Devil May Care - Sebastian Faulks [9]
‘ Thank you. And bring some of those little chocolates in the blue and silver paper, will you?’
.
3. The Monkey’s Hand
May, the Scottish ‘treasure’ who looked after Bond’s flat in Chelsea, was trying frantically to complete her housewarming preparations when she heard the cab from the airport drop him outside the front door in the quiet street.
‘Could you no’ have given me a wee bit more warning, Mr Bond?’ she said, as he let himself in and dropped his crocodile-skin suitcases in the hall. ‘ The bed’s not been aired properly, we’ve none of your favourite marmalade in and the laddie come to do the cupboards in the spare room has left the most fearful mess.’
‘Sorry, May. Duty called. Rather late at night.’
‘Would you like me to make you some lunch?’
‘No, thanks. I’m just going to have a quick shower, then I must go into the office.’
‘Well, at least there’s some clean towels on the rail. I’ll have some coffee for when you’re out.’
‘ Thanks. Black and strong, please.’
‘And some orange juice?’
‘Fresh oranges?’
‘Of course, Mr Bond.’
‘May, you’re a marvel. I’ll be ready in ten minutes. Please ring for the car to be brought round.’
As he dressed after his shower, in clean shirt, navy worsted suit and knitted black tie, it felt almost like getting back into uniform, Bond thought. He had shaved before leaving the hotel in Rome at six that morning and had had a haircut only the week before. He might not be quite his old self, but at least he looked presentable.
In the sitting room, he flicked through the worst of the accumulated mail and was able to shovel almost half of it straight into the wastepaper basket. He sipped May’s scalding black coffee and took a BalkanSobranie cigarette from the box on the coffee table.
‘Now then, May,’ he said, ‘tell me what’s been happening while I’ve been away.’
May thought for a moment. ‘ That elderly feller got back from sailing round the world all on his own.’
‘Chichester.’
‘Aye. That’s his name. Though don’t ask me what
the point of it all was. And him a pensioner as well.’
‘I suppose men just feel the need to prove themselves,’ said Bond. ‘Even older men. What else?’
‘ Those pop singers have been arrested for having drugs.’
‘ The Beatles?’
‘No, the ones with the hair down to their shoulders who make such a racket. The Rolling Stones, is it?’
‘And what was the drug? Marijuana?’
‘It’s no use asking me, Mr Bond. It was drugs, that’s all I know.’
‘I see. There’s a lot of it about.’ Bond ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘When I’ve gone, will you call Morland’s and ask them to send another box of these as soon as possible. I may be travelling again before long.’
‘ Travelling?’ said May. ‘I thought you were going to – ’
‘So did I, May,’ said Bond. ‘So did I. Now, was that the car I heard outside?’
It took Bond almost ten minutes to get the ‘Locomotive’, the Bentley Continental he’d had rebuilt to his own specification, as far as Sloane Square. London seemed to have gone slightly off its head in the time he’d been away. Every zebra crossing on the King’s
Road was packed with long-haired young people, ambling across, standing and talking or, in one remarkable case, sitting cross-legged in the road. With the convertible hood down, Bond could smell the bonfire whiff of marijuana he’d previously associated only with souks in the grubbier Moroccan towns. He blipped the throttle and heard the rumble of the twin two-inch exhausts.
Eventually, he made it to Sloane Street and up through Hyde Park where the speedometer touched sixty as the Arnott supercharger made light of the car’s customized bulk. Bond turned the car into the right-hand bend on the racing line and just missed the apex he was aiming for as he came out of the left-hander. He was out of practice, but it was nothing serious. This is more like it, he thought, an earlysummer day in London, the wind in his face and an urgent meeting with his boss.
All too soon he was in Regent’s Park, then at the headquarters of the Service. He tossed the car keys to the startled doorman and took