‘You must recite … the sanghyang …’ whispered the pedanda. ‘You are a priest now … your word has all the influence of mine.’
Michael helped the priest to sit on his mat. The old man had once told him that these mats were the last remnants of the robes of the monkey general Hanuman. They had been brilliant turquoise-green once; now they were brown and faded with damp.
‘O Sanghyang Widi, we ask your indulgence to leave this realm,’ intoned Michael, trying to remember the words the pedanda had taught him. ‘We ask to return to our mortal selves, three in one joined together, suksmasarira and stulasarira and antakaransarira. O Sanghyang Widi, guide us.’
There was silence in the temple. The incense smoke drifted and turned ceaselessly.
Michael repeated the incantation and then added the special sacred blessing:
‘Fragrant is the smoke of incense, the smoke that coils and coils upward, towards the home of the three divine ones.’
Then he closed his eyes, praying for the trance to end. But when he opened his eyes, he knew that he was still inside the world within worlds, that the leyaks were still scratching furiously against the doors of the temple and that he could still see the dead if they were to walk here.
The pedanda looked across at Michael with bloodshot eyes. His face was the colour of parchment. ‘Something is wrong,’ he whispered. ‘There is great magic here, great evil.’
Michael pressed his hands together intently and prayed for Sanghyang Widi to guide them out of their death trance and back to the mortal world.
The pedanda whispered, ‘It won’t work, it isn’t working. Something is wrong.’ The little priest’s blood was running across the stones of the inner courtyard, following the crevices between them like an Oriental puzzle.
Michael leaned forward intently. ‘I am a priest now? You’re sure of that?’
‘You are a priest now.’
‘Then why won’t my words take us back?’
‘Because there is a greater influence here than yours, some influence that is preventing you from taking us back.’
Michael looked around at the temple’s neglected shrines, at the rustling leaves on the courtyard floor. The shrines were silent and dark, their meru roofs curved against the night sky. There was no malevolence in the shrines; they were no longer visited by the spirits for whom they had been built.
Then he turned to the mask of Rangda, covered by its cloth. He looked up at the pedanda and said, ‘The mask. Do you think it is the mask?’
The mask is very sakti,’ the pedanda whispered. ‘But it should not prevent us from going back. Not unless …’
‘Not unless what, Pak?'
‘Not unless your spiritual abilities are posing a threat to Rangda. Not unless she believes that you may someday do her harm. In which case, she will not let us go.’
Michael hesitated for a moment. Then he reached forward and grasped the edge of the cloth that covered the face of Rangda. ‘It’s only a mask,’ he said. ‘You said that yourself when you took me to my first Barong play. It is evil and it gives off evil feelings, but it is only a mask.’
The pedanda said, ‘No, Michael, do not remove the cloth.’
‘It is Rangda, the Witch Widow, nobody else! The contemptible Rangda!’
He was about to whip the cloth away when the pedanda lurched forward and snatched it out of his hand. Michael, caught off balance, fell back. But the cloth was dragged off the top of the mask all the same, just as the pedanda dropped before it.
Michael gasped. The hideous mask was alive. Its eyes swivelled and its ferocious teeth snapped; it let out a coarse roar of fury that made Michael’s hair prickle with fear. The pedanda screamed: it was the first time Michael had ever heard a grown man scream. And then the mask stretched open its painted jaws and tore off the priest’s head, exposing for one terrible, naked second the bloody tube of his trachea.
Michael turned and ran. He burst through the paduraksa gate, sped across the outer courtyard and back to the bronze doorway where the leyaks were waiting. His lungs shrieked for air; his mind was bursting with terror. But he dragged back the gate and ran out into the street, and there were no leyaks there now, only gas lamps and fruit stalls and boys on mopeds. And then he was running more slowly, and then he was walking, and as he reached the corner by the night market, he realized that he was out of the death trance and that, suddenly, it was all over.
He walked for a long time beside the river, where the market lights were reflected.
