Three Brothers (16 page)

Reluctantly Sam accepted the money, and noted down the amount still owed.

“God bless you, sir. I’ll pay it all back to you. I’m expecting a parcel from Belfast.” She stared at the closed door. “He had one of his fits last night. I had to sit on him. My own health is terrible poor.” The three children were eating bread with Marmite, their lips and cheeks smeared with the brown paste.

After the unsatisfactory interview with Mrs. Byrne, Sam walked up the next flight of stairs and knocked on the door of the flat immediately above. The tenant knew Sam’s touch,
and the door was flung open. “Come on in, Sammy boy. Time for daylight robbery, is it? Smash and grab? You should wear a hood and mask.” It was Sparkler.

Sparkler had been a tenant in Britannia Street for four years. He had always lived in this part of London, and he relished the anonymity associated with it. But he enjoyed the weekly visits of Sam with his rent book. “Now then, Sammy boy,” he said, “cup of char? Soak your powerful mind in tea.”

As they sat together Sam told Sparkler stories about the other tenants whom he visited. He called him Spark. “Well, Spark,” he said on this afternoon, “the Robertsons have vanished. Everything has gone. Bed. All the furniture.”

“As clean as a whistle, is it?”

“A bone picked clean,” Sam replied. “Nothing left at all.”

“That is a very remarkable thing, Sammy. How did they manage to get away without making any noise at all?”

“The area is strange like that. Nothing ever seems to stick. Everything just fades away.”

“I know exactly what you mean, Sammy boy. The streets will swallow you up. They’re misty. Like the Thames next door. It was tough in 1944.”

“What made you say that, Spark?”

“I was thinking of mist. And smoke. I was six at the time. There was this shelter. I hated it. Mum hated it, too. So we stopped going.”

“Wasn’t that dangerous?”

“Oh yes. Of course. It was a big oblong room, with a wooden bench along each wall. There was a tin tacked to one corner, with a candle stuck in it. It smelled terrible of piss and vomit. It’s gone now. At least I think it’s gone. What if it were still there? Still smelling? It don’t bear thinking about, do it?

“Boys like to explore, don’t they?” Sam was silent for a moment. “I used to go down into the ground.”

“Yes. Boys go where they are told not to go. I’m still that way. I
won’t
do what I’m told. There was an underground bomb shelter on the common. A big one. Still there, I think. Its entrance was boarded up after the War, but I knew a way of wriggling through. There is always a way, you know. You just have to know how to look for it. There was rooms on either side. Do you believe in ghosts?” Sam nodded. “Do you? Do you
really
?”

“I do.”

“This was the curious thing. I was lagging behind a friend of mine. His name will come to me in a minute. Keith Watson. I was creeping past one of them rooms, when I saw something out the corner of my eye. It was like a flickering light coming from inside. I went back and there—you’ll never believe it, I know you won’t—there was a garden. A lovely garden full of flowers. And in the middle was an old gentleman tending to it. It was only there for a moment. And then it faded away. I wasn’t scared or anything. I was happy. But I never told Keith Watson.” Sam now smiled at the memory.

Sparkler and Daniel Hanway were sleeping in the same bed when they were woken by shrieks coming from the flat below. “Smoke!” Sparkler shouted in alarm. He threw on a robe and rushed out into the hall. “Call 999!” He rushed downstairs, where a fire was eating Mrs. Byrne’s front door. He kicked out at it, and one of the panels fell apart. “Open it,” he shouted, “open it!” Mrs. Byrne had the presence of mind to unlatch it, and Sparkler rushed in. “Get me some water,” he said. “Let me get to the sink.” The flat was full of smoke, and he could not see the children. He soaked his robe and then draped it across the door. Some of the flames were extinguished. He performed the same manoeuvre three or four times until the door was merely smouldering. Sparkler flung open the windows to disperse the smoke hanging in the air. The children,
in their pyjamas, were huddled in the kitchen; they did not cry, or speak, but stared solemnly at Sparkler. He went into the adjacent bedroom to check on Mr. Byrne but, to his surprise, found no one. It looked as if Mrs. Byrne was accustomed to sleep alone in the bed.

