Arms and the Women

by Reginald Hill

  ‘Fine,’ she said, draining her coffee mug noisily and setting it down with an emphasis which said clearly that she wouldn’t be averse to some more. ‘Now, let’s see what’s been going on round this crazy world of ours, shall we?’

  She reached for her cuttings bag. Every day she trawled through all the British papers and any foreign ones which came her way in search of relevant detail which she felt it her duty to interpret and share. Around the world with Serafina Macallum might not take eighty days, but it sometimes felt like it. It was, however, a voyage which even someone as packed with moral fibre as Ellie found it hard to curtail.

  But tonight help was nigh, and from an unpromising source. The last woman to arrive, who had joined the group during the period of Ellie’s neglect (hence the slight hiatus in giving Novello the OK wave), hadn’t struck her as a very forceful personality. In her thirties, with wispy blonde hair, a pale anxious face, and that habit of constant hand-wringing which Ellie always found so irritating, she had made only a minimal contribution to the discussion, and that in a voice so low as to be almost inaudible. Ellie, never scared of rushing to judgement, had instantly categorized her as the kind of woman whose heart is in the right place but the rest of whose body might as well be somewhere else for all the use she was. Even her name, Wendy Woolley, seemed peculiarly apt.

  But as Ellie was always finding out, snap judgements, like snapshots, often went well wide of their target. Earlier Helen Gough, the group’s secretary, had reminded them apologetically that this was her last meeting with the group as her husband’s job was taking him down to London. This too had happened during the period of Ellie’s non-participation, but she guessed that Feenie had treated the news as she did most things she didn’t want to hear by completely ignoring it. Now she looked at the secretary as if this was the first she’d heard of this treachery and said in a tone of uncomprehending astonishment, ‘Well, if you are adamant about accompanying him, then I suppose we must appoint a successor,’ upon which most of those present, recalling their departing colleague’s frequent complaints that what Feenie Macallum expected was a full time PA-cum-troubleshooter-cum-secretary, found something very interesting in their laps to occupy their attention.

  Then, amazingly, Wendy Woolley had whispered that if it wasn’t too presumptuous of her as the newest member, she would be very happy to take on the job.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Feenie. ‘I suggest you start taking notes now. No doubt Helen will be far too busy packing to write up the minutes. And then we must fix up a day for you to come down to Axness and get acquainted with the files. Tomorrow, shall we say?’

  Wendy Woolley had again surprised everyone by shaking her head and whispering that tomorrow might be difficult.

  ‘The day after then,’ said Feenie irritably. ‘We’ll speak on the phone to confirm it.’

  Mrs Woolley had subsided, and Ellie had guessed that this first show of resistance was likely to be her last, but now, as Feenie Macallum levelled the magnifying glass at the first cutting, she firmly closed the pad on which she had been making notes, clicked shut her fountain pen, stood up and said clearly, ‘I’m sorry, but I really have to go.’

  It was like the first chord of the National Anthem at a Tory Conference. The other three rose instantly, with Ellie close behind. Only Feenie remained seated, her disbelief unconcealed.

  In the hallway, the others said their thank yous and good nights and headed out into the still balmy evening. Wendy Woolley was last and when she said, ‘Thank you for the coffee,’ Ellie replied, ‘No. Thank you.’

  The woman didn’t pretend not to understand, but smiled faintly and said, ‘I thought you looked rather, well, weary. Sorry. None of my business…’

  ‘Believe me, I’m glad you made it so,’ said Ellie, smiling back. ‘See you again soon, I hope.’

  She went back into the dining room. To her relief, Feenie Macallum was slowly assembling her bags.

  ‘A good meeting,’ said Ellie brightly.

  ‘You think so? A pity we had to finish so precipitately. Knowledge is power and unless we use every means at our disposal to find out what is going on in the world, we will end up impotent. When Mrs Woolley has been with us a little longer I am sure she will understand this and make her arrangements accordingly.’

  Ellie said firmly, ‘I’m sure that Wendy had excellent reasons for wanting to get away. And it’s great that she’s got the commitment to take over as secretary.’

