That We Shall Die

by Peter Hey

  Jane pointed upwards. ‘Well, those are Danes capturing Nottingham in eight hundred and something. Then you’ve got William the Conqueror building the castle, Charles I during the Civil War and finally, of course, the fluorescent green chap with the bow is Robin Hood. All blokes, all wars and weapons, one way or another.’

  ‘That’s traditional, male-oriented history, I suppose,’ said Sarah. ‘A succession of supposedly great men, fighting, killing each other, trying to be the alpha wolf. Thank goodness Duff’s far too lazy.’

  ‘And Tommy’s far too nice.’ Jane’s eyes dropped down to the table. ‘Maybe you’re right. Perhaps I don’t need another macho tough guy. Maybe nice is what I need. What I’ve always needed.’

  ‘When are you seeing him again?’

  ‘Tommy? We’ve got a bit of work on at the moment. We’ve been talking about it online. No plans to meet up.’

  ‘Here’s an idea,’ said Sarah with a sudden burst of conviction. ‘Why don’t we have a girls’ day out in London. Like when I used to get the train and meet up with you. We could have lunch—'

  ‘You don’t eat lunch.’

  ‘Even better. You could have lunch with Tommy. I’d say hello and make my excuses. I could go off and do some shopping – you’re rubbish at shopping, after all – and you and he could have a heart to heart. What do you reckon?’

  Jane’s face and shoulders sagged, wordlessly conveying her lack of enthusiasm. Sarah didn’t push and the conversation faltered. Jane took a bite from her roll while her friend manoeuvred her biscotti twice round her saucer. Then Sarah suddenly seemed to remember there was another elephant at the table.

  ‘Talking of bastard men,’ she said. ‘Any news of your father? He hasn’t tried to make contact, I suppose?’

  ‘No, he hasn’t and I don’t care if he does.’

  ‘I’m not sure you mean that, darling.’

  ‘Yes I do,’ said Jane, more aggressively than she intended. ‘I spent my entire life looking for him around every corner, waiting for him to come back into my life and… And I don’t know what.’ She took a deep breath to quell the surge in her emotions. ‘He was having me watched, for God’s sake! He wanted to know if I was a vengeful ex-policewoman who was going to stitch him up – because that’s the twisted, lowlife world he comes from. Well, I just don’t care. If he wants to come calling on me, he can. I’ll obviously ask him, “Why did you walk out and leave me, Daddy?” And who knows? Maybe he’ll have a good answer. But I doubt it. He can just walk out of my life again. I’m not going to go looking for him myself.’

  Jane picked up her roll again and put it straight back down. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m ranting. I know I’ve said all that before. The simple fact is, there’s been no sign of my father. I’ll cross that bridge when, and if, I come to it. And I’ll try very hard not to be a mad bitch when I do.’

  ‘Jane, you’re not a mad bitch. Please stop calling yourself that.’

  ‘We both know it’s what I am. Sometimes. Hopefully less and less these days. But he’s the so-and-so that made me that way.’

  Havana, February 1957

  Outside, the heat of a Cuban winter’s day had receded to a gentle warmth, yet the air conditioning was working hard to cool the large room crowded with well-dressed people. Would-be high rollers in suits smoked fat cigars and squeezed alongside wives and girlfriends in their finest jewellery and even the occasional, preposterous fur. The background mumble of raised voices, mostly American, was interspersed with occasional laughter and cheers and the mechanical rattles and rings of slot machines. Golden drapes covered the windows and an elaborate central chandelier glittered in the external glare of modern spotlights. The walls were decorated with huge marble swirls of muted colour, whose apparent randomness clashed with the balanced order of the architecture, jet-age Americana asserting its disregard for a Spanish colonial past.

  At one of several roulette wheels sat a fresh-faced English girl just about old enough to be allowed through the door. A strapless emerald-satin dress covered her slim figure and revealed evenly tanned shoulders and delicate arms. In the company of her own age group she might not have stood out, but she was turning heads amongst the older gamblers whose established affluence found them in a casino in one of the grandest hotels in Havana.

