Arms and the Women

by Reginald Hill

  She watched long enough to confirm that at least the woman’s reputed swimming prowess hadn’t been oversold. Daphne ripped through the strong swell with a long easy stroke till she reached a cluster of rocks a couple of hundred yards out. Here she pulled herself out of the water, stood and waved or beckoned, then lay down on her back to soak up the sun.

  Not a bad idea, thought Novello.

  She lay back on the sand and closed her eyes.

  She was awoken by the sound of movement close by. She opened her eyes and sat up. Daphne was towelling herself down briskly. Bit of sag and droop there, registered Novello, making a comparison with her own flat belly and gravity-defying bosom, complacently at first and then with self-reproach. Give her another two decades and two kids and what might she look like? Comparisons are odorous, her granny used to say, unless they’re both the same to start with.

  She realized Daphne was looking at her and she dropped her gaze, embarrassed to have been caught running so assessing an eye over the older woman’s body.

  ‘I thought you might come in,’ said Daphne. ‘It’s lovely. Plenty of towel for two.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Novello. ‘You always swim nude?’

  ‘I prefer to. Why? Does it bother you?’

  Not with a fellow, it doesn’t, thought Novello.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Now I’d guess it does,’ said Daphne in her pleasant easy voice. ‘I’d guess that you’re worried in case what you clearly find a rather uncongenial task should be further complicated by having some ageing dyke making a play for you. Please accept my assurance that I’m so straight, you could use me for architectural drawings. As Ellie keeps telling me, I am the victim of my upbringing. Life at a girls’ boarding school totally removed from me any inhibition about flashing my flesh in front of my own sex, while at the same time inculcating an almost Victorian modesty under the gaze of men. Which is why I came off my rock as soon as I spotted that chap on the clifftop.’

  Her head still dull with sun, it took Novello a moment to react.

  Then she sat upright and demanded, ‘What chap?’

  ‘Some passing peasant, most likely, who must have thought it was his birthday. I glanced up and spotted him and then he ducked out of sight, and I headed back for the shore. Always safest. Not to do so might imply to the simple male mind that I didn’t mind being spied upon.’

  Novello jumped up, took a small pair of binoculars out of her holster bag, ran to the water’s edge and started scanning the clifftop.

  Red stone, blue sky, sea birds soaring. The only sign of human intrusion was some kind of building perched precariously on the edge some way to the north. Bag-lady territory.

  Daphne called, ‘No need to get neurotic. It was probably Donald, Mrs Stonelady’s son, and he’s completely harmless.’

  Novello ignored her. She’d caught a movement. A small adjustment of the focus and suddenly she had him sharp, just for a moment, side view, more back really, not a full profile, as he moved south along the clifftop path. Not all that big, dark hair, nothing else. She kept on watching in the hope that he’d reappear, but nothing.

  Water suddenly covered her brand-new trainers as the oncoming tide rolled up the beach. You couldn’t be too careful.

  She hopped quickly out and returned to Daphne, removing her mobile phone from her belt.

  ‘What’s the cottage number?’

  Daphne told her, adding as she dialled, ‘But I doubt you’ll get through. Even without the cliff, mobile signals are notoriously weak in Axness. Even the landlines aren’t very reliable. Nosebleed is off as often as it’s on.’

  She was right. There was nothing.

  Clicking the phone back onto her belt, Novello said, ‘Look, I’m going to climb back up and take a look. Are you done here now?’

  ‘I thought I’d dry off in the sun a while then head back to the cottage.’

  ‘Good, I’ll see you there.’

  ‘Fine, but honestly, Shirley, I don’t think there’s any cause for alarm.’

  ‘You’re probably right, but my bosses don’t like probably.’

  She set off up the cliff. Going up was easier than coming down, though even with her gym-toughened leg muscles, she was puffing by the time she reached the top.

  No sign of life along the edge running north towards Gunnery House.

  She checked south too. Nothing.

  Which could mean that the watcher, having ascertained that both non-Pascoes were safely occupied on the beach, had headed towards Nosebleed.

