Delicate Indecencies

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  As the lights went green the Volvo turned right and headed towards the city by the secondary roads. Why they should be taking this route was unclear to Teschmaker, but he dropped back as far as he dared and breathed a sigh of relief as another car overtook him and slotted in between them. They passed through a light industrial suburb that was unfamiliar to Teschmaker. It had seen better days: old fibro sheds, grimy two-storey buildings, their windows broken or boarded up.

  Five minutes later he followed the Volvo left into the outskirts of the Russian Quarter. The car that had been acting as a buffer continued on towards the city centre so he was feeling exposed again. Fortunately the rain had increased and visibility was poor. The Volvo slowed down and pulled into the kerb and Teschmaker stopped too. Switching off his lights he peered through the downpour, trying to work out exactly where he was. To his right was a warehouse; to the left a row of lock-up garages with rusted roller-doors and padlocks. Further down the road he spotted a landmark he recognised: the Guzenko Parking Station. No, he corrected himself, the rear of the parking station. He took the city road map from the glove box and, holding it up so that he could read it in the light of a street lamp, located himself at the top end of Nikolayevsky Street. The street ran parallel to Guzenko. He remembered one of his Russian friends explaining that Nikolayevsky was a prominent émigré in the early 1930s and publisher of a Menshevik broadsheet. He had been honoured with the street name after surviving an attack by the NKVD.

  It was never a busy street even during the day so Teschmaker was surprised by the number of parked cars. Ahead of him the Volvo had switched off its lights. There was nothing for it but to get out, though how he was going to walk casually along the totally exposed street without coming to someone’s attention he had no idea.

  Act now, think later, he joked lamely as he buttoned his coat to the neck. Cursing himself for not having an umbrella in the car, he stepped out into the rain. After locking the car, he crossed the road to where the buildings afforded him a slight respite from the prevailing wind. He was also further from the street lights there. He walked quickly along the pavement until he was opposite the parked Volvo but he had been too slow. There was no sign of the car’s occupants. The street was completely deserted and, to make matters worse, the rain was even heavier than before. There was no way he was going to stand on the street like a drowned rat. He looked around for somewhere to shelter. Just a few steps to his right there was a recessed doorway leading into a wholesale furriers. Teschmaker climbed the steps and found himself in an ideal position for observing the other side of the street.

  There were twenty or thirty cars parked either side of an unprepossessing office block: six storeys of brick sporting a large, unlit neon sign announcing the place to be the home of Mlad Fashions. Teschmaker wondered how many years ago the company had vanished. The street level was given over to a computer repair business. According to a dilapidated real-estate board, the entire building was ‘ripe’ with potential. Give it ten years, he thought, and the place will be all trendy inner-city apartments.

  He waited for quarter of an hour but there was no sign of anyone going in or out of the building. A quick stroll-by, he decided and, turning his collar up, crossed the road. There was no front entrance, other than to the securely locked computer repair shop. Teschmaker paused and looked up and down the street; he appeared to be the only person in the vicinity. This late at night, in this area and particularly in such inclement weather, he would have been surprised to see another soul. He moved to the side of the building and came across a narrow entranceway between the buildings. A walkway — cracked paving and weeds — led to a side entrance. A small amount of illumination was provided by a low-wattage light positioned above a door in the side of the building. For a moment he considered walking down to it, but decided it was not worth the risk. He knew there was little hope now of finding out if Jane was inside other than by waiting in the increasingly cool night. Then he thought of a more constructive option.

  Going quickly back to his car he rummaged around until he found a scrap of paper and a felt-tipped pen. He walked back along the row of parked cars jotting down the numberplates. If nothing else he could get an idea of who these people were. By the look of the cars — a couple of Jags, several Beamers and an assortment of Volvos, Mercs and Saabs — they were a pretty well-heeled bunch. He put a small star beside the licence number of the yellow Volvo he had tailed from Jane’s place.

