#Zero

by Neil McCormick

  And so the letters went on, and they became a litany of happiness, without quarrel or complaint, except about the weather, which she never got used to. There were no fights reported, no glowering arguments between husband and wife about where they should raise their children, no twinges of doubt that she had married a man content to work as a porter and never try to better himself. Instead they were filled with the everyday joys of family life, underpinned by her slow but rewarding integration into Kilrock’s community, especially through voluntary work at St Patrick’s Church with a kind young priest, Father Martin, who practically made it his mission to help people see past her skin colour and into her pure heart. The Irish weren’t so bad when you got to know them, which was a good thing, because there were three Irishmen she loved more than anything in the world: her handsome, noble husband and two healthy, happy boys. Especially Pedro, her secret favourite.

  And here, at last, was something I never imagined I would hear in my life, my mother’s words describing her love for me.

  Little Pedro, Madre, he is such a scamp, he drives his father crazy. He won’t do a thing that Patrick tells him, till I think his daddy’s head is going to pop in frustration. But all I have to do is smile and speak to him softly, and Pedro does whatever he is told. Patrick says he is a mother’s boy and it’s just lucky he has such a wonderful mother.

  He lives in his own imagination. He doesn’t need friends to play with, he can occupy himself for hours and hours, playing games in his own head. In Pedro’s eyes, our little apartment is a palace, and Kilrock is the greatest kingdom on earth, and those funny little Irish hills are towering mountains he has to conquer. This morning, he was dashing around, mumbling and shouting and singing to himself, as usual, and Patrick says, ‘What planet is that boy on?’ and Pedro stopped, blinked, and said, ‘Earth, silly Dad!’ I love that little boy’s mind. I tell him I want to know everything that is going on in there, so he draws me fantastic pictures of dinosaurs and spaceships and alien creatures and says, ‘There, Mama, that’s what I saw today.’

  Pedro is very clever, the cleverest in his class for reading and writing, all his teachers say so. He takes after me, Madre! He writes poems for me, and they are so lovely and funny. Here is one he gave me today:

  Every boy has got a mother

  But I’ve got a mother like no other

  Her hair is black, her skin is brown

  The prettiest mama in our ugly old town

  Mama and me, brown as can be

  Swinging like monkeys in the funky tree

  Oh how happy we’re going to be

  My brown mama and her brown baby.

  He makes up little melodies and sings them to me. He loves to come and hear me sing with the church choir, and always joins in, and asks Father Martin when he can sing in church. I think he will be a musician, like his grandfather. Patrick says not to encourage him. He said we only hear about rich musicians but most are poorer than us, like the bands who come and play in the hotel and are always trying to get free beer. He says Pedro is too much of a dreamer already and life is hard enough even without dreams. But I am not listening to him. I have been teaching Pedro to play guitar, and we play and we sing and we laugh, how we laugh, Madre.

  I could see the guitar now, in the bedroom, next to the Virgin. A little Spanish guitar that my mother bought in the charity shop. It only has five strings, one of the plastic machine heads is broken and it never stays in tune but that doesn’t matter to us. I can feel my mother’s arms around me, holding me from behind, hair falling on my face, hands holding my hands, helping my fingers find the chord shapes. ‘One day I know he will make me very proud,’ she wrote to her mother.

  And I heard a voice whispering in the lengthening shadows. ‘Make me proud.’ I looked up at Doña Cecilia through tears. Oh, the tears, Mother, no wonder there were so many tears, I’d been holding them back for years and years and years. Now I couldn’t stop them coming.

  Doña Cecilia had the next letter in her hands. And with shock, I realised it was the last unopened letter. I didn’t know if I wanted her to read it, because after this, my mother would fall silent again. I was filled with fear about what that letter might contain, what terrible events were about to bring her story to an end. I realised I didn’t even want to know the answer to that mystery, because there was a part of me that had never truly believed she was dead at all. All the time, all these years, I kept a precious little nugget of hope buried so deep inside I didn’t even know it was there myself. And it was that little nugget that brought me here, guided me across continents, all the way to the village of my mother’s birth. And the hope, so bitter, so absurd, was that I would find her up here in the mountains, waiting for me, knowing one day I would come. Because she had never really left me. She had left Ireland, because that country had been so cruel to her, and she had left my father, because he was just a brooding, angry, small-minded hotel porter who wouldn’t let her take her children to her village in the sun, and she had left my brother, because he was my father’s son. But she had never left me, not me, not her beloved Pedro, because she knew in her secret heart that our bond was so strong I would find my way back to her one day, I would find my way home.