  Feeling, without any logic, that she’d been out-manoeuvred, she set off at a trot back towards the cottage.

  vii

  the sirens’ song

  Ellie, seated on a garden chair that looked like wrought iron but yielded like foam rubber (where did Patrick get his garden furniture?), wearing a floppy sun hat and a long loose-fitting cotton dress, with her fingers poised over the keyboard of her laptop whose screen was displaying Chapter 3 of her Comfort Blanket story, suddenly felt like a real writer. Or at least, computer apart, like the kind of painting of a real writer that Renoir might have done in Monet’s garden.

  This was a considerable advance on the fraudulent feel which often stole over her in the boxroom she refused to call a study. A visiting American had told her that back home it was possible to gain membership of serious author groups as a ‘pre-published writer’ before you’d even set pen to paper. Ellie had laughed derisively, till she realized her friend was talking personal experience without any sign of ironic self-mockery. Her sense of hostessly responsibility, plus an instinctive sympathy with most anti-elitist ideologies, now made her sit submissively under the subsequent reproving lecture. But not all the lip-service in the world could change what she felt inside, which was that until she saw her words in print with a price tag on them she would remain a wannabe; and that if and when she finally ceased to be a wannabe, not all the out-reaching democratic arguments in the world would make her share her status with some idle plonker claiming to be ‘pre-published’!

  But out here, in the sun, with birds singing in the trees and Rosie close by, chattering happily to Tig and whatever other strange creatures the little dog had set free from her imagination, it seemed after all possible to think of herself as a true creator, a maker of dreams, without the hard evidence of lunches and launches and learned reviews. Perhaps, she thought, this was ESP at work, and the longed-for letter of acceptance was already dropping through her letterbox. So strong was the feeling that she went into the cottage and tried to ring home on the off chance Peter had come in since she’d left a message on the answer machine shortly after they arrived. Which turned out to be just as well as the phone was now completely dead.

  Curiously, instead of irritating her, this sense of being cut off had fed her mood.

  Nothing can touch me here, she thought.

  But when she returned to the garden she found she was wrong. Some electronic quirk had switched her display from the story to her unfinished letter to Bruna Cubillas. The Colombian woman’s letters had rarely spoken directly of the conditions of her imprisonment, perhaps because of the fear of censorship and reprisals, perhaps because through them she was escaping to another world of domestic life with its everyday pleasures and anxieties, and she didn’t want to bring her own world with her. But Ellie knew from her reading elsewhere, and from listening to those who had suffered a similar fate and made it back to freedom, that the same sun she basked in would turn Bruna’s tiny cell into a foetid oven where even the cockroaches hardly had strength to crawl over the floor…

  Angrily she punched the letter out of sight. Later. Later would do. This spirit of delight she was enjoying at the moment came so rarely that it would be churlish to suppress it. Anyway, hadn’t Feenie said something about Bruna being released? If so, not much point in sending a letter to the prison. She doubted if her friend would have left a forwarding address.

  She conjured up her story once more and plunged back in
to her revision like a dolphin into the wine-dark sea.

  She’d begun this chapter with one of those extended similes the classical epicists were so fond of and she wasn’t sure if it worked. Or perhaps she meant she wasn’t sure how she wanted it to work – as epic simile or post-modern irony? Or maybe simply as good honest fun! What the hell? Why should things always have to be complicated? Let it stand!

  Chapter 3

  Like to the spikenard spider which casts an invisible floating web over the scented shrubs abounding the fringes of the foetid Asian swamplands in which it lives, trapping the golden bees lured there to feast on the rich exuded juices of the blossoming trees in bonds so loose that though they may not flee, they may still drink their fill and be at their sweetest when the time comes for patient Arachne to suck them dry, so Aeneas plied his guest with wine and sweetmeats, always purposing that in the end he would pay the price for the great deception which toppled Troy, but not before he had been drained of all he knew of the shifting perils of these dangerous seas.

  Yet, be they never so different of race, taste, and temperament, and though they have fought long years on opposite sides, when men of arms at a camp fire share memories of battles fought, pains endured, perils survived, another invisible bond will form between them which has nothing to do with plots and schemings.

