Evil in the Land Without

by Colin Cotterill

  "If I can survive the war against the communists, I'm certainly not afraid of some psychopath. Let him come for me. See what he gets."

  They knew she’d been nowhere near a war in her life. The toughest thing about the old lady was her tongue. Her armour was counterfeit. She could have been vanquished by a stiff breeze. But her pig-headedness was unyielding. John knew there was no point in trying to change her mind.

  Colleta was an elegantly wrinkled woman in her sixties. When she first seduced her selected husband, she had been a fragile Hungarian ballerina. It appears she wasn't a good enough ballerina to get out of the country on her talent. She needed a foreign husband. The groom she ended up with was a heavy, unremarkable insurance assessor representing a large British firm. His passport and his compliant nature were more important to her than his looks.

  She'd originally intended to ditch him once she'd made her way in England. But he was away on business so often, and her lifestyle was so comfortable, that she didn't get around to it. One of the groom's trips home produced John Jessel, and one more left them with Susan. Then, before the children were old enough to remember him as more than just a curious visitor, he stopped coming home.

  He was listed as the corporate version of 'missing in action,' and it was believed he had died of some tropical disease in Southeast Asia. His body was never recovered. Colleta received a very generous company pension to make up for her inconsiderable loss, and she went on to bring up her two children with style but very little motherly affection with the help of a parade of nannies. They all loved the children, but could stand very little of their obnoxious mother.

  Despite a very expensive residential education, the children had turned out to be disappointments to Colleta. One was an overweight policeman of all things. The other had given up a promising career in the arts to marry an old hippy. She barely mentioned them to her social peers, and when she did, they were referred to as "the youngsters." They, in turn, hated her.

  That afternoon in her apartment, John had made the mistake of telling the old girl he was on his way to see Susan and Eddo. She told him to wait a few minutes, and before he could make a run for the door, she was there in her hat and coat with her permanently packed overnight bag on her arm. He began to tell her how difficult the trip was going to be; the changes of vehicles, the false trails, but she looked right through him as she always had.

  The tension of the journey was magnified a hundred-fold with the woman there complaining and giving out with her endless yacking. She blamed him of course for this mess they were all in. She blamed him for his mindless career decision. She even found ways to blame him for the dullness of her own life. As she droned away in the background, he recited the lyrics to himself of every Creedence Clearwater Revival song he could remember, and wondered how he could get her address to The Paw.

  As a copper he remained focussed on the trip. He was confident that if anyone had begun to follow them, they certainly wouldn't be there now at this lovely place. The estate was everything tourists expected of an English country home. The lawns were cropped and emerald green. The flowers in their beds were lined up and spaced out like a legion of brightly plumed Roman soldiers. But the main house was being renovated in a way that would render it more Elizabethan than when it was built. The company empowered with the security during the closure was headed by an ex-CID man who owed Aunt Maud one or two favours. That's how Susan and Eddo got themselves into the gamekeeper's cottage off the main lawn.

  Eddo was out on the grass, playing cricket with the gardeners. So it was just the three of them in the Glad-wrapped room: one comically bitter old lady and her two under-achieving offspring. Their rare family gatherings invariably ended in acrimony. But things seemed to be going well. Perhaps it was the tension of their enforced victimization, or the buzz from the wine. But there was something softer than usual in their mother's tone that encouraged the youngsters to be naughtier than they would normally dare.

  One of the few things they had in common was their mysterious father, although Colleta was rarely in the mood to talk about him. When they were growing up, John and Susan would make up stories about him. In their pre-sleep world, he would have families like theirs all over the globe. He was a pirate and a spy. He was an international arms dealer, and a secret astronaut. They liked their make-believe father much more than the dull stocky man in the photos: the man who had rudely died before they had a chance to love him.

  "Come on, Colleta, he must have had some redeeming qualities." John had his stockinged feet up on a circa-1572 mahogany table. His mother slipped a copy of Horse and Hound under them and grumbled about his lack of respect for history. The ambience in the room suited her.

  "He was completely without personality." Her blunt reply surprised them both. She was lisping slightly from the wine. It was no doubt causing chemical reactions with the vat of pills inside her. "He would come home unexpectedly after a four-month absence, have nothing to say of his journey, and retire to his room to recover from ever lengthening bouts of jetlag."

  "You'd think he'd be feeling horny after being away from his bit of skirt for so long wouldn't you?" Susan suggested, winking at John.

  "How did you ever get so crude, girl? I do not know where you get it from. Certainly not me. Your father, I must tell you, was not an emotionally active man."

  "Well he must have activated a bit of emotion to produce us," John offered.

  "He rarely wandered into my garden of delights."

  She had said it so straight-laced that despite themselves, the youngsters fell into fits of laughter. Such a comment was totally out of place from this woman who had never talked to them as equals. Colleta allowed herself a coquettish smile and sipped at her wine.

  "Perhaps the garden gate was locked," said John.

