by Rennie Airth
At least he was safe – for the present – but a long night stretched ahead of him and the sleep his body craved would not come. He had blundered unpardonably. Breaking into the house had been the act of a madman, but when the young woman had opened the door he had caught only a glimpse of her face, and since most Westerners looked alike to him, he assumed he had found his quarry.
Fury had overwhelmed him then. Like a dam bursting its barriers, the red cloud of rage had swept all caution aside and sent his body hurtling through the doorway. Now whatever advantage he had started with – the fact that he was still alive, shocking to those who might have thought otherwise – had been tossed away. And there were other perils. How long would it be before Leather-coat and his men picked up his trail again?
The wrong woman, but the right house. Kimura had seen the photograph on the bedside table. Where was she now, the one he sought? And who was the girl? Had he been able to stay longer, he might have found answers to those questions. But the arrival of the man downstairs had forced him to flee. Not that he couldn’t have dealt with him – a single blow would have sufficed – but there would have been no point to it. The alarm had been raised and he had to flee; it would have been an act of brutality, nothing more, and Kimura, by his own peculiar lights, was not a brutal man.
He shifted uncomfortably on the hard, wooden surface, drawing the flowing white robes more closely about him. Strange bed … stranger bedclothes. The darkness in which he lay was pierced by faint shafts of light coming through elongated windows. Some distance away, at the other end of the building, he could discern the outlines of a long table and the cross that rested upon it. It was the first time he had ever been inside a Christian church.
He had stumbled on it by chance. Running through the dark streets his first thought had been to distance himself from the mews. It was still snowing heavily, and the few pedestrians he encountered had turned to stare as he raced by. In order to free his legs he had hoisted the shift above his knees, and with his masked face and billowing black robe he must have appeared to them, momentarily at least, like some demon conjured from the pit. None had tried to stop him: none had pursued.
He had known he must find shelter for the night, but where? Even a parked car would be better than nothing – but what if it were equipped with an alarm? Hurrying along a deserted street, he had come on the church by chance. The bulky, anonymous structure stood back from the sidewalk, and while Kimura had no idea what purpose it served at first, he had been drawn by the darkened windows and on circling the building had found a door at the back hidden from the street. A few minutes work with an iron post uprooted from a sagging fence had secured his entry … and sanctuary.
As luck would have it, he had entered the vestry, and there he had his first stroke of good fortune. Moving stealthily across the floor in the darkened room his foot had struck what proved to be a cardboard packing case filled with clothes of all kinds. Worn and frayed though they were – he was working by touch alone – for the most part they were still serviceable and he had carefully sorted through the case, picking out trousers and shirts and sweaters and all the socks he could find. Able at last to shed the dead woman’s clothes, he had tried on various garments until he found a set that roughly fitted him. The problem of shoes remained, however: there were none in the packing case. But after he had dried his frozen feet he put on the socks – three to each foot – and then set about exploring the rest of the building.
Coming out of the vestry, his first sight of the nave with its rows of wooden pews made him think he had entered some public meeting place. But then he saw the cross on the altar and realized where he was. Although he knew little about the Christian religion, the image of the crucified Christ was a familiar one. But he was puzzled by a set of small wooden figures he saw grouped near the altar. Just visible in the pale grey light were a woman and a baby, and near them were some sheep and oxen together with three men, richly dressed and crowned like kings. Kimura knew it was the Christmas season, the time when Christians celebrated the birth of Christ, and he assumed this was a shrine of sorts and hoped there might be offerings left nearby, food in particular, any sort of food: fruits, vegetables, cakes – his hunger, sharpened by the cold, was acute now. But a quick search of the surroundings yielded nothing beyond a few handfuls of hay and presently he returned to the vestry.
During his brief exploration of the room earlier he had discovered a locked cupboard. Using the iron fence post, he prized open the doors and found the space inside divided into two compartments. One of them contained a number of white priest’s robes hanging from a rail; the other was fitted with shelves and on one of them he had found two bottles of wine and a square box half filled with thin white discs the size and shape of coins.
Testing them between his fingers, he discovered they had a soft, papery texture and put one in his mouth. It tasted like paper, but had a different substance, dissolving easily as he chewed it. It was food, hardly nourishing, but unquestionably something designed to be eaten, and Kimura had devoured the contents of the box, washing down the bland wafers with mouthfuls of sweet wine. Then he took the robes off their hangers, went back into the nave and made up a bed for himself on one of the pews.
But although his mind and body cried out for sleep, he had lain awake for what seemed like hours, tormented by the thoughts that raced through his mind like clouds driven across a storm-filled sky.
Time and again his gaze returned to the altar and cross. How strange that chance should have brought him to this place. Was it an omen? Although his knowledge of the religion was slight, he knew that the people who came to this place to worship believed in God and the Devil, and while God, if he existed, had never manifested himself to Kimura, the Devil was another matter. He was an old acquaintance and it was said he walked the earth in many forms.
Kimura knew but one: a true devil.
