It was also because of Uncle Arthur that they moved from London to Leeds, although Tommy’s mother said it was because London was becoming too expensive. Tommy had never found it easy to make friends, and up north it was even worse. People made fun of his accent and picked fights with him in the school yard, and a lot of the time he couldn’t even understand what they were saying. He couldn’t understand the teachers either, which was why the standard of his schoolwork slipped.
Once they had moved, Uncle Arthur, who traveled a lot for his job but lived in Leeds, became a fixture at their new house whenever he was in town, and some evenings he and Tommy’s mother would go off dancing, to the pictures, or to the pub and leave Tommy home alone. He liked that because he could play his records and smoke a cigarette in the back garden. Once, he had even drunk some of Uncle Arthur’s vodka and replaced it with water. He didn’t know if Uncle Arthur ever guessed, but he never said anything. Uncle Arthur had just bought his mother a brand-new television too, so Tommy sometimes just sat eating cheese-and-onion crisps, drinking pop, and watching Danger Man or The Saint.
What he didn’t like was when they stopped in. Then they were always whispering or going up to his mother’s room to talk, so that he couldn’t hear what they were saying. But they were still in the house, and even though they were ignoring him, he couldn’t do whatever he wanted or even watch what he wanted on television. Uncle Arthur never hit him or anything — his mother wouldn’t stand for that — but Tommy could tell sometimes that he wanted to. Mostly he took no interest whatsoever. For all Uncle Arthur cared, Tommy might as well have not existed. But he did.
Everyone said Tommy’s mother was pretty. Tommy couldn’t really see it himself, because she was his mother, after all. He thought that Denise Clark at school was pretty. He wanted to go out with her. And Marianne Faithfull, whom he’d seen on Top of the Pops. But she was too old for him, and she was famous. People said he was young for his years and knew nothing about girls. All he knew was that he definitely liked girls. He felt something funny happen to him when he saw Denise Clark walking down the street in her little gray school skirt, white blouse, and maroon V-neck jumper, but he didn’t know what it was, and apart from kissing, which he knew about, and touching breasts, which someone had told him about at school, he didn’t really know what you were supposed to do with a girl when she was charitable enough to let you go out with her.
Tommy’s mother didn’t look at all like Denise Clark or Marianne Faithfull, but she wore more modern and more fashionable clothes than the other women on the street. She had beautiful long blond hair over her shoulders and pale flawless skin, and she put on her pink lipstick, black mascara, and blue eye shadow every day, even if she was only stopping in or going to the shops. Tommy thought some of the women on the street were jealous because she was so pretty and nicely dressed.
Not long after they had moved, he overheard two of their neighbors saying that his mother was full of “London airs and graces” and “no better than she ought to be.” He didn’t know what that meant, but he could tell by the way they said it that it wasn’t meant as a compliment. Then they said something else he didn’t understand about a dress she had worn when his father was only four months in his grave, and they made tut-tutting sounds. That made Tommy angry. He came out of his hiding place and stood in front of them, red-faced, and told them they shouldn’t talk like that about his mother and father. That took the wind out of their sails.
Every night before he went to sleep, Tommy prayed that Uncle Arthur would go away and never come back again. But he always did. He seemed to stop at the house late every night, and sometimes Tommy didn’t hear him leave until it was almost time to get up for school. What they found to talk about all night, he had no idea, though he knew that Uncle Arthur had a bed made up in the spare room, so that he could sleep there if he wanted. Even when Uncle Arthur wasn’t around, Tommy’s mother seemed distant and distracted, and she lost her patience with him very quickly.
One thing Tommy noticed within a few weeks of Uncle Arthur’s visits to the new house was that his father’s photograph — the one in full uniform he had been so proud of — went mysteriously missing from the mantelpiece. He asked his mother about it, but all she said was that it was time to move on and leave her widow’s weeds behind. Sometimes he thought he would never understand the things grown-ups said.
