THE MAN WHO HUNTED HIMSELF

by Lex Lander

  ‘About?’

  ‘Jeff Heider. How come you married such a sleazoid? I mean, apart from his criminal activity, there was a fourteen year age difference.’

  ‘Ye-e-s. But he could have passed for someone in his late twenties, so it was never really an issue.’ She nibbled her lower lip as she pondered. ‘He was attractive, in better shape physically than a lot of younger men, funny, lively. My motives were pure enough – I married for love. At least, what I took to be love. You’ve heard the expression, swept off one’s feet. That’s what he did to me.’

  ‘You surprise me. He didn’t strike me as the sweeping kind.’

  ‘Oh, he had his moments. He could be a charmer. He was a great lover ... once.’

  That was too much information. But then I had invited it in.

  ‘I guess he had to have something going for him to compensate for the beatings.’

  She flinched as if I had struck her myself.

  ‘That came later. To begin with, he was okay.’

  ‘And his sleazy lifestyle. It didn’t put you off?’

  She seemed to shy away from the question.

  ‘I wasn’t aware of it until well after we were married,’ she replied at length. ‘By then it was too late.’

  I sensed she was being evasive. We switched to a less sensitive topic – Lindy’s progress at school – and the awkwardness passed.

  Another day, later in the month, over lunch in the kitchen she probed my musical tastes.

  ‘You like classical, I know that. Your CD collection is as comprehensive as I’ve ever seen. Any other kinds of music wind your clock?’

  ‘Blues, rhythm and blues, French pop, but not jazz.’

  ‘That gives me an idea for your birthday.’

  ‘It’s months away. Unlike yours.’

  She gave an exaggerated squirm. ‘I’ll be thirty-three.’

  ‘Shock, horror,’ I mocked. ‘I’ll swap for my forty-one.’

  ‘Actually, darling, it doesn’t bother me a bit, my age or yours. It can’t be avoided, so you might as well learn to live it.’

  ‘What’s the origin of your name, Beck? Could be English or German.’

  She stood up and transferred our dirty plates from the table to the sink.

  ‘German,’ she said, her back to me as she scoured the plates. ‘Third generation. A distant relative of mine was a General in the German army during the Second World War. My full family name is von Beck. My grandfather dropped the von when he emigrated to the States after the war.’

  ‘Von Beck. That makes you a member of the aristocracy, doesn’t it?’

  She nodded. Still talking over her shoulder, she said, ‘In days gone by we would have had servants, I guess.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got Señora Sist ... and Maurice the gardener. Say, is it a coincidence, you and Jeff both having German names?’

  ‘It’s the reason we met. I was attending the Oktoberfest gathering in Boston with my parents. We used to go every year. Jeff was in New York on business and came along. He was still married to his second wife at the time, but separated. I didn’t learn about that until I was committed to him. By then I wouldn’t have cared less if he had a whole harem. As I say, he was a charmer and I was well and truly charmed.’

  Then there was the day in early February, unseasonably warm, when we cycled over to Ordino, the nearest village. We left the road to take to the piste forrestal, one of dozens of trails that bisected the forested slopes of the Principality. In a clearing, we undressed and made love on a bed of pine needles, amid vestiges of melting snow. It was cold but we heated up pretty damn fast. Maura was a noisy lover, and anyone strolling through the woods that afternoon would have been under no illusion as to what was going on.

  ‘The way your boobs quiver when we’re in full flow is so-o-o erotic,’ I said, fondling that part of her anatomy.

  ‘If they’re quivering now it’s on account of the bloody freezing conditions.’

  ‘You have a point. Your goosebumps are as big as your nipples – and that’s saying something.’

  She scowled playfully. ‘Leave the size of my goosebumps and my nipples out of it.’

  ‘Not a chance.’ I bent my head and attacked a nipple with my teeth. She groaned and writhed, took a handful of my prick, and had her revenge. For the second time in thirty minutes we made frantic love. We spun it out, climaxing more or less simultaneously just as the sun sank behind the mountains and the temperature sank with it by several degrees.

