More Than You Can Say (2 page)

There was general agreement that the game had gone on long enough and, besides, the mark was beginning to show signs of real pain. His losses for the night must have been over eight thousand pounds. There was a general reckoning up at the end of which the mark handed me a cheque for just over five thousand pounds. Ed took out his chequebook, which of course wasn’t Barclays or Lloyds or anything like that, but bore the name of some French-sounding private bank. He wrote out the cheque, not looking very happy, then held it up, out of my reach.

‘Tell you what, Leader, do you want to double your money?’

‘Double or quits?’

‘Of course, double or quits. I’m having lunch at the Randolph Hotel in Oxford tomorrow with my uncle. If you can join us by one o’clock sharp, I’ll tear up this cheque and write you another for six thousand pounds. And if you don’t turn up, or turn up at one minute past, I’ll just tear up this cheque.’

I thought about this for a moment. It didn’t make sense.

‘What’s the catch?’

‘The catch is,’ said Ed, grinning at me, ‘that you have to walk there, starting from here, and arrive on time. And you have to produce evidence that you walked all the way.’

There was some discussion around the table about what sort of proof I might have to provide. Road signs collected along the way was one bright suggestion. I ignored my companions and sat and thought about it. Bets of this sort
were not uncommon at the Diplomatic. Oxford was about fifty miles from central London, and it was now nearly half past two in the morning. That meant I would have to do four and half – nearer five miles – an hour. I’m a strong walker and I knew I could probably do it. I lifted my head and stared at Ed for a moment, then said, ‘Bugger evidence. I’ll do it, and I won’t cheat. I’ll start now and if you want to, you can get in your car and follow me. Otherwise you’ll just have to take my word for it. Anyway, it should be fairly obvious when you see me in the dining room at the Randolph whether I’ve been walking or not.’

Ed looked at me. Then he held out his hand.

‘Your word? All right, that’s good enough for me.’

It was all very old-fashioned. We shook hands. Willi Falkenstein clapped me on the back and made an unfunny joke about mad dogs and Englishmen.

I said, ‘I suppose I’d better get going now.’

A small cheer went up as I headed down the stairs. I heard Ed say, ‘Well, that’s the quickest I’ve ever won three thousand pounds back,’ and Bernie saying in reply, ‘You ain’t won your money back yet, Eddie. He’s a mad sod. He might surprise you.’

I nodded goodnight to Eric the porter, who ignored me, and left the club. It was raining, but not hard. I set off at a brisk walk in a westerly direction.

I have walked in some difficult places in both violent heat and bitter cold. For the first few miles this walk was, by comparison, a piece of cake. The gentle drizzle soaked through the back of my evening jacket, and my black loafers were becoming rather damp. Although they were quite sturdy, I wondered whether they’d make the distance. I wondered
whether I could walk fast enough to collect my six thousand pounds. My biggest worry was being stopped by an inquisitive policeman. I was already attracting some odd glances as I strode rapidly along in my evening clothes. I walked up Park Lane, then at Marble Arch I turned into the Bayswater Road and pounded along that until I reached Notting Hill Gate. From there I thought I’d head west through Shepherd’s Bush and up the Uxbridge Road towards the A40.

My plan was to try to find roads that ran parallel to the main roads and motorways, where I would risk being picked up by a passing police car. My other concern was that I might be run over: walking along a road in the middle of the night wearing black clothes wasn’t exactly safe, although it would be light by the time I got out of the city.

Somewhere near Shepherd’s Bush I found a big all-night supermarket and managed to buy a road atlas and a couple of cans of Red Bull. I swallowed the first of these as I walked, studying the map as best I could under the orange streetlights. A gentleman of the road joined me, a tall, bearded man wearing a long navy blue coat fastened with baler twine and boots stuffed with old newspaper.

‘I’m going your way,’ he said, exhaling aromatically over me. ‘Let’s walk together. I’ll tell you the story of my life, then you can buy me breakfast. I know a nice little caff not far from here.’

I reached into my coat pocket and peeled a note from the large wedge of cash inside. I had a quick look – it was a tenner. I waved it in front of my new companion, then let go, and it fluttered away in the breeze. He went after it and I increased my pace. I saw no more of him.

