have? A munitions worker. Acid, metal, cordite. Put them together and they go bang.’
‘A German munitions worker? Two German munitions workers?’
‘OK. OK. That takes some figuring. I leave that to you.’
‘How far up Herr Cufflink’s sleeve did you look for these fragments of metal?’
‘Up as far as the arm went.’
‘Did you find anything after the first couple of inches?’
‘No. I told you that already.’
‘And the same on Herr Trousers?’
‘Ach – I’d be reading backwards from my present opinion. Settle for the cordite. That I am certain of. My nose tells the truth. I am the Proust of filth. The smell of a man’s rotten liver will find its way back to me years later. Makes it almost impossible to eat in a British restaurant, I can tell you.’
‘Very well. Look at it this way. A munitions worker wears an overall. He does not wear his best tweed jacket to the factory. What do you wear, most of the time?’
‘You know fuck well.’ Irritation was bringing out the Pole in Kolankiewicz once more. ‘You seen me hundreds of times. A white lab coat, for Chrissake.’
‘Which stops leaving two inches of cuff sticking out. Sod’s law. Toast always lands butter-side down on the carpet. Lab coats never fit. What we have here is a member of your own fraternity. Cufflink, probably Trousers too, was a boffin. Someone working above factory level in the bombs and bangs business. The sooner you put those fragments out for analysis the better.’
‘I’ve done it, but, take it from me, that alloy is nothing I’ve ever seen.’
‘You mean it’s … ’ Troy failed to find the word he wanted. ‘ … New … ?’
‘New? Troy, it’s from another planet! For all I know it fell off Flash Gordon’s rocketship.’
And suddenly Troy realised exactly what they had unearthed between them and how complex and how dangerous the ramifications of that knowledge might be.
§ 20
Troy’s Uncle Nikolai always reminded him of a character from Edward Lear – a fitting subject for a limerick. But since none had fitted precisely he had made up his own at about the age of ten and had got as far as ‘There was an old man from Nepal, Whose face was incredibly small … ’ but no further. Of course Nikolai’s face was not incredibly small, it appeared so because it was buried by a mass of hair and a full beard, and, often, spectacles. Overall, small was somewhat appropriate. At five feet two he needed not one soapbox but two from which to harangue the crowd at Speakers’ Corner of a Sunday morning. Troy knew that he stood on tiptoe just for the extra couple of inches that allowed him to lean across the makeshift lectern and gesture at the crowd.
Troy had caught him mid-speech and mid-harangue, in a Leninish pose, left arm flush along the top of the lectern, the right sweeping across the crowd in a broad intaking motion that could imply open-handed inclusiveness, a commonality from which none could escape, or, as the palm closed to leave a pointing index finger, single people out as though his words were aimed solely at them.
‘ … And it is to the Britain of the post-war years that we must now turn. It is time to talk of many things—’
‘Of cabbages and kings,’ yelled a literate wag from the crowd.
‘Sod cabbages,’ replied a wittier wag, ‘I seen enough of the bleedin’ fings the last five years to do me a lifetime!’
Beneath the grey curls that wrapped around his face it was impossible to see whether Nikolai Rodyonovich was smiling or not.
‘After the last war we were promised—’
‘Whaddya mean “we”?’ came another voice from the crowd. ‘You’re about as English as frogs’ legs and sauerkraut!’
‘I am, as you know full well, Mr Robinson, a Russian. You yourself goaded me with this fact, as I recall, in the summer of 1938, in such abusive terms that a member of the London constabulary felt obliged to step in and restrain you!’
Troy had been the constable in question. Off
‘A German munitions worker? Two German munitions workers?’
‘OK. OK. That takes some figuring. I leave that to you.’
‘How far up Herr Cufflink’s sleeve did you look for these fragments of metal?’
‘Up as far as the arm went.’
‘Did you find anything after the first couple of inches?’
‘No. I told you that already.’
‘And the same on Herr Trousers?’
‘Ach – I’d be reading backwards from my present opinion. Settle for the cordite. That I am certain of. My nose tells the truth. I am the Proust of filth. The smell of a man’s rotten liver will find its way back to me years later. Makes it almost impossible to eat in a British restaurant, I can tell you.’
‘Very well. Look at it this way. A munitions worker wears an overall. He does not wear his best tweed jacket to the factory. What do you wear, most of the time?’
‘You know fuck well.’ Irritation was bringing out the Pole in Kolankiewicz once more. ‘You seen me hundreds of times. A white lab coat, for Chrissake.’
‘Which stops leaving two inches of cuff sticking out. Sod’s law. Toast always lands butter-side down on the carpet. Lab coats never fit. What we have here is a member of your own fraternity. Cufflink, probably Trousers too, was a boffin. Someone working above factory level in the bombs and bangs business. The sooner you put those fragments out for analysis the better.’
‘I’ve done it, but, take it from me, that alloy is nothing I’ve ever seen.’
‘You mean it’s … ’ Troy failed to find the word he wanted. ‘ … New … ?’
‘New? Troy, it’s from another planet! For all I know it fell off Flash Gordon’s rocketship.’
And suddenly Troy realised exactly what they had unearthed between them and how complex and how dangerous the ramifications of that knowledge might be.
§ 20
Troy’s Uncle Nikolai always reminded him of a character from Edward Lear – a fitting subject for a limerick. But since none had fitted precisely he had made up his own at about the age of ten and had got as far as ‘There was an old man from Nepal, Whose face was incredibly small … ’ but no further. Of course Nikolai’s face was not incredibly small, it appeared so because it was buried by a mass of hair and a full beard, and, often, spectacles. Overall, small was somewhat appropriate. At five feet two he needed not one soapbox but two from which to harangue the crowd at Speakers’ Corner of a Sunday morning. Troy knew that he stood on tiptoe just for the extra couple of inches that allowed him to lean across the makeshift lectern and gesture at the crowd.
Troy had caught him mid-speech and mid-harangue, in a Leninish pose, left arm flush along the top of the lectern, the right sweeping across the crowd in a broad intaking motion that could imply open-handed inclusiveness, a commonality from which none could escape, or, as the palm closed to leave a pointing index finger, single people out as though his words were aimed solely at them.
‘ … And it is to the Britain of the post-war years that we must now turn. It is time to talk of many things—’
‘Of cabbages and kings,’ yelled a literate wag from the crowd.
‘Sod cabbages,’ replied a wittier wag, ‘I seen enough of the bleedin’ fings the last five years to do me a lifetime!’
Beneath the grey curls that wrapped around his face it was impossible to see whether Nikolai Rodyonovich was smiling or not.
‘After the last war we were promised—’
‘Whaddya mean “we”?’ came another voice from the crowd. ‘You’re about as English as frogs’ legs and sauerkraut!’
‘I am, as you know full well, Mr Robinson, a Russian. You yourself goaded me with this fact, as I recall, in the summer of 1938, in such abusive terms that a member of the London constabulary felt obliged to step in and restrain you!’
Troy had been the constable in question. Off
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