  ‘No more bets,’ said the unsmiling man in the black tuxedo and pencil-thin tie that stopped halfway down his shirtfront. He simultaneously swept his hand over the table as confirmation for those too engrossed in their hopes and calculations to hear.

  He spun the wheel and set the little ball racing round the perimeter track until it lost momentum and slipped down to bounce and skip before finally lodging in red 16. He announced the result impassively. The lady to Pat’s right clapped her hands together in excitement, and her fox stole slipped down to rest on her bent elbows.

  ‘Damn!’ said Pat to the man on her other side. ‘Perhaps we should just have one more try. This system is supposed to work eventually. May we please?’

  The grey-haired man sighed. ‘You’ve lost enough. I’m getting tired. It’s time for bed. It’s been a long, hot day.’ The impatience in his tone betrayed the Midlands roots to his artificially cultured accent.

  ‘Oh, don’t be old and boring, John.’

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ he snapped, ‘I don’t like being called old!’

  He raised his nostrils to take a calming breath and found himself gazing at a small group of people standing by the door. A swarthy, heavy-set man was waving his arm around as if introducing the room like a proud homeowner. Something about his appearance said gangster. The man next to him was smiling politely.

  ‘That’s Peter, Peter Collins,’ said John, anger now forgotten, before eagerly getting to his feet. ‘Come on, let’s go and say hello.’

  He nodded a farewell to the croupier, grabbed Pat’s arm and led her across the room. She trailed reluctantly behind as they made their way through standing onlookers, who were either waiting their turn at the tables or already cleaned out of cash.

  ‘Hello, Peter,’ John said affably as they reached the door. His Black Country twang was now well hidden.

  A straw-haired man with patrician features turned and his youthful face looked blank.

  ‘It’s John, John Carter?’ said the middle-aged intruder with the young girl in tow. ‘We met at Goodwood that time. I was thinking of buying an Aston and you showed me round yours.’

  ‘Of course. I remember,’ replied the younger man unconvincingly. ‘Always good to hear an English voice in foreign parts. What finds you so far from home, old chap?’

  ‘I was doing some business in Kingston – that’s Jamaica, not Surrey, of course...’ John beamed at his attempted wit. ‘Then we decided to take a bit of a holiday and fly over to watch the grand prix. Great race, by the way. Well done on coming fourth. Hard to beat the master though!’

  John had switched his gaze towards a man who was nearer his own age, rather bald and with the glassy eyes of someone who has not been following a conversation. He had been standing slightly back, in the shadows.

  ‘Oh, let me introduce you,’ said Peter. ‘This, as you very well know, is Juan Manuel Fangio, greatest driver of them all. Fangio, this is…’ He licked his lips as he awkwardly prompted for a response.

  ‘John Carter. I’m in imports and exports. And a bit of a car nut.’

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ replied Fangio, running the syllables together like he had memorised the expression by rote.

  ‘Oh, and this is my, erm, secretary, Pat,’ added John, as something of an afterthought.

  Fangio bent and kissed her hand. ‘Señora,’ he said and smiled for the first time.

  ‘I’m afraid Fangio doesn’t really speaky the English,’ explained Peter, surreptitiously glancing at his watch.

  ‘Señor Fangio, fue una carrera fantástica hoy. Muchas felicidades por su victoria,’ said Pat confidently and fluidly.

  Fangio’s grin broadened. ‘G
racias, señora. Usted es muy amable. Y hermosa.’ The words were Spanish but spoken with the sing-song rhythm of Italian.

  An American accent interrupted at this point. ‘I don’t want to be rude guys, but I’d like to continue the tour. I know these fellas have got places to get to. Know what I mean?’ The man who looked like a gangster sounded appropriately brusque.

  ‘Yes, sorry,’ said Peter. ’We do need to get on.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said John, raising his hands apologetically. ‘Didn’t mean to hold you up. Good to see you again, Peter. And to meet you, Señor Fangio.’ He also smiled at the American but met with a stony face.

  The three men left and John turned to Pat with wide eyes. ‘Not every day you get to talk to a legend like Fangio!’

  ‘He seemed like a charming man,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh, he’s supposed to be an absolute gentleman. What did he say to you?’

  ‘I congratulated him on winning a great race, and he said I was very kind. And beautiful.’