As the sky began to lighten, I found myself on a road bridge above the M25, approaching Gerrards Cross. I looked
at my watch. It was just after six in the morning. I was beginning to feel quite footsore, and I wondered once again how long my shoes would hold out. For the first time I began to doubt whether I would get to Oxford at all, let alone in the next seven hours. It crossed my mind to go into the next town and find a taxi rank, but I suppressed the thought. In my place, I felt sure Ed Hartlepool would have taken the taxi.

I walked on through Gerrards Cross and along a B road that ran parallel to the A40. I was in the zone now, the way it used to be, my feet pounding the pavement in an endless beat. By now I felt I could go on for ever. The flayed feeling on the soles of my feet belonged to a different person in a different world. My whole body was covered in a thin film of perspiration. The volume of traffic had been steadily increasing and was now a constant roar in both directions. I was becoming increasingly aware of the closeness of trucks thundering past, and cars racing towards me. Occasionally someone would sound his horn as a sign of encouragement or derision, I wasn’t sure which. Daylight had crept up on me in the last hour or two without me noticing it. My watch said twenty past eight. I was only just going to make it, as long as I did not slacken my pace. From somewhere a smell of bacon drifted on the air and for a moment I was overwhelmed by the desire to find a café and have an enormous breakfast: a breakfast that would cost me six thousand pounds if I stopped to take it. I kept walking.

Somewhere between Stokenchurch and Wheatley, following a minor road that avoided the heavy traffic, I heard a car behind me and automatically moved closer to the grass verge so that it could pass. It was a bright, clear September morning and I was no longer concerned about being knocked over. All the same I didn’t want to take any chances and looked
over my shoulder to see where the car was. A black Range Rover was idling along some twenty-five yards behind me. I turned my head to the front again and kept walking. The road ahead was empty.

There was a brief purr as the car accelerated. The next thing I knew it was right alongside me, crowding me into the edge so that I almost stumbled on the grass verge. I shook my head in irritation and again waited for it to pass me. It didn’t. It had tinted windows through which only the dimmest outline of its occupants could be seen. Then the nearside front window opened and the driver leaned across the passenger seat.

‘Want a lift, old man?’ he asked.

The speaker had a pale, narrow face and pale, curly hair. Enormous wraparound sunglasses obscured most of his features.

‘No thanks.’

‘Good party last night, was it?’

I did not reply, waiting for him to lose interest and drive on.

‘Where are you headed?’

This idiot was beginning to annoy me. I could not hold a conversation with him and continue walking at nearly six miles an hour. If I walked any more slowly I’d lose my bet.

‘Are you lost, old man? Don’t know where you’re going? Get in and we’ll give you some breakfast and then set you on your way.’

I managed to find enough breath to answer him.

‘Would you very kindly fuck off?’

‘Oh, if you’d like us to fuck off, then of course that’s what we’ll do.’

The window of the Range Rover wound up again and
then, instead of overtaking, the car pulled into the verge behind me. I resisted the strong temptation to look over my shoulder again and see what the driver was doing. I could hear the motor running. Half a mile ahead of me was a straggly line of houses marking a small village. Suddenly it seemed important to me to get to that village, where there were other people around, and away from the Range Rover. I tried to speed up a little. Behind me I heard the snarl of the engine as the driver gunned it. I thought, thank God, he’s going, whoever he is. There was something about the narrow face of the driver with its enormous aviator sunglasses that had made me feel uneasy.

Suddenly I felt a huge blow to my right side. I was pitched forward into the ditch at the side of the road and my head struck something hard. I was stunned and winded and in so much pain I thought I was going to black out. Then I heard, through the mist of concussion, two car doors being slammed. The next second two sets of hands were lifting me and I was dragged around to the rear of the car, blinking and semi-conscious. The tailgate was opened and then one pair of hands transferred itself to my ankles. With a grunt the two men lifted me up to the height of the tailgate. They must have been strong because I am not a small man, at thirteen stone and six foot two, but they managed it. I was rolled on to the tailgate and then folded up so that I fitted into the rear compartment of the car. Then the tailgate was slammed shut and I was left in complete darkness, the parcel shelf pressing down on me. The car drove off, and I screamed as we went around a corner and I was flung against the side of the car. I remember thinking that I should have looked over my shoulder after all – then I might have seen them coming.