  ‘You are truly the most resourceful of men,’ said Aeneas, after listening to Odysseus’s tale of how he had escaped from the cave of Polyphemus. ‘And in this instance at least, I too have cause to be grateful for your cunning, for without it, my fleet might never have come away free from the land of the Cyclops.’

  ‘You got mixed up with them one-eyed bastards too?’ exclaimed Odysseus. ‘When was that?’

  ‘About three moons after you escaped. No, do not look surprised that I am so exact. When we landed, a poor wretch came running down the beach and threw himself at our feet and prayed for mercy. He was one of yours who’d been left behind when you escaped and he was so desperate that he preferred to put himself in the hands of Trojans rather than run the risk of being eaten alive by a Cyclops.’

  ‘Achaemenides! You’re not telling me you rescued Achaemenides?’

  ‘Yes, that was his name. It was a lucky encounter for us. He told us of your adventures, and thus forewarned we were able to make our escape, though not without a close scrape.’

  ‘Well, I’m buggered,’ said Odysseus. ‘So Achaemenides survived after all. He always claimed his mother was told by the gods he was destined for great things, that he’d likely become a king one day! Well, nowt’s impossible as far as that mad lot are concerned. So where’s he at now? Good job I didn’t run into him outside, else he’d likely have told the whole world who I was.’

  Aeneas looked a little uneasy and said, ‘Actually, he’s not here. We had to… let him go.’

  ‘Let him go? Like, you set him down somewhere and said, Off you go, lad; it’s been nice knowing you?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Aeneas. ‘The truth is when we got hit by the great storm that eventually drove us to this inhospitable place, as we rushed along before the wind which seemed at any moment like to turn us over and drive us down into the dark jaws of death, some of the men, indeed most of them, began to feel that there must be some presence among us which was offensive to the Earth-Shaker, and Achaemenides, being one of your crew who had blinded great Poseidon’s son, Polyphemus, seemed the man most likely. So we held him over the side. Then, after a while, well, we… let him go. I’m really sorry.’

  Odysseus looked grim for a moment, then his face split in a huge toothy grin and he said, ‘Nay, Prince, think nowt of it. In your place, I’d have done just the same.’

  ‘Thrown a Trojan prisoner overboard, you mean?’

  ‘Nay. Thrown Achaemenides over! He were always a useless bugger and a right liability at sea. Know what we used to call him? Hector, after that girt brother-in-law of thine.’

  ‘Because he was a useless bugger, you mean?’ said Aeneas, ready to be offended.

  ‘Nay! Because he was forever lolloping around, knocking Greeks over!’

  Aeneas laughed, then, serious again, said, ‘Alas, poor Hector. When he died, our hopes died too. A remarkable thing, though – among many other remarkable things since the debacle – I ran across his wife, Andromache. On Epirus. She’s married to Helenus – you remember him? Another of Priam’s sons.’

  ‘Aye, I do. I once captured the bugger and he went into a trance and told me Troy were doomed. I thought, this one’s either very clever or he’s doolally, so I ransomed him quick. He’s still around, is he?’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s got a nice little thing going. He’s established a sort of mini Troy which he calls Chaonia.’

  ‘I were right about him then. Bloody clever! Weren’t you tempted to set up shop there too?’

  Aeneas smiled. ‘No, not really. I’m bound… elsewhere. But I’m interrupting your story. Funny how our trails keep on intertwining. Scylla and Charybdis, the Cyclops…’

  ‘Aye. Bet you never heard the Sirens sing, but,’ said Odysseus complacently.

  ‘No, and from what I’ve heard, I understand that no man can and remain living.’

  ‘He can if he gets his crew to stuff their ears with wax then bind him to the mast so he can’t be tempted to jump over the side.’

  ‘And that’s what you did? Remarkable. You must be truly greedy for experience, Odysseus. And was it worth it? Myself, I can’t imagine a song so sweet that it would cause a man steeled in war to forget all else and rush madly to discover its source.’

  ‘You can’t? Well, if I’d not been tied up, I’d have gone rushing, I tell you, no question.’

  ‘Really? So what did it sound like, this irresistible music? Can you perhaps give me a flavour?’ enquired Aeneas, faintly mocking.