  And here I was. And all that was left of that hope was the letter in Doña Cecilia’s hands, the paper sheet she was carefully unfolding, gently smoothing out with the palm of her hand. And clearing her throat. And taking a sip of water. And I wanted to tell her to stop. I wanted to beg her not to read it. But though I opened my mouth, no words came out.

  ‘Estimado Madre,’ she began. I closed my eyes, waiting for the blow to fall.

  But the story had no ending, it was just another letter, full of mundane domestic detail. Patrick was healthy and well, and Patrick Jnr had started secondary school and looked so handsome and grown-up in his new uniform. And Pedro wants a bicycle wrote my mother from beyond the grave.

  He goes on and on about it. Patrick tells him he can share Patrick Jnr’s bike, which, of course, is too big and Patrick Jnr will never let him ride it. But what Pedro doesn’t know is that Patrick has built him a bicycle from scrap. He is so good with his hands. It is a lovely thing to see him take old rusted parts people toss away and weld and hammer and bolt them into the most beautiful machine I have ever seen. I love to watch him work with such concentration and joy. Patrick can mend anything and people bring him broken things all the time. Father Martin lets him use the garage behind the church. He says Patrick should set up a business and stop letting everyone exploit him but Patrick says it is just a hobby. But what a wonderful hobby. I can’t wait to see Pedro’s little face light up when we show his new bicycle to him.

  Which was strange, because I couldn’t picture my old man ever picking up a tool. Shelves could buckle and bend and they’d stay that way forever, you just had to learn how to balance things on them so they wouldn’t fall off. The sofa in our apartment was propped up with bricks on one side. The hot tap stopped working in the kitchen sink and never got replaced, we just used the cold tap instead. You had to take the lid off the toilet cistern to flush it. The picture of domestic bliss that my mother’s letters described was a fairytale to me. All I could remember was an empty flat with three angry people rattling around, shouting at one another. And I didn’t remember any bicycle. I used to walk everywhere.

  Yet something was tugging at me, spinning like spokes in my mind.

  And suddenly I could see myself freewheeling down an Irish road on a summer’s day, wind in my hair, filled with the thrill of speed. And it was, indeed, a beautiful thing, a bright red frame with gleaming chrome handlebars.

  I was coming down a hill like a speed demon, like a rocket man, like a bat out of hell, standing high in the pedals, roaring with pleasure. And there was someone on the bicycle behind me, sitting astride the saddle, arms wrapped tight around my body. And she was screaming too. Screaming with exhilaration. Screaming with fearful excitement. Screaming for me to stop.

  Oh, Mama.


  And the wheels were spinning upside down on the road, spinning like they were never going to stop. And I could hear my father’s voice, echoing down the hospital corridor.

  ‘You did this.’

  There was nothing more in the letter. Just ‘Afectuosamente, Maria’.

  ‘There were no letters for a long time,’ said Doña Cecilia. ‘Months went by. And then this arrived.’

  My grandmother had produced a final envelope, which she sombrely handed to Doña Cecilia. I recognised the handwriting. I had seen that spidery, uneven scrawl so many times before. It was a letter from my father.

  It did not contain much detail. It was written in quite poor Spanish, Doña Cecilia explained, but she would translate as best she could.

  It was dated November 2004.

  Dear Mother,

  I am so sorry to have to tell you that our beloved Maria has passed away. There was a terrible accident from which she never recovered. I know she loved you very much and her thoughts were with you always. We will miss her.

  Your son

  Patrick.

  ‘And that’s it?’ I cried, angrily. ‘That’s all he had to say? You never heard from him again?’

