by Ray Connolly
At one point Quatre Bras came across to Scorcese and muttered a few words of embarrassment and frustration, but he did not persist in conversation when Scorcese suggested that it would perhaps be best if they met in New York sometime when the situation could be assessed in a less emotional atmosphere. Recognizing a polite closing of the door, Quatre Bras smiled, drew himself up as pompously as he could in pajamas, and returned to the far end of the room to the comfort of Girardot and his last remaining Gitane.
And Scorcese and Beta went back to each other.
Fifty
The sight of Quatre Bras and Ronay slumped in separate corners of the room, each busy with his own thoughts, fascinated Cassandra as only a journalist could be fascinated by such a situation. Around her the oil lamps flickered on the faces of the guests, bewildered evacuees from terror. If only Night and Day had sent a photographer down with her! This had to be the best story she was ever likely to cover, but she needed pictures, shots of Quatre Bras, sucking on the stump of his last cigarette; of Ronay, crucified by what public opinion was about to do to him; and of the terrified guests and CVs.
She checked her watch. It was nearly 6:00 A.M. It would be dawn soon. Perhaps she could sneak across the village and get her camera. But then she thought about the bodies of the three girls, lying across their beds. She dared not go out there alone.
For a moment she considered soliciting Hardin’s protection, but just as quickly she abandoned the idea. He would be the last person to want to help her take photographs. At that moment Sacha caught her eye. He was standing near a window and gazing out into the storm.
Cassandra reflected for a moment, then made her decision. “Sacha, I know this is asking an awful lot of you … but would you mind coming with me to my room? I have to get something,” she said.
Sacha looked around at her quizzically. Cassandra decided to explain. “The truth is, Sacha, I have to get my camera out of my suitcase. I—I’m a journalist. All this is too good for a journalist to miss.” With a wave she indicated the room full of people.
“They aren’t letting anyone out until it gets light,” said Sacha.
“I know. But they aren’t paying that much attention either, are they? No one is exactly rushing to go out there.”
After a moment’s thought, he grinned impishly and nodded. “Okay. Why not? I like a little excitement. I’ll go first. We’ll go over through the kitchens. They’ll assume we’ve gone to get something to eat.”
Cassandra smiled. He was a brave kid. She hoped he wouldn’t regret helping her.
Nonchalantly, Sacha meandered off toward the kitchens. No one stopped him. The Bahamian security guards walked purposefully around the room, their eyes on the guests. Most of the CVs were congregated in little groups, quietly gossiping among themselves. As soon as Cassandra saw that Sacha had gone, she stood up and wandered after him.
One of the security guards approached her. She smiled, and made a comment about being grateful when it would be light. The man nodded and moved on. Then, with one quick look behind her, Cassandra slipped into the kitchens.
Only Alex noticed as they left the restaurant. Alex always noticed everything. He was a watcher. He was God’s eyes and ears, wasn’t he?
Sacha was waiting for Cassandra behind a bank of vast refrigerators in the kitchens. As she entered he stepped out from the gloom and beckoned to her.
“Come on, this way; there’s a window over here we can open,” he said.
Taking her by the arm, he led her around the huge cold storage area.
“I never saw so many fridges in my life,” said Cassandra.
“They have a problem keeping the food fresh in this climate,” explained Sacha. Then, mischievously, he pulled open a freezer door. A side of beef was hanging from a hook. “This is where they put people when they die,” he said suddenly.
“What?” asked Cassandra, startled.
“In here. Just like this beef,” said Sacha, grinning. “Weird, isn’t it? They have to keep the bodies fresh for the coroner, you see, and it gets pretty hot here in the summer. There was a guy had a heart attack here last September. They had him in here for days until they could decide what to do with the body.”
“Fascinating,” said Cassandra, and pushed the freezer door closed.
Carefully Sacha opened a window over a row of washbasins. “The CVs use this window for getting in and raiding the food supplies,” he explained.
Cassandra nodded and, holding her nightdress skirt around her knees, she climbed onto the basin and out into the storm. Sacha followed.