  ‘Do me best. Let’s see now. It were something like this.’

  And the Greek took a deep breath, threw back his head and let out a terrible rasping, gasping, raucous yell.

  The din filled the cavern and before its echoes had ceased bouncing round the walls, the curtained entrance had been torn aside by Achates, and the fat Greek was surrounded by grim-faced guards with drawn swords.

  ‘See?’ said Odysseus complacently. ‘Told you it worked. Brings ’em running every time.’

  For a moment there was silence, then Aeneas began to laugh and the Greek laughed with him, till in a short while both men were helpless with mirth.

  Unable to speak, the Prince dismissed his men with an imperious gesture. Achates paused in the entrance and looked back as though he had something to say. Then he shook his head and let the curtain fall behind him.

  Aeneas refilled the goblets with red wine and the two men drank deep.

  ‘If that was a fair example of their singing, it sounds more like an invitation to Hades than to Heaven,’ said Aeneas.

  ‘Hades? Aye, been there, done that,’ said Odysseus with a shudder. ‘And I’m not inclined to make any jokes about it either.’

  The Prince leaned forward and looked deep into the other man’s eyes.

  ‘You are serious? You have made that journey and returned? I thought none had done that save Orpheus who braved the blackness for love.’

  ‘Oh him,’ said Odysseus dismissively. ‘I got the low-down on him. Load of crap, that all-for-love business. Seems that wife of his was the jealous type and when she caught on he were using his musical charms to get his end away elsewhere, she hid his best lyre. Then she got bit by a snake afore he could find out where she’d put it, and that was why he went down below after her. But when he met Pluto and his missus, he thought he’d best go for the sympathy vote so he span that yarn about not being able to live without her. All he wanted was a quick chat – Where’s me lyre? Thanks, luv, see you around – and off, but his story worked so well they said he could have her back, only he hadn’t got to look back at her as he led her out of Hades. Well, there he was walking along playing his second-best lyre and all the time a
few steps behind came Eurydice, and she never stopped wittering. On and on she went about his bits on the side and he needn’t think this made any difference, and just wait till they got home, she was really going to give him what for. And in the end, with the daylight in sight, he thought, sod this for a lark. And he said, “Sorry, luv, didn’t quite catch that,” and he turned around. Bye-bye, Eurydice. It’s true. Honest. On my mother’s life.’

  Aeneas said dryly, ‘Truly I see that you are the man that all your legends claim you to be. So, what did you do in Hades? Who did you meet? What did you learn?’

  ‘Well, funny enough, I met my old mam for a start. That were a shock. Didn’t even know she were dead. Mebbe I swore on her life once too often. And I saw a lot of other women, all wives of noble husbands…’

  ‘You didn’t…’ said Aeneas hesitantly. ‘Did you perhaps see… would you know… Creusa, my wife, my son’s dear mother, who strayed from my side as we fled burning Troy and was taken and slain by… say, did you see her?’

  Odysseus shook his great head and said, ‘Nay, Prince, I’ll not lie. I didn’t notice her, but there were so many, and time were short. Tell you who I did see, but. Great Achilles! Aye, he were down there, prancing round the Elysian Fields, large as life. I said to him that I were sure a great hero like him got real special treatment even down here, and you know what he said?’

  ‘No. What did he say?’ said the Prince dully, his mind still on his dead wife.

  ‘He said he’d rather be a serf working for a landless nobody than be king of all these dead warriors. Makes you think, doesn’t it? Great Achilles. Makes you think, eh?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it does,’ said Aeneas, taking another long drink of wine. ‘But you’ll forgive me if I don’t feel too much sympathy. If he’d never come to Troy, you’d never have beaten us. Didn’t the gods proclaim it so?’

  ‘Aye, they did.’

  ‘And isn’t it true that his mother sent him away to hide on Skyros disguised as a girl because she knew that he would die if he came to Troy? And was it not the subtle and cunning Odysseus who followed him there and found him out and made him join the Greek force? Oh, you have much to answer for, my friend, both at the start and at the end of this tragic business.’