‘But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, all losses are restored and sorrow ends.’
That was never going to happen. Not for me. Ambrosia said not for her either, maybe a bit, but not enough.
‘What’s gone and what’s past help, should be past grief.’
Bullshit, Will.
‘Wise men never sit and wail their loss, but cheerily seek to redress their harm.’
That was more like it. Ambrosia wasn’t so sure. I was. I was certain.
But what the hell? What was I doing reading Shakespeare when I should be doing other things. What a fucking mess I was. What a fucking mess everything was.
So, I pulled myself together. What an interesting expression that is. ‘To pull one’s self together’. What does it mean? Does it mean that, before ‘pulling oneself together’, one’s self had come apart, had separated into bits that weren’t together, were separate, loose, hanging off? Well, if that’s what it’s meant to mean, it’s right. It was how I felt. A mess of unconnected bits. No good to me. No good to Ambrosia. No good to the girls, or to Annie. If Annie was wanting me to be good for her.
I knew what Annie did, or hoped what Annie did, wasn’t what it appeared that Annie did. I had faith in what she did and why she did it. I was damaged, I was coming apart, but I still had faith. So, I pulled myself together.
I loved Ambrosia. I was angry at what they did to her. There would be consequences. There were people who would suffer because of what they did to her.
Twenty-Seven
They did to Ambrosia, what they did to Ambrosia, because they thought doing what they did to Ambrosia was without risk. They thought we were weak. They knew they were strong. So, they thought they could do what they liked. They were wrong to think that. I would show them they were wrong to think that.
We knew who did what they did to Ambrosia. Ambrosia saw who did what they did. So, that bit was easy. The next bit wasn’t. Not as easy as it was the first time.
The first time, we surprised them. Surprised them with our power. This time we couldn’t
They knew we would come. They were stupid, but not that stupid. They would wait for us to come. They would be fortified against us. We weren’t stupid either, so we knew that. They would be better armed. We weren’t stupid, so we knew that too.
So, how to do it? We weren’t stupid. So, we worked out how to do it. Assault wouldn’t do it. Siege never does it.
We thought about drugs, and putting drugs in their water. These men didn’t drink water. So, how?
We gassed them. It isn’t hard to do. If you know what to do. These men knew what to do, so it wasn’t hard to do. They knew what to do, because they’d done it before.
We had the ‘hard men’ with us. The men from the Siena. The men without families. The men who made us safe.
I had no idea how you got to be like that. Like a man like those men. I didn’t like to think about how you got to be men like those. Through ‘general mayhem’ I suppose. There was no mayhem in the way they went about things, in gassing ‘Mr Beale & Friends’. I was glad they were on my side.
You can send gas through the air. But winds are fickle things. Delivery by air was out. These men wasted no time on fickle things. These were men of certainty.
Hospitals delivered gas through pipes. We would do the same. There were pipes already there. There was a water pipe already there.
We dug up and drained the pipe. We connected it to cylinders. High pressure cylinders of α-methylfentanil. It was odourless, and colourless and quick to take effect. It was what the Russians called ‘Kolokol-1’. They used it later. In a theatre.
Mr Beale didn’t drink water. Neither did his friends. Personal hygiene wasn’t their thing.
But everyone turns on a tap, now and then, sooner or later, once in a while. (Count how many times you turn on a tap today.) When you turn on a tap, and no water comes out, you don’t turn it off, do you? They didn’t either.
So we gassed them. They fell asleep. We shot their dogs. They weren’t nice dogs. We put on gas masks. We cut the padlock. We went in. We went to work. He went to work. He was ‘Hard Man Eric’.
A knowledge of anatomy is a good thing to have. Not many people have it. Doctors do. The rest of us don’t. ‘Hard Man Eric’ did. He was a doctor once, before they kicked him out. He didn’t tell us why.
If you plan to disable a person, disable them for life, anatomy is good to know.
