by William Boyd
‘Shanda?’ muttered Bryant, lolling against him.
‘Yes, she’s coming too.’
Subjective hours later Shanda appeared. Henderson kept expecting the broad figure of Duane to amble round the corner of the house. Shanda wore a print dress beneath—what looked like Freeborn’s denim jacket. She carried a small nylon hold-all.
‘Let’s go,’ she said conspiratorially. ‘Hi, Bryant honey.’
They set off down the road to Luxora Beach, Bryant’s feet dragging rather at Henderson’s brisk pace, Shanda making surprisingly good progress in spite of her high heels.
‘What’s wrong with her, Henderson?’
‘She took a couple of sleeping pills.’
‘What?’
‘Pills. Sleeping bloody pills.’
‘Oh. Got you.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t wake Freeborn?’
‘Sleepin’ like a hog. Are you sure it wasn’t you come by earlier? About three or four times?’
‘No.’ Duane lugging pictures no doubt.
They pressed on along the dark lane. The crickets were almost silent, only the odd solo voice joined by an early chirping bird. There was a refreshing moist coolness in the air. The dark had retreated; the light was grey and silver, the trees and bushes still and opaque. Glancing to his right he could see Shanda, taking giant unsteady strides in an effort to keep pace. Henderson slowed, out of respect for the jolting embryo.
Soon they arrived at Luxora Beach. A few lights were on; the solitary traffic light hanging above main street shone amber, amber, amber. The bar was dark and inert; no neon gleamed. They paused at the railway line. Shan-da wiped some drool from Bryant’s sweatshirt front. A distant rumble in the east turned into a monster truck which thundered needlessly through the town.
‘Are you sure she’s OK?’
‘Yes,’ Henderson looked around. ‘She’s jist plum tuckered out.’ Three cars stood in the otherwise deserted mall. What now?
‘What now?’ Shanda said. She lit a cigarette and leant against the stanchion of a railway warning sign.
‘A bus, I thought. An early morning bus to Atlanta.’
‘A bus? Are you kidding? Ain’t no bus in Luxora.’
Henderson smiled stupidly. Of course not. He was thinking of tiny English villages, all with local bus routes. Stoppers. What a fool…Just then he longed for an English bus, with its hard furry seats, its smell of wet coats, stale cigarette smoke and diesel. A surly fat yob of a driver with badges and a pencil behind his ear.
‘OK, so we gotta hitch a ride,’ Shanda said.
They crossed tracks and waited. An odd forlorn threesome, Henderson thought. Shanda solicitously checked on Bryant, who was swaying about and mumbling that she was tired.
‘You want a smoke, honey?’
‘No. She can’t smoke.’
‘OK.’ Shanda stretched back, both hands supporting her spine. ‘I’m glad I could come along, Henderson,’ she said sincerely. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘Mmm.’
‘No I mean it. I couldn’t have stood it there any more, with Loomis gone and all. Loomis was the only person could keep Freeborn down.’ She shook her head. ‘You just get me to New York. Should be far enough away.’ She flicked her cigarette out into the road. It was getting distinctly lighter. Behind the church somewhere Henderson heard a car start up. Some upstairs windows shone yellow. A door slammed. A banal cock crowed. The flags on the post office flagpole still hung at half mast for Loomis Gage.
Henderson stood on the dust verge and looked down the grey road. He felt his body was about to petrify from the tension. A smoky lemon stripe in the east heralded the approach of the sun. For an instant he had a sensation of the rushing massive rotation of the earth. It was ten o’clock in the morning in England, the sun was shining on the Atlantic, it was the wee small hours in Los Angeles. A mile or so away the efforts and genius of some dead European artists had been reduced to ashes by a dim, innocent galoot, and their owner was starting the long process of decomposition in a box beneath the earth up on that hill. And meanwhile he, Henderson Dores, stood by the side of a side road in the hinterlands of America, with his enemy’s pregnant wife and a drugged abducted girl, trying to hitch a ride to New York. What did it all add up to, he asked himself. Where was the sense?
He heard the sound of a car, then saw its headlights.
‘A car,’ he said.
