Architecturally, Hermsprong was a mirror image of Rasselas built on the other side of the canal. And, like a mirror image, it showed everything back to front.
Unlike reconstructed Rasselas, every cliché of depressed urban high-rise living could be found on Hermsprong.
Crack-houses, corner dealers, lifts that were moving urinals when they moved at all, underpasses which were rats alleys where you could lose more than your bones, the highest break-in rate, the lowest clear-up rate, more hoodies than a monastery, and so on, and so on. If ever a place should have been razed to the ground, Hermsprong was it. But paradoxically it survived because of Rasselass success. How could you say an experiment had failed when you could produce evidence only a mile away that it could succeed? Or to put it another way, why should you demolish Hermsprong and relocate its inmates to the lovely new small well-planned developments the council was building to the east when the inhabitants of Rasselas were so much more deserving?
These were the arguments the sophists of the City Council produced in order to postpone a decision which was going to put an intolerable strain on their already overstretched budget.
Joe knew that to ask why Butcher was heading for Hermsprong would be like asking a bank robber why he robbed banks. Cos thats where my clients are, stupid.
Instead he said, Youre not going to light that thing in my car, are you?
Referring to the cheroot which Butcher had inserted between her lips.
Jesus, Sixsmith, you should watch more old movies. You cant be a proper PI unless you chain smoke!
Like you cant be a proper lawyer less you wear a wig and charge five hundred pounds a minute?
Dont insult me. Im worth more than that.
But she put the cheroot away then asked, So, business is so bad youve shut up shop and decided to spend the rest of the day watching mucky videos?
Wrong, as usual. Matter of fact, Im going home to do some research on the very important client Ill be lunching with at his club tomorrow.
Oh yes? And Im going to meet the Lord Chancellor to talk about becoming a High Court judge!
This provoked Joe to telling her all about his encounter with the YFG.
She listened with interest. He tried to conceal his ignorance of what the case was all about by claiming client confidentiality but she saw through that straightaway.
You mean you havent got the faintest idea, dont you? How many times do I have to tell you, Sixsmith? Always find out what youre getting into before you get into it. Interesting though that the sun doesnt shine all the time, not even on Golden Boy.
You know Porphyry?
Not personally, but professionally I had occasion to do some research on the family three, four years back in connection with a compensation case.
Shoot. And that was against Porphyry? said Joe, feeling illogically dismayed.
Against the Porphyry Estate, which makes it the same thing. One of their employees died. Coroner said accident, no one to blame, but thats what they appoint coroners for, isnt it? To make sure the Porphyrys of this world never get blamed. There was a widow and a son. I reckoned they deserved better.
And did they get it?
Unhappily the mother didnt survive her husband long enough for things to run their course. If there is a God, hes a member at Royal Hoo and looks after His own.
I thought Chris was OK, Joe protested.
And youve got O-levels for character judgement, right? Im sure hes a very likeable guy. In the class war, the ones that make you like them are the worst, Joe. He might seem to be trailing clouds of glory, but hes also trailing a couple of centuries of unearned privilege. And if you get to thinking hes different from the rest, remind yourself hes just got engaged to a fluff-head whose father runs some of the most fascist imprints of our mainly fascist press.
To Joe this sounded a bit unfair on the Bugle, but political debate with Butcher was a waste of time.
All I know is the guys got some kind of trouble, he said weakly.
Yes, and that is good news, said Butcher. But whats really puzzling is why hes looking for help from you of all people.
Indignantly he retorted, Cos I was recommended, thats why?
Recommended? she said incredulously. Who by? The Samaritans?
By Willie Woodbine, no less.
Which meant he had to tell her all that part of the story too.
To his surprise she nodded as if it all made perfect sense.
Poor Willie, she said. Must be in a real tizz. And youre his last resort.
Whats that mean?
You dont know anything, do you, Joe? she said. He knew she was going to be really patronizing when she called him Joe, but he didnt mind. Folk could rarely be patronizing without telling you stuff you didnt know just to show how much more they knew than you did.