He passed fortune-telling stands, where mynah birds would pick out magic sticks to predict a customer’s future. He passed warong stands, where sweating men were stirring up nasi goreng, rice with chili and beef slices. And in his mind’s eye the mask of Rangda still swivelled her eyes and roared and bit at the high priest’s head, and still the leyaks followed him, their eyes glowing.
Tears ran down Michael’s cheeks. He called for his father, but of course his father did not answer. Michael was a priest now, but what did that mean? What was he supposed to do? His only guide and teacher had been supernaturally savaged to death by Rangda; and Rangda’s acolytes would probably pursue him day and night to take their revenge on him too.
He prayed as he walked, but his prayers sounded futile in his mind. They were drowned by rock ‘n’ roll and the blurting of mopeds. It was only when he reached the corner of Jalan Gajahmada that he realized he had left his precious bicycle behind.
CHAPTER ONE
Memphis, Tennessee, 1984
‘Well, I believe that Elvis is still alive, that’s my opinion. I believe that Elvis was sick right up to here with all those fans; sick right up to here of havin’ no privacy; sick right up to here of all those middle-aged broads with the upswept eyeglasses shriekin’ and droolin’ and high-flyin’ they ste-pins at him; sick right up to here of belongin’ to the public instead of his own self and bein’ constantly razzed for growin’ himself a good-sized belly when tell me what man of forty-two don’t, it’s a man’s right. So he fakes his death, you got me? and sneaks out of Graceland in the back of a laundry truck or whatever.’
The sweat-crowned cab driver turned around in his seat and regarded Randolph at considerable length, one hairy wrist dangling on top of the steering wheel. ‘You just remember where you heard it, my friend, when this white-bearded old man rolls back into Memphis one day, fat and happy, and says, “You all recollect who I am? My name’s Elvis the Pelvis Presley, and while you been showerin’ my tomb with tears, I been fishin’ and drinkin’ and havin’ an excellent time and thinkin’ what suckers you all are.”’
Randolph pointed towards the road ahead with a flat-handed chopping gesture. ‘Do you mind keeping your eyes on the road? Elvis may have cheated death but you and I may not be quite so lucky.’
The cab driver turned back just in time to swerve his cab away from a huge tractor trailer that had suddenly decided to change lanes without making a signal. As the cabbie swerved, he was given a peremptory two-tone blast on the horn from a Lincoln limousine crowded with Baptist priests.
‘Forgive me, forgive me,’ the cab driver begged the Lincoln’s occupants sarcastically as the limousine swept by. ‘I done seen the wrongness of my ways. Or at least I done seen the ass end of that truck before we got totalled.’ He turned around to Randolph again and said comfortably, That’s a fair amount of potential forgiveness in one vehicle, wouldn’t you say? But what do you think of the way I missed that truck?
That’s sixth sense, that is. Kind of a built-in alarm system. Not everybody has that, sixth sense.’
‘I’d honestly prefer it if you’d use your first sense and look where the hell you’re going,’ Randolph told him testily.
‘All right, my friend, no need to get sore,’ the driver replied. He turned around again, his sweaty shirt skidding on the textured vinyl seat, and switched on the radio. It was Anne Murray, singing ‘You Needed Me.’ He turned the volume up, surmising correctly that Randolph would find it irritating.
He enjoyed being nice. He enjoyed settling arguments and making even the least of his two thousand employees feel wanted. His nickname at every one of Clare Cottonseed’s seven processing plants was ‘Handy Randy.’ He usually smelled slightly of Benson & Hedges pipe tobacco. He had a degree in law, two daughters, one son, and a wife called Marmie, whom he adored.
But today he was more than irritated. He was upset, more than upset. His phone had rung at 4:30 that morning and he had been called back from his vacation cabin on Lac aux Ecorces in the Laurentide forests of Quebec, where only two days earlier he and his family had started their three-week summer vacation. It was their first family vacation in three years and Randolph’s only time off in a year and a half. But late yesterday evening fire had broken out at his No.2 cottonseed-processing plant out at Raleigh, in the northeast suburbs of Memphis. One process worker had been incinerated. Two other men, including the plant’s deputy manager, had been asphyxiated by fumes. And the damage to the factory itself had so far been estimated at over two million dollars.