A man who walked through life with a light tread and a laugh on his lips, yet dealt death so swiftly and surely that even Kimura, with all his strength and skill, could not be sure how the final encounter between them would end.
The one who called himself Charon.
TEN
Earth had nothing fairer to show that winter’s evening than the view from Westminster Bridge – or so Charon told himself, pleased by the thought that had just occurred to him. The snow was a revelation. It was everywhere – covering the road and sidewalk, blanketing the river, falling in lazy spirals from low-hanging clouds that glowed orange and yellow from the reflected lights of the city. Turner, thou should’st be living at this hour! He had spent the latter part of the afternoon at the Tate Gallery and his mind’s eye still throbbed with the swirling canvases.
And as though the beauty were not enough, there was another, more practical reason why he welcomed the blizzard: it kept people off the streets. Normally, Charon favoured crowds – one man could pass unnoticed in a throng – but the business of cover worked both ways. The hunter could also be hunted, and since Paris he had not moved a step without being alert to the threat of sudden ambush.
He walked quickly across the bridge, not looking back until he reached the steps leading down to the Albert Embankment, and then paused to admire the view – the golden eye of Big Ben, the snow-blurred outlines of the Houses of Parliament, the white sweep of the river – while at the same time assuring himself that he was not being followed. Satisfied, he went down the steps and set off along the walkway flanking the river.
Soon, like it or not, he was mingling in a crowd, most of them tourists who had gathered around the London Eye, hoping they would be in time to ride on the giant Ferris wheel before it shut down for the night. He had happened to be in London when it had opened at the turn of the century and remembered the sweeping view it gave of the great city. Recalling the sight, he reminded himself that there was something he wanted to see on this visit if he got the time. For one reason or another, he had never made the pilgrimage before and now might be his last chance. S
ituated somewhat further down the Thames, it was the reconstruction of the Globe Theatre as it had appeared in Shakespeare’s time. People might laugh at him (if they dared) but Charon had always felt a kinship with the bard. They had the same godlike understanding of human nature, he believed, even if his own appreciation of the species’ worth was somewhat lower down the scale than the Swan of Avon’s.
‘What a piece of work was man …’ How did it go? ‘… How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty?’ Charon grinned. He supposed it was possible to think of people that way, though personally he had always found them much the same – at any rate, predictable.
Or, to put it another way, was there any such thing as a man who was truly unique?
Charon made a modest bow in his own direction.
Because it was true – there was no one quite like him. Who else could do as he did now – walk through the city this lovely winter’s evening, light of heart, buoyant of mood, full of wonder and delight at the world around him, untroubled by the thought of the perils that lay ahead.
Years ago, he had consulted an analyst. (He had chosen, with care, an aged Viennese practitioner, a survivor, Jewish of course, though it was not that which had drawn Charon to him – it was the shadow of death writ plain to see on the old man’s ravaged features. This would be no long-lived memoirist.) He’d not gone to him out of any sense of need – far from it – but purely from curiosity. He had wondered what an expert – or one who posed as such – would make of him.
He had told the man … certain things. Oh, not much, by no means all, but enough to provide him with a working hypothesis. At the end of the session – there had been only one – the analyst had asked him a question.
‘Do you know the clinical meaning of the word “affect”?’
Charon shook his head. He knew.
‘It is a general term for feelings and emotions, particularly when they are attached to ideas or concepts.’
‘Like good and evil?’
‘Like good and evil.’
Charon had frowned. ‘You think I don’t know the difference?’
‘I did not say that. You know very well. I’m just not sure you feel it.’
Charon was amused. ‘I hope you’re not calling me a psychopath,’ he said lightly. He certainly hadn’t been that generous with details. ‘I’ve always understood that’s the kind of word you people don’t like to toss about.’
‘You’re right. We don’t.’ The old man had held Charon’s gaze. His glance was not friendly. ‘And no, I wouldn’t call you a psychopath. The truth is I don’t know what to call you. I have lived a long time and seen many things, some of them dreadful beyond telling. You are something new in my experience.’ And I would just as soon not see you again.
The words were unspoken, but his meaning was plain, and for a moment Charon had felt a surge of anger. The old fool hadn’t known what a risk he was taking … or perhaps he had?
Later, though, he had taken a more lenient view of their interview. All the supposed expert in the complexities of human nature had said was that he didn’t know how to categorize the person he’d been talking to, and was it any surprise? How could any word begin to describe a man such as he? One who could, even as he did now, reflect so calmly and humorously on the ups and downs of life, the peaks and troughs, when death dogged his heels and the game was all but lost.
All but, yet not entirely, for Charon had a plan and already it was in motion. When in doubt, turn to the coaches. Smart fellas, the coaches, they knew there were only two things that mattered: winning and losing. And what was it they always said? It ain’t over till it’s over. Or was that one of the immortal Yogi’s aphorisms? Charon frowned. He liked to get these small details right.
Meantime … meantime there were bushes ahead – he was approaching the rail bridge that crossed the river from Charing Cross, enjoying the soft cushiony feel of the snow underfoot, comfortable in the felt-lined après-ski boots he had purchased in a sporting goods store earlier that day – bushes that flanked a small park on his right. If he, Charon, were lying in wait for someone, observing yet unobserved, that was the spot he would have chosen to conceal himself.