  Teschmaker was about to cross the road to work his way back along the other side when he heard voices coming from the alleyway. He ducked quickly behind a car and crouched out of sight. He couldn’t make out what was being said but the tone was less than amicable. Someone was yelling abuse. There was a scream and then the sound of a door being slammed. Teschmaker waited for a couple of minutes and then, hearing nothing further, decided to risk taking a look. He strode quickly to the gap between the buildings, intending to keep walking if there was anybody still outside. But a quick glance revealed the narrow pathway to be empty.

  He was about to return to the task of jotting down the licence numbers when out of the corner of his eye he saw something move on the ground. Halfway down the alley a man was struggling to his feet. Teschmaker held himself back. There was no point in getting involved. Whoever it was was obviously not too badly hurt as he had managed to get to his feet and was now stumbling up the laneway towards him. He was about to slip back across the road and out of sight when the injured man looked up. Even in the dim light Teschmaker could see that someone had made a real mess of his face. The man was bleeding profusely from the nose, lip and a cut above one eye. Then Teschmaker recognised him — the strange character he had encountered in the country house.

  He stepped forward and took the man’s arm. ‘Viola, what the hell have you got yourself into?’

  For a moment the man looked at him, uncomprehending eyes blinking wildly. Then he pitched forward. Teschmaker grabbed at him but succeeded only in ripping the man’s shirt as he fell to the ground. Shit, he thought, what in God’s name am I supposed to do now?

  He knelt down beside Viola and rolled him over. ‘Come on,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

  All the offer elicited was a long groan but the man was still conscious, so Teschmaker pulled him up and supporting his weight half walked, half dragged him out of the lane and onto Nikolayevsky Street. ‘Come on,’ he repeated gently. ‘Let’s get you out of here.’

  Slowly they made their way to his car where, with a bit of pushing and shoving, he managed to get Viola onto the rear seat. He turned on the interior light.

  ‘Shit!’

  The man had been pretty well messed up before they dumped him out the side door. The cut above his eye was superficial but there was a nasty gash in his scalp and his bleeding nose showed no sign of abating.

  ‘What on earth did you do to deserve this?’

  Viola opened his eyes and mumbled something.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You,’ Viola said. ‘Your fucking fault.’

  ‘Me?’ Teschmaker tucked an old newspaper under the man’s head. There was no point in getting blood all over the car. ‘I didn’t do this to you.’

  ‘They found out that you had tricked me.’

  ‘They beat you up because I came to the house?’

  ‘They beat me up,’ Viola whimpered. ‘But they’ll kill you.’

  Satisfied that he could do nothing further to staunch the bleeding, Teschmaker shut the rear door and went around the car to the driver’s side. He slipped behind the wheel and started the motor.

  ‘I’ll take you to my place and get you cleaned up,’ he said. None of the wounds looked like they needed stitching and, anyway, the last thing he wanted was the complication of having to explain Viola to a hospital matron and then, inevitably, the police.

  If his tiredness and the wet conditions weren’t enough, the thought of the police caused him to drive very sedately. Teschmaker thought it unlikely that any tr
affic cops would be out on a night like this but he would rather err on the side of caution than take the risk. Outside the weather was deteriorating, a second storm front was coming through and jagged bolts of forked lightning split the night with increased frequency. It was twenty minutes before midnight.

  There was a vehicle in his driveway. Teschmaker parked in the street and made a quick dash through the rain to the limited shelter of the overhanging garage eaves. The first thing he noticed was the damage to the car: the maroon Mercedes was missing a wing mirror and sporting serious-looking body damage all along one side. The door on the driver’s side no longer appeared to open and Norman, dressed in a rather sodden business suit, was holding the passenger door open as Edwards slid across the front seat.

  ‘Evening, Mr Teschmaker,’ Edwards said. Like Norman he was dressed in a suit but his was in a considerably drier condition. He moved quickly under shelter, followed closely by Norman.

  ‘Late night?’ Norman grinned. ‘Rough weather for it, but.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Teschmaker said. ‘And get your car out of my drive.’