WHEN TOMMY GOT back to his room at the boardinghouse, he took the badge out of his pocket and held it in his palm. Yes, he could feel his father’s power in it. Then he took out the creased newspaper cutting he always carried with him and read it for the hundredth time:
Police Constable Shot Dead
Biggest Haul Since the Great Train Robbery, Authorities Say
A police constable accompanying a van carrying more than one million pounds was shot dead yesterday in a daring broad-daylight raid on the A226 outside Swanscombe. PC Brian Burford was on special assignment at the time. The robbers fled the scene, and police are interested in talking to anyone who might have seen a blue Vauxhall Victor in the general area that day. Since the Great Train Robbery on 8 August, 1963, police officers have routinely accompanied large amounts of cash. . . .
Tommy knew the whole thing by heart, of course, about the police looking for five men and thinking it must have been an inside job, but he always read the end over and over again: “PC Burford leaves behind a wife and a young son.” Leaves behind. They made it sound as if it were his father’s fault, when he had just been doing his job. “‘It is one of the saddest burdens of the badge of office to break the news that a police officer has been killed in the line of duty,’ said Deputy Chief Constable Graham Brown. ‘Thank God this burden remains such a rarity in our country.’”
Tommy fingered his badge again. Burden of the badge of office. Well, he knew what that felt like now. He made sure no one was around and went to the toilet. There, he took some toilet paper, wet it under the tap, and used it to clean off his badge, drying it carefully with a towel. There were still a few grains of sand caught in the pattern of lines that radiated outward, and it looked as if it were tarnished a bit around the edges. He decided that he needed some sort of wallet to keep it in, and he had enough pocket money to buy one. Uncle Arthur was still at the pier, and his mother was having a lie-down, having “caught too much sun,” so he told her he was going for a walk and headed for the shops.
TOMMY WENT INTO the first gift shop he saw and found a plastic wallet just the right size. He could keep his badge safe in there, and when he opened it, people would be able to see it. That would be important if he had to make an arrest or take someone in for questioning. He counted out the coins and paid the shopkeeper, then put the wallet in his back pocket and walked outside. The shop next door had racks of used paperback books outside. Uncle Arthur didn’t approve of used books — “Never know where they’ve been” — but Tommy didn’t care about that. He had become good at hiding things. He bought The Saint in New York, which he hadn’t read yet and had been looking for for ages.
The sun was still shining, so Tommy crossed over to the broad promenade that ran beside the sands and the sea. There was a lot of traffic on the front, and he had to be careful. His mother would have gone spare if she had known he hadn’t looked for a zebra crossing but had dodged between the cars. Someone honked a horn at him. He thought of flashing his badge but decided against it. He would use it only when he really had to.
He walked along the prom, letting his hand trail on the warm metal railing. He liked to watch the waves roll in and to listen to them as they broke on the shore. There were still hundreds of people on the beach, some of them braving the sea, most just sitting in deck chairs—the men in shirtsleeves and braces reading newspapers, knotted hankies covering their heads; the women sleeping, wearing floppy hats with the brims shading their faces. Children screamed and jumped, made elaborate sand castles. A humpbacked man led the donkeys slowly along their marked track, excited riders whooping as they rode, pretending t
o be cowboys.
Then Tommy saw Uncle Arthur and froze.
HE WAS WEARING his dark-blue trousers and matching blazer with the gold buttons, a small straw hat perched on his head. He needs a haircut, Tommy thought, looking at where the strands of dark hair curled out from under the straw. It wasn’t as if he were young enough to wear his hair long like the Beatles. He was probably at least as old as Tommy’s mother. As Uncle Arthur walked along with the crowds, he looked around furtively, licking his lips from time to time, and Tommy hardly even needed the magic of his badge to know that he was up to something. Tommy leaned over the railing and looked out to sea, where a distant tanker trailed smoke, and waited until Uncle Arthur had passed by. As he did so, Tommy slipped his hand into his pocket and fingered the wallet that held his badge, feeling its power.
He could see Uncle Arthur’s straw hat easily enough as he followed him through the crowds along the prom toward the Central Pier. Luckily, there were plenty of people walking in both directions, and there was no way Uncle Arthur could spot Tommy, even if he turned around suddenly. It was as if the badge had even given him extra power to be invisible.