She said, Willie Woodbines dad used to buttle for the Porphyrys
Battle? interrupted Joe. You mean, like he was a minder or something?
He was their butler, for Gods sake. Willie must be three or four years older than Chris, just the age gap for a bit of hero worship, young master being shown the ropes by the butlers worldly-wise son. Boot on the other foot when they grew up, of course, but theres a relationship there which begins to assume at least the appearance of equality when Willie joins the police force and starts his rapid climb up the ladder. If he gets to be chief constable, he might even get invited round to dinner.
Miaow, said Joe, who might have observed, had he been given to self-, social-, psycho-, or indeed any kind of analysis, how interesting it was that folk from nice bourgeois backgrounds like Butcher were much more inclined to get hot under the collar about the inequalities of class than natural-born plebs like himself.
She ignored him and went on, So its not surprising that Willie, with his eyes on the top, should want to do the young master a service, particularly in this area.
Youre losing me, said Joe.
Its finding you thats the problem, she sighed. The golf club. The Royal Hoo. Getting into the Hoo is the ultimate accolade in Luton high society. If your face doesnt fit, youve more chance of getting into the Royal Enclosure at Ascot wearing shorts like yours!
Now Joe did feel hurt. Class didnt bother him but snipes at his fashion sense did, less they came from a rich client or a gorgeous in-out girlfriend. He refused to let himself be diverted, however, and asked, So you dont just go along and pay your admission fee?
No! They need to look you over, check your family and friends then move on to your bank balance, your tailor and your table manners. After that if youve got someone to propose you, second you and probably third and fourth you, they take a vote
Whos this they?
Some committee, she said dismissively. And it just takes one blackball and youve had it.
Black ball? said Joe. Dont like the sound of that.
Dont go vulgar on me, Joe, she said.
Sorry. So Chris is putting Willie up for membership, is that what youre saying?
Sorry. So Chris is putting Willie up for membership, is that what youre saying?
So Id guess. And of course if you want to get into the Hoo, then getting yourself proposed by Christian Porphyry is just about the closest thing you can get to a guarantee of success.
Because everybody likes him, you mean? said Joe, who didnt find this hard to believe. One of the many perks of being a YFG had to be that everybody liked you.
Dont be silly. Whats liking got to do with it? Because the Royal Hoo more or less belongs to the Porphyry family, of course.
That more or less? asked Joe.
I dont know the precise details, said Butcher. Just what I picked up when researching the family background. Know your enemy, Joe. You never can tell when some little detail might come in useful in court.
Joe shuddered at the thought of finding himself on the wrong end of Butcher in a courtroom. Not even Young Fair Gods were safe.
He said, OK, give me the history lesson, long as youre not charging.
Ill put it on your slate, she said. Back in the twenties, one of the Porphyrys was so hooked on golf he built a course on an outlying stretch of the family estate known as the Royal Hoo because, according to tradition, King Charles had been hidden there in a peasants hut during the Civil War.
And he was anonymous, so they called it Hoo?
Funny. I hope. No, its called Hoo because thats what hoo means: a spur of land. At first it was for private use only, by invitation from the family. Then the war came and the course got ploughed up. When peace broke out, and the UK was once more a land fit for golfers, the old gang of chums and hangers on started pestering Porphyry to have the course refurbished. Only this was a new Porphyry, your boys grandfather, Id guess, and he was commercially a lot sharper and didnt see why he should pick up all the tabs. He insisted a proper company was formed and the Royal Hoo Golf Club as we know it everyone, that is, except you came into being.
With the Porphyrys still in control?
Dont know the contractual details, but Id guess they kept a controlling interest. People like them dont give their land away, free gratis and for nothing, she said grimly.
So, with Christians backing, Willie looks like a cert for membership? Good for him, if thats what he wants.
