Кейт Уотерхаус - Soho or Alex in Wonderland

But because James Flood had drilled it into him three times over before departing for the Groucho, he knew enough not to speak to any of them unless he was spoken to and definitely not to ask for autographs. Didn’t mind that at all. It was cool, in fact, mingling with this lot and pretending he rubbed shoulders with this classer personality every nighter the week.

One person, though, was entitled to his attention, or rather, he was entitled to hers. Jenny Wise was perched at the very end of the bar, the preferred position, as Alex was beginning to realise, for women of, how should he put this, an adventurous disposition. She was alone and, sipping coffee, seemed sober again. Remarkable. Alex could no longer remember where he had last seen her during this long night, or what condition she’d been in, but she was evidently one of those women — not that he had previously encountered many, or indeed any, of the breed — who when it came to alcoholic damage were perpetually self-healing, like what the fook was that mythological beast that crawled out of the flames unscathed? Or grew another head was it? At this timer night he couldn’t remember which. Anyway, that.

No sign of James Flood. Alex edged his way back through the thronged little room — why couldn’t they make these Soho joints bigger, to accommodate the demand? — until he was alongside Jenny.

“How you doing, Jen?” he asked cockily. He could be well in here, it seemed to Alex. Quick shag back at her place then a kip down for the night. Sorted. No chance of breakfast, he supposed, Jenny being Jenny, but even so it was still two birds with one stone.

“Who the fuck are you, darling?” asked Jenny evenly, with an off putting stare.

Not so sober after all. But Jesus Christ almighty, did they all suffer from collective blurry amnesia in So-oh? It was only — well, he didn’t know how many hours, but it wasn’t all that long ago since he’d got his leg across with Jenny, and she didn’t know him from fookin Adam.

“We have met,” he said helpfully, adding with a wealth of meaning: “Round at your place.”

“When was that, darling?”

“Earlier today. We went on from the New Kismet Club.”

“Everything’s on from the New Kismet. Narrow it down.”

“You said you liked my accent.” In point of fact she’d said it was cute, but he didn’t want to bring that up again.

“Oh, right. You were from Lancashire.”

“Yorkshire.”

“Same thing. Don’t tell me, don’t tell me — it’s Adam, isn’t it?”

“Alex.” Or had he been calling himself Adam? It was so long ago he couldn’t remember. But since she couldn’t either, it made no difference. “Would you like a drink?”

“They won’t serve you, honey. Not a member. Besides, the Old Bill’s in.”

“I meant round at your place, if there’s any of that Scotch left.”

“What Scotch is that, Alan?”

“What we were drinking earlier.”

“When was that?”

Alex decided on the big bold approach. “Look, Jenny. We had a good time a few hours ago. Or at least I thought we did. Why don’t we go back and have a good time again?”

“’S time?” slurred Jenny.

“Just after two.”

“Sorry, honeybunch,” said Jenny, not without regret. “You were yesterday. I’m looking for tomorrow.”

And bollox to you too, Jen-Jen. She picked up her cup of coffee and moved away, either to talk to a friend or make a new one. The guvnor of the club, as James assumed him to be, a grey-haired, distinguished, bearded type who looked as if he could have made a living posing for the Player’s cigarette packet, came into the bar from the tiny kitchen. He’d evidently been asked to look out for Alex. “Your friend James is over there,” he said. “He needs cheering up.”

Not the only one, thought Alex, feeling unaccountably depressed after his exchange with Jenny.

He found James Flood at a corner table sharing a bottle of wine with a youngish, dark-suited man of athletic build who could have been either a footballer or a copper. He would prove to be the latter.

He was introduced to Alex as Benny Wills. “And what do you do, Benny?” asked Alex chattily. After a few hours in London, the social graces were coming more easily.

Wills glanced a query at James, who nodded reassurance and supplied the information: “Detective inspector, Clubs and Vice Squad.”

Yeh yeh yeh yeh, heard of it. Read about it in the News of the Screws . Opportunity for a wisecrack here: “Well, Benny, we’ve found the clubs, but where’s the vice?”

“One hundred and forty-five,” said Detective Inspector Wills, deadpan.

“Wossat, then?”

“Number of times he’s heard that joke,” explained James.

“Tonight,” added the detective, glumly.

Lead balloon time. Change subject. “How did you get on at the Groucho, James?”

“Pissed on from a great height,” said James.

“Yeh yeh, I got caught in it too.”

“I’m not talking about the rain, I’m talking about my stupid pissballing editor. I’ve given that fucking paper three stories today and what did she say?”

“I dunno, what did she say?”

“Chewed my bollox off. Said I wasn’t paid to sit around in Soho clubs getting pissed all day.”

“I thought you were. Sounded just the job to me.”

“If it is, there’s about to be a vacancy. If I don’t get something in tomorrow’s paper, that’s it. Finito .”

“Well, I suppose there’s other papers,” said Alex vaguely. Didn’t claim to know much about these things.

“Not when you’ve been thrown off the Examiner , there aren’t,” said Detective Inspector Wills. Then, glancing towards the stairs, he added to James Flood: “Here’s a bit of a tale for you, Jas.”

James looked up to see the two flymen coming down into the club, but without the burden of their lately departed friend. The jazz pianist obligingly played a snatch of the Dead March from Saul as they reached the bar. “I was with them earlier,” he said. “She’s not interested. Wouldn’t know a human story if it came up and bit her in the crotch.”

“How earlier is earlier? You know they were nicked tonight, don’t you?”

“For what?” asked James Flood, livelier now.

“Good question. Last I heard when I checked in, the duty desk sarge was trying to frame a charge for them.”

“Frame being the operative word, eh, Benny?”

“Watch it, James,” advised the policeman, without rancour.

The two flymen, clutching a bottle of beer each, shoved their way through the throng to James’s table. Addressing Detective Inspector Wills, the first flyman said: “Tell you what, Benny. That canteen bacon you dish up at that nick of yours is pigshit.”

“Right animal, anyway,” said Detective Inspector Wills. “Don’t blame me, it’s all done by a private catering firm since you were last banged up. So what are you doing out, then?”

“Police bail,” said the second flyman. “All the cells are taken. We’re up at Marlborough Street tomorrow.”

“What charge?”

“Obstruction. And sunnink to do with the London Transport laws.”

“Taking a dead body on the tube?” said James. “I didn’t know that was illegal.”

“It is if he didn’t have a ticket,” the detective inspector pointed out.

“But he did have a ticket,” protested the first flyman. “He had his old people’s travel pass, didn’t he?”

“Ah, but it’s invalid if he’s dead,” said Detective Inspector Wills. “The conditions of carriage clearly state that when the pass expires, or in this case the passholder expires, it has to be handed in.”

“How could he hand it in when he’s flaming dead?” demanded the exasperated second flyman.