  Maura was quivering all over now, not just her breasts. We broke open a pack of Kleenex and mopped up. Dressed and chortling like a couple of kids, we retrieved our bikes and hurtled down the trail, bent on making it back home ahead of Lindy. Señora Sist would be there, and the girl had her own key, but that was for emergencies only. Neither of us wanted her to come home without our being there to greet her. With impeccable timing, we arrived at the bottom of the driveway as she was stepping down from the school bus.

  Although we didn’t seem to accomplish much, the days raced by. We seldom socialized except with Lucien and Madeleine, being content in each other’s company plus Lindy, and needing no outsiders. No sense of monotony or repetitiveness pervaded our daily routine. We just revelled in making new discoveries about each other, doing simple things together, listening to music, talking, walking, even clearing snow. With Maura sharing it, even the most mundane activity was a pleasure.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Adapting to the demands of the other woman now in my life was not so easy. Belinda, de facto stepdaughter, was very much an unknown quantity. Major adjustments to my behaviour were required. Gaining acceptance as guardian of an eight year old, whose father’s violent death had been at my hands, was to walk the slenderest of tightropes. How did normal fathers behave towards daughters? With propriety certainly. What about hugging and kissing and touching generally? Could I emulate them, I who had zero experience and maybe zero tolerance? Maybe I needed counselling.

  When I speculated along those lines to Maura, she went off into shrieks of merriment.

  ‘What’s the joke?’ I snapped.

  ‘You – being so PC,’ she said, between splutters. ‘Just behave naturally, can’t you? You’re naturally good natured. Don’t try to be another person, just be you, you big softy.’

  Easy for her to say. She already had the advantage of being a woman, with a woman’s maternal instincts, not to mention her eight years service as a parent. Still, simplistic though it sounded, being myself was a basis for experimentation.

  The chance to demonstrate my paternal prowess came one chilly Sunday at the beginning of March. I was on the terrace reading yesterday’s British Daily Telegraph (always delivered a day late), wrapped up in parka and scarf, determined to show how rugged I was. Lindy came out, similarly attired plus red leggings and mittens, wheeling her bike. No doubt turfed out by Maura to prise her away from gawking at French television.

  She straddled the machine and walked it over to where I sat.

  ‘Hi, André,’ she chirped. ‘It’s me.’

  She pronounced it On-dray, and refused to shorten it or use “Drew”.

  ‘So I see. What have you been doing?’

  ‘Helping Mommy make spaghetti. It doesn’t taste of anything, does it?’

  ‘Hmm, not sure I agree with you about that.’ I rang the bell of her bike. ‘Going for a ride?’

  ‘Just around the terrace. Mommy says I mustn’t go on the road.’

  ‘It’s no good for bikes anyway. Too steep.’

  ‘If I go downhill I won’t have to pedal.’

  ‘How would you get back?’

  Her brow furrowed. The idea of returning obviously hadn’t occurred to her. She grunted and rode away, circling the empty pool.

  ‘Be careful,’ I called. If she fell in at the deep end, it was a long drop.

  After a few circuits, she came to a brake-squeaking halt in front of me. Her blonde hair was clipped in a pony tail. She treated me to the toothy g
rin from the photograph at the Vegas house. I grinned back.

  ‘André ...’

  ‘Yes, honey?’

  ‘André ...’

  ‘Yes, honey? Spit it out.’

  ‘Are you ... are you my new daddy now?’ Her expression was serious; this was a big deal for her.

  I was touched. The simplicity of childhood was something I had forgotten.

  Act natural, be yourself.

  ‘I’d very much like to be your new daddy ...’

  ‘Oh, good!’ Her small mittened hand invaded mine, nestled there hotly. It gave me a funny feeling, to be so trusted by this little person, so perfect, so innocent. ‘You make me laugh. I like you lots.’

  ‘I like you lots too.’

  ‘Not as much as I like you. I like you lots and lots and lots.’

  ‘That’s a lot of lots,’ I said gravely.

  The play on words dragged a giggle out of her. Like mother like daughter.