And good for you too, Joe. Maybe. Id guess whatever trouble Porphyrys got, he did what the ruling classes always do and turned to his old butler for help. Thats OK if youve got a Crichton or a Jeeves, but all he had was Woodbine, who felt he couldnt help officially but tried to keep his nose up masters bum by recommending you as a last resort.
Joe tried not to show he was hurt but he wasnt very good at dissimulation, and Butcher, who was very fond of him, said placatingly, Look, I dont mean you dont get results. For Gods sake, Ive recommended you myself, havent I?
This was true, and the memory eased the smart a little.
All I meant was, I mean, Jesus, what can you do in a set-up like the Hoo? Youll stick out like a
She seemed lost for a simile.
Like a black ball, completed Joe.
This time she didnt reprove his vulgarity.
Something like that. When Porphyry met you, didnt he say anything?
Like, hey man, no one mentioned you were a short black balding no-hoper with parrots on his shorts? No, I dont recollect hearing anything like that. Unless giving me four fifties and saying come and have lunch with me at the club is posh shorthand for Id be crazy to hire a slob like you.
Joe, dont go sensitive on me. It doesnt suit you.
He consulted his feelings. She was right. And in any case, it was too much of an effort in this weather to keep it up.
Apology accepted, he said.
Apology? You going deaf too?
That was better. Now they were back on their proper footing.
They chatted about other things till Butcher told Joe to drop her in an area on the fringe of Hermsprong that even in the full brightness of a midsummer day had an aura of dark menace.
You want I should come with you? offered Joe, glancing uneasily at a group of young men who looked like they were planning to blow up Parliament.
To do what? she asked. Then, relenting, she added, No, Ill be OK, Joe, but thanks for the thought. Its you who needs protection. Im just going among the poor and the disadvantaged. Tomorrow youll be mixing with the rich and successful. Thats where the sabre-toothed tigers roam. Take care of yourself there, Joe.
She got out of the car, lit her cheroot, and set off along the pavement, pausing by the terrorists to say something that made them laugh and exchanging high fives with them before she moved on.
Sixsmith watched her vanish behind the grafftid wall of a walkway, tracking her progress for a little while by the spoor of tobacco smoke which hung almost without motion in the lifeless air. Shed be OK, he guessed. She was worth more to these people alive than dead. This was her chosen world. People like Porphyry and the other members of the Royal Hoo were the enemy, which was why she knew so much about them, presumably.
Not that Butcher was the only one able to identify the enemy.
The terrorists had begun a slow drift towards the Morris.
He gave them a friendly wave and accelerated away towards the visible haven of Rasselas.
Tiger
That night, with Beryl working, nothing but repeats on the box, and his cat Whitey plunged deep into whatever the summer equivalent of hibernation was, Joe decided to wander round to the Luton City Supporters Club bar in search of social solace.
To start with it seemed a good decision. He arrived just in time to get in on the end of a round that most democratic of club chairmen, Sir Monty Wright, was buying to celebrate the close-season signing of a sixteen-year-old Croatian wunderkind. Word was that Man U and Chelsea had both been sniffing around, but while they hesitated, Sir Monty, who hadnt got where he was by hesitating, had dipped his hand into his apparently bottomless purse and said to the manager, Go get him.
Joe bore his pint of Guinness to a seat next to his friend, Merv Golightly, self-styled prince of Luton cabbies but known because of his exuberant driving style as the man who put the X in taxi.
Good to see you, Joe, he said. But I thought you was on a promise tonight. What happened? Beryl give you the elbow?
Something came up at the hospital, said Joe.
Better than washing her hair, I suppose, laughed Merv. So hows business? Slow or stopped?
The slur prompted Joe to tell Merv about Christian Porphyry. If hed hoped to impress his friend he was disappointed.
And this guy wants you to meet him at the Royal Hoo? And hes going to say youre applying for membership? Must be someone there he really wants to wind up! Give him the finger, Joe. Hes using you. You dont believe me? Take a look at Sir Monty there.