Ten Word Game by Jonathan Gash Page A

sat there with a face devoid of expression. I’d never seen him before, but I knew instantly he was the David Buddy who’d got nine years in Durham for nicking Rembrandts.
    “Yes,” David said evenly. “The police don’t like it, but is it my fault if they can’t hack it? I’ll catch him.”
    And he looked at the camera. I actually shivered. He meant me. They say in the antiques trade that every dealer knows everything and newspapers know nothing . A uniformed Northumbrian plod came on and said it was morally wrong for criminals to make money out of crime – like the police don’t? What really frightened me was the bounty hunter’s final remark.
    He said, “Fine. Then let’s see who catches the bloke who stole Spinning Woman. Want a bet?”
    The lads in the antiques trade were already be layingodds on how soon David would collar me. He was a class act. I’m not.
    That night I had one last maul with Belle in my cold damp cottage, and lit out. She dropped me on the A12. I got a lift from an all-night wagon heading for the Channel Ports. I was in Southampton by midnight, complete with passport. With the police and a bounty hunter after me, I’d no choice. I had to keep going.
    * * *
    I dreamt on, reliving the terrible fright of the footsteps , me clinging to the ivy, the crone shuffling closer with her lantern. A bell began to ring. It bonged closer. I woke in a sweat, pleading for everybody not to catch me.
    “Dinner is served, ladies and gentlemen,” a loudspeaker voice said. Somebody knocked and called, “Dinner.”
    My heart was going like a hammer. I woke with a yelp and sank back in relief as I remembered. I’d got away, sort of, and couldn’t quite understand how. Memories crept in, the old lady I wheeled aboard, Benjo’s Emporium of rubbish, the supercool Miss Trimble who was stalking Benjo for tax revenue. Shakily, I showered and undid a suitcase, donned Cal’s new clothes and left the cabin. Emil directed me to the restaurant, cutting labels off me every step of the way.

Chapter Five
    I’d assumed I was shanghaied in a derelict tub, doomed to sea-sickness until I could jump ship. I’d also thought I’d have to queue with a tray for grub that would cost the earth. I’m never right, and was wrong again.
    * * *
    The dining room was reached through a warren of plush staircases. The entire ship was unbelievably elegant. I hated the paintings along the corridor walls, except for some August Macke prints – in richer days, I’d travelled to Berlin to see the originals . Huge flower arrangements flanked the dining room entrance. Waiters in uniform, head geezers in dinner jackets, smiles everywhere like they were really, truly, glad to see shoals of hungry passengers arriving for nosh. The stylish restaurant was better than in any city.
    “Table One-Five-Four, sir!” cried some serf, really delighted I’d turned up. He ushered me through the mob and seated me at a table.
    “I am Jude, your waiter for the cruise, ladies and gentlemen !” said another, beaming. I’d never seen so many sincere smiles since my friend Jean, a rival antiques dealer , went down for embezzlement. Other stewards, mostly Indians from Goa, seemed equally thrilled, rushing about with serviettes, water carafes, menus.
    The other passengers at Table 154 did those wary introductions that might mean anything: “Hello, I’m Ivy, this is my husband Billy. We’re from the Wirral,” and all that. I said I was Lovejoy and yes, it was my only name, when some pleasant lady wearing genuine diamonds asked.
    “They still call me Billy the Kid down at the station house!”
    Billy guffawed, showing teeth like tombstones. His hair was all flowing silvery locks. He obviously groomed himself as a Western hero, lantern-jawed and tall, gold studs in his ears. Ivy, a mousy lady, watched her husband anxiously and shut up whenever he spoke. The prat wore a black string tie and had cheroots sticking from his pocket. She looked cowed.
    Down at