Delicate Indecencies

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  And what about Sinclair? There was something about his determination to get to the person who had mailed him the photographs that didn’t quite ring true. Nothing, Teschmaker had to admit, that he could pin down, but rather a vague feeling that maybe Sinclair wasn’t being totally straight with him. Sinclair had sworn Jane had never shown any inclination towards S&M. Quite the reverse. A couple of times when he had suggested something like it she had told him flatly that she wasn’t the slightest bit interested. Apparently that had changed. When, how and why?

  ‘What about your infidelities?’ Teschmaker had asked. ‘Surely most women wouldn’t have put up with such behaviour?’

  ‘So you’re an expert on my sex life?’ Sinclair retorted.

  ‘There have been rumours . . .’

  ‘What can I say?’ Sinclair shrugged. ‘I have my needs.’

  Teschmaker laughed. ‘You’ve always been like that?’

  ‘Aren’t most men?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Teschmaker thought about it. ‘No, maybe not. Probably most men would be happy just to be loved.’

  Sinclair groaned. ‘What are you, Martin? Some kind of old-fashioned romantic? I got all the love I could stand from my mother.’

  ‘So what do you want from women?’

  ‘Excitement? Forbidden fruit? Jesus! I just like a good screw.’

  ‘You like to conquer? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I know it’s not fashionable to admit it, but I reckon that’s about it.’

  ‘Not fashionable? It’s bloody antediluvian. So you’re hooked on the illicit? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  Oliver shook his head morosely. ‘I have no idea what I’m telling you, Martin. I don’t even know why I told you. I guess I could spout a lot of psycho-babble about how our first sexual experiences shape the way we are for the rest of our lives, but that’s a bit too touchy-feely for me. I just think we all have needs and everyone has different ways of satisfying them.’

  ‘And Jane? She has needs?’

  ‘She had her study, then her work.’

  ‘Investment advising?’

  ‘If only that was all.’ Sinclair scowled. ‘She was perpetually on call to Foreign Affairs and every other bloody bureaucratic body that can’t sort itself out.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Sinclair sounded bitter, jealous. ‘Jane’s speciality is defence procurement policy assessment, especially in relation to the former Soviet Republics. She not only did her day job but she was up half the night advising government about Uzbekistan’s military budget, Kalashnikov confederalism, how much Ingushetia spends on ground forces or preparing a paper for some conference. Oh yes, that’s my girl — not so great in bed but ask her to churn out fifteen thousand words on problems in methodological analysis and she’s hot to trot.’

  To Teschmaker that had all sounded as foreign to the Jane he was piecing together as the photographs were. But then, maybe not. After all her ‘day job’ as Sinclair had termed it was involved with investment opportunities overseas. And he remembered that Jane’s business partner Sarah Norrby had said Jane specialised in the Eastern European region. What was it about that area of the world that fascinated her? But Teschmaker couldn’t make the connection. He checked his watch. It was after nine. No sign of Jane. An hour later he gave up for the day.

  It was the same the following morning. No car, no Jane, no nothing. Teschmaker decided it was time for a break from the entire business. He did his laundry, defrosted and cleaned out the refrigerator and shopped for groceries. But by late afternoon his distraction therapy was wearing a bit thin. Time and again his mind came back to the enigma that was Jane Sinclair/Jane Morris. Somewhere there must be a thread of logic running through it all.

  In an attempt to clarify his thoughts he turned on his computer and made a list in chronological order of everything that had happened since he set out to contact her. It didn’t tell him anything. Jane appeared to like S&M, had left her husband and hated Teschmaker. Why she hated him, he still had no idea. It dawned on him that his anger at her had diminished, replaced, surprisingly, by a sense of enjoyment at the mystery of it all. He reread what he had written, looking again for a pattern. Nothing. Finally he switched the computer off, acknowledging that it had been a futile exercise. There was nothing that he could do now until she resurfaced. The knowledge rankled, the forced inaction bothering him. Then he realised that there was something he could do. He made himself a quick snack, drank a coffee and headed for the car.