  ‘All right, Lindy,’ I said, in an effort to wind up the contest. ‘Let’s agree we like each other lots. But listen, sweetheart, I can’t ever be your real daddy. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘’Course I do. And anyway, I don’t want you to be like my real daddy. He was mean to Mommy. He hurt her. He hurt me sometimes as well, but not like he hurt my mommy. You’re nice to us.’

  This was too much for me. My eyes misted over. I bore down on my emotions, strove to keep the huskiness out of my voice as I said, ‘Do you like it here?’

  ‘Ooh, yes.’

  ‘Do you want to stay?’

  A succession of nods, eyes sparkling.

  ‘Right.’ I breathed in to steady my emotions. ‘If you’re really sure you want me to be your new daddy, it’s a deal.’

  She cottoned on right away and we high-fived to put a seal on the deal.

  ‘Now come here,’ I said. She edged up close. I leaned towards her and kissed her on one fiery cheek. She giggled again and returned the kiss, making an exaggerated smacking noise.

  ‘Sealed with a kiss,’ she said. ‘Like in the song.’

  ‘What song?’

  ‘It’s one Mommy plays on her iPod. She likes it.’

  She waggled her fingers at me in farewell and pedalled off towards the back yard.

  Well, I had tried acting naturally. It had seemed to work.

  In bed, in the dark, Maura quizzed me about my conversation with Lindy.

  ‘She seems to be almost as besotted with you as I am,’ she said. ‘What did you two talk about on the terrace this morning?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her?’

  She punched my arm playfully. ‘I did, you beast. She won’t tell me.’

  ‘Well then. Mind your own business. Suffice it to say I followed your advice.’

  ‘Oh.’

  A period of quiet descended.

  I listened to her steady breathing for a while. It was an agreeable sound. Even more agreeable was her warm, supple body entwined with mine.

  ‘I will tell you one thing though, honey,’ I said when I felt I had made her wait long enough.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Deliberately indifferent.

  ‘I love your daughter, in a different way, as much as I love you. And believe me, that’s an awful, awful lot of love.’

  The quiet again, and the breathing. Outside an owl hooted softly.

  ‘Of all the things you could have said to me, darling, that’s the most beautiful, the most touching, and the most perfect, and I will never forget it.’

  It was all too beautiful, all too touching, and all too perfect to last. The day our dreamlike idyll came to a shuddering stop was the day the deferred spring arrived in our Andorran enclave. The cold winds that were a feature of early March blew themselves out and the sun peeked through a tear in the blanket of grey, the thermometer climbed well into double figures, and I received the text message I had dreaded since returning home.

  I was checking the condition of the pool prior to filling it, when my cell phone vibrated in my jeans pocket.

  It was short and not sweet: a demand by Giorgy that I meet him in Location 1. No agenda. I could guess though, that it had to do with the Heider contract. It brought me back to earth without a parachute.

  I shoved the cell back in my pocket. Not to answer was no answer. Physical meetings with Giorgy were for emergencies only, so the summons had to be taken seriously. I would have to do his bidding. Take the road to Monaco. Field the flak. Then again, maybe it wasn’t about the Heiders, maybe a new contract was on offer. That would be an even greater evil. To accept it would be a breach of my promise to Maura to renounce the killing trade. To reject it was bound to invite retribution from the dogs of Il Sindicato.

  A year back, they had put me on probation for letting private business interfere with my professional obligations, after I eliminated one of their most lucrative associates. Breaking Il Sindicato’s code of conduct normally invoked a death sentence. Giorgy had appealed to the men at the top to suspend it and, as compensation, force me to continue working for them when I had already opted for retirement. They also required me to do a contract free of charge.

  My promise to Maura had not been made lightly. Yet it had been made without a credible plan for keeping it. I had always expected my services to be called upon and known that if I refused to answer the call the consequences could be terminal. One reprieve was exceptional, a second was unprecedented. Refuse to play ball and I would be history.

  Since I promised to quit, Maura had never resurrected the issue of my past deeds and present obligations. I wasn’t sure she appreciated that I was not a free agent, that obligations to Il Sindicato didn’t come to an end because one fell in love. Perhaps she believed I had served my time, done my duty, and earned the right to an honourable discharge. I had, but they didn’t care.