By the time the firemen had arrived, there was little to do except to secure the damaged door. They were intent, however, on finding out the cause of the sudden blaze. “Do you have any idea what happened?” one of them asked Mrs. Byrne. She shook her head, but then looked towards Sparkler. She knew better than to speak, and he understood her. Another fireman then discovered some burnt rags, smelling of paraffin. “Do you have any enemies?”

“The poor Irish always have enemies.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“I don’t think so. No.”

“Hooligans,” the fireman said. “Yobs. There are some nasty gangs in this part of the world.”

Mrs. Byrne went into the kitchen. “All of you get dressed now. We’re going to your Aunty Theresa.” Sparkler had followed her, and now she whispered to him. “Lend me five pounds for a taxi?”

He went back upstairs, and borrowed the money from Daniel. He came back into bed a few minutes later, and embraced him. “At least you’re still nice and warm,” he said. “Why didn’t you come downstairs?”

“I was scared.”

“You’re always scared.” Sparkler kissed him again. But he could not sleep. He lay in bed with his head propped up on a pillow. “I wonder,” he said.

“Wonder what?”

“I wonder if Ruppta was trying to frighten them away.”

“Your landlord? That would be a dangerous thing to do.”

“He may be a dangerous man. I will have a word with Sam.”

“Sam?”

“He is Ruppta’s collector. I don’t know his last name. Everyone just calls him Sam.” Daniel stared up at the ceiling, glimmering in the dark room from the light of the street lamps outside. “There was no Mr. Byrne.” He told Daniel the story of Mrs. Byrne’s husband and his fits. “But he wasn’t there.”

“I suspect,” Daniel replied, “that he hasn’t been there for some time.”

“But she still picks up his social security.”

“She tells them that he is too ill to collect it himself.”

The next morning Mrs. Byrne returned by herself, with two large shopping bags and a suitcase. Slowly, and with great care, she packed all the food stored in the kitchen cupboard; she folded the sheets and towels, putting the plates and cups between them. There was nothing else that belonged to her.

Sparkler came down to help her. “I’ll be all right,” she said. She seemed to him to be meek and uncomplaining, as if she had been expecting misfortune all along. “I’ll just be on my way,” she said. “I won’t keep you.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Byrne?”

“Keep an eye out for Ruppta.”

Sam was surprised and shocked when he arrived to collect the rent on the following morning. He stared at the charred front door of Mrs. Byrne’s flat, knocked, rattled the handle, and, realising that there was no one inside, hurried up the stairs to Sparkler. Daniel was still staying with Sparkler in the little flat. Alarmed by Sam’s knocking, he rushed into the bathroom and closed the door. He did not at first recognise Sam’s voice.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked Sparkler. “What’s happened?”

“Someone set fire to Mrs. Byrne’s door.”

“Whoever could have done such a thing?”

“I don’t know, Sam.” He turned and looked out of the window. “I have no idea. What do you think?”

“She never paid all of her rent.”

“You told me.”

“I explained this to Mr. Ruppta. I explained that her husband was unemployed, and that she had three small children.”

“There is no husband.”

“What?”

“He didn’t live there. But she’s still collecting his social security.”

“Oh.” There was no expression in his voice.

“Tell me this. It may be important. What did Ruppta say?”

“He never said anything.”

“Is it possible, Sam—”

“That he wanted to scare them away? It is possible. Yes. And I will find out. I promise you.”

Sam was now feeling uncomfortable in the small room; he was perspiring, clutching the notebook in which he kept account of the rents. “I can’t believe that he would do such a thing.”

To Sparkler’s surprise he then crouched down on the floor, bent forward, and seemed to be attempting a handstand. “What are you doing, Sam?”

“I am going to stand on my head. It clears my brain. It helps me to think.” This is what he proceeded to do. He managed to balance gracefully upon his head, his arms outstretched upon the carpet. After a minute he relaxed his stance and brought himself gently to the floor before standing up. “I know what to do now,” he said.

Daniel was astonished. He recognised his younger brother’s voice when he said “I know what to do now.” He shrank away from the door.

Julie Armitage had prepared a plate of small sandwiches for Sam’s return. “Spam or fish paste?” she asked him as soon as he came into the room.

“A bit of both.”

“Ooh.” She squealed in delight. “
Cheeky
.”