  Forty-five minutes later he was driving slowly past the entrance to the country house he had followed Jane to a few days earlier. As he’d expected, the house was in darkness. Teschmaker drove on another hundred metres and found a place to park the car; well off the road, out of sight of passing traffic. He locked it and, not wanting to have a set of keys jangling in his pocket, tucked them behind the front left wheel. It was a clear crisp night; scattered cloud and free from the light pollution of the city, the stars burned sharp and bright. Away towards the horizon a sliver of new moon was sailing up the sky.

  At the gate Teschmaker found the padlock securely in place, so he climbed over and, avoiding the gravel drive, made his way silently on grass towards the house. A flight of steps, cracked concrete, an upturned urn and dead shrubs. Nothing. The large front door looked solid — too solid to attempt a forced entry. He moved around the building, pausing to check the dilapidated shed on the side. Outside the broken fingers of an inverted harrow pushed up through tangled weeds, while inside an ancient tractor, stripped of its engine and tyres, sat up on blocks — an abandoned artifact from an earlier age. A misshapen horse collar hung from a rusted hook on the wall. Nothing of interest.

  Behind the house he found a collapsed tank stand alongside of which a newer and smaller one had been built. Between the stand and the stump of an ancient tree was a neat pile of chopped and stacked firewood. Teschmaker picked up a piece and brought it to his nose. It was freshly cut, still exuding the resinous smell of pine. For a second he was a boy again, stacking the firewood at the holiday shack at Keynes. His father, fingers wrapped in mittens, getting another log ready for the crosscut saw. ‘Just push, don’t pull,’ his father would bark and Martin would grasp the cold steel handle and push until his arms ached. He had loved those moments. Cutting, stacking amidst the smell of fresh sawdust that fell like brown snow on the frosted ground.

  Maybe Jane planned to restore the house and was preparing to spend some time in residence. He replaced the firewood and was about to continue his circumambulation of the house when he noticed a dark shadow on the stonework. Set back under a low stone lintel that had been designed to give some protection from the elements was a wooden door, held shut by a single latch. Teschmaker expected it to be secured on the inside by a bolt, but to his surprise the latch clicked up and the door swung open. He stepped inside, leaving the door open behind him.

  There was very little light so he paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim surroundings. The atmosphere inside the house was musty but not unpleasant and several degrees warmer than the cool night outside. Teschmaker found he was standing in a hallway. To the right and left were open doors. Straight ahead of him the hall ended at a larger door. This, he surmised, must be the main entrance at the front of the building. Taking care not to bump into anything he guided himself along the hallway, peering into the rooms on either side. They were all empty. No furniture and, from what he could see, no decorations. The hallway walls appeared to be covered with wallpaper, but when he stepped into one of the adjoining rooms his groping hand came into contact with raw hessian. He approached the front door where there was a great deal more moonlight spilling in from glass panels in the door and small round windows on either side. To the right a stairway led up to the top storey. It was as he turned to the stairs and reached out for the bannister that he sensed he wasn’t alone. His heart rate accelerated and he peered up into the shadows. Nothing . . . but then he saw a figure in the darkness.
Someone was sitting on the edge of the balcony at the top of the stairs, back resting against the stair post.

  ‘You should have knocked.’ The voice, almost a whisper, sounded petulant.

  Teschmaker couldn’t determine the gender of the speaker. He took a breath and stepped back. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘You haven’t come to replace me?’ There was a pleading quality to the tone.

  ‘No. I was just having a look around.’

  ‘You were checking on me,’ the voice whined and the person stood up and opened a door. Soft light flooded the balcony and Teschmaker could see that the speaker was a man. ‘Everything’s in order. See for yourself.’ He beckoned for Teschmaker to come up. ‘When am I going to be relieved?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Teschmaker said firmly and made his way up the stairs. If the man assumed him to be someone else then he wasn’t about to correct him. He was a peculiar-looking individual: shorter than Teschmaker, very slim, his face as effeminate as his voice sounded. His hair was extremely short, as though it been shaved and only recently grown back. He was dressed in a pair of odd black pantaloons, tied at the waist in the manner of pyjama trousers. He wore no shirt, just a simple waistcoat above which was a studded collar.