  Edwards shook his head sadly, as though he was a much misunderstood individual resigned yet again to being denied a fair hearing. ‘Understandable attitude, sir.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Norman concurred.

  Teschmaker began to wonder if it really was a grin on Norman’s face or some congenital affliction. ‘If you don’t mind pissing off.’

  ‘Apologies all round.’ Edwards seemed determined to make some sort of personal breakthrough. ‘We overstepped the line last time. Our fault entirely.’

  ‘Absolutely. Overstepped the mark,’ Norman added for clarity.

  ‘Which part of “fuck off” don’t you understand?’ Teschmaker spoke as slowly and as patronisingly as he could.

  ‘As I said, it was a misunderstanding. Mr Sinclair told us to come around and give you a hand. Offer our services.’

  ‘We were going to stay well behind you tonight,’ Norman said, ‘but you lost us on the freeway.’

  ‘Nice bit of driving, I must say.’ Edwards looked ruefully at his car. ‘Better than mine.’

  ‘Straight into the guard rail . . .’

  ‘My own fault entirely.’

  Teschmaker grinned as he recollected the split-second view he had caught earlier in the night of the out-of-control car on the slippery road. ‘Let me get this straight. You say Sinclair sent you to assist me?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Norman nodded. ‘Back him up, that’s what Mr Sinclair said, right, Mr Edwards?’

  ‘Right.’ Edwards extended his hand in anticipation of a breakthrough in the hostilities. ‘One of us fore and aft, medio tutissimus ibis.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Teschmaker laughed at the image. ‘Nemo repente fuit turpissimus,’ he said and held up his hands in capitulation. ‘If I have to walk “in the middle” of you two, I want you either side — no offence meant, Mr Edwards — but not fore and aft.’ He turned and gestured to his own car. ‘Well, you can start by getting the body out of the back.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Norman swore quietly. ‘You knocked off someone?’ He looked at Teschmaker with renewed respect.

  ‘No. He’s alive, just a little beaten up.’

  ‘I never took you for the type . . .’ Norman started but stopped as a noise came from the street. As though responding to being mentioned, Viola staggered out of the car. If anything he looked even worse than he had earlier. The blood from his nose and the cuts above his eye and in his scalp had all contributed a generous amount of blood to the ripped shirt, giving him the appearance of someone terminally wounded.

  ‘Give him a hand while I unlock the door,’ Teschmaker said, then in case Norman had the wrong idea added, ‘And be gentle with him, he’s not one of the bad guys.’

  He unlocked the house and held the door wide as they brought Viola in. ‘Viola, this Norman and Mr Edwards.’

  ‘Gerard.’ Edwards raised a questioning eyebrow in Teschmaker’s direction. ‘Viola, was it?’

  ‘Viola. I think it’s a nickname. We haven’t known each other that long. There’s a bathroom upstairs.’ He led the way.

  ‘Come on, pal,’ is Norman spoke gently. ‘We’ll soon get you cleaned up.’

  Viola looked terrified but he didn’t resist.

  In the bathroom Teschmaker lowered the toilet seat and they sat Viola down. ‘Here.’ Teschmaker tossed Edwards a towel. ‘I’ll get the bed in the study ready. I haven’t got much stuff, but what there is is in the cabinet under the sink.’

  ‘Not a problem. Norman, get the first aid kit from the car,’ Edwards ordered.

  He gave Teschmaker the impression of someone who was used to taking charge in an emergency. Probably trained in the forces, he thought.

  By the time Teschmaker had prepared the bed, the other two had cleaned most of the blood off Viola’s face. They then helped him to his feet and eased off the remnants of the shirt.

  ‘Christ! Take a look at that.’ Edwards screwed up his face in disgust. ‘They’ve beaten the shit out of the poor bastard.’ He turned Viola around. His back was covered with welts, ridged with tiny corrugations. ‘What the hell did they use on you?’

  ‘I deserved it,’ Viola mumbled, turning his face to the floor in shame.

  ‘Nobody deserves to be beaten like that.’

