Harm

by Hugh Fraser

  Juanita returns to the bedroom and shows me a bell pull beside the mantelpiece. She tugs at it and says, ‘I come. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  Juanita nods and leaves. The guard with the AK glances in again on his return journey.

  I sit on the bed and breathe deeply. I am alive, at least for the moment. Even though the job Manuel has for me is well within my area of expertise, I have no intention of doing it. As soon as it is completed, I will be killed so as to preclude any possibility of the murder being traced back to him. I have to escape as soon as possible and leave the country. In the meantime, I have to appear to accept the commission and build Manuel’s confidence as far as I can in the hope that he will relax his security sufficiently for me to find an opportunity to make my exit.

  The heat bears down on me and I cross to the window. The ultramarine pool glistens outside. I change into a white bikini, walk slowly across the hot tiles of the terrace, ignoring the attention of the several guards deployed around, and dive into the pool.

  The water feels like silk, soothing and cooling my skin as I swim around the curves of the pool. I turn over and float on my back, the sky impossibly blue above me, fringed with palms craning inquisitively to inspect their pale-skinned visitor. After a few languid lengths, I paddle to the side, climb the steps, stretch out on a wicker lounger and let the sun ease some of the tension from my body.

  Minutes later I hear footsteps. A tall white male stands beside the lounger.

  ‘You wanna cold one?’

  I rise onto one elbow, shade my eyes and take the beer he is offering. He sounds American and looks about thirty-five years old, with fine blond hair to his shoulders, high cheekbones and crystal blue eyes. His skin has that flawless Nordic sheen and a light, even tan. He’s over six feet tall and looks in good shape.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  ‘May I join you?’

  ‘Please.’

  He smiles, sits on the lounger next to me and cracks open his beer. I sit up, turn towards him and ask, ‘And you are …?’

  ‘Your husband.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For the hit.’

  I sip beer.

  ‘I’m a US Army envoy advising about Nixon’s war on drugs.’

  ‘With that haircut?’

  He laughs. ‘It’ll be gone.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘Not really, in this heat.’

  ‘And I’m your English wife?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So why are you …?’

  ‘Same as you, I guess. I was here trying to settle some business and got taken.’

  ‘Drug business?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So you’re about as keen to do this as me.’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Two days. There’s no way to get out. They have it tighter than a fish’s ass.’

  A guard approaches, glancing at us as he passes. ‘What do you know about the job?’ I ask.

  ‘You want me to brief you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We’re going to a government reception at the Palacio Nacional in Mexico City. The US Federal Reserve just lent The Bank of Mexico three hundred sixty million bucks, so they figure they owe us a party. Also, they just discovered a couple oil fields in Chiapas so they want to do deals on crude. We meet the minister there. He’s a sex predator who likes northern tail and watching his wife getting fucked. If we make the right noises, the money’s on him asking us back to his place for a private party. We play around a little and then kill them.’

  ‘How do we get in?’

  ‘With fake ID. They have someone inside who cooked the invite.’

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘What did the Minister do?’ I ask.

  ‘He had the army burn Manuel’s marijuana fields even though he was paying him off. Some other drug boss will have offered him a couple million more to put Manuel out of business. Once that happens, Manuel has no choice but to cut off the head.’

  I see Roberto come out of the house and talk to one of the guards.

  The American sees him and lowers his voice. ‘Roberto’s the good cop. The little guy’s a psycho.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning. What’s his name?’

  ‘Guido.’

  Roberto approaches us and smiles.

  ‘Manuel wonders if you join him for lunch in one half hour?’ he says.

  The American looks at me. ‘Cool?’

  ‘Why not,’ I say.

  Roberto nods and goes back to the house. The American stands.

  The sun forms a halo round his head. ‘My name’s Lee.’

  ‘I’m Rina. I suppose I should put some clothes on,’ I say, rising from the lounger.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Where have they put you?’

  ‘I’m over in back. Shall I pick you up in a half hour?’

  ‘Please do.’

  Lee walks round the corner of the bungalow. I go inside and find that Juanita has turned down the bed and lowered the mosquito netting around it, lending the room the air of a private intensive care ward. I take off the bikini and step into the powerful shower. I let the water pummel my neck and back for a while, then I shampoo my hair and soap my skin.

  The bathroom door opens. Through the shower curtain I can see the blurred outline of a short figure that isn’t Juanita. I turn off the shower as it approaches. The curtain is ripped back and the midget Guido is there with a gun in his hand, grinning like an idiot, his face still bruised from the beatings he’s already taken today. He leers at me and says something in Spanish. As he lunges for me, I plunge a straight finger into his eye. He reels back and I knee him in the balls. He hits the marble floor hard and lies screaming, one hand covering his bleeding eye socket, the other holding his crotch. He twists his stunted body from side to side in a vain effort to get to his feet.

  I decide not to kill him. Stepping over the sobbing mess on the floor, I stash the gun in the cistern, wash the blood and slime from my finger in the sink and wrap myself in a towel, as the front door crashes open. Guards enter and surround the writhing figure. He looks up at them with his good eye and whimpers pleadingly. Two guards shoulder arms, pick him up and carry him out onto the terrace. The other two guards search the room. One of them finds the gun in the cistern. They look at me for a moment and then leave.