  ‘Now tell me what’s been happening,’ Teschmaker demanded.

  The man nodded and lowered his eyes as Teschmaker crossed the landing. He held the door wide, waiting for Teschmaker to precede him into the room. As Teschmaker stepped up beside him he couldn’t help noticing that the man appeared to have waxed or shaved every hair off his arms and chest.

  ‘Nothing,’ the man replied. ‘Nothing’s been happening.’ He looked down at his feet as Teschmaker came level with him.

  The man is scared of me, Teschmaker thought. Everything about him showed it: the half-whispered tone, the lowered eyes, the body language, the submissive attitude.

  Teschmaker stepped through the door into a large room lit by two oil lamps. The one on the table by the door was a hurricane lamp; the other, at the far end of the room set back in a small stone alcove, was more ornate, an old-fashioned mantle under a purple glass shade. It appeared that this storey was in its original condition. The wooden ceiling and floors looked as though they had once been polished, the only sign of damage a fine web of spidery cracks across the plastered walls. A single carpet runner, old and threadbare, traversed the length of the room.

  ‘You would like a cup of tea?’ The man followed him into the room and quietly shut the door to the landing behind him. ‘It wouldn’t be any trouble. I have to make him some anyway. He likes his tea about now.’

  ‘Yes, tea,’ Teschmaker said, thinking that while the man was preparing it he would have a chance to look around the room. Then he realised what the man had said. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Through the door.’ He indicated towards the far end of the room. ‘There’s no fresh milk —’

  ‘Black. I have it black,’ Teschmaker snapped. He didn’t normally speak to total strangers that way but there was something irritating about the obsequious and ingratiating tone of the man. Suddenly things clicked into place and he knew instinctively where this man fitted into the picture. Everything about him suggested that he would enjoy being tied up and disciplined; Teschmaker was sure he was the man in the first picture with Jane. Teschmaker decided to test out his intuition.

  ‘Tell me the name of your master,’ he demanded.

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ the man whined.

  ‘His name.’

  ‘Master Francis. I thought he would come and get me —’

  So the man was not the slave of whoever was in the next room. ‘What does Master Francis call you?’

  To Teschmaker’s amazement the man sank to his knees, stared at the ground and mumbled something. He looked so soft and pathetic; at the same time the glow from the oil lamp painted his skin in burnished tones.

  ‘Speak up!’

  ‘Viola. Master calls me Viola.’

  Teschmaker repressed his disgust. ‘He likes to play on you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then, Viola, make the tea and bring it through to me.’ He spoke more gently and reaching out his hand stroked the man’s hair. The man winced beneath his touch, as though anticipating this small tenderness was a feint and would be followed by a blow.

  ‘How should I address you?’ Viola asked timidly, still on his knees.

  ‘Martin. My name is Martin.’

  He turned and strode down the room, attempting to give the impression that he knew what he was doing. In the light of the second lamp he saw a makeshift mattress beside the door. Obviously this was where Viola slept. Hearing a noise behind him Teschmaker turned and looked quickly back down the room, fearing that the man might not be convinced by what he himself felt was a less than persuasive performance. But he need not have worried. Viola was crouched over a small gas stove and was filling a kettle from a plastic water bottle.

  ‘Not too strong,’ he said.

  ‘No, Master Martin.’

  Hiding his grin, Teschmaker grasped the door handle and turned it. The door opened away from him and he found himself in a smaller room lit by a single hurricane lamp, the wick turned down so that it gave out only a small amount of light. This room, in contrast to the previous one, was fully furnished. Against one wall stood a wardrobe; the other held a casement window, beneath which was a bed. A man, sensing or hearing someone enter, struggled up into a sitting position in it.

  Teschmaker walked quickly over to the lamp and turned it up. The man in the bed looked terrified. He was old, probably seventy or eighty years of age. The face had been full once but now loose skin hung from his cheekbones and the frightened eyes were set back in deep sockets. Wisps of long silver hair hung in disarray at the back of the man’s head, the front of which was almost completely bald. As Teschmaker lifted up the lamp and moved to the bed the man cowered back against the pillows, his hands clutching at the sheets.

