Evasive action was called for. Ramsay sprinted away across the gardens, Pamela baying in pursuit. He had to negotiate a course of random obstacles—baby dolls that had been callously abandoned, the rocker off a rocking horse, a pushchair broken when it had been used in a wheelbarrow race—and had just jumped over a series of box hedges like a nifty steeplechaser, almost making it to the iron railings at the boundary, when he was brought down at full tilt by a recumbent toy scooter and was sent sprawling on the grass.
“Mine, I think,” a triumphant Quinn said to Pamela Berowne, placing a foot on a spreadeagled Ramsay like a big-game hunter claiming his quarry. Or indeed, a bullfighter who had conquered a bull. Pamela conceded before stomping off. She seemed to concede defeat rather easily, in Ramsay’s opinion. Although relieved to have escaped being wooed by her, he liked to think that if he was keen on someone he would put up more of a fight.
“I belong to neither of you,” he said irritably as Quinn helped him to his feet.
“No, you’re right, Coker, you don’t,” Quinn said. “You belong to Azzopardi.”
* * *
—
“Oh, what fools these mortals be, eh, Coker?” Quinn said as they lit cigarettes on the edge of the square.
“Why are you dressed as a matador, Quinn? The dress code was ‘Infant.’？”
“I’m going on somewhere grown-up afterwards.”
“Now you’ve mentioned grown-ups, Quinn, I’d like to know why you abandoned me at the spieler last week? I’m curious, all this go-between stuff with Azzopardi. Like a lackey. Or a lapdog. What was it—did the Maltese pay you to take me to Belgravia?”
Quinn remained unruffled. It was difficult to insult him, he seemed to take everything as a compliment. “I think all that evil-criminal-underworld stuff’s rather attractive, don’t you? A frisson of danger.” He pretended to shiver, like a ham actor. “Especially,” he continued, “if you’re using it in a novel.” He paused to make sure he would have an effect on Ramsay. “As I have, you know.”
No, Ramsay howled silently. Quinn had no claim on the underworld, no understanding of it at all, whereas Ramsay lived amongst it every night. It belonged to him. He said nothing. He wouldn’t satisfy Quinn with his outrage.
“Either that or an exposé,” Quinn carried on blithely. “The Times has commissioned a long article from me—I have contacts there. The vicious individuals who rule the London underworld—that sort of thing. Serious journalism.”
“You—a serious journalist?”
“We all have our ambitions, Coker. Some more attainable than others. Look at you, you’re hoping to be a bestselling author. Good luck with that, old chum.” Quinn hooted with laughter and placed his arm around Ramsay’s shoulders. Ramsay shook him off irritably.
“So, has it been accepted by a publisher? Your novel.” Ramsay refused to say its stupid title.
“No, no one’s seen it, absolutely no one. I would hate to hand over something that wasn’t perfect. It’s sitting on my desk, waiting for a final polish. It won’t be a problem, it’s brilliant, though I say so myself. You haven’t said whether you like my costume? It’s called a traje de luces—a “suit of lights.” Have you been to Spain, Coker? No, you haven’t, have you? Actually, when I was in Paris I had a very interesting discussion about bullfighting with an American chap called Hemingway, a journalist, writes stories. He’s got a novel coming out this year all about los toros, you should keep an eye out for it, he’s going to be a real name—”
“Fuck off, Quinn!”
“Actually, I have a message for you from Azzopardi,” Quinn said, unfazed. “He’s looking for you.”
“I suppose he wants his money,” Ramsay said miserably.
“Nothing as common as that.”
“What, then?”
“I don’t know. Some kind of forfeit.”
“Forfeit? What does that mean?”
“You, I expect, Coker. He probably wants you. You know—an old queen looking to press the flesh of a young prince. Probably just wants to spend a night with you as payment.”
Quinn’s cynical mask slipped for a moment and he looked pained. Did Azzopardi have a hold on him as well? Quinn had a taste for some queer things—perhaps Azzopardi supplied them. Or blackmail. A man like Quinn invited blackmail.
“Anyway, must go,” Quinn said, the puckish mask back in place. “I’ve a column to fill. The Bright Young People surpassed themselves in their whimsical frolics tonight. Ramsay, younger son of famous nightclub owner Nellie Coker, was spotted enjoying the fun and games. What do you think?”