Outside, the grass was covered with an inch of water, and their feet sank into the soft turf. But it was raining less than it had been an hour earlier, and a stiff, cool breeze was blowing down from the north. Looking out toward the Atlantic, Cassandra could already see a faint, pale-gray glow in the far sky.
Quickly, they hurried across the dark and silent village. As they passed C Block, Cassandra cast fearful eyes to the end room, where she knew the bodies of Chloe and Florinda still lay. Sacha put a comforting arm out. Gripping his hand, she felt instantly stronger.
“I’m in B23,” she said.
“I know,” replied Sacha, but his reply was drowned by the sound of rain rushing and spraying over the balcony from a blocked gutter.
They climbed the steps of B Block quickly. It was very dark, but Cassandra now knew the steps so well that she could feel her way, holding onto the banister all the way up. Only when she reached her room did she stop. She was, she realized, afraid to enter.
“Sacha …” She turned to her companion almost sheepishly.
Sacha grinned reassuringly. Stepping past her, he opened the door and allowed it to swing open. Cassandra peered inside.
“Come on, it’s quite safe,” said Sacha and entered the room.
Encouraged by Sacha’a display of pluck, Cassandra followed him, feeling her way carefully across to the bed. Although she didn’t smoke, she had left a book of matches in the ashtray on the bedside table. They had been a silly memento from her night in the Balmoral Beach Hotel, Nassau, just over a week before.
Gingerly, she groped among the objects on the table for the matches. Her wrist caught against the lampshade, and the lamp fell off the table and smashed onto the tile floor.
“Oh, God,” she cried.
“Take it easy, take it easy,” cooed Sacha. “You’ve nothing to be afraid of. I’m here, remember?”
Something about the way Sacha accentuated the word “you’ve” puzzled Cassandra, but she said nothing.
Groping across the table again, she finally discovered the matches. With shaking fingers she tore one off the book and struck it.
“Here, light this,” said Sacha, producing a stub of a candle he must have taken from the restaurant.
Cassandra held the match to the candle. Quickly, the wick caught fire. Allowing some hot wax to drip into the ashtray, Cassandra stood the candle in the wax until it was secure.
“God, that’s better,” she said as the glow filled the room.
Sacha laughed and, closing the door, locked out the wind that had been threatening to blow out the flame. “You’re a very nervous person, Cassandra,” he said.
She turned to look at him. In the yellow glow of candlelight his hair looked even fairer. She smiled back.
She opened the closet and lifted down her suitcase. Sacha helped her put it onto the bed. Flicking open the two locks, she opened it. The Pentax was hidden beneath a scattered pile of underwear. She felt slightly embarrassed that he should see them. Quickly, she pulled out the camera and snapped the case shut again.
“I hope you have film in it,’ said Sacha.
“Yes,” said Cassandra. “Always prepared … or nearly always, anyway.”
At that moment she saw a shadow move across her pillow. She looked up. Sacha had frozen at her side. “I could have sworn I saw something move,” she said.
Allowing her curiosity to get the better of her she gently folded b
ack the counterpane on her bed. Suddenly the shadow slid rapidly toward her. She screamed and jumped back.
Sacha sprang. In one movement his hand went down to his ankle and, almost before Cassandra was aware of it, a knife was plunged deep into the pillow, pinning a wriggling lizard to the bed. Cassandra felt something splash across her face. Without pausing, Sacha pulled the lizard off the end of his knife and, taking it by the back legs, savagely ripped it apart.
“In the name of God …” Cassandra screamed. And then suddenly she was quiet.
The benign expression had gone from Sacha’s face. His features were contracted in a gaze of delicious triumph. He was high on his kill, heady with a taste of killing. His lips curled at the sides. A dimple flickered in his cheek.
Cassandra’s eyes fixed on the knife. In the flickering candlelight she could see the guts of the lizard sticking to the blade. “Oh, my God,” she whispered as she saw the pieces of flesh soaking her pillow.
As Sacha became aware of her again, the expression of delight drained from his eyes. He was still holding the knife.
