A Case of Noir (Atlantis)

by Paul D. Brazill

  ‘My pleasure,’ he hissed.

  ‘So, what religion were they, then?’ I said to Sean. ‘Your American pals. Were they Mormons? Jehovah’s Witnesses? Scientologists? Whatever they were, they’d have been lucky to break the Catholic Church’s stranglehold on Poland.’

  Sean looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Well …’ He looked around the room. Cyprien returned and whispered something to Pablo.

  ‘I’ll be back in about an hour,’ said Pablo. ‘I’ll pick up the tab but don’t go crazy, eh?’

  He opened the front door and a gust of wind brought in heavy rain. Cyprien and the other Legionnaires followed him out.

  ‘Well,’ continued Sean. ‘They were a cult of sorts, I suppose. They called themselves The Congregation. Their leader was a tall madman with thick glasses. Joseph Sombre he called himself. Only spoke in very bad French, though I was sure I could detect the trace of an English accent when he became agitated. Sounded like he was from your part of the world.’

  My hands started to go damp and my heart did a drum solo, Gene Krupa style. I ignored it and got stuck into the booze.

  ‘Anyway, at first they seemed harmless enough,’ he continued. ‘All happy-clappy folk songs and the like. Most of them were American but there were a few Canadians, Poles, Hungarians, Germans, Swedes and even one or two Brits. Young and fresh faced, for the most part. And there was always plenty of free wine at the meetings so I was certainly more than happy to go along and flirt with Christine. But then they had one of their ‘gatherings’, as they called them, at a massive palace just outside Warsaw.’

  ‘They weren’t pleading poverty then.’

  ‘Hardly. It was a really swanky joint in the middle of a forest. Fountains, statues and the like. They even had a string quartet playing Bach as you arrived.’

  ‘Classy. Plenty of booze?’

  ‘Marijuana?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What the hell sort of church was this?’

  ‘Oh, well they said they were some sort of spin-off of paganism — I wasn’t really paying that much attention, to be honest. But they did this one ritual with ‘The Hammer of Thor’ which struck me as a tad neo-Nazi. Made me wonder about them. However, I was hammered myself by the end of the night and just after midnight, Christine turned up dressed in a black leather dress, led me to a bedroom with a four-poster bed and shagged my brains out.’

  ‘Praise the Lord or Thor or whoever.’

  We chinked glasses.

  ‘I’m assuming there’s a big ‘but’ though.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘So, I started attending more of the meetings and ‘gatherings’ and good fun it was too. Although, I must admit, I couldn’t remember a lot of it and did wonder about the stuff I was smoking. Still, I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. But …’

  ‘The big but?’

  ‘Indeed. Through the haze of intoxication, I began to realise that not only were all the people in attendance at the gatherings white, they were also blue-eyed blondes.’

  ‘Aha!’

  ‘Indeed Redux! Also, apart from the members of The Congregation they were also men of a certain age and cut. Rich middle-aged businessmen, to be precise.’

  ‘Aha Redux! A honey trap!’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. And a very elaborate one at that. So, eventually, it became time to make a donation and I assumed that some people paid out a pretty penny. I however …’

  ‘Didn’t have an ugly penny, let alone a pretty one.’

  ‘Exactly! They assumed that, because I dressed and spoke well, I was loaded when, in fact…’

  ‘You who have nothing.’

  ‘Yes, and I had to choose between telling them the truth of my impoverishment or hitting the road. So …’

  ‘Better to be a live dog than a dead lion.’

  ‘Indeed. So, I arranged to meet Christine and Joseph Sombre a few days later in Champions, the bar of The Marriot Hotel. Remember it?’

  ‘I do. A typically depressing ex-pat enclave if ever there was one.’

  ‘Well, I thought that would give me enough time to get new employment. I went online the next day and got the first job that I could. Which was at a school here.’

  ‘Not a bad location,’ I said. ‘Seems like a nice city.’

  ‘Oh it is, and at least I speak the lingo. I never got on with Polish.’

  ‘What’s the pay like at the school?’ I said, looking at his expensive clothes. ‘The French used to pay really rubbish rates for TEFL teachers, as I remember.’