  ‘Yes, there’s that,’ said Feenie grudgingly. ‘Ellie, before I go, I wanted to say how pleased I was to learn that your child has recovered from her illness. I have been rather preoccupied with one thing and another during the past few weeks, but I should have contacted you earlier. I’m sorry.’

  Apologies from Feenie were as rare as resignations from cabinet ministers. Rarer since New Labour had got in.

  ‘That’s OK. Yes, she’s fine now. Still getting over it inside, though. Me too. But it’s going to be OK.’

  Feenie smiled.

  ‘Knowing you, I’m sure it is. Now, about Bruna…’

  Oh God, thought Ellie. Am I still going to get the reproof?

  ‘Look, really, I’m writing,’ she said.

  ‘No, it’s not that. But two or three weeks ago I heard from one of my contacts that she had been released. I thought in view of the close relationship you seemed to be establishing, she might have contacted you.’

  ‘That’s great news,’ said Ellie. ‘I’m really pleased. But she certainly hasn’t been in touch, not for some time, in fact. Some considerable time. I thought the Colombian authorities must have tightened up on their censorship. Maybe if she had some notion she was going to get out in the next few months, she thought it best not to be provocative by writing to someone like me. And of course, the letters that she managed to get smuggled out for someone outside to post, she’d want to be very careful not to risk rocking the boat by getting caught doing that. Or maybe knowing she was going to get out, she just wanted to back away from our relationship.’

  She was being over-loquacious in her search for reasons because the truth was she felt a little bit hurt, which was absurd. This kind of correspondence was never about herself, it had always to be about the imprisoned woman. Except, of course, in another sense it was all about herself, and you couldn’t go on pouring yourself out in front of a stranger without in your mind turning that stranger into a friend.

  ‘Don’t feel hurt if you don’t hear anything more,’ said Feenie, with that startling incisiveness. ‘She may have very good reasons for avoiding all contact with the outside world. Now she’s free I can tell you that Bruna is the sister of one of the most wanted guerilla leaders in the country. That was why she got picked up in the first place, in the hope of being able to use her to flush him out. All they got for their efforts was a wave of violence. Now they might be hoping she will lead them to her brother, which is very good reason for her to keep her head down. I know we don’t do what little we do for thanks, but don’t give up on her.’

  ‘Thanks, Feenie,’ said Ellie. ‘I’m glad you told me that.’

  They had moved through the hallway as they spoke and were now standing on the front doorstep. On impulse, Ellie kissed the old woman’s cheek, a liberty she had never dared take before, and got the laser look again but this time accompanied by the flicker of a smile.

  As she cycled through the gateway, Feenie looked up and down the road, then called over her shoulder, ‘I see our spy has flown. Once spotted, they’re quickly replaced. Security is a hydra, my dear, a veritable hydra.’

  And glaring at one of Ellie’s neighbours out walking his dog as if she suspected both of being undercover Special Branch officers, she took her serpentine way down the street.

  With a long sigh of relief Ellie closed the door and went into the lounge, where Pascoe was pouring a large Scotch which she downed in one.

  ‘Bad as that?’ he said.

  ‘I’m a fraud,’ she said. ‘First hint of personal
danger and the rest of the world can take a hike.’

  ‘The rest of the world wants you safe,’ said Pascoe. ‘Otherwise who’s going to take care of it?’

  ‘And am I safe, Peter? I’ve been thinking about it. Best bet seems to be that someone wants to get at you through your family, right? But is it so they can twist your arm to do something they want? Or is it just to hurt you? In other words, intimidation or lunacy. I know which I prefer.’

  ‘Probably the former,’ said Pascoe lightly. ‘In which case, having tried and failed, they’ll go away.’

  ‘But they didn’t, did they?’ said Ellie. ‘They were still here today and we’ve got Daphne’s nose to prove it.’

  ‘Look, if they were just after hurting me by hurting you, some twisted kind of revenge, they had their chance when you opened the door, didn’t they?’ argued Pascoe.

  ‘Bucket of acid in the face, you mean? This is really cheering me up.’