Cassandra stepped toward the door, trying to get past him. Suddenly she stumbled and tripped over the foot of the bed that had been Piebald Jane’s, falling, sprawling onto the floor. Automatically, she screamed.
“Quiet,” hissed Sacha.
Cassandra looked up. Sacha was standing over her, holding the knife. He put his free hand down to help her up, but she didn’t take it. Her eyes never left the knife. Gradually, she tried to slide away from Sacha across the floor.
“What are you doing, Cassandra?” Sacha asked, his voice as innocent as a little boy’s. He took one step after her.
She held her hand up in front of her face. “Please, Sacha …” she heard herself murmuring. Everything was so clear to her now. This strange beautiful boy who had been friendly to all the girls had been possessed of an almost beatific gentleness. But now a manic savagery gripped him, and a desire to inflict pain shone on his face.
She wondered how she could have been so blind. She moved across the floor, away from him again, and found her hand resting in the wet fleshy remains of the torn lizard. She shuddered and pulled her hand away, wiping the slime on the skirt of her nightdress.
She stared at him. In the flickering candlelight she now saw another face, as his expression seemed to transform into the grinning reptile mask that had stared in at her that first night. She tried to pull herself to her feet. She wondered if she could scream, but knew instinctively that it was useless. The sound of rain was unceasing, and all help lay on the other side of the village.
Sacha stepped forward so that he was standing over her. “I asked you what you’re so frightened of, Cassandra,” he repeated. “Didn’t you ever see a lizard killed before? There’s nothing wrong with killing lizards, you know. They’re not like people. Lizards don’t matter. Not like people.”
Cassandra tried to drag herself away, but Sacha stood on the hem of her nightdress. As she struggled, the skirt tore, revealing a wide stretch of her thighs.
“My, my, you sure have pretty legs, Cassandra. Anybody ever tell you that before?” Sacha was staring down at her. “I bet you’ve been told that a lot of times, haven’t you? I like pretty girls. Only pretty girls. I’m a pretty guy, aren’t I? Everyone says that. Good-looking Sacha. That’s what they call me. All talk and no follow-through. Isn’t that what they say?”
Cassandra tried to move again, but Sacha remained where he was. The nightdress tore farther, revealing the tops of her thighs.
Sacha gazed at the soft, cotton V shape of her panties. Very slowly he drew the tip of his tongue across the underside of his top lip.
“Very nice, Cassandra,” he murmured.
Cassandra stared at him. Something was telling her that it wasn’t happening, that she was imagining everything. Speak normally, she told herself. “I think … I think we ought to be getting back,” she said absurdly. “They’ll have missed us by now.”
Sacha simply stared at her, neither moving nor answering. His grip on the knife became tighter.
Suddenly Cassandra heard herself begin to sob. “Please, Sacha, can we go back …?”
“There’s no going back for me, Cassandra. Not really,” came the reply.
“I don’t know what you mean. If we go now … they’ll never know we’ve been out. And I won’t tell them anything …” gabbled Cassandra. She had no idea what she was saying. She was talking to stay alive. Sacha’s hand gripped tightly around the knife.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “What aren’t you going to tell them?”
“Well … nothing.” Cassandra tried to wrench herself away again. Her nightdress tore as far as the waist. Keeping her eyes glued to his gaze, she pulled a torn fold of cotton nightdress across her thighs, more as a diversionary tactic than as an act of modesty.
“What aren’t you going to tell them?” asked Sacha again.
“I didn’t mean anything, I promise you,” she whispered again.
Carefully, deliberately, Sacha wiped the blade of his knife on the counterpane of one of the beds. “She told you, too, didn’t she?” he said at last.
“I don’t know what you mean,” gasped Cassandra. “Who told me what?”