  ‘Not so good but the wine is cheap.’

  I saw that we’d polished off another bottle.

  ‘Same again?’ I said.

  ‘But of course.’

  Sean staggered to his feet and stumbled to the toilet, pausing briefly to give our order to the waitress. By the time he returned, the wine had arrived. Two more bottles. And so, oblivion ensued.

  For months before I’d arrived in France, I’d been dreaming more and more about England. Dark, oppressive dreams that spilled over into my daytime thoughts and stained them with soiled memories of my homeland.

  Thoughts about the reason why I’d escaped abroad and changed my identity. About the money I’d stolen. And about Father Joseph Black, who I’d last seen laying shivering on the top of a wind and rain swept hill, with a buck shot wound staining his designer shirt.

  ‘You cheating bastard, Johnny Boy,’ he’d said to me that day, as he lay gasping in the dirt. And he’d been right, too. I’d double crossed him alright. Fifteen years of friendship down the Swanee River.

  I’d ignored him, smoked a cigarette and then headed off down the hill to get my Range Rover so that I could move him out of sight. When I’d returned, he’d gone.

  As quickly as I could, I’d sold up everything and headed off to Poland and then Spain. But someone — maybe Black, or maybe someone more dangerous than him — seemed to have tracked me down and, like the Queen song, I was just waiting for the hammer to fall.

  The next day was as bright as a halo. Tattered and torn by a gloom-inducing hangover, I dragged myself out of bed just before midday, left the Icare Hotel and slowly walked through the narrow streets of rose-coloured, clay-topped houses. I eventually ended up outside Restaurant Caves De La Marachale, a dark cavern that had been converted into an expensive restaurant. A group of giants in rugby shirts were sitting at a table outside looking even worse than I felt. One of them said something to me but I ignored him. I wasn’t in the mood for another strained conversation.

  Inside the restaurant, I found Pedro sat at a small table drinking coffee and furiously tapping away at his iPad. I sat down opposite him. He looked angry, to say the least.

  ‘Coffee or hair of the dog?’ he said.

  ‘A beer should do the trick,’ I said. The brief walk had helped the hangover a tad but not enough to prepare me for the conversation I knew I was going to have.

  He gestured to a tall, blonde waitress who was standing beside a statue of a topless woman.

  ‘Give me a moment,’ said Pedro. He started tapping away at the keyboard again.

  Outside a busker started to play an acoustic guitar. A bittersweet Molly Drake song drifted softly into the room filling me with melancholy. The waitress placed a glass and a bottle of 3 Monts in front of me. Potent stuff but maybe it was just what I needed. I sipped it slowly. It was cold and strong and after a few minutes, I started to feel much better.

  Pedro looked me in the eye. I was pretty sure what the topic of the conversation would be. Simon Kelly had found out that not only was Luke Case not my real name, but that I wasn’t even a journalist. It was safe to assume that he’d informed Pedro of these facts, since they were cronies.

  ‘What I can’t understand,’ he said, putting his iPad back into his man bag. ‘If you’re going to use an alter ego … why you didn’t choose a better name? It sounds so obviously false. Like calling yourself Clark Kent.’

  I was confused. I really didn’t h
ave a clue what Pedro was talking about. I glugged my beer hoping for inspiration.

  ‘What do you mean? I’m a bit lost,’ I said. I downed my beer and gestured to the waitress for another.

  ‘Your name. Your alias. It sounds like Luke Cage. You know? The Marvel Comics character. Hero for Hire? Power Man? I assumed that was where you took the name from.’

  ‘No, I’d never heard of him before. I don’t know much about Marvel comics apart from the films and they’re too noisy for my liking. There was a local television presenter when I was a kid called Luke Casey. I took the name from him. Not sure why.’

  Pedro started to laugh. Shook his head and muttered to himself in Spanish.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘If I’m going to continue to employ you, Luke, I need to do some sort of risk assessment. I need to see what I’m getting myself into.’ He leaned forward. Tapped me on the wrist. ‘I need you to tell me exactly what you did that forced you to go … on the lam, as I think they say.’

  So I told him.