  "Or the gardener was already in there pottering around," Susan added.

  Colleta blew wine out through her nose and the three of them laughed till they cried. Eddo came running in to see what he'd missed, but none of them could contain themselves. He left again in a Jessel huff, which just made them laugh more.

  It had been a surprisingly good meeting. It was the best Susan and John could remember.

  It would be their last.

  *

  As John and Colleta were leaving the next day, there was very nearly a group hug. Colleta managed to pull out just in time. Instead, she air-kissed the offspring and allowed Eddo to briefly put his arms around her neck. John and his sister held on to each other for the longest time. She squeezed his hand tightly through the car window. There were a lot of things they didn't need to say. They had grown up parenting one-another and had an inborn, ant-to-ant understanding.

  When finally, after an endless journey home, they pulled up in front of the tall terrace in Knightsbridge where he'd grown up, all John wanted to do was drop the old girl off. She insisted he come up. It was a pain because it took him half an hour to find somewhere to park and walk back.

  "This had better be good, Colleta," he grumbled as he walked into the stylish apartment.

  Nothing had changed, not even the exact position of the door key on the dresser in the hall. It was hard to imagine that this museum had once been disturbed by two children growing up. There was certainly no evidence of it .

  "Come here, boy," she called. She was in the bedroom on her hands and knees, attempting to pull an old leather suitcase from beneath the bed.

  He knelt down to help. "Going somewhere?"

  "Not anymore. This old chap was the one I first brought with me from Budapest."

  "Ooh. An antique."

  "Don't be insolent. You aren't too old for a smacked bottom you know. Policeman or no policeman."

  John giggled and put the suitcase on the bed. He went to open it but she put her hand over the catch.

  "No, not now. Take it with you."

  "What do I want with it?"

  "You'll see. Now go away and let me have some rest. Your driving's given me a headache."
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  With the suitcase in his hands, he couldn't strangle her.

  14

  The smell of fresh paint was quite strong but it was too cold to open the window. John liked the way his place looked now. Even the old furniture seemed more welcoming. The bloodstained couch had gone to the dump and been replaced by a second-hand, peach-coloured sofa. It had influence. It made things in the room that had previously just been old and mismatched, look chic. Even the mouldy cupboards blended in. He felt chic himself, arty.

  He grabbed a beer and wrestled with the rusty locks on the old suitcase until they sprang open. Inside was full of old stuff. An old-stuff smell drifted up into the room and did combat with the paint fumes: a duel of old and new.

  As soon as John realised what was contained in that old case, it became treasure. The scent was one of anticipation. But he felt guilty to be rummaging through the case without his sister beside him. That crazy old lady had kept mementos of their father—though she’d never seen a need to share them with her children.

  There was the wedding photo in faded shades of brown with its two unsmiling, unloving principle players. There were a dozen or so square snaps of events from their early life surrounded by a lot of people who appeared happier than them. Mother always had that 32-teeth cocktail smile. Father always looked like he’d just woken up in a strange bed. He looked exceedingly dull. The thought of having a boring father worried John more than having a dead one.

  He went through the few personal documents and legal papers the man had left behind. There were picture postcards from India, Singapore, Vietnam, and Thailand, all asking her to give his love to John and Susan and signing off with an unconvincing, “love, Jim.” It was all trivial stuff. None of them actually said what he was doing or when he would be back. He must have been a frustrating man to be married to. The couple deserved each other.

  There were one or two letters from the company he’d worked for. They talked about superannuation and increments and long service bonuses, but they didn’t mention his father, the person.

  It was 2:00 a.m. by the time he’d gone through everything. He still didn’t know what his father did for a living. He had to be at work by 7:00, but there was something to be done before he could sleep.

  He felt the Imperial Insurance Company owed him more than the brief letter of condolence they’d included with the cheque. They owed him an identity. They had an obligation to fill in the missing pieces of the memory of his father. So he wrote to them and claimed his inheritance.

  15

  Under the flickering flame of an oil lamp, Shirley signed her name to the letter. Tears had streamed from her eyes from the first stroke of her pen. Grief came with every word, with each memory. From behind the flimsy rattan wall, the troubled groaning of malaria victims was apt music to accompany her confession.

  She had always believed her final therapist would be a lover or an understanding colleague. But she had been too entangled in her studies to respond to any of the offers from men. There had been no lovers, and she doubted now there could ever be.

  This letter to a woman she didn’t know would have to be her salvation. Those dreadful years had been held inside, trapped like a bear in a bamboo cage. It strained to get loose, growing bigger until there was no more room to move. Until tonight, the bear had been wearing its cage painfully like a girdle.

  I was too shocked to move: too stunned to scream . . .

  . . . it began. And on she wrote. And with the writing came a slow release. It oozed from her like puss from a sore and was absorbed by the blackness outside her lamplight. Words she had never spoken, never thought aloud, were seeping out of her and onto the flimsy paper. It surprised her how it was able to bear the weight of them. She wrote all of it. All the details and the feelings. She wrote until it was all out and the bear stretched its knotted limbs and she stopped crying. The bunched bandages in her hand were sodden from tears.