  John huffed. ‘These Latins, eh? Always lay it on a bit thick.’

  ‘So, can we go back to the table now?’ asked Pat.

  John’s mood immediately hardened again. ‘No, I told you, I’m tired. I’ve indulged you enough. We’re going to bed.’

  ‘Well, I’m not tired. I want to stay up,’ said Pat, sounding like the child she so recently was.

  John hesitated as he considered the threat to his authority. He quickly realised she had no money and wouldn’t be able to entertain herself for long.

  ‘Do what you want,’ he said. ’Don’t wake me up when you come in, for God’s sake. And don’t ever forget I’m your ticket back to England, young lady.’

  He strode off without waiting for a reply, and Pat turned back towards the room. John’s parting comment sank in and her face dropped as she felt grubby and far, far from home. In the casino’s opulence and glamour she suddenly saw vice and excess. What would her parents think? Could they think any worse of her anyway? She had told herself she knew what she was getting into, the price she was paying in exchange for rebellion and adventure. But maybe conformity and boredom were always a better bet, just as her father had said. Maybe she should have stayed in the typing pool.

  ‘Cheer up, sugar, lady luck’s never far away,’ said another American voice, with considerably more warmth than the last.

  Pat looked up at a tall man in a sharply cut navy-blue suit. Perhaps not quite thirty, his black, slicked-back hair was already receding at the temples, but he looked strong and handsome. She realised she had seen him around the hotel. She had somehow got the impression he was an employee, though she had never actually witnessed him do anything other than simply be there. He had the sort of slightly threatening presence that suggested he could be one of those men casinos need to employ to sort out problems. And problem people. She instantly forgot yearning for safety and home. This man seemed exciting. And, as for the silly old fool who had just gone to bed, it would serve him right if she flirted a little.

  ‘I won’t be playing any more tonight,’ she said coquettishly.

  ‘Then why don’t I buy you a drink? Your father’s gone up now, hasn’t he?’

  ‘He’s not my father,’ said Pat, instantly bristling.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said the American.

  ‘What do you see? Exactly?’ Pat had straightened her back in a subconscious attempt to appear taller, more upstanding.

  The American shrugged. ‘I see nothing. I see Havana. I see people having a good time. I see it being nobody’s business but their own.’

  Pat’s expression indicated she was unpersuaded.

  ‘Hey, dollface, don’t flip your lid. I didn’t mean no harm. Let me buy you that drink. By way of apology. Come on, how about it?’

  Part of her wanted to walk away with her head held high, but the American’s intimation wasn’t far from the truth, and she had time to kill before her pride would let her call it a night.

  ‘Alright then. That’s most kind of you,’ she said, trying to sound like the nice middle-class girl she had been brought up to be.

  The American signalled his departure with a gesture to one of his colleagues across the room. The response was a knowing wink that briefly made Pat feel cheap again. But she chose to ignore it. Her capacity for offence was exhausted and she was a girl old beyond her years. This was a situation she could control.

  At the bar, she asked for a daiquiri and they moved to a table outside on the terrace. It was a balmy, starlit evening and a soft breeze blew off the ocean. Earlier in the day, the wide seafront boulevard below had screamed with race cars, but now there was only the intermittent thrum of traffic to break the sound of the waves and rustling palm fronds.

  ‘I’m Joe, by the way, Joe Kelly,’ said the American, chinking his glass against hers.

  ‘That’s a good Irish name.’

  ‘And I’m a good Italian boy. We were originally the Pecorellis, but my grandfather decided to sound more American. By sounding Irish. And you? What’s your good ol’ English name?’

  ‘Pat. Pat Shaw.’

  ‘Pat for Patricia.’ He took a sip from his bourbon. ‘There’s a hint of the Irish there too.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe my parents just liked the name.’ Pat didn’t want to dwell on her family. ‘So, Joe Kelly, did you watch the grand prix?’

  ‘Yeh, those little European sports cars can sure haul ass. Though the boys and I reckoned a big Detroit V8 would give them a run for their money, on the straightaways at least.’