  A cold dawn. Seagulls screeched. A fishing trawler cut across the stormy, metallic sea and sharp autumn wind sliced through me as I waited dockside with Father Joseph Black. I glanced up at black clouds that looked like bullet holes in the granite sky.

  ‘I wish he’d get a move on,’ I said. ‘It’s bloody freezing. Colder than my ex-wife’s heart.’

  ‘Stamp your feet, Johnny Boy,’ said Father Black.

  Black was a big, overweight man, wearing an expensive Hugo Boss suit and overcoat. Versace spectacles. He was in his mid-fifties with a red face and a permanently furrowed brow. Though, he had plenty to be worried about these days.

  ‘Stamp on my ex-wife’s heart? A bit extreme,’ I said.

  Black lit a cigarette with a silver Zippo lighter. Sucked it. Coughed. Offered the packet to me.

  ‘Want one, Johnny Boy? Or are you still on the wagon, or whatever they say about cigarettes?’

  ‘Eight months nicotine-free,’ I said. I avoided looking at the pack of Marlborough’s. Out of sight out of mind.

  The trawler docked and at the same time a black BMW pulled up close to where we stood. A bear of a man in a dark leather jacket and gloves got out. He was carrying a black briefcase. He walked over to us. Scowled as a gust of wind battered us. Shook hands with the priest.

  ‘Good to see you again, Father,’ he said, in a French accent that was as thick as treacle.

  ‘Good to see you, too, Gerard,’ said Father Black.

  The Frenchman turned to me. Looked me up and down.

  ‘And this must be our magician, eh?’ he said,

  ‘Just a simple chemistry teacher,’ I said. ‘Or I was before I was made redundant. Now I’m just providing a service to the European Community.’

  The Frenchman handed the briefcase to Father Black.

  ‘There you are. The first half of the payment,’ he said.

  Black handed a package to Gerard.

  ‘And there you are. Your sample.’

  We all grinned like idiots.

  ‘Same time, same place next week then?’ I said.

  ‘If this is as good as you say it is, then yes,’ said Gerard and he headed toward the boat.

  ‘Everything’s coming up roses,’ said Father Black.

  I was going to make a comment about manure but I bit my tongue. We’d be in the shit soon enough as it was.

  Pedro squinted, as if he’d seen me for the first time. As if a dense fog had cleared.

  ‘You? A chemistry teacher?’

  ‘Aye,’ I said. ‘There’s the rub.’

  The waitress came over.

  ‘More drinks?’ she said.

  The restaurant was filling up and I didn’t feel comfortable telling my story with so many people around. A pianist started to play an over-elaborate version of ‘Perfidia.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll head off elsewhere?’ I said.

  ‘Okay,’ said Pedro.

  He handed over a wad of Euros to the waitress and we headed out into a light spring rain. The rain was cooling. Cleansing.

  ‘Where to now?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I know a great place,’ said Pedro. ‘Go on with your story.’

  So, as we walked through the rain, I told him about The Prof.

  ‘She’s completely hammered,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, for fuck sake,’ said Father Black.

  We’d spent the last few days trying to track down The Prof. We’d been in every pub and bar in the town. From the most expensive hotels to the cheap dives near the docks that sold cans of smuggled beer. And now, one day before we were due to deliver a new batch of magic powder to Gerard, we’d found her. Slumped over a sticky table in the corner of The Fisherman’s Arms while a folk singer on the small stage sang about a dirty old town.

  ‘We’re screwed,’ said Black. He plucked a strand of her long red hair from the small pool of lager it was soaking in.

  And he’s was right. Although Gerard believed me to be the person that produced the magic powder, I really wouldn’t have had a clue how to do that. I knew nothing about science. Or drugs for that matter.

  The Prof, however, was a bit of a genius where such things were considered. She’d been a lecturer at Durham University until the booze had got the better of her.

  ‘I told you we shouldn’t have given her that advance.’ I said.

  ‘Well, it’s too late now,’ said Black. ‘What the hell are we going to do?’

  ‘Let’s get her home and see if we can sober her up.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ said Black. ‘Even if we can get her sober, how much magic powder do you think we can get her to knock out before Friday?’