Shanda advanced two steps into the road. Henderson shook Bryant awake. She had been leaning against him, his elbow locked beneath her armpit. A looping filament of saliva glimmered between his jacket shoulder and her mouth, then she brushed it apart with a flopping wave of her hand.
Shanda stuck out her thumb and her pregnant belly. The car turned out to be a pickup. It stopped. The driver was a young man in a peaked cap.
‘Mornin’,’ he said. ‘Where you all goin’?’
Shanda explained. Henderson couldn’t hear what she said but stood behind her with a friendly grin on his face. The door was opened and Shanda and Bryant got in.
‘You get in back, darlin’,’ Shanda said. Darlin’? He obeyed. The back of the pickup was empty apart from a spade and two piles of sacks in the corners. Henderson sat down on one of them.
‘Vail OK back there?’
‘Yes,’ he said faintly, and the pickup moved off with a lurch. The other pile of sacks stirred, sat up and panted. A black dog, of indeterminate breed. A little unsteadily, like a man on a heaving deck, it advanced across the ribbed floor of the truck, its claws scratching on the pressed steel.
‘Hello, boy,’ Henderson said wearily. A bit of rope led from the dog’s collar to an attachment on the truck side. The dog sniffed at Henderson’s knee and gave it a cursory lick. It took a step or two forward and nosed at his groin. What is it about me and dogs, he thought. The dog was intrigued and snuffled more enthusiastically, its tail beating gently against the tin cab back.
Henderson crossed his legs and turned away.
‘Shoo,’he said.’Clear off.’
The dog sat down and looked patiently at him for the rest of the journey.
At Atlanta airport, where the obliging driver had taken them, Henderson climbed stiffly out of the back and retrieved his suitcase. Bryant had been asleep the whole journey and had to be woken up again. The driver helped Shanda out and shook Henderson by the hand.
‘Thank you very much,’ Henderson said.
‘Good luck, sir,’ the driver said seriously. He was a young chap with, Henderson was surprised to notice, no incisors in his top row of teeth.
‘God bless you, sir. God bless you.’
‘Thanks. Don’t mention it.’
When he’d gone Henderson asked Shanda what she had said to him.
‘I said we was married, I was pregnant and Bryant was my little sister who was, you know, not quite right, you know, in the head? And that you had said she could come and live with us. He thought that was real kind. Then I said our car had broke down and we had to catch a plane.’
Henderson looked suspiciously at Shanda. In the clarity of the early morning sunlight she seemed obnoxiously fresh. Her dyed blond hair gleamed and was quite fetch-ingly tousled if one ignored the inch of dark brown root that was exposed here and there. Her large milky breasts and swollen belly strained at the pattern of her dress. She had rolled up the too-long sleeves of Freeborn’s jacket and he noticed for the first time a little tattoo on her right forearm, but he couldn’t make out what it was.
Bryant stood for a moment unsupported, blinking like an idiot, her head wobbling, as if unwilling to rest on the slim pedestal of her neck.
‘Duane now,’ she said.
‘Let’s get inside,’ Henderson said. ‘I’ll get the tickets.’
He couldn’t get on the first four flights out of Atlanta, but eventually found them three seats together on a plane leaving at half past ten. They left Bryant sleeping soundly on a velveteen bench and went in search of a coffee shop. There, Henderson drank some orange
juice but pushed away his plate of fried eggs and bacon garnished with a scone and jam. Shanda tackled hers with speed and efficiency.
‘What are you meant to do with that?’ Henderson asked, pointing at the scone. ‘I’ve always wondered.’
‘The biscuit?’
‘The scone.’
‘We call it a biscuit. Usually I just cut it in half and leave it.’
He smiled encouragingly and watched her eat. Now he thought about it he should in fact be very angry with Shanda for foisting herself on him in this way, but he was too tired to get indignant. There would be time enough to sort things out when he got to New York. He rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept for twenty-four hours. So what else was new? He pressed hard, with all ten fingers, on his zygomatic arch, closing his eyes. They would have discovered his absence now at the Gage mansion. Would Duane have realized his betrothed had been spirited away? And would Freeborn, Sereno and Gint have learned of the destruction of the paintings? He supposed he should have been experiencing some sense of outrage but nothing was forthcoming. The usual priorities seemed absurd today.
