Vindication of a Life

Stephen Baddeley

Description

The continuing story of Tom and Annie.The story of Eli Rubenstein, the only man conceived in Dachau, and the owner of an island in the Calvados Chain off the tail of New Guinea.The story of the nanny murdering 6th Earl and his disappearing to an island in the Calvados Chain off the tail of New Guinea.The story of half a ton of Afghan best and the men trying and vying to possess it.The story of how it finds its way to an island in the Calvados Chain off the tail of New Guinea.The story of an atomic bomb and how it finds its way to an island in the Calvados Chain off the tail of New Guinea.The story of an English copper and his quest for the 6th Earl.The story of a Hong Kong copper and his quest for the half a ton.The story of a deserted husband and his quest for the atomic bomb.The story of how they all end up, as expected, on an island in the Calvados Chain off the tail of New Guinea.

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 janvier 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781803138749
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2022 Stephen Baddeley

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.


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ISBN 978 1803138 749

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For Lucy



It was in the foyer of the East India Club. We were there to meet our friends. Our friends were the Heathfields. Remember them?
‘We’ was me, I’m Tom, Annie and Brosie – they were, still are, my wives. Brosie was in her wheelchair. It was raining. It was London. The foyer was full-to-fullish. There was coming-and-going. There were comings-and-goings. Umbrellas were being furled and un-. The ‘full-to-fullish’ was of well-dressed people.
I went to reception. I asked the lady to ring our friends. She said she would. So she did.
The commissionaire sat at a desk. He wore a uniform. It was extravagant. There were epaulettes of scrambled-egg. There was a name badge – ‘Sgt R C Connolly’. He looked at us. He stood up. He walked towards us. He stopped in front of us. He stopped in front of Annie. Annie towered above him. She was six-two, six-two in bare feet, six-two in bare feet with her knees bent. Up straight, in heels she was daunting. She was ‘up straight, in heels’. He was daunted. It was from the height of her. It was from the sight of her. The destroyed but beautiful face. The empty eye. ‘The thing’ from the one. ‘The thing’ that ‘burnt the topless towers of Ilium’.
He swallowed in his daunt.

• What is it about men, daunt and swallowing?

But he had a job to do.
“I’m terribly sorry, madam, but I must ask you to leave.”
“Why?”
“You are wearing trousers, madam.”
“So are you, Sergeant R C Connolly.”
“Yes, madam, but I’m not a lady, madam.”
“Better luck next time.”
“Indeed, madam, but I’m afraid it is a club rule, madam.”
“Change it.”
“I’m afraid that would take some considerable time, madam.”
“I’m in no hurry. And don’t be afraid, it’s bad for the kidneys.”
“I’m sorry, madam, but I really must insist.”
“Insist away.”
The manager detached himself. He came over. He wore a suit. There was a name badge – ‘Maj Craig M Sanders’. “What appears to be the trouble?”
“No trouble up my end, Major Craig M Sanders.”
He looked up. He looked into the beauty of the destroyed face. He swallowed.
But he had a job to do.
“I fully appreciate the inconvenience, madam, but I am afraid you must leave.”
“Don’t be afraid, chum. Fear isn’t good for the pancreas.”
“Indeed, madam.”
Then he made a mistake. He put his hand on her elbow. Annie looked at the hand. Major Craig M Sanders looked at the hand. Annie looked at him. He looked at her. He saw ‘the thing’. He took – as though burned by a tower of Ilium – his hand away. It was an unusual moment.

Brosie wheeled over. “Eh, you dere. Boss-fella. Wot you a doin’ askin’ dis charmin’ lady in de gorgeous onesie to be leavin’?” She was doing her Caribbean ‘ham-it-up’ voice. She was good at it. She was from Antigua.
He looked down at her. Into the blackest-of-all-black-faces. Into the wisest-of-all-wise-faces. It was the blackness alone he saw. The wisdom of the ages he saw not.
“The rule book is quite explicit, madam. No ladies in trousers are to be allowed into the club.”
“It soundin’ like de sort o’ rule dose ol’ days fellas make, back when yous guys be doin’ de rapin’ and de pillagin’ all roun’ de worl’.”
“Indeed, madam. But be that as it may, I must ask your friend to leave.”
“Dis rule book mus’ ’ave lots o’ de rules. It mus’ ’ve de rule ’bout keepin’ de fuckin’ niggers out. Go get de rule book, Dickie Boy, dere mus’ be de rule ’bout de fuckin’ niggers. None o’ you fancy fellas wan’ de club infestin’ wid no fuckin’ niggers.” An audience was gathering.
Major Craig M Sanders [‘Dickie Boy’] didn’t know what to say. The commissionaire didn’t either. They stood silent, swallowing. Then Annie spoke.
“Gentlemen, if I wasn’t wearing trousers, would that calm your troubled minds?”
“Certainly, madam,” said Major Craig M Sanders.
I knew what was about to happen. Annie was my wife. I knew the workings of her mind. So did Brosie.