It would have been unthinkable for the company president to remain on vacation in Canada, fishing and swimming and buzzing his seaplane around the lakes, no matter how much he deserved it.
To complete Randolph’s irritation, his company limousine had failed to show up at the Memphis airport. He had tried calling the office from an airport pay phone smelling of disinfectant, but it was 7:45 p.m., and there was no response. Eventually - hot, tired and dishevelled - he had hailed himself a cab and asked to be driven to Front Street.
Now they drove west along Adams Avenue. The radio was playing the ‘59th Street Bridge Song.’ Randolph hated it. He sat back in his seat, drumming his fingertips against his Samsonite briefcase. ‘Slow down, you move too fast … got to make the morning last …’The business district was illuminated by that hazy acacia-honey glow special to Memphis on summer evenings. The Wolf and the Mississippi rivers, which join at Memphis, were turning to liquid ore. The twin arches of the Hernando de Soto Bridge glittered brightly, as if offering a pathway to a promised land instead of to nowhere but West Memphis.
The day’s humidity began to ease and surreptitious draughts wavered around the corners of office buildings. The breeze that came in through the open taxi window smelled of flowers and sweat, and that unmistakable coolness of river.
They drove along Front Street, known to the citizens of Memphis as Cotton Row.
Randolph said, ‘Here. This is the one.’
‘Clare Cottonseed?’ the driver frowned. He wiped the sweat from his furrowed forehead with the back of his hand.
‘That’s me,’ said Randolph.
‘You mean … you’re Clare Cottonseed?’
‘Handy Randy Clare in person,’ Randolph smiled.
The cab driver reached behind with one meaty arm and opened the door for him.
‘Maybe I ought to apologize,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Well, for sounding off, for driving like an idiot.’
Randolph gave him twenty-five dollars in new bills and waved away the change. ‘It’s hot,’ he said. ‘We’re all acting like idiots.’
The cab driver counted the money and said, Thanks.’ Then, ‘Didn’t one of your factories burn last night? Out at Raleigh?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’
“That’s right,’ Randolph said again. ‘I’m supposed to be fishing in Canada.’
The driver paused for a moment, wiped his forehead again and sniffed. ‘You think it was deliberate?’
‘Do I think what was deliberate?’
“The fire. Do you think somebody torched that factory?’
Randolph stayed where he was, half in and half out of the taxi. ‘What did you say that for?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just that some of the people I pick up, they work for other cottonseed companies, like Gray-son’s, or Towery’s, and none of them seem to think that Clare’s going to be staying in business too long.’
‘Clare is the number-two cottonseed processor after Brooks. Saying that Clare is going out of business is like saying that the Ford Motor Company is going out of business.’
‘Sure, but you know how things are.’
‘I’m not so sure I do,’ Randolph replied cautiously, although he had a pretty fair idea of what the man was trying to suggest. It was no secret in Memphis that Clare Cottonseed was a political and economic maverick. All the other big cottonseed processors in the area were members of a price-fixing cartel that called itself the Cottonseed Association but which Randolph unflatteringly referred to as the Margarine Mafia. Randolph’s father, Ned Clare, had rarely upset the Association, even though he had always insisted on remaining independent. Ned Clare had kept his salad-oil and cattle-cake prices well up in line with the Association’s, but when Randolph had taken over the company, he had wanted to expand and economize and he had introduced a policy of keeping his prices as low as possible. The members of the Association - especially Brooks - had made their displeasure quite clear. So far, however, their hostility had been expressed politically rather than violently, but Randolph had recently begun to wonder when political push might escalate into violent shove.