  ‘I did,’ Viola insisted.

  ‘Come on,’ Teschmaker interjected. ‘We can talk about it in the morning.’

  After they had Viola lying down, if not comfortable, they met in the kitchen. Teschmaker poured the remnants of his scotch into three tumblers and apologised for the lack of chairs, while Norman, still looking like a drowned rat, removed his jacket and hung it from a hook on the back of the door.

  ‘I never did understand what happened to all your furniture,’ Edwards said.

  ‘I dumped it after my wife jumped ship.’

  ‘Too many painful memories —’ Norman began sympathetically.

  ‘No. She had lousy taste and the stuff never suited me.’ Teschmaker shrugged dismissively. ‘Now, what’s the story? You guys were following me on Sinclair’s instructions. Doesn’t he trust me?’

  ‘Of course he does. He just wanted to make sure you had some backup.’ Edwards drained his scotch in a single gulp. ‘He thinks there’s some funny stuff going on with his wife and he figured you might need some assistance.’

  ‘We’re to take orders from you,’ Norman added.

  This elicited a frown from Edwards. Obviously he hadn’t been about to mention that, preferring a more equal partnership.

  Teschmaker handed the scrap of paper to Edwards. ‘Well, first thing in the morning you can start on this list of licence plates. They were all parked outside the building that Jane visited tonight.’

  ‘What was it?’ Norman asked. ‘A party?’

  ‘I think that depends on your definition of “party”. You have seen the photographs?’

  Teschmaker was uncertain how much Sinclair had divulged to his hired muscle. But he needn’t have worried. The grin on Norman’s face said it all.

  ‘A bunch of very sick puppies,’ Edwards said quietly.

  ‘Not your cup of tea?’

  ‘I have no problem inflicting pain, Mr Teschmaker, but I do so in a strictly professional manner.’

  ‘I know.’ Teschmaker grimaced at the memory. ‘Sorry about that. I hope it won’t get in the way of our —’

  ‘Mr Edwards, I think that under the circumstances —’

  ‘Gerard.’

  ‘Gerard, under the circumstances I think we’ll pretend that it never happened.’

  ‘Appreciated, Martin,’ Edwards beamed.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Norman added. ‘Abso-bloody-lutely.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Teschmaker found himself wandering through a rock maze. Gigantic slabs of red granite set either side of an obsidian path, but unlike stone in the real world it was alive. At each twist and turn he watched as the rock flowed like lava to reform in n
ew shapes, to open new pathways and block the old. It seemed sentient, its malignant intent to send him forever in circles; holding, too, the potential to close in at any time and crush him. He tried running but the faster he moved the quicker the rock shape-shifted and moulded itself into new obstacles. Somewhere he could hear the clink of a stonemason’s hammer and chisel. I must find this person, he thought, but as if in response to his thought the obsidian beneath his feet changed its consistency to the tackiness of tar that sucked him down and he knew he would sink. The clink of the hammer grew more insistent and summoning all his strength he threw himself sideways. It took him a moment to focus before he realised he was on the floor of the old master bedroom and the phone in his study was ringing. He had slept uncomfortably on the floor and his body ached in protest as he staggered to his feet and made his way through the hallway to the study. From the bed Viola flashed him a malevolent look and rolled towards the wall.

  Teschmaker grabbed the phone. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is that Mr Teschmaker?’ It was a woman’s voice, a slightly foreign accent.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Irene, Mr Sinclair’s personal assistant.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Sinclair asked me to ring to tell you that he has some important information for you and he wonders if you could meet him in two hours’ time.’

  Teschmaker glanced at his watch. It was just after nine thirty. ‘Tell him I’ll be there,’ he said.

  ‘He would rather not meet in the office. He asked if you would mind meeting him at the kiosk and flower shop at the Western Gate at Freeholm.’

  Freeholm. The suggestion struck Teschmaker as strange. ‘Freeholm cemetery?’ The cemetery only had one public entrance, known as the Western Gate as it was located on the spot where the city’s original western gate had once stood.