  ‘Not a lot, I suppose. I suspect Gerard will be most displeased.’

  ‘It’s not Gerard that I’m worried about. It’s his boss.’

  Black sat down next to The Prof.

  ‘Who is his boss?’

  Black waved a hand dismissively.

  ‘Drink?’ I said.

  He nodded. I went over to the bar and ordered two pints of Stella Artois. Gave the barman a tenner and didn’t wait for the change.

  I gave Black his drink and sat down next to him. We both gulped our lager. Black burped.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘Sink or swim,’ I said.

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘Another pint?’

  ‘To be honest,’ I said, ‘I knew I was going to rip-off Black from the moment he suggested the deal. I’d been digging myself deeper and deeper into debt with the weight of too many failed business deals pushing me further into the mire. I knew I had to get away and splitting the money with Black just wouldn’t be enough.’

  We were sitting in the Café des Artistes, a suitably arty joint near the river. The hipster clientele were a little annoying but the music — Harry Nilsson — and the Belgian beer made up for it.

  Pedro slowly sipped his Westvleteren 12 from the bottle. He looked deep in thought.

  ‘Okay, let’s clear up one thing before we go any further. If you weren’t a chemistry teacher, what were you?’

  ‘Well, I owned a record shop,’ I said. ‘A second-hand record shop.’

  ‘Like in that John Cusack film?’

  ‘Maybe. I’ve never seen it. Anyway, the business took a bit of a kicking when CDs became more popular than vinyl but I survived, day-to-day. But when everyone started downloading music, well, that was the death blow.’

  I finished my bottle of Struise Pannepot. It was strong stuff and I was starting to feel a bit drunk.

  ‘I made a couple more dodgy investments but I was only throwing good money after bad. Bad money that I didn’t actually have. And then I bumped into Father Black. An old school friend.’

  Indeed, Father Joseph Black was a blast from that past that was positively seismic. Magnitude 10 on the Richter scale.

  ‘Another beer?’ said Pedro.

  I could see that he’d hardly drunk any of his and I knew that I should have switched to coffee or at least som
ething lighter than what I was drinking. However.

  ‘Another Struise Pannepot would go down very nicely,’ I said.

  Pedro forward, up close.

  ‘Where did you get the passport?’

  ‘A friend of a friend. It wasn’t too difficult. ’

  ‘And the money? You’ll forgive me for saying but you don’t exactly come across as a rich man.’

  ‘Oh, I bolloxed things up a bit,’ I slurred. ‘I was mugged on a night train as I was travelling across Poland. My own fault for getting so drunk on bimber.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Polish moonshine. Deadly stuff.’

  ‘And you lost all of it?’

  ‘The biggest part.’

  I took my beer from the waiter and slouched back in the armchair. They said that confession was good for the soul, apparently. Unburdened you. But I just felt heavier than ever.

  We sat in silence as the music changed to Rodriguez. ‘Sugar Man.’ I closed my eyes and drifted until I heard Pedro’s phone bleep. He answered it and spoke sharply in French.

  I felt him tap my shoulder. I opened my eyes.

  ‘I have to leave. We’ll talk in the morning.’ He winked and quickly left the bar,

  Marine wasn’t exactly the greatest conversationalist but then, since her English seemed to be at about the same level as my French, great communication wasn’t to be expected. And, anyway, Pedro hadn’t called her to make small talk with me. It had been a bit of a shock when she turned up and, in her fractured English, told me that Pedro had sent her to ‘cheer up no end’ but, like Sean Bradley, I wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  She was tall with short, dyed black hair and dark black eyes that seemed to skewer my guilty soul when she looked at me. She wore a black leather jacket, shirt, jeans and shiny black Dr Marten boots. We sat in silence listening to the music while I finished my beer and she drank a glass of water. When we finished our drinks, Marine nodded and we both stood up and left.

  The walk back to my hotel was a blur but what followed was imprinted on my mind for days after. As soon as I closed the door to my room, Marine stripped quickly. Her body was muscular and tattooed. Before I’d had a chance to undress, she pushed me onto the bed, produced a pair of handcuffs and fastened one of my arms to a radiator.