  ‘No,’ said Doña Cecilia. ‘No more letters. But every month since then, money arrives. Sometimes it has been twenty dollars, sometimes a hundred dollars or more. And then, two years ago, more and more started arriving, as much as $1000 a month. One envelope contained a money order for $10,000, so much money your grandmother did not know what to do with it. There were many meetings among the village elders and it was decided we must honour your mother’s memory. So we have fixed up this beautiful house for your grandmother and we have built the school in honour of San Patricio, the patron saint of Ireland. There are two teachers now, not just me, and we have a roof and walls and books, and all the children of Esperanza are getting a good education. The older children go to school in San Bernadino in the valley and we bought a bus to take them there. Some have even started university in the city. This money has changed our lives forever. Your father must be a very rich man. You know nothing about this?’

  I shook my head in disbelief. I had never stopped to wonder what my old man might be doing with the money I told Beasley to send him, just to keep him off my back. I assumed he was drinking it.

  ‘Of course, we fixed up the church,’ continued Doña Cecilia. ‘It is dedicated to the memory of your mother. Would you like to see it?’

  Doña Cecilia led me out into the darkening evening and walked me across the village, with my grandmother beside me, holding my arm. The sun was setting, and there wasn’t much natural light inside the church, yet a sacred stillness infused its thick white walls with a sense of space and peace.

  I approached the altar in a trance. There, standing in an arched alcove was a statue of the Virgin Mary, in blue and white and gold, hands clasped in prayer. I knew that statue very well. A small replica stood on a cabinet in my parents’ bedroom in Kilrock. ‘This is Maria, Blessed Virgin of Esperanza,’ said Doña Cecilia. ‘She watches over us and protects us.’

  A sound broke through the silence, gradually filling every corner of the church, reverberating in the evening air, a thunderous noise descending on the village. I turned and ran outside.

  The trees were bending, leaves blowing across the red dirt, animals scattering, children pointing up to the sky. A bright white light beamed down from above, picking out my upturned face.

  Grover lurched over to my side. ‘Looks like someone found you, kid,’ he said.

  A large black helicopter slowly descended towards the village.

  22

  The chopper touched down on a patch of dirt beyond the church, blades spinning dangerously close to little dwellings, the wind knocking over crates and chairs set up for the fiesta. It was a military transport helicopter with an all-too-familiar logo on the side, a Z set in the centre of a zero. The men of La Esperanza had returned wearily from their labours and formed a spontaneous barrier in front of the women, although excited children were harder to rein in. Big doors flew open.

  First on the ground was Tiny Tony Mahoney, scanning for danger. The little fucker was actually carrying a gun, which set a ripple of nervousness through the villagers. ‘Está bien,’ I called out, stepping to the front, holding up my arms in what I hoped was a gesture of authority. Tiny Tony waved the pistol towards me, scowling. ‘Put the gun away, Tony,’ I shouted above the cooling engines. ‘You’re scaring the children.’

  Next down was Beasley, big, bald and sweaty in his inappropriate suit. He nodded to Tony, who tucked his pistol in an underarm holster. He still knew who gave the orders. Beasley never travels alone and sure enough down came his assistant Eugenie, unusually crumpled and flustered, and my PR Flavia Sharpe, dressed as if for a power lunch rather than a trip to the jungle. They were joined by a nervous, bespectacled man I didn’t recognise. All fell in behind Beasley as he strode purposefully towards me. I couldn’t tell whether he wanted to kiss me or kill me. ‘You can run,’ Beasley roared, ‘but you can’t run fast enough or far enough to get away from me!’

  I briefly wondered how had he found me here? But the answer was right behind him, clambering gingerly down from the helicopter, the very last man I’d ever expected to find on a mountain in Colombia. A scrawny, ragged, flush-faced figure with flecks of grey in thinning ginger hair came stumbling towards me, like he was still trying to find his feet after a week at sea.

  ‘Hello, son,’ he said, carefully.

  ‘Hello, Da,’ I said.

  ‘I was worried about you,’ said my father.