“I bet you think it’s funny, too? Isn’t that right? Did you laugh, Cassandra? Jesus, I bet you split yourself over that. Poor old Sacha, pretty-boy Sacha, can’t get it up. I should have known you’d be just like all the others. Isn’t it incredible? I could have any woman I want, and I can’t have any at all! Karen shouldn’t have told you. She shouldn’t have told anyone. There was no need for her to tell anyone. Look at the trouble she’s caused. It’s all her fault. You can see that, can’t you? It isn’t my fault that it’s broken. That it doesn’t work. Jesus Christ, no one can blame me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t tell me lies. I don’t want to be lied to. Too many people lied before. They said it didn’t matter. They told me it didn’t matter. Don’t you think that’s funny? They told me. Jesus, but it matters to me. Shit, if you only knew how much it matters. If you only knew what it’s like to want it so badly that you can feel the blood pumping through your skull like a fucking hammer, and yet there’s no way … no way. It’s broken, they said. The hydraulics are fucked up. You’ll get used to it in time. Oh yes. In time. Maybe it’s all psychological, I thought. No … no … sorry, they said. It’s really broken. Never to work again. We’re sorry, we can’t help you, son.”
He stopped talking and stared at Cassandra. Then he looked down at her thighs again and very delicately, with the tip of his blade, parted her nightdress and slipped the knife between her skin and the top of her pants, cutting the thin cotton material. Cassandra stared down at the knife, unable to move away from its gentle, terrible probing. One sudden movement and her stomach would be ripped open.
“What do you want me to do?” she murmured hoarsely, trying desperately to keep her voice from soaring.
Slowly, Sacha sank to his knees before her, spreading her thighs with his hands, until he knelt before her almost in an attitude of adoration.
“Dick Pagett … he thought I was some kind of freak …” Sacha was lying down now, his head between Cassandra’s legs. She could feel his breath warm on her thighs. The knife continued to cut through the fabric of her panties. “He used to make fun of me. Maybe he guessed. One day he followed me. He said he didn’t. But I knew he had. I’d made a home for myself on one of the cays. I called it my weekend home. Then he came and spoiled it all …”
Cassandra flinched as the tip of the knife dug accidentally into the flesh at the top of her thigh. Sacha stopped talking. Cassandra felt a trickle of warm blood run down the inside of her thigh. She gasped. Tears filled her eyes. But she stayed quiet.
Sacha gazed at the trickle of blood, his mood changing again. “I’m sorry … I hurt you,” he said. “I’m sorry, Cassandra. I didn’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I�
�m sorry. Please forgive me. I like you. I liked you the first day I met you. I came to look for you, but you frightened me away. God, I’m sorry, Cassandra. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Cassandra lay still. Sacha had become a babbling, weeping child.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Sacha repeated. “It was Karen’s fault. She made them laugh at me. I loved them … I loved Chloe and Florinda. They never tried to fuck me. They were my friends, until I saw them laughing at me. She told them. She shouldn’t have told them. Just like you laughed when she told you.”
Slowly Cassandra was pulling herself up off the floor. Sacha was now in a crouching position. His hands covered his eyes. Tears ran freely down his cheeks.
“She didn’t tell me anything, Sacha,” said Cassandra very quietly. “Karen didn’t tell me anything. No one laughed at you. No one. It was your imagination. No one knew.”
Sacha was slowly crumpling on the floor; his knife flipped out of his hand as his sobbing grew deeper.
“I didn’t want to hurt them,” he said. “I didn’t want to hurt you. You know that, don’t you? But I thought they were laughing at me … I thought they were all laughing at me. I couldn’t let them do that … I couldn’t let them laugh, could I …?”
Cassandra was now on her feet and edging toward the door. Sacha didn’t move. Very quietly, she opened the door and stepped outside onto the balcony.
Homer Wolford found Sacha shortly after eight o’clock on that chill Sunday morning. As soon as it had become light, groups of male CVs were sent to scour the village, hunting in threes, with instructions not to get too close, but to report back as soon as Sacha was sighted.
After Cassandra had stumbled back into the restaurant, Hardin and Quatre Bras decided that the safest thing to do was to wait for dawn. After all, there was nowhere Sacha could run. Even if he took a boat, which was unlikely, he could hardly get very far in an hour.