The ‘brachial plexus’ is a network of nerves formed by the anterior primary rami of the lower four cervical nerves and the first thoracic nerve. This plexus extends from the spinal cord, through the cervicoaxillary canal in the neck, over the first rib and into the axilla. It supplies sensation to the upper limb and motor power to the muscles of the arm and hand.
Funny the things you learn in life. Things you never thought you would.
The brachial plexus is an important bit of anatomy. It’s good to have it working right.
A brachial plexus block makes the arm go numb. All the skin go numb. It stops the muscles from working. All the muscles from working. It’s used in anaesthesia, an alternative to sleep. I had one when I broke my arm. You may know about that already.
Funny the things you learn in life. Things you never thought you would.
The brachial plexus is found above the clavicle as it exits the cervicoaxillary canal. It is best found with the use of a peripheral-nerve-stimulator and ultrasound techniques.
Coincidentally, ‘Hard Man Eric’ had both of those. Coincidentally, he brought them with him.
Once the brachial plexus has been located, the administration of local anaesthetic through an appropriately placed needle will numb and paralyse the arm and hand for the period of action of the anaesthetic agent selected.
Amazing what you can learn on Google.
If, however, nitric acid (conc.) is placed onto the brachial plexus, it will destroy the brachial plexus, and the arm and hand will never feel or move again.
We had eight sleeping men with sixteen brachial plexus. (‘Plexi’? ‘Plexuses’? The plural of sheep is sheep. The plural of rhinoceros is rhinoceros. The plural of plexus is plexus. Don’t argue.)
It took ‘Hard Man Eric’ an hour. The gas mask maybe slowed him down. He said it didn’t. He said he’d done them in a gas mask before. I didn’t ask how many. I didn’t want to know.
So, now we had eight sleeping men with sixteen destroyed brachial plexus. Eight sleeping men who would never ride motorbikes. Never dress themselves, undress themselves, masturbate or wipe their bums. It seemed a reasonable thing to do, under the circumstances.
For good measure, ‘Hard Man Eric’ injected nitric acid (conc.) onto their sciatic nerves, sixteen sciatic nerves. For better measure he injected nitric acid (conc.) onto their femoral nerves, sixteen femoral nerves. Now they would never walk again either. It seemed a reasonable thing to do, under the circumstances.
A knowledge of anatomy is good to have.
As we left, ‘Hard Man Eric’ dropped a little nitric acid (conc.) into their eyes. Now they would never see again either. It may have been an unreasonable thing to do, but that’s life. Life isn’t always reasonable. Where’s it written that it should be?
So, that part of the problem was sorted.
Twenty-Eight
The girls liked being on the island, at first, but not so much later. They understood why they were there. I thought they did. They knew they were part of a game. A game for all of us. A game we needed to win. A game which, if we won, would let them come home. To be at home with Mummy, me and Mummy Brosie. They missed Mummy and Mummy Brosie. I missed them too.
We walked on the island, all over the island. But we slept on the Mermaid at night. We built huts on the island, made campfires on the island. But we slept on the Mermaid at night. We swam in the lagoon and fished in the lagoon. But you know w
here we slept at night. We played in the ‘Third World’. We lived in the ‘First World’. There can be downsides to extreme wealth. That wasn’t one of them.
The girls wanted to hear about home. I told them about home. I told them about Mummy Brosie. I didn’t tell them what happened to her. I told them about Henry and Maggie. They wanted to know when they could go home. I couldn’t tell them that. So, I told them a lie.
I told them we could all go home, when Mummy came home. All we needed was to get Mummy home.
So, it was a lie. A white lie, but still a lie. We needed more than to get Mummy home. We needed to do other things, more things. More things than to just get Mummy home. Things, so that Mummy would never have to leave home again. I tried not to think about those things. I tried not to think about what things we might do, what things we might need to do, to make all of that come true.
We enjoyed being together on the Mermaid. But it couldn’t last. They needed to stay hidden. I needed to be back to the action. I changed places with Joe. It was the logical thing to do.