  I go into the bedroom, dry off and put on fresh underwear, the Valentino number I looked at earlier, and carefully make up my face. I select one of the several whiskies available from the mirrored cocktail cabinet, pour myself a stiff one, turn on a table fan and relax on a sofa. Lee was right. Getting out of here is going to be difficult. The guards’ response was almost instant.

  There is a knock at the door. ‘Señorita?’

  ‘Come in.’

  Juanita hurries in, bristling with indignation. She puts down the mop and bucket she is carrying and takes my hand in hers.

  ‘So sorry, so sorry … Animalejo! … Animalejo!’ she says.

  Taking this as a comment on Guido’s personality, I smile and say, ‘It’s OK.’ I wish I had the Spanish to tell her that on the Richter scale of violent attempts on my virtue, this one barely registered.

  ‘You strong. You teach him lesson. Is good. You sure you are OK?’

  ‘I am OK.’

  Seeming satisfied that I am unharmed and undimmed, Juanita goes to the bathroom and begins mopping the blood from the floor.

  Lee arrives as I am draining my whisky glass. ‘Hey, you look great.’

  ‘Thanks. You want a drink?’

  ‘I think maybe we should go over.’

  He opens the door for me and we walk across the terrace. The slouching guards straighten up as we pass. Lee is wearing a light blue silk shirt, white trousers and Gucci loafers. His hair is brushed back and tied in a neat pony tail, revealing a strong jawline and a fine profile.

  As we app
roach the house, Roberto appears.

  ‘Manuel sends you many apologies for that he is detained by some business for a short while. He say please to wait and have drink and he will come soon.’

  Roberto shows us to a table beside the pool.

  ‘Señorita?’

  ‘Whisky, straight.’

  He turns to Lee. ‘Gimme a beer.’

  Roberto goes inside. A light breeze wrinkles the surface of the pool and whispers through the palm trees. Lee sits back and closes his eyes. I look at his strong, elegant frame and wonder if I can trust him.

  ‘Where are you from?’ I ask.

  ‘Originally, Chicago.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Beverly Hills.’

  Roberto arrives with our drinks.

  ‘How long have you known Manuel?’ I ask once he has gone.

  ‘A while. I met him at Woodstock. We were both selling grass and his Acapulco Gold made mine look like lawn clippings, so we got into moving gold over the border around Tijuana and up into LA and Hollywood. Then coke happened, business exploded and things got rough between drug bosses down here.’

  ‘So why would he kidnap a business partner?’

  ‘There are no rules here. I fit the bill, is all. Most of his US dealers are Mexican. I’m the only white guy and I was in the Marines, so I can pass for military and bullshit about the war on drugs.’

  ‘When did you leave the Marines?’

  ‘A few years ago. I got captured in Nam. Got out, returned to the US with a combat pack full of smack, got into the drug business and never looked back. How did you get started in your line of work?’

  ‘It was in the family.’

  I am spared any further interrogation as Roberto appears from the house.

  ‘Please to come now.’

  Roberto escorts us to the front door of the house. We go in, cross the hall and are shown into a large, dimly lit dining room. My eye is immediately drawn to a life-sized skeleton, in a purple hooded robe trimmed with gold, standing on a plinth beneath an arch at the far end of the room. The skull leers at me from beneath a wig of silver hair. The ashen bones of its right hand grip a long handled scythe while the left hand holds a globe with the land masses and oceans of the earth in yellow and blue. The whole apparition, lit from within, exudes a ghostly orange radiance. The eye sockets of the white skull seem to follow me as I walk towards a round table in the centre of the room where Manuel sits, flanked by a semicircle of white-coated waiters holding silver trays. An identical miniature version of the skeleton, about a foot tall and complete with scythe and globe, glows eerily in the centre of the table.

  Manuel rises and says, ‘Please to come, sit and have champagne.’

  Three waiters come forward and pour from three bottles. Manuel raises his glass.

  ‘To a successful operation.’

  We toast. Three more waiters advance and place plates of delicately presented hors d’oeuvres before us. I taste a coconut shrimp and realise how hungry I am.

  Manuel toys with a scallop. He looks up at me and says, ‘Lee has told you what is to be done, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘All is clear?’

  ‘There is one detail …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How do we get out after the killing?’

  ‘Señorita Walker, you are the expert in this, as you showed us at the hotel this morning. Lee too has escaped from Viet Cong and after that from US Marine Corp, so for you this will be no great difficulty, I think.’

  ‘And if we do get out?’

  Manuel takes a folder from beside his chair and opens it. ‘Here is your passport and first class open ticket.’

  I see that the passport is mine. The ticket looks genuine.

  ‘After kill, you go to Benito Juárez Airport. At information desk, you ask for Pedro Álvarez. You say who you are and he gives these to you. You leave immediately on next flight.’

  Waiters replace the hors d’oeuvres with some sort of small roasted bird surrounded with even smaller birds. I reckon my chances of getting out of here to be about as good as the birds’ were. They’ll probably get me at the airport. The glowing skeleton on the table seems to agree with me. Manuel sees me looking at it.

