughman's daughter, a wench with ivory skin and thighs as creamy to the sight as fresh churned butter. It was common enough talk among those who often travelled these ways that the yokel's daughter, so lasciviously described, had indeed been much ploughed and so often seeded as to sprout half the snot-nosed bumpkins in the parish.

It was most surprising that Ikey chose to continue on the smaller, faster night coach to Birmingham. He was, after all, a natural coward and it being the Christmas season the danger of meeting a highwayman or footpad on the road was greatly increased. Only a fool or a traveller with most urgent business would think to travel with a mail-coach running hard through the night. But Ikey, a creature of the dark hours, felt most vulnerable when exposed to the brightness of sun-pierced light and, in particular, within a restricted location such as a coach. He had sat miserably all day trapped and huddled in the corner of the day coach from London, the collar of his coat pulled high and his hat placed deep-browed upon his head, with his face turned outwards to the passing countryside. Should his fellow passengers have wished to observe him they would have seen only the collar of his coat and the broad-brimmed hat which appeared to rest upon it.

To all appearances these aforementioned fellow passengers looked innocent enough: the ginger-bearded horse dealer with his shaggy one-eyed dog, the two long-fenced clerical types in dark cloth, only the colour of their waistcoats telling them apart, and of course the monstrously fat woman in widow's weeds, a human personage so big she could easily turn a living in the grand freak show at Southwark Fair. But Ikey was taking no chances and said not a single word all day, not even allowing the most banal of courtesies.

When evening came and his fellow passengers left the coach for the comforts of a night spent in a village tavern, the opportunity to continue on alone was presented to Ikey by the departure of a lighter and faster mail-coach travelling through to Birmingham. It contained sufficient room for four passengers, though he seemed to be the only one to purchase a ticket from the coachman.