  She thought at first she would read over what she had written. But her words were only words. It was like reading someone else's sorry story. It was a poor, two-dimensional version of the reality. But it would do.

  A patient called to her from the ward. She folded the pile of airmail sheets and put them back into her medical satchel. She locked it and slipped the key into the pocket of her shorts. The first part of her home-made therapy was over with.

  16

  The Paw case had gone nowhere. It was stalled. The murder of Mick had led to the involvement of Scotland Yard. Four detectives had interviewed John and taken copies of his evidence. They all promised to keep him up to speed on their findings, and he promised to pass on anything that came in.

  But it had been a month and he’d heard nothing from them or from The Paw. Far from being a relief, it was a time of tension. Anticipation can be more terrible than terror itself. Susan and Eddo were still in hiding. Every doorbell ring, every letter delivery, every phone call threatened. Every day without aggression built up the tension in him to a peak of horrible expectation. He knew that when it came, it would make the previous horrors seem trivial. All his non-working hours were spent hiding behind a barricade of drink.

  His normal duties filled his days, although he could find little of his old enthusiasm. He deliberately held back from making friends with the kids in case he was being watched. He handed sensitive cases over to the others for fear of breaching security, and everyone was being so damned sensitive and understanding to him. They all bowed to his demands at staff meetings and backed down in arguments. It was like being an invalid.

  He was further insulted by the bloody Imperial Insurance Company. They sent another form letter stating that Mr. James Jessel had been in the employ of the IIC for 18 years, from 1963 to 1981. He had been a reliable employee, and—in case we'd forgotten—the total sum of 102,000 pounds of accumulated increments plus insurance premiums had already been paid to his widow, etcetera.

  It shat him totally that they could be so cold about it. He'd been a loyal member of the company for all those years. Surely someone there could have added a personal note. All right the man wasn't Mr. Personality, but somebody must have liked him; remembered him at least. Finding that person became a quest.

  *

  They wrapped up a case early one afternoon. The known paedophile they were supposed to run a three-man surveillance on for a week, decided to stop off at a primary school and drag a bemused child into a toilet. John and Somersbee were on him like hogs on a truffle.

  They had photos, two expert police witnesses, and a tearful confession. The paperwork was all done in a couple of hours. So John decided to take a ride into town. The Imperial Insurance Company occupied an elegant terrace with a view of the grounds of the Natural History Museum. The brass plaque attached to the front railing said 'money,' but the door didn't say 'come in.' It was locked. He pressed the bell beside an ancient speaker, and there was a long and annoying silence before a bored metallic voice said, "Yes?"

  John looked down at the letter in his hand. "I've come to see Mrs. Wise."

  "Mrs. Wise is away at our Singapore branch." He should have added, "Can I help you?" But he didn't bother.

  "Well, Mrs. Wise suggested I stop by and talk to someone."

  "That isn't very likely."

  "It isn't? You mean there isn't anyone I can talk to?"

  "Not really. There isn't anyone here at the moment.”

  "No. . . ? What about you? Or are you speaking from your Hong Kong branch?"

  "I suggest you put your request in writing and—"

  "My request is to come in." He contemplated affixing the words 'dick brain.'

  "That isn't possible I'm afraid."

  "Isn't. . . . What type of insurance company are you that doesn't talk to people?"

  "Not that kind. Now if you'll excuse me."

  Before John had a chance to excuse him or anything else, there was a thud from the speaker and it was dead.

  It wasn't exactly what he'd expected. He thought he'd be sitting do
wn with old Jenkins from the shipping department and hearing all the stories about good old dad over a cup of tea.

  Through the grubby uncurtained windows, it appeared the ground floor was empty. In fact there were no curtains until the third and fourth floors. He could have just made that with a small brick. What exactly did “not that kind of insurance company” mean? What kind of insurance company didn't need people?

  He pressed the buzzer again, but nobody answered. He pressed again, then leaned on the button. Nothing.

  IIC was in the centre of the terrace. Getting in the back way would have meant climbing over 17 back-yard walls. Even if he'd been in shape, which he certainly wasn't, it would have still taken most of the evening. In his present condition it was 16 too many. But there was hope. Two houses down, there was a very upmarket travel agency. He flashed his badge at a girl whose hair was skewered to the top of her head with a chopstick, and walked through to the back. She rolled her eyes as if it happened all the time.

  The yard was full of bottles, and the wall was eight feet high. He needed all three of the wine crates to get himself over. The old mattress in the next yard was mildewed and stank to heaven and back, but it looked soft.

  It barely broke his fall. But it did come in handy to throw over the broken glass and barbed wire that topped the wall to the IIC. They certainly weren't that kind of insurance company. He arrived unwanted and breathless in their yard at about the same moment the testosterone wore off. He really wished he wasn't there.