  Lindy called me to breakfast from the kitchen door. It was Saturday, hence no school, and we were planning a day out in Andorra-la-Vella, for Maura’s first shopping expedition. I went inside, washed my hands, half listening to Lindy’s animated chatter, a background cadence I had grown accustomed to over the past months and wished never again to live without. Maura looked up from setting out cutlery and smiled at me – it was a smile of contentment and my heart skipped at the prospect of shattering it.

  ‘Do you fancy some salami, darling?’ she asked, as she inserted four slices of bread in the toaster. ‘If we don’t eat it today I’ll have to junk it.’

  Lindy was already at the table tucking into a boiled egg when I sat down next to her.

  ‘Sure, dish it out,’ I said. ‘Give me anything that’s past its sell-by date. My constitution can handle it.’

  ‘Well, I’ve tried arsenic but it doesn’t seem to have any effect.’

  I shrugged. ‘Try bigger doses?’

  ‘Easy for you to say. I have to turn tricks for my supplies.’

  ‘If I were an arsenic supplier and you turned tricks for me, I’d supply you with enough to poison the population of France.’

  This was typical of the verbal intercourse that took place between us on a daily basis. It was meat and drink to us. Every sentence added cement to our relationship.

  Lindy, munching egg, said, ‘What’s turn tricks, Mommy?’

  I couldn’t remember Maura being lost for words before. Charitable soul that I am, I helped her out.

  ‘Conjuring tricks,’ I improvised. ‘Pulling rabbits out of hats, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lindy promptly lost interest, thank God.

  Maura mouthed a thank you at me, her relief palpable.

  Lindy’s hard-boiled egg was no more and she was now tucking into a brioche. Her appetite was bigger than mine.

  ‘That’s horrible, that samali,’ she pronounced as I forked a few circles onto my plate.

  ‘Salami, not samali,’ I said. ‘Your mommy makes me eat it. She says it’ll make me big and strong.’

  She frowned up at me. ‘But you’re big and strong already. Do you want to be like the I
ncredible Hulk?’

  ‘Well, sort of. But I’d rather be blue than green.’

  ‘Mm.’ Lindy bobbed her head in agreement. ‘He looks like a ’normous booger.’

  ‘Lindy!’ Maura was a combination of strict and indulgent. She tolerated sloppy eating habits but drew the line at grossness. ‘And you –’ aimed at me ‘– stop encouraging her.’

  ‘What makes you think she needs my encouragement?’

  Maura seated herself at right angles to Lindy and opened up a pot of yoghourt.

  ‘You may have a point.’

  Breakfast chez Warner proceeded the way breakfasts probably proceed in ninety per cent of households. We chatted and joked about this and that, none of it memorable, and all of it wonderful. To me, who hadn’t experienced such normality since I flew the nest at the age of eighteen, it was the stuff of my dreams, and if I were the devout kind I would have prayed for it never to end.

  It was mid-morning when I gave Maura the news. We were still in the kitchen, partaking of our post-breakfast espressos. Lindy was practising her flute – the piping notes filtered down the stairwell – and I judged the moment was ripe. Even then, the opening was created by Maura not me.

  ‘When are you going to spill it?’

  I put on a baffled act. ‘Spill what, love?’

  ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘You know me so well,’ I grunted.

  ‘I love you so well.’ She took my hand, entwined our fingers. ‘Now come on. Be a good boy and tell Moya.’

  I made a big show of sighing. She wasn’t impressed.

  ‘I have to meet this guy,’ I said finally.

  ‘You don’t say. It is a special friend? I mean, are you ... you know ...’ She fashioned a limp wrist. ‘Bi?’

  ‘Am I bi?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t you think you should have told me before I fell for the big hetero seduction scene?’

  For once, I wasn’t in the mood for slapstick.

  ‘His name’s Giorgio du Poletti.’

  The laugh lines at the corners of her eyes were instantly smoothed away. In their stead a tiny crevice above the bridge of her nose.

  ‘Poletti? Isn’t he the one – ’