Shanda lit a cigarette.
‘Y’all right?’ she asked, blowing a gust of smoke into the air.
‘I don’t know,’ he said seriously. ‘I really don’t know.’
Henderson, Shanda and Bryant made their way through the fabulous modernism of Atlanta airport. They boarded a dViverless subterranean train in which a robotic disembodied voice told them where to stand and where to alight. At the robot’s first words, Shanda gave a squeal of pleasure and Bryant said ‘Duane?’ They zipped along beneath the airport and disembarked at the correct place. Now the air was filled with a soft maternal voice breathing information about the various modes of transport available within the terminal complex. Henderson felt suddenly safe and secure, until he realized that was precisely the effect aimed for and so became prickly and irritated.
They walked for—it seemed—a good mile down the plush spur of a terminal concourse until they found their departure lounge, full of immaculate businessmen.
Their tickets had been issued in the names of Mr, Mrs and Miss Dores. Bryant fell asleep whenever she sat down and woke up obediently whenever they had to move. An attentive, concerned stewardess allowed the Dores family to board the plane first because of Shanda’s condition. As he ushered a mumbling Bryant—‘Duane, Duane,’—down the aisle, one of the cabin staff asked if she were all right.
‘She’s retarded,’ Henderson said with a sad smile. ‘She thinks she’s in a train.’
Sympathy and prompt service cocooned them from then on. Henderson asked Shanda to conceal her tattoo (an intertwining of the letters F, G and S, M set in a garland of leaves and flowerlets) as he thought it didn’t chime with the aura of sacrifice and endurance that enshrouded them. They sat down and then had to move when Shanda requested a seat in the smoking section (they lost some moral ground there) but eventually they were established.
The plane filled up with large clean businessmen, slinging, briefcases in the overhead racks, breaking open newspapers, folding expensive trenchcoats with reverential care. Then two dozen enormous young men with very thick necks and wearing identical blazers swayed down the aisle to calls of welcome and good luck from many of the passengers. (A circus act, Henderson thought? A eugenics experiment?) Shanda excitedly told him who they were and what they were doing—the Ranchers gunning for the Cowpokes or something—but he assumed he had misheard.
And then the engines started and the plane moved away from its ramp and taxied out to the runway. Soft bells pinged, calm voices ran through crisis procedures and Shanda tried to order a screwdriver. As the engine noise increased and the plane began to rush down the runway she reached across the dozing Bryant and took his hand.
‘I hate flan,’ she said.
So did he, he suddenly realized, but hadn’t got round to thinking about it.
Damp palm stuck to damp palm. Shanda shut her eyes and crossed herself. A bubble of saliva popped on Bryant’s lips and Henderson looked past Shanda’s contorted face out of the window. He saw the wonderful airport and the parked planes, then the nose lifted, the plane left the ground and angled up into the sky. In the glass oval he glimpsed spreading suburbs, a new factory, tall glass buildings and a lot of trees. And he left the South and his troubles behind.
PART THREE
Twenty-four hours in New York
Chapter One
At La Guardia airport it was raining heavily. It seemed only right that the weather should have changed. The clouds were low and had that shade of uncompromising greyness that seems to promise their continued presence for a good while yet. But it was surprisingly warm and humid.
Henderson, Shanda and Bryant stood in line waiting for a taxi. He had given Shanda the keys to his apartment and a covering note for the doorman. He didn’t want her around when Bryant was returned to her mother.
He felt some trepidation about this last course of action. He was well aware that in these circumstances relief could turn to anger with illogical speed. The mother hugs the scampering tot who has chased a ball into the road and just missed being squashed by the juggernaut. Then she delivers a stinging slap for ignoring kerbside drill. Melissa would be overwhelmed with joy to see Bryant back, but Henderson expected he would receive the blow. He grimaced slightly. He was glad to be back in New York; glad to be free of the Gage family and Luxora Beach; but he was conscious that some of his failures dwelt here too: Mulholland, Melhuish, Melissa…and Irene. He felt a sudden whimpering need for Irene. Perhaps she would take him back, now that he had no job…And that fact brought the future to mind and all its tedious humiliations: packing up, saying goodbye, returning to London, saying hello again.