As he walked past the spot he heard a faint sound. Was it the shifting of a branch? Something had moved – it was only a slight change in the pattern of shadows, but his eye had caught it and as he went by he was tempted to laugh out loud, because it was true, it was true, there was no one quite like him.
He went on … up the incline from the embankment on to the broad terrace in front of the Festival Hall and suddenly there were people around him again, a steady stream coming down the steps from the footbridge, men and women, but not many, they were mostly children, scores of them, boys and girls all hurrying towards the brightly lit hall where a long banner attached to the front of the building proclaimed Concert of Carols.
Without troubling to glance behind him Charon joined the crowd and seconds later he was standing in line at the café in the entrance of the hall, stamping his feet to get rid of the accumulated snow and drying his hair with a handkerchief. A young woman in the line ahead of him looked round.
‘Goodness, what a night!’
Charon smiled at her. He had a wonderful smile, warm, and winning, and he knew it.
The young woman blushed. She was a dog, snub-nosed and overweight, a spinster for eternity, but he caressed her with his smile, watching her face glow, seeing the dream begin to take shape in her eyes … a chance meeting, a dark stranger … what a piece of work was woman.
‘Please, miss, can I have a mince pie?’
‘Please, miss … please, miss …’
Reluctantly the young woman turned to the line of girls in front of her. Charon glanced back at the entrance. The glass doors swung open and shut as people kept arriving. Out on the terrace a black-coated figure paced up and down.
He bought a cup of coffee. The young woman looked back hopefully as she shepherded her charges off and Charon followed them to a corner of the café. One of the girls said boldly, ‘Are you coming to the concert?’ It was the one who had asked for a mince pie first, a wiry redhead with a challenging expression.
Charon shook his head. He sipped his coffee.
‘That’s none of your business, Mary,’ the young woman said. ‘Don’t ask so many questions.’ She smiled at Charon.
‘Why are you here, then?’ the redhead persisted.
‘Mary!’
Charon shrugged. ‘Just passing through.’
The black-coated figure had moved to the end of the terrace and stood with his back to the river, surveying the front of the hall.
‘What are you going to do?’
Charon put down his cup. He met the girl’s gaze and saw her flinch. ‘Terrible things,’ he promised her.
Then in a second he was gone, walking quickly to the doors, going out on to the main terrace and then climbing a flight of steps to a platform above where the Queen Elizabeth Hall stood and beyond it, around a corner, the Hayward Gallery. Still moving fast – and not looking back – he went past both to a second flight of steps that led down to a broad paved walkway, which he crossed without pausing to a narrow stairway with steps made of steel that led to an underground car park. Out of sight finally, he stopped, and taking up a position just to one side of the steps, stood waiting.
Before long Charon heard the sound of footsteps, hurried at first, then slowing. He breathed easily. Patience … always patience. The footsteps paused at the top of the stairs. He heard the sound of a click, sharp in the silence, and pictured the knife gleaming in the half darkness. The man was coming down the stairs one step at a time. Step – pause. Step – pause. Charon stood relaxed, easy in himself. Everything came to him who waited.
The knife appeared first. The man held it a little in front of him, the blade pointing forward, palm under the handle in the prescribed manner. After the knife came an arm. Then a shoulder and a head—
Charon struck.
He ca
ught hold of the wrist with one hand and the back of the man’s neck with the other and held him – just held him – and though the man tried to struggle and lash out with his free hand he could barely move. The pain in his neck was close to paralysing. His breath came in whistling gasps.
Charon chuckled. He brought his lips up close to the other’s ear.
‘Relax. It’s me.’
ELEVEN
‘Rose? A man? Are you sure?’ Addy was stunned.
‘That’s what I think.’ Molly nodded. But she seemed hesitant, unsure whether she ought to be saying this. ‘I wondered if you knew anything about it. I was hoping to pump you.’
Addy shook her head. She didn’t know what to say. Too much was happening, and none of it made any sense. She couldn’t take it all in.
First that business with the crazy dame, or whoever it was, breaking into Rose’s house – Addy was still trying to process that.
‘Must be a nutter.’
That was what the younger of the two cops had said. He had come over to the sofa, to play good cop – that was how Addy read it – while Molly was holding court with the other. A nutter? He could be right. Great word, too. Addy tucked it away for future use.
And then Molly’s surprise at finding her there; it seemed Rose hadn’t said a word to her about inviting Addy over for Christmas, nor about her trip to Paris. Neither of them knew what to make of that.
‘I was just doing some shopping at Harrods and I thought I’d drop in,’ Molly said.
But it was Molly herself who’d surprised Addy the most: the way she behaved. It would have been natural enough for her to show a little sympathy, make the right noises, go through the motions, et cetera. After all, poor little Addy had had an unsettling experience – that was how Molly would have put it, the Molly Addy knew from the past – but she’d gone beyond that, way beyond.