Shortly before Chapel Street, Uncle Arthur checked the traffic and dashed across the road. Tommy was near some lights, and luckily they turned red, so he was able to keep up. There were just as many people on the other side because of all the shops and bingo halls and amusement arcades, so it was easy to slip unseen into the crowds again.
The problems started when Uncle Arthur got into the backstreets, where there weren’t as many people. He didn’t look behind him, so Tommy thought he would probably be okay, but he kept his distance and stopped every now and then to look in a shop window. Soon, though, there were no shops except for the occasional newsagent’s and bookie’s, with maybe a café or a run-down pub on a street corner. Tommy started to get increasingly worried that he would be seen. What would Uncle Arthur do then? It didn’t bear thinking about. He put his hand in his pocket and fingered the badge. It gave him courage. Occasionally, he crossed the street and followed from the other side. There were still a few people, including families with children carrying buckets and spades, heading for the beach, so he didn’t stick out like a sore thumb.
Finally, just when Tommy thought he would have to give up because the streets were getting too narrow and empty, Uncle Arthur disappeared into a pub called the Golden Trumpet. That was an unforeseen development. Tommy was too young to enter a pub, and even if he did, he would certainly be noticed. He looked at the James Bond wristwatch he had got for his thirteenth birthday. It was quarter to three. The pubs closed for the afternoon at three. That wasn’t too long to wait. He walked up to the front and tried to glance in the windows, but they were covered with smoked glass, so he couldn’t see a thing.
There was a small café about twenty yards down the street, from which he could easily keep an eye on the pub door. Tommy went in and ordered a glass of milk and a sticky bun, which he took over to the table near the window, and watched the pub as he drank and ate. A few seedy-looking people came and went, but there was no sign of Uncle Arthur. Finally, at about ten past three, out he came with two other men. They stood in the street, talking, faces close together, standing back and laughing when anyone else walked past, as if they were telling a joke. Then, as if at a prearranged signal, they all walked off in different directions. Tommy didn’t think he needed to follow Uncle Arthur anymore, as he was clearly heading back in the direction of the boardinghouse. And he was carrying a small holdall that he hadn’t had with him before he went into the pub.
“WHERE DO YOU think you’ve been?”
Tommy’s mother was sitting in the lounge when he got back to the boardinghouse. Uncle Arthur was with her, reading the afternoon paper. He didn’t look up.
“Just walking,” said Tommy.
“Where?”
“Along the front.” Tommy was terrified that Uncle Arthur might have seen him and told his mother, and that she was trying to catch him out in a lie.
“I’ve told you not to go near the sea when I’m not with you,” she said.
“I didn’t go near the sea,” Tommy said, relieved. “All the time I was on the prom, I was behind the railing.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, Mummy. Honest. Cross my heart.” At least he could swear to that without fear of hellfire and damnation. When he had been on the prom, he had been behind the railing at the top of the high seawall, far away from the sea.
“All right, then,” she said. “Mrs. Newbiggin will be serving dinner soon, so go up and wash your hands like a good boy. Your uncle Arthur had a nice win on the horses this afternoon, so we’ll be going out to the Tower Ballroom to celebrate after. You’ll be all right here on your own, reading or watching television, won’t you?”
Tommy said he would be all right alone. But it wasn’t watching television that he had in mind, or reading The Saint in New York.
THE BOARDINGHOUSE WAS quiet after dinner. When they had cleared the table, Mrs. Newbiggin and her husband disappeared into their own living quarters, most of the younger guests went out, and only the two old women who were always there sat in the lounge, knitting and watching television. Tommy went up to his room and lay on his bed, reading, until he was certain his mother and Uncle Arthur hadn’t forgotten something they would have to come back for, then he snapped into action.