  ‘I’m sorry, Da,’ I said.

  We were saved from further awkward intimacy by the descent of another figure from the helicopter, the most beautiful woman on Planet Earth, cinematic goddess, sex queen, love of my life, my fiancée and (according to various sources) adulterous slut, Penelope Nazareth.

  It was like my whole life flashing before me. ‘Who else have you got in there?’ I said to Beasley. ‘The Zero Sums?’

  Penelope’s approach had all the poise of a predatory feline on a catwalk. Here was a woman who knew how to dress for every occasion: patent leather jungle boots, slinky designer combat pants, clingy vest showing off her wasp waist and gravity-defying cleavage, artfully cropped and curved calfskin jacket, wide-brimmed hat and pert Polaroid sunglasses. Well, the sunglasses weren’t strictly necessary at dusk but you would expect nothing less from a Hollywood legend.

  ‘We need to talk,’ insisted Beasley. But for once he was out of his league.

  ‘Baby,’ she gasped, brushing my manager aside and pulling me into her embrace. ‘I’ve been beside myself.’ Then sotto voce in my ear: ‘Boy, do you know how to stir up publicity, my little savage.’

  There was something different about her but I couldn’t put my finger on it, I was too distracted by the cameraman capturing our touching reunion for posterity. I hadn’t seen him before. Did he work for Beasley or Penelope? Either way, he didn’t work for me. ‘Get that fucking thing out of my face,’ I growled.

  He ignored me and kept shooting. Looked like nobody was taking orders from me any more. At least Grover knew whose side he was on. ‘You heard the kid, put away the camera or I’ll shove it so far up your ass you’ll be filming what you had for breakfast.’

  The cameraman glanced uncertainly at Penelope but drew a blank. Grover winked at him and he sighed and let the camera drop. Good choice, I thought. There was something about Grover you did not want to mess with sober, let alone half-cocked. I wondered if I could put him up against Tiny Tony.

  ‘Gonna introduce me, kid?’ said Grover.

  ‘Uh, Penelope, this is Grover, my pilot,’ I said. ‘Well, not my pilot, exactly, he’s his own pilot, you know … it’s a long story.’

  ‘I bet,’ drawled Penelope, arching a single, sexy eyebrow. I was beginning to remember why I fell so hard for her.

  ‘I’ve seen all your films, Ms Nazareth. Or may I call you Penelope?’ said
Grover, gripping her fingers with a dandyish touch. ‘You are, without doubt, the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on, not to mention the finest screen actress of our times and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise. It’s an honour to meet you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Grover, the pleasure’s all mine,’ purred Penelope. ‘Do you think you could help with my bags? They’re in the helicopter.’

  ‘It would be an honour, Penelope.’ This was a side of Grover I hadn’t seen before, the slimy toad.

  ‘What a delightful man,’ said Penelope, as Grover lurched drunkenly towards the chopper. ‘Although I couldn’t help but notice he appears to be wearing the watch I gave you as an engagement gift, mon cher.’

  ‘It’s another long story,’ I said.

  ‘What isn’t?’ drawled Penelope. She didn’t seem particularly interested in hearing it. ‘Where are we staying?’

  ‘Are these people your friends, Pedro?’ asked Doña Cecilia, stepping forward. Seeing as no violence had broken out, the villagers were quickly adjusting to the new visitors. ‘We can put the lady in your grandmother’s house, if you wish.’

  ‘The lady!’ Penelope whispered to me under her breath without breaking her smile. ‘Doesn’t she know who I am?’

  Beasley was growing impatient. ‘Excuse me, Penelope,’ he said, breaking in. ‘But we have a lot to talk about, Zero.’

  I shrugged. ‘Now might not be the best time.’

  ‘Now is the only time,’ snapped Beasley.

  Suddenly, there was an almighty BANG! followed by an explosion of coloured light over our heads. Birds shot up from the trees. Tiny Tony whipped his pistol out, while the kids applauded enthusiastically. ‘Relax, Tony, it’s a firework,’ I sighed. I guess the fiesta had officially begun.