The Complete Pratt (69 page)

‘He didn’t do anything last time,’ said Henry.

‘I hadn’t danced with Angela Groyne then.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’ asked Henry.

‘Mick Tunstall works for Bill Holliday.’

All this irritated Henry. Real hard men don’t advertise their hardness.

He bought a round, and looked back to see Ted and Helen laughing over a page of the
Argus
. He didn’t need to ask what they
were
laughing at. A sorry load of dead. All doubt was removed. They’d be sorry. They’d wish they were dead.

He handed the drinks round, banging Ted’s glass on the table.

‘Are we permitted to share the joke?’ he said.

Ted looked at him in astonishment.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ said Henry.

‘What’s me?’ said Ted.

‘Putting misprints in my stories. Trying to ruin my career. Come outside.’

‘What?’

‘A fair fight. Or are you scared?’

‘I don’t want to fight you,’ said Ted wearily.

‘Stop it, Henry,’ implored Ginny.

‘Other way, ref!’ said Gordon.

‘Give over, kid,’ said Colin.

‘Stop calling me kid,’ said Henry. ‘Are you coming, Ted, or not?’

‘No.’

Henry poured Ted’s glass of bitter over his head. Ted sat there in astonishment, dripping with beer. Helen’s eyes flashed.

‘All right,’ said Ted. ‘No little pipsqueak pours beer over me and tells me I’m destroying his career.’

Well, you’ve got what you wanted, Henry Pratt. A fight, with Ted Plunkett, outside a town centre pub. ‘Brawling journalists were a disgrace,’ says barrister. ‘If you are going to continue to be a road user, you will have to drive better than this,’ says deaf magistrate. ‘Goodbye, Henry,’ says Mr Andrew Redrobe.

‘This is stupid,’ said Ginny.

Yes.

The seven journalists went outside, into the fading light. In Leatherbottlers’ Row it was already almost dark. Ted took off his beer-soaked coat. Henry removed his curry-spattered jacket. Denzil Ackerman turned the corner into the alley at a brisk limp. He stopped, his mouth open in exaggerated astonishment, until he realized how inelegant it looked.

‘Come on, you two. Call it off,’ said Ben, the pacifist.

There was a pause.

‘No,’ said Ted.

There was another pause.

‘No,’ said Henry.

The two reporters circled round each other, warily. Then Henry attempted a blow, which missed easily. Ted retaliated with a punch that missed almost as easily. Henry hit Ted on the side of the head. Ted launched a rain of blows, some of which found the target. Henry hung onto Ted and managed to punch him in the stomach. Ted gasped and almost collapsed on him, pushing him back into the wall. Henry pushed the gasping Ted off him, stumbled forward wearily, landed a punch on Ted’s face and moved in to finish the job. He aimed a huge punch. When it missed, he fell over. Ted leapt at him, and pummelled his ribs, then grabbed him by the hair and yanked him agonizingly to his feet. Henry kicked Ted’s shins and butted him. Their heads clashed, and they both reeled away. Ted recovered first, and into that inept and inelegant struggle he managed to inject one good punch. It sent Henry crashing into the wall. He subsided in a crumpled heap, blood gushing from his nose. He passed out.

When he came round, Ted was kneeling beside him anxiously and Ginny was holding a blood-soaked handkerchief to his nose. He was glad to see that Ted’s face also showed signs of damage. One eye was closing up.

‘You’ll be all right, kid,’ said Colin.

Ben looked at his watch anxiously. ‘Time I was giving the wife one,’ he said.

‘Wife!’ said Gordon. ‘In the mouse house!’ He kissed Ginny, and hurried off to his returning wife. Ginny looked inconsolable. Henry, lying with his head on the cold stone, looked up at Ginny’s legs and dress and longed to put this to the test.

‘Sorry,’ said Ted. ‘I’ve messed you up a bit.’

‘I asked for it,’ said Henry. ‘It was the wrong way to deal with it. I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t still think Ted arranged those misprints, do you?’ said Helen.

‘Didn’t you, Ted?’ said Henry.

‘Of course I didn’t, you stupid prick.’

‘Ted’s wicked,’ said Helen. ‘He’s horrid. He’s a tease. But he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘If he found a spider in the bath he’d be sarcastic to it till it went away,’ said Ginny, and blushed at memories of Ted and baths.