Ever since he had been little, he’d had a knack for opening locks, and the one on Uncle Arthur’s door gave little resistance. In fact, the same key that opened his own door opened Uncle Arthur’s. He wondered if the other guests knew it was that easy. Once he stood on the threshold, he’d a moment of fear, but he touched the badge in his trouser pocket for luck and went inside, closing the door softly behind him.
Uncle Arthur’s room was a mirror image of his own, with a tall wardrobe, single bed, chair, chest of drawers, and small washstand and towel. The flower-patterned wallpaper was peeling off at a damp patch where it met the ceiling, and Tommy could see the silhouettes of dead flies in the inverted lamp shade. The wooden bed frame was scratched, and the pink candlewick bedspread had a dark stain near the bottom. The ashtray on the bedside table was overflowing with crushed-out filter-tipped cigarettes. The narrow window, which looked out on the Newbiggins’ backyard, where the dustbins and the outhouse were, was covered in grime and cobwebs. It was open about an inch, and the net curtains fluttered in the breeze.
First, Tommy looked under the bed. He found nothing there but dust and an old sock. Next, he went through the chest of drawers, which contained only Uncle Arthur’s clean underwear, a shaving kit, aspirin, and some items he didn’t recognize. He assumed they were grown-ups’ things. The top of the wardrobe, for which Tommy had to enlist the aid of the rickety chair, proved to be a waste of time too. The only place remaining was inside the wardrobe itself. The key was missing, but it was even easier to open a wardrobe than a door. Uncle Arthur’s shirts, trousers, and jackets hung from the rail, and below them was his open suitcase, containing a few pairs of dirty socks and underpants. No holdall.
Just before he closed the wardrobe door, Tommy had an idea and lifted up the suitcase. Underneath it lay the holdall.
He reached in, pulled it out, and put it on the bed. It was a little heavy, but it didn’t make any noise when he moved it. There was no lock, and the zipper slid open smoothly when he pulled the tab. At first, he couldn’t see what was inside, then he noticed something wrapped in brown paper. He lifted it out and opened it carefully. Inside was a gun. Tommy didn’t know what kind of gun, but it was heavier than any cap gun he had ever owned, so he assumed it was a real one. He was careful not to touch it. He knew all about fingerprints. He wrapped it up and put it back. Then he noticed that it was lying on a bed of what he had thought was paper, but when he reached in and pulled out a wad, he saw it was money. Five-pound notes. He didn’t know how much there was, and he wasn’t going to count it. He had discovered enough for one evening. Carefully, he put eve
rything back as it was. What he had to work out next was what he was going to do about it.
THAT NIGHT, AS Tommy lay in bed unable to sleep, he heard hushed voices in his mother’s room. He didn’t like to eavesdrop on her, but given what he had just found in Uncle Arthur’s room, he felt he had to.
It was almost impossible to hear what they were saying, and he managed to catch only a few fragments.
“Can’t . . . money here . . . wait,” he heard Uncle Arthur say, and missed the next bit. Then he heard what sounded like “Year . . . Jigger says Brazil,” and after a pause, “. . . the kid?” Next, his mother’s voice said, “. . . grandparents.” He missed what Uncle Arthur said next but distinctly heard his mother say, “. . . have to, won’t they?”
Tommy wondered what they meant. Was Uncle Arthur planning a robbery or had he already committed one? He certainly had a lot of money. Tommy remembered the three men talking outside the pub. One of them must have given Uncle Arthur the holdall. What for? Did it represent the proceeds or the means? Were Uncle Arthur and his mother going to run away to Brazil and leave him with his grandparents? He didn’t believe she would do that.
The bedsprings creaked, and he thought he heard a muffled cry from the next room. His mother obviously couldn’t sleep. Was she crying about his father? Then, much later, when he was finally falling asleep himself, he heard her door close and footsteps pass by his room, as if someone were walking on tiptoe.
THE NEXT DAY at breakfast, his mother and Uncle Arthur didn’t have very much to say. Both of them looked tired, and his mother had applied an extra bit of makeup to try to hide the dark pouches under her eyes. Uncle Arthur’s hair stuck up in places, and he needed a shave. The two old ladies looked at them sternly and clucked.