Twenty-Nine
There were things we knew. There were things we thought we knew. There were things we might know. There were things we didn’t know. There were things we knew we didn’t know. There were things we didn’t know we didn’t know. Knowing things, and not knowing things, can be confusing.
Then there were things we might know, but not know that we might know them. There were things we weren’t sure we knew, even when we knew they were things that we might know. There were things we knew we didn’t know and some things we knew we’d never know. Knowing things and not knowing things can be confusing.
‘Ignorance is bliss’. That’s nonsense. ‘Blind Freddy’ knows that’s nonsense. Not knowing things can never be better than knowing them. Almost never.
Ostriches don’t bury their heads in the sand. That’s a myth. I read that. But it’s a metaphor for what people do. Do, when the truth isn’t the truth they want the truth to be.
We weren’t ostriches, even metaphorical ones. We needed to know as much as we could. Know the ways of finding out as much as we could. The same ways of finding out as much as we could, as when Annie and Prouse were holed up in Eaton Square.
So we needed the experts in Darwin. So we brought the experts to Darwin. We needed me in Darwin. So I went to Darwin. The girls stayed on the Mermaid. They were sad to see me go. But Julie was there. Then Joe went over. They were happy with that.
So, we found out things, lots of ordinary things. We found out things, lots of not so ordinary things. Finding out things can be fun.
We found out things through sound waves. We found out things through ultrasound waves, light waves, electromagnetic waves. And by bribing the staff. His staff. His cook. His gardener, and the lady who made his bed. We didn’t need to bribe the head minion, the five-point, maybe six-point, lady. She did what she did for free.
The five-point lady didn’t like her boss. I knew that. She liked me. I knew that. She liked me a lot. I knew that too. I didn’t know how much, not until later. I knew she’d be an ally, one day. You can’t buy liking. You can’t buy love. You can’t buy loyalty. You can’t buy the three ‘L’s.
How come Prouse was where he was without knowing those three things? Luck maybe, or fear maybe. It wasn’t talent. I knew that much.
We knew where Prouse slept. We knew where Annie slept. We knew they didn’t sleep together. We knew where the Major slept too. We knew where the Major spent his time. We wanted to know everything about the Major. He worried us. He worried me most of all.
So we knew lots of things. We thought how to use the lots of things we knew. How to use them, to get Annie back.
So, if we got Annie back, would that be the end of it? Would Prouse accept it? Would Prouse accept I won? Would Prouse accept he lost? I didn’t know. I pretended that I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure. I pretended that I wasn’t sure. I knew Prouse wasn’t stupid. Unpleasant maybe, disgusting maybe, but not stupid. I knew he’d never let her go. Not and let me win. Not with her alive. Not alive to tell what happened. To tell the world what happened.
Our choices were clear. Our choice was clear. We had no choice. Prouse had to die.
I liked the head minion, the five-point lady. She liked me. I knew she liked me. So, we slept together. No, that’s not right. We went to bed together. On a Wednesday afternoon, in the Hilton Hotel. Her day off. We were discreet, careful and discreet. ‘Very’ of both of those.
I knew she talked to Annie. I knew Annie talked to her. I knew what they talked about. She told me what they talked about. What they talked about was me. I knew that, because she showed no surprise, none at all, not when I took off my clothes. So, she knew about my problem. Annie told her about my problem. And she knew what to do with it.
We had an open line to Annie.
Her name was Peggy, the same as Nurse Peggy. The woman who once was my nanny. I didn’t want to make love to my nanny. I called her Watson. It reminded me of school. Not a lot.
I asked if she was Annie’s lover. She said she was. She said Annie was a good lover. I knew that. She said she was a good lover too. I found out she was. They made love when Prouse was away. She knew Annie needed her. Needed her body. Needed her friendship.