Shanda’s taxi arrived and she ducked in promptly, trying not to get wet. Henderson gave her his suitcase and the driver his address.
‘I’ll be along in an hour or so,’ he said to Shanda. ‘Or thereabouts,’ he added. He had a sudden mad impulse to try and see Irene. He stepped back beneath the eave. The rain was falling with steady purpose. Large puddles formed in the generous declivities of the road surface. Cars had their lights on, so intense was the murk. He felt clammy and uncomfortable—the pathetic fallacy working in his favour as usual. Bryant, who had slept through the entire flight from Atlanta, seemed to be coming round somewhat.
‘Where are we?’ she said, looking about her with half-closed eyes. ‘Is Duane here?’
Henderson pushed her into their taxi without replying. She immediately fell asleep again, her head on his shoulder.
‘Long trip?’ said the taxi driver. His identification card gave his name as Ezekiel Adekunle.
‘Atlanta,’ Henderson said.
‘Owl Whatin you go dere for? Ah-ah.’ The taxi driver sucked in air through his teeth.
Good question, Henderson thought. ‘Been raining long?’ he asked.
‘You are Englishman?’
‘Yes. Yes I am.’
‘I am from Nigeria.’
‘Oh. I see. Been raining long?’
Two days. We done get flash-flood warning.’
With a wet sloshing of tyres the taxi climbed a gentle hill on the freeway. At its crest they were afforded a view of the north end of Manhattan. The clouds hung low over the city. The upper stories of even the more modest skyscrapers were engulfed by grey. His heart lifted at the view, but only by an inch or so. They crossed the Tri-borough Bridge and began the long drive south to Mel-issa’s apartment block. The low clouds, the relentless rain, the teeming umbrellas on the sidewalk made the crowded streets appear more fraught than ever. If your view up is denied in Manhattan, Henderson thought, the place holds about as much appeal as the Edgware Road.
They arrived at Melissa’s door. Henderson propelled Bryant beneath the dripping awning.
‘Welcome back, Miss Wax,’ said the doorman.
Bryant frowned, her brain trying to grasp this new information.
‘Don’t tell her mother we’re he
re,’ Henderson said. ‘I want it to be a surprise.’
They ascended in the lift, stepped out and pressed the buzzer on the thick door. He heard the harsh yelping of Candice and Gervase. Henderson felt like leaving Bryant on the threshold like a foundling, and tip-toeing away.
The door opened.
‘Baby! Darling!’ Hugs, tears, lavished kisses. Henderson followed mother and daughter into the sitting room.
‘IsDuanehere?’
‘No, baby, he certainly is not.’ Aside, in a cold, distanced voice to Henderson. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘She’s very tired. Early start. It was a difficult journey. A cold coming we had of it.’
‘What are you talking about? Here, Albertine, take Bryant to her room.’ Bryant was led away by the maid. Melissa turned to face him.
‘Now my fine fellow, what are we going to do about you?’
Henderson listened, head down, as his character was put through the shredder. With the damp toe of his shoe he moved the pile of the carpet this way and that. He interjected the odd rejoinder to the effect that it had been—when all was said and done—Bryant’s decision to come to Luxora and, indeed, come to think of it, Melissa’s enthusiasm about the notion had been conspicuous. But these caveats went unheard in the acid rain of scorn that descended on him.
A natural release, he told himself; all that repressed fear and apprehension has to let itself go somehow. But by now anger had given way to irony. Melissa was wondering how Henderson had spent his ‘precious’ time while her little baby was getting corrupted by some redneck pervert. She had a certain amount to learn yet about her little baby, Henderson thought.
‘I suppose you got your precious paintings and you’ll go back to your precious office some kind of a hero. But what about Bryant? What kind of awful trauma?’
‘You might be interested to know, Melissa,’ he said, putting his hands in his pockets and taking them out again, ‘that the paintings have been destroyed and I’ve lost my job.’