  ‘Tak oni poslali tebe,’ he said slowly, his voice surprisingly deep and strong given his demeanour and age. But what startled Teschmaker most was that the man was speaking fluent Czech. They have sent you. It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Znáš me?’

  ‘No, I don’t know who you are, but I know what you are.’

  ‘Co jsem?’

  ‘You are a killer. You are shit, just like all the rest.’

  The man seemed to have shrugged aside his earlier fear. He reached out a hand and grasped the metal bed frame and pulled himself up into a more upright position. ‘You might as well do it now. All of the others are dead, and not even that will stop them.’

  It wasn’t making any sense. Teschmaker put the lamp down carefully on a small bedside table. ‘I didn’t come to kill you.’

  The man laughed, a dry hollow laugh that set off a fit of coughing. Seeing a glass of water on the table, Teschmaker picked it up and held it to the man’s mouth but his hand was brushed away.

  ‘Well, if you didn’t come to kill me, you might as well leave. You are wasting what little time I have left. I have said everything I am going to say and I can’t remember anything more.’

  As though suddenly tired the old man lay down again, but he kept his eyes open, watching Teschmaker closely as he pulled a chair up to the bed. ‘I’m sick of all the questions and I just want to be left alone.’

  Teschmaker looked around the room, seeking something that would make sense of what he had stumbled into. An old man in fear of his life, hidden away in a ramshackle house in the country. A prisoner? Was he being kept here against his will? Was the other man, the peculiar Viola, acting as a guard? It hardly seemed feasible. His musing was interrupted by the sound of the door opening behind him. He turned to see Viola entering, carrying a tray neatly arranged with two cups of tea and a plate of digestive biscuits.

  ‘Your tea, Master Martin,’ Viola murmured as he placed the tray on the dressing table. After passing Teschmaker his cup, he glided over
to the bed and, moving the lamp to make room, put the second cup of tea on the bedside table. He took a couple of tablets from a small bottle on the table and handed them to the old man then passed him his tea. ‘Come on now, sit up, take your tablets and have your tea while I fluff up the pillows.’

  ‘Stop fussing,’ the old man growled in perfect English. ‘You know I hate being fussed over.’

  ‘You speak English?’ Teschmaker didn’t bother to hide his surprise.

  ‘Of course I speak English.’ The man turned his scowl from Viola to Teschmaker. ‘It appears you do too.’

  ‘Mr Morris speaks very good English, don’t you, sir?’ Viola said softly. ‘When he wants to. However most of the time he jabbers away in foreign languages.’

  Teschmaker’s head was in a spin. Could this Mr Morris be Jane’s father? He looked at him, trying to conjure up his childhood memory of the man. But as hard as he tried he couldn’t remember what Jane’s father had looked like. But the fact that the man was here, in what Teschmaker assumed was a house belonging to Jane, was compelling. It had to be her father.

  Having swallowed the tablets, the old man sipped his tea with obvious enjoyment, no longer looking fearful or haunted as he had only moments before. Teschmaker turned to Viola. ‘Leave us. I want to talk with Mr Morris while I drink my tea.’

  Viola finished plumping up the pillows and with a courteous nod of his head left the room.

  ‘How long is it since you have seen Jane?’ Teschmaker asked, but the old man appeared not to hear him.

  ‘I helped with the lilies.’

  ‘What?’ Teschmaker had no idea what Morris was talking about. Then he realised the old man was not even addressing him. He was talking to himself, searching for something inside.

  ‘The lilies. Such lilies that had never been dreamed of, but then nobody had any idea what gardeners we were. But it killed them. Every one of them. Bouquets? You can’t imagine the bouquets. Without the mirrors it would not have worked. You think it was my fault? Such gardeners: Greenglass, Alberto Garcia, clever little Marcia. So good with her hands. Jacob Sedov — he loved my little flowers. So many of them. Each in their own way a talented gardener. None of them would have died if it wasn’t for my damned flowers. Do you know that?’