I asked her what Annie said. What things Annie said, about ‘us’. The ‘us’ that was all five of us. The ‘us’ that was just the two of us. Watson told me what she said. Annie said she loved us all. I knew that. I ‘sort of’ always knew that. Knew it in that funny sort of way we have of knowing things, when we don’t really know that we know them at all.
I knew, now we had the girls back, she would try to get back too. It was all good. It was all, almost, good. It was dangerous too.
I asked Watson a lot of things. She answered a lot of things. It was all good, mostly good, partly good. It was dangerous too. Dangerous for Annie, more dangerous for Watson. We both knew that.
Annie was sick, she said. She first saw Annie before the bad things happened. Annie looked well then, she said. She saw Annie again after the bad things happened. After I found the letter. After she was gone to Prouse. After the girls were gone to Prouse. Annie didn’t look well then, she said. She looked like a woman with cancer, she said. Some terminal disease, she said.
But still the lust for life was there. Still the joy of sex was there. But, from what she told me, the lusts were getting smaller. So, we needed to rescue her. To do it soon. Before the spark went out. Her vital spark to shine, even on the darkest night, to shine and say, ‘This is me. This is me, Annie Rinsler.’
I asked Watson to tell her things. Things just from me. She said she would. So, I told her things. She told those things to Annie.
I told Ambrosia about Watson. Of course I did. About the Hilton Hotel. Of course I did. The things she said about Annie. Of course I did. There was no reason not to. What I was doing was right she said. I was glad she said that.
I still made love to Ambrosia. She still made love to me. It was only her legs that weren’t working.
So, anyway, she was better off than ‘Mr Beale & Friends’. They weren’t making love to anyone. Not even to themselves.
I told Watson about Ambrosia. Of course I did. There was no reason not to. But she already knew about Ambrosia. Knew what they did to her. Knew about what they did to her, before I had to tell her. I suspected she might. She was head minion after all. She heard what the Major said. She heard what Prouse said. She knew about Ambrosia. She didn’t tell Annie about Ambrosia, she said, not what they did to her, she said. She didn’t think it would be the right thing to do, she said. Watson was a good woman. Just working for a monster.
I knew there were things Annie would tell her. I knew there were things Annie would never tell her. Things about us. Secret things. Things just for us. Things just for the three of us. Secrets from before the sky caved in. Secrets just for us. Ad specialem
tribus. Le trio spécial. Das spezielle drei.
There were things I didn’t tell Watson. Things she didn’t need to know. Things, that if she knew them, would be dangerous to know. I didn’t tell her those things.
Wednesday was her day off. I looked forward to Wednesdays.
Thirty
So, we could talk to Annie, and Annie could talk to us.
We knew it was dangerous. More dangerous for Watson. She was disposable. Not to us. Disposable to Prouse.
I told her to take care. She said she would. I asked her to tell Annie that we had the girls. She said she would. I asked her to tell her, she needn’t worry. Not about the girls. That they missed her, that they wanted her home. I asked her to ask Annie why she couldn’t come home, now that Prouse’s hold was gone. Now the girls were back. She said she would.
Thirty-One
I knew the girls were safe and no one had to tell me. I knew they were safe, in the same way I could know what a man was thinking. It was something I was born with. It was nothing clever, just something I was born with. It was like some women being able to read maps, juggle or do arithmetic in their heads. I couldn’t do any of those things, but I could tell what men were thinking and, when I met Peter again, after Tommy took the girls, I knew Tommy had the girls. I tried not to sing or yell, or any of the other things I wanted to do, but Peter could see the relief in me. I’ve always been a good actress, but I couldn’t hide that from him. He hit me when he saw I knew. He never hit me before, so maybe he was more upset than he appeared to be. He hit me in the face with the back of his hand, his ring tore the scar on my cheek, and I could feel the blood run down my chin. I laughed at him and he hit me again, so I laughed at him some more, so he hit me some more, and then he left the room. My dear Tommy would say ‘fifteen-love’.
A Judgement on a Life Page 20