  Pat didn’t know what a V8 was and didn’t particularly care. ‘I thought it was all a bit frightening, myself. Drivers get killed all the time, don’t they? And people were just standing at the side of the road, all along the Malecón. What if a car had swerved into them?’

  ‘Life’s dangerous, sugar. If you’ve fought in a war then you’re less… What’s the word? Sensitive? People die. That’s life.’

  Pat eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You don’t look old enough to have fought in the War?’

  ‘The war?’ Joe chuckled. ‘There’s always a war going on somewhere. There’s those schmuck rebels fighting right now at the other end of Cuba. My war was Korea. And it taught me a thing or two. Kill or be killed, that’s the rule. So, I did. And I was good at it until the army and me fell out.’ He took another sip from his glass. ‘But I learnt you’ve got to take life by the…’ He paused, remembering he was not in his usual company. ‘You know what I’m saying. You’ve got to live for today. Not be scared of nothing.’

  ‘And when you came back? How did you end up in Havana?’

  ‘A guy I served with knew a guy. And that guy was expanding his business over here and needed some people. After Korea, I wasn’t going to go home to Hicksville, USA.’

  ‘So what exactly is it you do here?’

  Joe shrugged again. ‘You could call me a troubleshooter. If there’s trouble, I shoot.’ He winked. ‘You know I’m only kidding you. Sometimes people get drunk and we have to politely ask them to leave. We had this big Texan last week making a big Texan noise that the tables were fixed. Now that ain’t on. This house is straight, strictly straight. We make plenty enough dough, believe me, without loading no dice, and that sort of talk can damage business. So…’ Joe made a dismissive gesture with his hands. ‘Anyways, another part of my job is to sort out the police.’

  ‘Sort out the police?’

  ‘This is Cuba, sugar. Everyone wants a piece of the action. From the top all the way down. Batista, el Presidente, encourages business people like my boss to set up hotels and casinos and expects a cut. And the guy below him and the guy below him. You look around at all those shiny new skyscrapers, all the Cadillacs and Lincolns on those fine, wide avenues. All American money. We’re building this city. And we own most of it. And most of them, too.’

  ‘I like Old Havana,’ said Pat, feeling slightly uncomfortable and wanting to redirect the conversation. ‘Have you been to Kingston in Jamaica?’


  Joe shook his head, and his face suggested it was an unattractive proposition.

  ‘It’s basically all shacks,’ continued Pat. ‘At least the Spanish built fine cities in their colonies. The old town here is beautiful, a little run down in places, but so, so pretty.’

  ‘Have you tried driving down some of those streets? Trust me, sugar, come back in ten years and Batista will have had it flattened.’

  ‘Really? But so many people live there. What would happen to all of them?’

  ‘You mean the pimps and the prostitutes, the bootblacks and those guys selling dirty postcards and numbers off lottery tickets?’

  Pat frowned. ‘No, I mean the ordinary people, the real people. Some of them seemed so terribly poor.’

  Joe smiled apologetically. ‘I don’t mean to sound hard. Batista will do whatever he wants, whatever lines his pockets the most. I’m just a guy who’s trying to earn a living in a world that’s big and bad sometimes. Let’s talk about you. The guy who’s not your father. Where did you meet him? Here? In Jamaica?’

  Pat felt an initial reluctance to answer, but alcohol and Joe’s own candour softened her resistance. ‘He’s a member of my actual father’s golf club. I’m his secretary. I am his secretary – I type, do shorthand, but he took a fancy to me and suggested a trip to the Caribbean. And I thought…’ She lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Look, you chose to go off to war. It was your way of seeing the world. And you said yourself, the price was risking your life and killing people. I know it’s not the same, but I’m a girl. I didn’t want to be trapped in my hometown Hicksville either. I wanted to see some life. And I guess it’s served me right.’

  ‘I’m the last person to judge you, I promise you that, sugar, but it sounds like you’ve got regrets?’

  Tears began to form in Pat’s eyes. ‘I don’t know why I’m surprised. He was ever so charming and kind. Till he got what he wanted. And then it turned out he’s a selfish pig. Acts like he owns me. Maybe he does. He keeps threatening to leave me behind. God, he even said there was only one way a girl like me could pay her own fare home. I hate him.’