‘Oh God!’ said Henry. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Ted.’

A taller, sharper, younger, less benevolent version of Neil Mallet emerged from the front bar of the Lord Nelson. His brother, the compositor. Henry’s eyes met Ted’s. He looked away. The sudden revelation of Neil Mallet’s guilt set his spine tingling and filled him with a curious sense of shame, which he didn’t wish to share with another human being. He hoped Ted would make no comment, but Ted said, ‘He’s envious’, forcing Henry to say, ‘Envious? Of me?’

‘I think he saw you as a natural ally,’ said Ted. ‘A natural friend. Another lonely, hopeless case, unable to strike up human relationships.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Henry.

‘Ah, but you aren’t, are you?’ said Ted. ‘You have the ability to inspire affection. When he realized that, he couldn’t resist his campaign of mischief-making.’

‘But he seemed as friendly as ever,’ said Henry.

‘Ah well,’ said Ted. ‘Ah well.’

He wished Denzil hadn’t come too. As the taxi made its way to Winstanley Road, his face and body stung, his head throbbed, his blood explored painful places, his sensuality leapt and he felt a deep desire for Ginny. He felt that, if they had been alone, his predicament would have awakened her sexuality. The need to avoid pain from his bruises would have added salt to the stew of their love-making. Her soft, warm kisses on his swollen eyes would have been as nectar on a bee’s tongue. But Denzil had come too.

His legs were still wobbly. They supported him, one on each arm, to the front door, across the hall, into his impersonal little flat.

‘I’ll make him some tea and hot food.’ Heart-warming words, but not from Denzil. Speak out, Ginny.

‘Oh. Right. Thanks,’ said Ginny. And off she went!

He felt so tired.

‘Scrambled eggs do you?’ said Denzil.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You must eat.’

‘OK, then.’

‘Best I can do, with your measly stores.’

So tired. Denzil clattered away, finding crockery. Upstairs, Ginny clumped about. Spring-cleaning? Barricading herself against bruised sex maniacs?

Henry sat at the little formica-topped kitchen table and ate scrambled eggs on toast, with weak tea. He found it difficult to swallow.

‘Come on holiday with me.’

The words drifted around inside his painful head, bumped meaninglessly against his bruised eyes, and finally impinged upon his consciousness.

‘What?’

‘Come on holiday with me. I see we’ve put down for the same fortnight. I want to show you Italy.’

What? Why? Oh!

‘Well … er …’

‘Have you anything arranged?’

‘Yes, I … yes. Something arranged. Yes.’

‘What?’

‘What?’

‘What have you arranged?’

‘Oh … er … with my aunt. I’m going to Filey, with my aunt.’

‘You can’t turn down Italy with me for Filey with your aunt.’

‘I can. I have to.’

‘I have the offer of a villa in Amalfi.’

‘I have the booking of a boarding house in Filey.’

So tired. Go, Denzil, please.

‘I thought you were going with your friend,’ said Henry.

‘Yes … well …’ said Denzil. ‘That’s over. We split up over a lost tie-pin.’

‘So tired.’ He realized that he’d said the words out loud by mistake. ‘Sorry, Denzil,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about your friend. Very sorry. And thanks for everything. But … er … I’d quite like to be on my own now.’

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’

‘Yes. Denzil? Thanks.’

‘Pleasure.’

Suddenly the man’s speckled brown parchment skin was looming towards the limited field of vision left by his puffy eyes. The man was kissing him full on the lips.

‘Denzil?’ he said, in a quavering voice which seemed to come from a very long way away. ‘I really would prefer it very much if you never did that again.’

Hundreds of miles away, almost as far away as Amalfi is from Filey, the door of his flat closed gently behind Denzil Ackerman.

Henry limped into the office. Terry Skipton gawped at his black eyes and swollen nose.

‘Mr Pratt!’ he said. ‘What does the other feller look like?’

‘You’ll see in a minute.’

‘What?’

Terry Skipton was not overjoyed to learn that two of his reporters had been brawling.