‘Listen,’ the cab driver told him, ‘I believe in what you’re doin’, right? I believe in free enterprise, free trade. Every man for himself. That’s the American Way as far as I’m concerned. I mean … I’m not sayin’ it’s a fact that somebody set light to your factory. Maybe I’m talkin’ out of my ass. But, well, given the circumstances, it ain’t totally beyond the bounds of possibility, is it?’
‘I don’t think I ought to comment on that,’ Randolph replied.
The driver said, ‘How would you like it if I kept my ears open? I’m always drivin’ them other cottonseed people around. Junior veeps, mostly. They’re the ones who talk a lot.’
Randolph considered the offer for a moment and then said, ‘All right, you’ve got it, you’re on.’ He reached into his pocket for his money clip and handed the man fifty dollars. The driver snapped the bill between his fingers and said, ‘Grant, my favourite president. After Franklin, of course.’ When Randolph handed him another fifty, he grinned and said, ‘Basic math. Two Grants equal one Franklin.’ He reached across to the window, shook Randolph’s hand and handed him a business card. ‘See there?
My name’s Stanley Vergo. No relation to the barbecued-ribs Vergo. It’s an honour to do business with you. You’ll be hearin’ from me just as soon as I got somethin’ to tell you.’
‘Okay, Stanley,’ Randolph said patiently.
Stanley swung out into the evening traffic while Randolph, clutching his Vuitton overnight case, mounted the polished marble steps of the Clare Cottonseed building.
Most of the cartel companies had moved into high-rise blocks but Randolph had preferred to stay in the ten-storey, brick-faced building that his grandfather had erected in 1910. He liked the heavy, banklike style of the place, with its carved stone gargoyles and decorative cornices. He liked the mahogany and the marble and the dim, amber Tiffany lamps. They reminded him of deep-rooted Southern prosperity, of scrupulous manners and unscrupulous wheeler-dealing. Besides, it took only three minutes to get from his tenth-storey office to the doors of the Cotton Exchange and only another three to reach Erika’s German restaurant on South Second Street.
He unlocked the huge front door and the night security guard came to greet him.
‘You should have rung the bell, Mr Cl
are. I’d of let you in.’
‘That’s all right, Marshall. Is Mr Sleaman upstairs?’
‘He came back just about twenty minutes ago, sir. I want to say that I’m awfully sorry about the fire, sir. I knew Mr Douglas real well.’
Randolph crossed the echoing marble-clad lobby and pressed the button to summon the old-fashioned, wrought-iron elevator. It clanked its way slowly upward until it reached the tenth floor, where Randolph got out and walked quickly along to the end of the corridor. Two massive oak doors led into his office, which was almost fifty feet square, with windows facing north towards the Cotton Exchange and west towards the gleaming confluence of the Mississippi and the Wolf.
The sky was already the colour of blueberry jelly, and two or three lighted riverboats drew herringbone patterns across the surface of the Mississippi.
Randolph dropped his overnight case on the big hide-covered Chesterfield beside his desk and stripped off his coat. His Tiffany desk lamp was already alight and his secretary, Wanda, had laid out a file for him on Raleigh’s production statistics together with Telex reports on the severity of the damage and an interim report on the fire by Neil Sleaman, his executive vice-president in charge of the No.2 processing plant.
He quickly leafed through the reports and then pressed his intercom to see if Wanda was there.
‘Mr Clare, you’re back!’ she exclaimed.
‘Would you come in, please?’ Randolph asked.
Wanda bustled through the door with her shorthand pad. She was a dark-haired, dark-eyed girl, very pretty in a way that reminded Randolph of Priscilla Presley, and with an exceptional figure. Randolph had not hired her for her looks, however. She was bright and she was creative, and she was also the daughter of one of the most productive cotton farmers in Mississippi, Colonel Henry Burford of Burford’s Delight Plantation. Randolph was still buying cottonseed from Colonel Burford at 1980 prices: one hundred twenty-nine dollars the ton.
Death Trance Page 3