He knocked quietly on the door and entered Asher Ruppta’s inner office. Ruppta was sitting in his chair, looking carefully at his hands. “Mrs. Byrne’s front door has been set on fire,” Sam said.

“Is that so? That is very unfortunate. Was anyone hurt?”

“No. But she left with the children straight after.” He stared at Ruppta. “I don’t know how it could have happened.”

“Shall we call the police, Sam?”

Sam remembered the absent husband. “I don’t think so. We need to find a new tenant.”

“We should really call the police.”

“They never do anything.”

“But the police protect us, Sam.”

“Too much trouble.”

“Well, if you say so.”

It seemed to Sam that his employer could not have instigated the arson. Why was he so eager to summon the police, if he had been the guilty party? No, there was another cause for the attack. He was reflecting on these things on his way to his mother’s house.

She greeted him with a kiss, and then folded back the side of her hair with her hand. It was a gesture that he remembered from childhood. “And what have you been doing?” she asked him.

“There was a fire in Britannia Street.”

“When?”

“A few nights ago.”

“Bad?”

“Not really. But one of the families left. They didn’t feel safe, I suppose.” Then he told her about Mrs. Byrne and the three children.

“Poor cow,” she said. “I know what it’s like. What number?”

“Twelve.”

“But that’s where Sparkler—” She stopped, confused, and her face reddened.

“How do you know Sparkler?”

“Friend of a friend.”

“Friend of whose friend?”

“I know a man who knows him. Would you like a pot of tea?” She went out of the room for a moment. “Mary will bring you one. Do you think Mr. Ruppta is responsible for the fire?”

“I hope not.”

“He is a most unusual man. From what I have heard.”

“What have you heard, Mum?”

“Nothing in particular.” She seemed perplexed, almost worried. “Where
is
that tea?” She went out and came back with a full pot.

When he returned to Camden that evening he found his father lying on his side upon the worn carpet. “Thank God you’re back,” he said, “I can hardly breathe.” His voice was high and quavering. “Someone crept up behind me and gave me a great thump. I can still see his shadow.”

Sam telephoned for an ambulance. “Is it your heart, Dad?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Your mother—”

They carried him on a stretcher into the ambulance, where they placed an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose; his forehead seemed to Sam to be suffused with a pale glow, or was it the brightness of the sweat against the skin? Philip Hanway looked up at the roof of the vehicle, his eyes flickering and darting as if he were deep in prayer. When they arrived at the
hospital he was content to be lifted and handled, willingly giving up the burden of his body to others. He was no longer responsible for it.

He was taken to intensive care, and then wheeled on a trolley to the operating theatre. Sam remained behind in the small ward, where a male nurse was smoothing the bed in which his father had been placed. “The ambulance came within ten minutes,” Sam said. “It was quick, considering the traffic.”

“Oh they can drive, those boys. I’m surprised they never kill anybody. Still, it’s all in a good cause.”

“What are they doing to Dad?”

“I imagine that they are giving him an angiogram.”

“Angelogram?”

“They insert a small cardiac catheter in the vein of the leg. Just by the groin. They proceed along the vein, right up into the chambers of the heart, through the pericardium and the atrium, into the pulmonary veins and semi-lunar valve.” He recited this without much thought.

Sam grimaced. “Will he be in pain?”

“I am told that veins have no feeling.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of another patient, a very large man perched on what in comparison seemed to be a very small trolley. He was followed by a young man and woman who seemed more distraught than he was. “What is his name?” the male nurse asked them.

“We call him Uncle,” the young lady replied.

“We can’t do that in a hospital, can we?”

“Benjamin. Rabbi Benjamin.”

“Benjamin.” The nurse leaned over him. “Can you hear me, Benjamin.”

“He was so full of life. So full of words. Then he fell over, and was silent. He is a great man. A holy man.”

“Can you hear me, Benjamin?”

“Let me be.” His voice was low and powerful.

“I have to take some blood.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“You need to be tested.”

“I need nothing. I need no one.”

“That’s not strictly true, I’m afraid.” The nurse placed the syringe in his arm. “That’s good. That’s lovely. Nice and smooth.” He turned to the two young relatives, who were looking on anxiously. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to drink it.”