  ‘But it didn’t happen,’ insisted Pascoe. ‘So the odds are on some idiot looking for a bit of leverage in the hope of keeping himself or his nearest and dearest out of jail. Of course, there’s a third possibility…’

  ‘Candid Camera?’ she said.

  ‘No. This could have nothing at all to do with the job. It could quite simply be you for your own sake they’re interested in.’

  He offered this merely as a distraction and it seemed to work.

  She looked at him, mock-gobsmacked.

  ‘Little old me?’ she said. ‘Important for my own sake? Surely there’s got to be a mistake?’

  ‘You never know. It was Novello who suggested it, actually.’

  ‘Shirley sodding Temple? Then it must be right. Girl who wears her skirts so short she air-conditions her brain-stem can’t be wrong, can she?’

  ‘Pity you aren’t Jewish,’ he said. ‘Then you could be anti-Semitic also.’

  She said, ‘Don’t go subtle on me. I’m beyond the reach of subtlety. Rosie OK?’

  ‘Upstairs in bed. But she is not going to sleep till she gets that game of cards you promised her.’

  ‘That girl. Who the hell does she take after?’

  Pascoe grinned.

  ‘Well, her favourite game is Black Bitch,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll see you pay for that,’ said Ellie over her shoulder as she headed for the stairs.

  ‘Oh, I do hope so,’ said Pascoe.

  xii

  doppelgänger

  Ellie Pascoe leaned out of the open window and shouted and the woman below looked up in surprise and dropped her car keys, and Ellie in her turn was so surprised that she dropped the keys she was holding in her hand.

  Ellie turned over in bed. But a moment later she was up again and leaning out of the open window and the woman below was looking up in surprise and dropping her car keys, and Ellie was dropping her keys too.

  After she woke from the dream a third time, she really did get up. Peter was enjoying the sleep of the just or the completely knackered. He was a very still sleeper and repose rubbed the lining years off his face so he lay there like the monumental effigy of a child, or perhaps a childe, who’d died young.

  She went into Rose’s room. Her daughter had pushed the duvet back and lay curled like a stranded sea horse on the sand-coloured mattress.

  Ellie covered her up. The heat of the day had not seeped into the night. Or maybe she was still carrying the chill of her dream with her.

  She knew that for the time being at least sleep was impossible. All that awaited her in the bedroom was that sense of being adrift on a storm-tossed sea with ravening birds screeching overhead and the drowned faces of everyone she loved staring up at her from beneath the water.

  She headed into the boxroom which she refused to call a study. Not too long ago she’d have sneered at anyone nerdish enough to claim to have a relationship with a boxful of electronics, but now her laptop was waiting for her like a friend.

  Time for her Comfort Blanket.

  She switched on, brought up the story and scrolled through Chapter 2 till she reached the point where Daphne’s arrival had interrupted her.

  He flexed his broad shoulders, took a deep breath, bowed forward, his body hunched, and with a single convulsive movement, he snapped the length of cloth which bound his wrists.

  The watching men gasped in admiration and at the same time brought their weapons to bear. The Greek smiled benevolently on them as he stretched his arms to restore the circulation. Then he removed the sack still hanging round his neck and dropped it to the ground, followed by the rest of his ragged robe. For a moment he stood naked before them, and they viewed his body which was as lined and cratered as the moon which lit it. Here was carved the history of a life of violence, with stabbing scars, and slashing scars, and scars which marked the bite of savage fangs and scars which recorded the impact of heavy clubs. Awe touched the onlookers and a sense of menace. Then he straddled a small cooking fire and with a deep groan of pleasure, began to massage his genitals dry. One of the young attendants put her hand to her mouth and giggled, and instantly he became a fat old Greek castaway again.

  He reached out, pulled a woollen robe from her arms and draped it round him.

  ‘Thanks, luv,’ he said. ‘Here, fancy a clam?’

  He shook the remaining shellfish out of his discarded rags.

  ‘You can eat ’em raw, but they’re better baked with a drop of vinegar. Just thinking on it makes me hungry.’