Denzil had given Henry the films to review. ‘Review’ meant ‘Regurgitate the publicity material.’ He tried to bury himself in them. ‘Pairing sultry Italian siren Anna Magnani with craggy Burt Lancaster was a …’

Denzil limped in. Henry blushed invisibly beneath his bruises. The surging blood explored new areas of pain around his cheekbones. He avoided Denzil’s eyes. ‘… risky idea, perhaps, but it’s a risk that comes off triumphantly. Set in a semi-tropical Gulf Coast town,
The Rose Tattoo
is …’

Ted entered, arm in infuriating arm with Helen. Ted’s face was puffy, and he had one black eye. Henry approached him immediately.

‘I’m really sorry about what I did,’ he said. ‘I think you’ve been fairly amazing about it.’

Ted looked embarrassed and grunted. Henry realized that he disliked having his basic good nature discovered. Helen blew Henry an ambiguous little kiss.

‘The tragic death of James Dean would make
Rebel Without A Cause
worth seeing even if it was a bad film. It isn’t. This study of American juvenile delin …’

Ginny looked bleary, as if she’d been catching up on lost sleep. She rebuked Henry for not waiting for her. ‘I didn’t want people to see you with me. They might have thought you’d been beating me up,’ he explained. He realized immediately that she might take this as a comment on her size. He was glad she couldn’t see his blushes beneath the bruises.

‘… quency is a brilliant exploration of a transatlantic middle-class mal …’

Henry tried not to look at Neil. He knew that Ted and Helen and Ginny were all trying not to look at Neil. Neil seemed to sense that something was up. He turned and looked at them all not looking at him. Henry’s spine tingled. ‘Your faces!’ said Neil. ‘What’s happened?’

‘We had a fight,’ said Henry, in a shaky voice. ‘I accused Ted of sabotaging my stories with misprints. I had the wrong man, didn’t I? Ted doesn’t have a brother in the print room, does he?’

The blood drained from Neil Mallet’s face. His mask of geniality faded. A gleam of hatred lit up his eyes. A snarl played cruelly round the edges of his mouth. Too late, the mask returned. Henry couldn’t look at him any more. ‘… aise. Dean plays a crazy, mixed up …’

Colin entered dramatically. He had two black eyes and a puffed-up face criss-crossed with Elastoplast. His right hand was heavily bandaged. Neil Mallet slipped past, out of their lives, a tormented ghost, with a pile of books tucked underneath his arm instead of his head. Colin hardly noticed him. He looked across the newsroom and smiled triumphantly, as if to say, ‘You see. I wasn’t making it up.’ The gap in his mouth had widened by a tooth.

‘You should see the other feller,’ he said.

‘Nasty one, I’m afraid, Mr Pratt,’ said Terry Skipton. ‘Motor cyclist killed in a collision with a lorry. Twenty years old. Name of Smailes. Lived with his family in Matterhorn Drive.’

His nose had returned to normal, but there was still a little yellowy greenness round the eyes. He took a deep breath as he walked up the garden path, past two tiny landscaped ponds cluttered with gnomes, storks, windmills and tiny bridges. He rang
the
doorbell. The cheerful chimes sounded indecent in that house of grief.

He found himself facing a comfortable woman in her late forties. She showed no outward signs of grief. His throat was dry. His stomach was churning.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you at a time like this, Mrs Smailes,’ he said. ‘I’m … er … I’m from the
Argus
. I… er… I’ve been asked to ask you one or two questions about your son. It won’t take a minute. Er … I understand he was quite a promising all-round sportsman.’

Mrs Smailes had gone deathly pale.

‘Was?’ she said. ‘Was?’ she repeated on a higher note. ‘What’s happened to him?’

There was a pained silence. Hard Man Henry joined Henry ‘Ee by gum I am daft’ Pratt, Podgy Sex Bomb Henry and all the other dead Pratts whose ghostly forms would stalk two paces behind him for the rest of his life.

GRACE KELLY MARRIED
Prince Rainier III of Monaco. After fierce border battles, Egypt and Israel agreed an unconditional cease-fire. The Archbishop of Canterbury accused Mr Harold Macmillan of debasing the spiritual currency of the nation by introducing premium bonds. Stanley Matthews, recalled at the age of 42, made all four goals as England beat Brazil 4–2. A dry spring gave way to a cold, wet summer.