I don’t know how long I lay squashed up in the back of the car. Waves of nausea swept over me, accompanied by stabbing pains in my right side. On top of that I started to get violent cramps in my legs because I could not straighten them. Luckily I was not fully conscious; I kept fading in and out. The blow to my head must have given me concussion.

After what seemed like a long time, I sensed the car was slowing down and then heard the scrunch of wheels on gravel. The car stopped, and a moment later the tailgate opened. Somebody yanked me by the legs and I fell out of the car, winding myself again, as well as getting a nice bit of gravel rash on one side of my face.

‘You’re not going to cause any trouble, are you, old man?’ asked Narrow Face.

Another voice said, ‘Trouble? I don’t think so. Look at him.’

I couldn’t see the speaker, but I didn’t much care what he was saying because at that point I was sick. I managed to move my head so that I didn’t spatter myself and tried to straighten my legs out. They were still screaming with cramp.

‘Who’s going to clear
that
up, I’d like to know?’ said Narrow Face.

‘You are,’ said the other man unsympathetically. ‘But first let’s get our guest into the house.’

Our guest? Had I inadvertently won a dream holiday for one at a country house hotel? The two men picked me up, hooking my arms around their shoulders as they half-carried, half-dragged me inside. I did not take in much of my surroundings but was aware of a building in grey stone surrounded by lawns and woods. We were at the rear of a large house. Inside I was dragged along a dark corridor and then up a steep staircase and into another corridor, which was better lit and warmer than the first. We stopped outside a door while one of my new friends unlocked it. I was taken in and dropped on to a bed. After that I don’t remember much. I think I slept for a while.

I was woken up by someone asking me my name. I know the answer to that one, I thought. Aloud I said: ‘Richard Gaunt.’

‘And your date of birth?’

That was a bit harder.

‘Third November nineteen seventy-five,’ I told the questioner after a moment. I managed to open my eyes. The speaker was not one of the two men who had brought me here. He was short, dark-skinned, had black hair turning grey and wore a dark blue suit. He leaned over me and shone a torch into my eyes. The stethoscope around his neck was a clue.

‘You are awake. Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘I am Dr Ahmed. I want to do some checking up on you, if you don’t mind.’

Good afternoon? Suddenly memory flooded back. I had been walking, walking to Oxford for a bet: a six-thousand-pound bet. If it was the afternoon, then I had lost the bet, and the six thousand pounds. I swore.

‘Please co-operate,’ said Dr Ahmed anxiously. ‘It is for your own good.’

‘Don’t worry, Doctor,’ I said. ‘Only I’ve just remembered I’m late for an appointment.’

‘Ah. You must rest first and get better. Then we will see.’

He set to work. First of all he produced some cotton wool and alcohol from a black bag he had put down on a chair, and cleaned up the grazes on my face. Then he helped me to unbutton my shirt, and inspected the damage to my right side where the Range Rover must have struck me. He applied some ointment, then prodded and poked me, not unsympathetically, until I winced.

‘Unfortunately you may have cracked a rib. I have not the facilities here for an ultrasound scan, but we can be confident it is not broken. You should not exert yourself for a few days. You will have some nasty-looking bruises for a while, but you should heal up as time goes by.’

He checked my heartbeat, took my blood pressure and temperature, and looked again in my eyes and ears with his torch. Then he said, ‘Also you have the remains of some mild concussion. Take two of these paracetamol and we will see how you get on. Otherwise, there is not much wrong with you. You are a very fit man.’

He poured me a glass of water to wash down the tablets, then packed his bag and left the room. I heard the key turn in the lock as he closed the door behind him. I sat up on the bed and looked around me.

The room was small, but comfortable and expensively furnished. It was full of those grace notes beloved by interior decorators: blue velvet curtains with yellow silk tie-backs and a fringed and swagged blue velvet pelmet with yellow tassels; a pair of boudoir armchairs opposite a fireplace with an
antique fire screen in front of it; a chair and a writing table by the window. The walls were covered in a blue and cream striped paper, and numerous prints and engravings of flowers hung from the picture rail. The bed I lay on was soft and the room was warm.