Free The Unquiet Heart by Gordon Ferris Page A

not a person in his own right. Breaking the news to me got him into my life stream, gave him existence. But I couldn’t, wouldn’t acknowledge it.
    “You’ve got it all wrong, Larry. If you bump into your mate Pauli, tell him we had nothing to do with it.” I was conscious the others were listening now.
    “Yeah, piss off Larry,” called out Stan, who felt he could lord it over at least one bloke who was in worse shape than him.
    Fast Larry winced like he’d been struck. He turned and shuffled off. But he’d left behind a small cloud. I didn’t have to explain to anyone at the table who Gambatti was.

 
    EIGHT
    Nor did I have to explain to Eve. I found her the next night celebrating her scoop with her fellow hacks in the Coal Hole in the Strand. The pub was just far enough away from
Fleet Street to avoid bumping into the editor, but close enough at a slow stumble to put the evening edition to bed. Eve saw me and pushed towards me. None of her flush-faced cronies seemed to miss
her. Her face was rosy with drink and success. It was a big transformation in thirty-six hours.
    She waved the front page of the Trumpet at me. “Read all about it! Fearless reporter scoops gang-bust!”
    “I’ve seen it. A great story. Almost wish I’d been there.”
    “It’s what we agreed, isn’t it?” Her voice dropped. She looked anxious, as though I was upset.
    “I don’t need the publicity. Not with Gambatti out for blood.”
    “He’s going to be my follow-up piece.”
    “Are you daft?” I exclaimed. “Why get Gambatti even more upset than he already is? You can’t name names without proof.”
    She drew me further away from the rabble at the bar. We were standing by a shelf running along the smoke-blackened wall. Her face was close enough for me to smell her scent. She pressed a hand
to my lapel and fingered the cloth. We got a hoot from her friends at the bar. She ignored them.
    “Danny, this is my biggest scoop in years. I need to milk it for all it’s worth. I’m too public for Gambatti to do anything to me. He’d be the first suspect.”
    “From what I’ve heard, that wouldn’t matter a toss. He’s a complete nutter. He had a waiter’s fingers chopped off for slopping soup in his lap. He made a fortune
out of the war. While the good folk of London were cowering in bomb shelters he sent his lads out on looting sprees. Lost a few of his gang in the air raids, but he never worried about it. Plenty
more deserters to chose from. Cleaned out whole streets, they tell me. Even nicked the poor blighters’ blackout curtains. Flogged them back to the owners on Saturday at the market. He’s
an all-round villain.”
    “That’s what makes him so newsworthy.” Her eyes shone provocatively. And something in them – maybe a recognition of what we’d just been through – told me that
if I leant forward to kiss her she wouldn’t slap my face. Her smile grew and she shook her head.
    “Not here. Meet me in an hour, Baker Street tube. Unless you’re too tired?” I wasn’t.
    Nothing would make me too tired for a date with Eve Copeland. Which I guess this
was. Forty-five minutes later I was pacing around outside Baker Street station checking each entrance in case we missed each other. I stamped out my third cigarette, turned and saw her. She was
standing looking at me, her face quizzical, as though she was wondering why I was here. Or maybe why she was. Then she seemed to remember she’d summoned me but couldn’t decide what she
was going to do with me now. I wasn’t sure myself. She switched on the smile and walked towards me. She thrust her arm through mine, leaned up and pecked me on the cheek and led me off
towards her flat in Marylebone.
    We lay on our backs, gazing at the ceiling, hips and legs touching in luxurious intimacy. I’d lit two cigarettes and given her one. Bergman and Bogart in Casablanca . It was the best cigarette in the world. We’d been clumsy and urgent at first; she seemed as