City of Spades - By Colin MacInnes Page 0,41

country if that happens.’

I looked at my dear friend’s eyes. More sunken away than when first I discovered him again, and his whole body shrivelling up with that evil drug, it seemed to me that only wicked thoughts came now into his mind.

‘Hamilton,’ I said. ‘Let’s go into the street and take the air. Sitting here leaguing all the day in idleness is just a nightmare.’

‘Walking gives me only a hopeless appetite.’

‘When do you draw your drug ration, Hamilton?’

‘Not till tomorrow …’

‘Oh, but come out in the air, man!’

‘No, Johnny. Let me sleep here, or I think I’ll tumble down and die.’

I had no coat since it was in the pawnshop, but I took up my scarf and started for the door.

Hamilton opened up one eye. ‘Those Jumbles, Johnny,’ he said. ‘That Pew and Pace people you used to see. Can’t you raise loot from them?’

‘I have some pride.’

‘You also have your digestion, Johnny, to consider.’

This Immigration Road is quite the queen of squalor. And though back home we have our ruined streets, they haven’t the scraped grimness of this East End thoroughfare. I half shut my eyes and headed for Mahomed’s café which, though quite miserable, has the recommendation that it’s open both the night and day.

This is due to the abundant energy of Mahomed, an Indian who once worked high up in a rich West End hotel, and serves you curried chicken as if you were a rajah loaded up with diamonds. His wife is a British lady with a wild love of Spades, and a horrid habit of touching you on the shoulder because she says ‘to stroke a darkie brings you luck’. But you can forgive this insolence if she supplies some credit without the knowledge of Mahomed.

The café’s frequented by human dregs, and coppers’ narks, and boys who come there hustling and making deals. The first face I saw, when I went in it, was the features of Mr Peter Pay Paul.

‘What say, man,’ I asked him. ‘You still peddling that asthma cure?’

He gave me his spewed-up grin.

‘I’m legitimate now,’ he said. ‘I sell real stuff. You buy some?’

‘Roll me a stick, and I’ll smoke it at your expense.’

‘That’s not a good business, man.’ But he started rolling.

‘What sentence did you get that day?’

‘Case dismissed. What do you know?’

‘That CID Inspector, that Mr Purity. He didn’t press the charge?’

‘He not in court, man – was quite a break.’

‘You small beer to him, Peter, it must be.’

‘If that’s true, man, it’s lucky. That Mr Purity looked cold hard.’

He handed me the weed.

‘Peter, where you get this stuff?’ I said. ‘Who is your wholesaler?’

‘That is my private secret, man.’

‘Suppose that you cut me in on it?’

‘Well, I might do … if you show some generosity …’

‘Man, I’m skinned just at present. Make a friend of me, and you won’t repent of it.’

‘I’ll consider your request, Johnny Fortune. Give me some drag.’

Mahomed came up and bowed as he always does: this because he likes to win the affection of violent Spades who can help him if ever trouble should arise.

‘An English gentleman was here looking for you, Johnny.’

‘What name?’

‘He tell me to say Montgomery was asking for you.’

‘Ah, him. What did he need?’

‘Johnny, isn’t that a copper? His name was quite unknown to me, you never tell me he was a friend of yours, so I sent him farther on east down Limehouse way.’

‘I don’t live there.’

‘To confuse the man. I said to call at 12 Rawalpindi Street, but so far as I know there isn’t any such address.’

Mahomed gave us a sly, silly smile to prove his clever cunning.

‘Mahomed, you’re too smart. If that man calls here again, please tell him where I live.’

‘He’s a friend, then?’

‘Is a friend, yes.’

‘Oh, I apologise. You eat something?’ I shook my head. ‘On me,’ said Mahomed, and cut out behind his counter with another little bow.

I saw an old African man was watching us. ‘Who is that grey old person?’ I asked Peter Pay Paul.

‘That old-timer? Oh, a tapper. He’s always complaining about we younger boys.’

‘I no tapper,’ the old gentleman said. ‘But all I can tell you is you boys spoil honest business since you come. Before the wartime, before you come here in all your numbers, the white folks was nice and friendly to us here.’

‘They spat in your eyes and you enjoyed it, Mr Old-timer.’

‘You go spoil everything. You give me some weed.’

‘Blow, man. Go ask your white friends for it.’

After Mahomed’s sodden chicken, we walked down