‘De gorgeous onesie’ was zippered from her chest to a lot lower than that. And then – quite slowly – it wasn’t. And then – quite slowly – it was shrugged from shoulders. And then – quite slowly – it slid down the long and unadorned body to the floor.
“How’s that?”

There was silence in the foyer. Umbrellas were neither furled nor un-. Wives steered husbands towards libraries, dining-rooms and stairs. Husbands showed no desire to read, eat or climb.

We left. The Heathfields too. The rain had stopped. We stood outside. Passers-by showed a reluctance to pass. Traffic slowed. A policeman walked towards us. He talked to his radio.
“Hello, hello.” He was two-thirds of a traditionalist.
“Hello, hello, yourself,” said Annie.
“Do we have a problem, madam?”
“Not me. How about you?”
He backed off to the curb. He spoke to his radio. His radio spoke to him. He came back.
“I’m afraid you can’t stand here like that, madam.”
“Don’t be afraid, officer, it’s bad for the spleen.”
“None the less, madam. You can’t stand here like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like that, madam.” He was having trouble with the word ‘naked’. He was young. “I must ask you to cover up.”
“And if I was to decline your kind request, officer?”
“Then, madam, my sergeant would be most upset.”
“Tut, tut, that would never do. There’s no knowing what organ damage a ‘most upset’ sergeant might suffer.”
“Indeed, madam, but if you would cover up, please.”
“As you ask so nicely,” she said, and slipped back into ‘de gorgeous onesie’. His radio crackled. He went back to the curb. He returned.
“My sergeant says thank you and asks you, please, not to do it again.”
“You have a polite sergeant.”
“Not always.”

We walked and wheeled to Pall Mall and then on to Villandry’s. The others – Prue, Andy, Zola, Mitzi and Rupert were already there. The wine was open. Zola knew about wine. She was French.
We talked of islands. Not just any islands. Islands in the Calvados Chain off the tail of New Guinea. It was the obvious, if not the only, thing to do.
*
Enter Chorus.
Bert sat in an armchair on the balcony of his home. It overlooked Sydney Harbour – Rushcutters Bay. He wore a Hawaiian shirt & shorts. He wore a smug smile too/also/and as well. There was no reason/obvious or otherwise/for the Hawaiian shirt & shorts – but there was for the smug smile. He wore it in the knowledge that half-of-half-a-ton-of-Afghan-best was hidden away where no one would/could/could possibly find it. Where he was sure/sure-ish/hoped no one would/could/could possibly find it.
*
Mr Woo sat Buddha-like – because he looked a lot like Buddha – in an armchair on the balcony of his home. It overlooked Repulse Bay. He wore a chángshän. It fitted his generous frame. He wore no visible expression. Invisibly – the expression was one of being ‘pissed-off-to-the-max’. A dead monkey lay before him. It was not the reason for the ‘pissed-off to the max’. It was the result of it.
The reason for Mr Woo’s unhappy/‘pissed-off-to-the-max’/state of mind was that he didn’t know where half-of-half-a-ton-of-Afghan-best was hidden away. And because of that lack of knowledge – and because of who he was [who he’d spent his life becoming] and in the knowledge that he should be the only person to know where half-of-half-a-ton-of-Afghan-best was – and thus been free to hide it anywhere he wished – he was [see above] ‘pissed-off-to-the-max’.
Mr Woo was ‘Mr Big’ – and in more ways than one. He was – and had been for longer than he could remember – numero uno/dï y ï of the Hong Kong drug trade. The sharks of the South China Sea had/on many occasions in the past/been grateful – if sharks are capable of gratitude/which they probably aren’t/but it’s hard to be sure – for his rise to that prestigious position.
But not so much of recent years. Aspiring competition – aware of the ‘sharks of the South China Sea’ – now trod-&-skulked with care-&-caution around the borders of his empire.
*
The 6th Earl of Somewhere-or-other – having recently bludgeoned his children’s nanny to death with an iron bar – and leaving it [together with his Savile Row jacket/double-breasted & double-vented] at the scene – was uncertain of what to do next. And because of that uncertainty he sought the company & advice of his oldest-&-closest-friend.

• The 6th Earl’s name was John. But to refer to him as such would be to introduce unnecessary confusion. It was also the name of the oldest-&-closest-friend.

Now – old f