  And without more ado, he took the steaming platter from the other attendant, squatted down in front of the fire, and began to eat.

  The Prince watched him for a moment, then said, ‘Achates, now that the storm has abated, it may be that our guest has friends who will be anxious for his wellbeing and come looking for him. It might be well to double the guard.’

  ‘No need of that,’ said the Greek out of a full mouth. ‘All on my lonesome, that’s me.’

  But Achates moved away and started disposing his men.

  The platter was soon empty and at a nod from the Prince, the attendant took it and piled it up once again.

  ‘Ee, I’d give my old gran to a one-legged sailor for a drink,’ said the Greek.

  Another nod. A jugful of wine was produced and a cup which the Greek ignored. He took the jug, poured a small (a very small) libation onto the ground, then raised the vessel high and with unerring accuracy directed the xanthic linn down his gullet till the last drops fell.

  Ellie paused and considered. Xanthic linn. How to justify such an oddity? You could point out that it was Greek, from xanthos, meaning yellow. Also Xanthos was Homer’s alternative name for the Scamander, the great river which Achilles fought and would have been overcome by if the fire god hadn’t come in on his side. But a carper might retort that it sat very uneasily with Scots linn, meaning waterfall. In any case, while euphuism as comic euphemism was fine, and xanthic linn to describe a stream of piss might raise a smile, wasn’t this just wilful preciosity? Also, did they have both white and red wine way back then? Red seemed more likely, though she couldn’t say why. Because it was rougher, more basic maybe, though they’d give her an argument about that in Bordeaux. Still, that was what the French were made for, to give the English arguments.

  Her fingers ran over the keys.

  directed the red jet down his gullet till the last drops fell.

  Now he returned his attention to the food and cleared the second platter as fast as the first.

  Finished, he handed the dish to the female attendant.

  ‘That were grand,’ he said. ‘Thanks, lass.’

  And he let out a huge appreciative belch which set the watching men laughing, except for the Prince, who said, ‘I am pleased you are pleased, stranger. But now we have satisfied your natural hunger for food and drink, it is your turn, I think, to satisfy our equally natural hunger for information and news.’

  ‘Ask away, lord. I’m just a simple man, with little about me to interest a great leader like yourself, but owt that I can tel
l you I’ll be glad to.’

  ‘I thank you, stranger.’

  The Prince seated himself on a stool on the far side of the fire, Achates crouched at his side, and the men squatted on the ground in three or four circles around the central group, while the women went about their business beyond the circles, but with eyes and ears attentive to what was going on at their centre. The old man after a word in the Prince’s ear retired within the shelter against the big boulder.

  ‘Now, stranger, before we enquire of your name and history, satisfy my curiosity in this. How was it that you threw yourself at my feet when you arrived, begging for mercy and assistance, and not at the old man, my father’s? From my little knowledge of Greek society, you are as accustomed to defer to the dignity and wisdom of age as we are.’

  ‘As you are? You mean you’re not Greeks?’ said the stranger, his great face wrinkling in surprise.

  ‘I should have thought our garments and our speech told you that.’

  ‘Nay, but there’s all sorts and conditions of Greeks. They come from all over. I met a lad from Crete once, all dressed in blue, he were, like some daft tart going to a party. And the way he spoke. I could hardly make head or tail of it. Made you sound no worse than my cousin with the cleft palate. So I thought you must just belong to this island, which I don’t know the name of but am mighty glad to be cast ashore on, believe me. So if you’re not Greeks, what might you be then?’

  ‘Have a guess,’ said the Prince with gentle irony.

  ‘Phoenicians? No, not dark enough. Egyptians? The same. Medes? Aye, that’s it. You could be Medes. Am I right?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. We are Trojans. And I am Prince Aeneas of Troy.’

  Pious Aeneas. Who fled from the fall of Troy bearing his father on his shoulders and leading his son by the hand with his wife following behind (perhaps with her old cock linnet?), till she lost her way, and ultimately her life. Pious Aeneas, obeying the command of the gods and following his star north from Carthage to found the Roman Empire, while behind him Dido lit the southern sky with her own terrible light.