City of Spades - By Colin MacInnes Page 0,61

Tamberlaine’s voice. ‘Is nothing more to do,’ he said, ‘but go back to the north of London – unless you don’t fear to call upon an African, which after what you say, you shouldn’t.’

‘If you don’t, why should I?’

‘This house is one of Billy Whispers’, who’s the devil.’

‘Oh, I know him.’

‘You do, now?’ Tamberlaine seemed mildly impressed. ‘Come, then, let we go.’

It started to snow, and my West Indian Mercury pulled the hood of his duffel up over his head, drove his hands deep in the pockets, and walked on just in front of me, like some Arctic explorer heading resolutely for the Pole. After twists and turns, of which he gave no warning, we reached a bombed lot with some wreckage of buildings on it. Tamberlaine plunged down the area steps, and beat with his fingertips on the window. A voice cried, ‘Say who!’, and when he did, Mr Tamberlaine walked inside, and left me standing there.

After five minutes of waiting in the area, and five more strolling round the street outside, I decided to call it a day, and started off up the street. But steps came running after me. I heard a cry of ‘Hey, man!’, and turned to see not Tamberlaine, but Mr Ronson Lighter. He shook hands, caught me by the sleeve, and said, ‘Is all right, you can come. There is a party to celebrate one boy come out of prison, but Billy say you welcome when you come.’

We climbed two floors into a large room, festively crowded, that overlooked the street. Ronson dragged me to a buffet where, under the watchful eyes of a bodyguard of three, stood piles of bottles in disarray, and plates of uninviting sandwiches. ‘Give this man drink,’ said Ronson. ‘Is Billy say so.’ One bodyguard, aloof until these words, poured out a beer glass full of whisky.

Some of the guests I knew by sight, and others even better still: there were Johnny’s former landlord, ‘Nat King’ Cole, and the African youth, Tondapo, with whom he’d quarrelled at the Sphere, and little Barbara, the half-caste girl of the memorable evening at the Moonbeam club; and also a contingent from Mr Vial’s disrupted party, among them Mr Cranium Cuthbertson and his musicians, and the dubious Alfy Bongo. Arthur was there, strolling from group to group unwelcome, with his restless smiles; and enthroned on a divan, surrounded by fierce eager faces, his handsome, debauched half-sister Dorothy. Alone by the fire, as if a guest at his own entertainment, was Billy Whispers; and Mr Tamberlaine, like a suppliant at the levee of the paramount chief, was deep in conversation with him.

Mr Ronson Lighter led me over. ‘Good evening, Mr Whispers,’ I said, raising my voice above the clamour. ‘It’s very kind of you to ask me in.’

‘My party is for this boy,’ said Billy Whispers, pointing with glass in hand to a huge and handsome African, who positively dripped and oozed with mindless masculine animal magnetism and natural villainy, and who now was dancing, proud and sedate, round the room with Dorothy.

‘He came out yesterday,’ said Tamberlaine. ‘This is his homecoming among his people, but the boy is sore. His girl was not true to him while he was away; but as you can see, he’s a type of boy who soon will find another.’

Billy Whispers was looking at me closely: with those eyes which fastened on your own like grappling-hooks, and lured and absorbed your psyche into the indifferent, uncensorious depths of his own malignancy. ‘Tamberlaine say to me,’ he remarked, ‘that earlier you see Jimmy Cannibal.’

‘Yes. There was a fight at Mr Obo-King’s.’

‘You see who fight him?’ asked Ronson Lighter, with an excess of indifference.

‘No. Do you know who it was?’

‘I? Why should I know?’

‘You not tell nobody you see this?’ said Billy Whispers.

‘No, not yet.’

‘Is true, I hope.’

There was a crack like a plate breaking, and a yell. Whispers went over to a group. Someone was hustled out. ‘To fight at a sociable gathering,’ said Mr Tamberlaine, ‘is so uncivilised.’

Dorothy stood in front of me, posturing like someone in a historic German film. ‘Hullo there, stranger,’ she said. ‘Long time no see. How is my little sister Muriel and her boyfriend?’ I smiled at her, and didn’t answer. ‘Oh, snooty,’ she said. ‘Sarcastic and superior,’ and she stalked off in a garish blaze of glory.

During this conversation, I saw Alfy Bongo eyeing me in his equivocal way: with all the appearance of deviousness and cunning, yet openly enough to