  ‘This is Santa Muerte, the White Girl who protects us from death. She has looked upon you now and so you will be safe in your business this evening in Mexico City.’

  Keeping his eyes on me, Manuel’s smile doesn’t waver as he picks up a bird and slowly tears it apart.

  4

  Georgie and Jack are asleep next to me. Jack whimpers in his sleep and then sighs and turns over. He sounds a bit chesty again. No wonder, sleeping in a damp room with the plaster flaking off the walls. I’ll take him to the doctor soon. They thought it might be diphtheria the last time, but it was just the flu. He’s not that strong, though.

  I stare at the stripe of light on the ceiling and listen to the faint sound of the music coming from some drinker that’s started up in a basement or a living room somewhere near. A radiogram and a few crates of nicked booze is all it takes. It won’t be long before it gets smashed up by some gang that wants the protection.

  I wonder if I’ll sleep tonight. I close my eyes and turn on my side. I’m thinking of the sea, like it was when Dad took us to Southend when I was little, before Georgie. I’m sitting on the sand between him and Mum, looking at that enormous sea. Dad and Mum are talking and I just look at the sea and think how big it is and …

  He’s unlocking the front door. My stomach turns. I only hope he’s alone. It sounds like it. I slip out of bed and I can see him against the light of the street lamp coming through the window. He puts a bottle on the kitchen table, moves to the sink and I hear him pissing. He takes his coat off and puts it on the back of a chair. I go to the doorway and he sees me.

  ‘There’s my little girlfriend.’

  He walks towards me and presses me up against the door frame. He leans against me and squeezes my tits. I feel his hardness against my stomach where the sickness is rising in me. He tries to kiss me and I turn my face away. He takes my head in his hands, turns my face to him, puts his mouth on mine and forces his tongue inside. I’m going to be sick. I try to pull him down onto the floor so he won’t do it in the bed next to Georgie and Jack, but he puts his arm round underneath me, picks me up and lays me on the bed.

  The weight of him knocks the air out of me when he pins me down on the towel that I’ve put there to catch the blood. His stinking breath and the pain when he shoves his big vile self into me. Georgie wakes up and sees him. She turns away and tries to cover Jack’s eyes with the sheet, as if the poor little kid hasn’t seen it before, the great foul beast who comes in the night and lies on top of his big sister and heaves and snorts and farts and stinks and leaves a filthy trail of slime, then lumbers off to sleep in the armchair or on the floor and is there in the morning like a dead thing that no one speaks about.

  He grinds on into me until he’s spewed his foul load, then he heaves himself off me and into the armchair with the one arm. Soon he’s snoring like a pig. I reach out and hold Georgie’s hand.

  ‘Shhhhh … It’s all right … Off to sleep now.’

  Jack hasn’t woken up properly this time. Georgie settles and then her breathing tells me she’s going to sleep. I take the rag from under the pillow, put my hand down and wipe myself. I take the towel out from under me and put it under the bed. I don’t think I’ve bled tonight. I look at his dark shape in the chair. I lean over the side of the bed and reach underneath for the pot. I pull it out and retch over it, but nothing comes up. I hear a sound in the kitchen. Mum is getting up off her mattress, coughing. I hear her open the bottle he put on the table and pour a drink. She’s been awake the whole time. I lie still and look up at my stripe of light on the ceiling. The tears are making it wavy.

  • • •

  I’m filling the kettle next morning when he comes in the kitchen and stands by the table. I can feel him looking at me
but I don’t turn round. The rag and bone man’s shout echoes down the street as his cart clatters past.

  ‘Here,’ he says.

  I look round. He’s peeling a couple of quid off a roll of notes and putting them on the table. I turn back to the sink and he comes and stands behind me, put his arms round me and presses his lips into my ear.

  ‘You know you like it, you dirty little girl.’

  Mum turns over in her sleep. The gin bottle’s half empty beside her. He walks over to Mum and stands looking down at her.

  I turn back to the stove and light the gas under the kettle. I feel the warmth of the gas on my stomach. Why is he just standing there? I’m feeling sick again. I’m going to fall down. Go, you bastard. Get out! I put my finger by the gas flame. I push it nearer the flame and I feel the lovely burn and I’m not in the kitchen at all, it’s just me and the burn and I’m strong as the burn and I’m climbing up and up … and the door slams and he’s gone.

  I go to the sink, put my finger under the tap and turn it on. The water runs over the burn and it throbs nicely for a bit.

  Mum turns over, opens her eyes and says, ‘Turn that fucking tap off!’

  ‘I’ve got to get their breakfast, haven’t I?’

  She throws a pillow at me. ‘Shut up and get out, the fucking lot of you!’

  ‘All right, Mum, it’s all right.’

  ‘Fucking load of cunts!’

  She turns to the wall and pulls the blanket over her head. She can be like that in the morning if she wakes up in the night and has a drink. She won’t remember. She doesn’t remember much of anything these days. I put the money in my knickers, fill the teapot and go through to wake Georgie and Jack. I make sure they’re getting dressed and take the pot downstairs and empty it in the privy.