It Takes a Thief

by Niels Hammer

  Copyright © 2018 Niels Hammer

  www.artsandbiodiversity.eu

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

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  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

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  ISBN 978 1789012 125

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  A Yvonne

  Toutes ces obligations, qui n’ont pas leur sanction dans la vie présente, semblent appartenir à un monde différent, fondé sur la bonté, le scrupule, le sacrifice, un monde entièrement différent de celui-ci, et dont nous sortons pour naître à cette terre, avant peut-être d’y retourner revivre sous l’empire de ces lois inconnues auxquelles nous avons obéi parce que nous en portions l’enseignement en nous, sans savoir qui les y avait tracées — ces lois dont tout travail profond de l’intelligence nous rapproche et qui sont invisibles seulement - et encore! - pour les sots.

  Marcel Proust: La prisonnière.

  À la recherche du temps perdu 2: 708.

  Contents

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  I

  What was that? All of a sudden – wide awake? The greying of the night had begun in the North-East. Arcturus had faded – the leaves of the Oak were silhouetted sharply against the Sky. The curtains hung still beside the open windows. A Fox or a Vixen – hunting in the reeds – might have barked or it could have been a dream about something he could not remember. No traces were left of an emotion strong enough to form memorable images. He had to fall asleep again for without being fully alert it would be impossible to stay naked when Dawn arose on the Broads. Feeling heavy with the need for continued recuperation he began to dissolve in the ocean of subconsciousness – but knew instantaneously with his increased though now undifferentiated awareness – beyond doubt – that there was somebody else – beside him – in the room.

  For a couple of seconds – instinctively – he held his breath but began then to breathe regularly as before trying to discern the outlines of chairs and cupboards chance or necessity had washed up along the walls. The rods in his eyes ought by now to have reached the level of maximum sensitivity. Listening for stealthy footfalls did not yield any definite clues – but a slight change – darker than the darkness – in front of the wardrobe. The movement had been too slow to be spontaneous so it might have been imagined well in advance and then executed with great care – but it had been a furtive movement suggestive of a wilfully illusive presence. The focus of his attention became sharpened by heightened neurotransmitter activity – in the faint light from the night-sky outside – to imagine a shadow standing in front of his writing desk either deliberating what to do or listening for something outside or inside the house – but there was only an eerie silence everywhere – no howls of lecherous Cats or hoots of Barn Owls or even white twitters of sleepy Sparrows in the Wisteria. An indistinct dry hiss – as of dragonfly wings – indicated that one of the drawers in his writing table had been pulled out so that its content could be examined. Had his presence in the bed been detected? Cautiously he moved his hand under the eiderdown towards the bedside table. The almost noiseless investigation of the content of his drawer – was now aided by a soft red light beam. The torch would initially have been switched off as a precaution – cunning or experience rather than boldness or impetuosity. His heart was beating too fast – he had to calm himself imagining the fear an unexpected attack might arouse. The lacquered surface of the close-grained wood was cold and smooth against his warm and sweaty fingertips. Three or four long seconds later – the touch of cold metal – the diode flashlight. Lifting it a little he withdrew his hand carefully while watching the silhouette merge with – and re-emerge from – the darkness only ten short steps away. By moving his arm slowly – in spite of his feverish impatience – he prevented the shifting creases in the linen from emitting any audible sounds. The necessity of taking a decision either to pretend to sleep or to make a sudden move increased exponentially. If attacking – the eiderdown would have to be flung aside and that would delay him for a second or two – and what should he use as a weapon? The flashlight was useless and his adversary would be well-armed – a knife or a handy gun – equipped with an efficient silencer. The methodical search of his drawer would be motivated by the hope of finding a specific object – but he had neither stately secrets nor hidden treasures – so the information that had prompted this intrusion into his privacy had been misleading. Indefinite objects would be money – jewels or rare antiquities – but the quality of his dilapidated assets would leave the poor thief dejected and empty-handed. Damn this intrusion into his private space seventy times seven – robbing him of his beauty sleep and the beauty of the morning. A faint touch of grey was now coming into the room from the windows – Nautical twilight – and in the distance a Blackbird fused melancholy and honey. A slightly better impression of the silhouette which – where visible – looked comparatively slender but lithe and muscular in what might be a rather tight-fitting dress. His finger on the switch – the flashlight as close to the edge of the eiderdown as he could – the three-dimensional shadow turned round to look at the room – he closed his eyes – only a narrow field remained visible between his eyelashes. Testing his ability to keep calm the thief moved slowly forward – between the foot of the bed and the windows – and not knowing whether his presence in the bed made any difference he was left with an undecidable proposition although the sense of impending danger increased rapidly. The red light – like a Helium-Neon laser – but more diffuse – and the narrow cone of illumination was now momentarily directed at the floor – then it moved up along the legs of the bed table – faintly suggesting a gloved hand and the outlines of a masked face which suddenly became sharply defined against the grey-pearling Sky. No viable alternative left. During the next second or so the red beam would sweep across his face. Throwing the eiderdown aside with his right hand to sit up he pressed the switch. The darkness exploded in brilliance. He tried to forestall an attack and caught hold of the cloth of the black mask that hid the features of his unwelcome visitor in anonymity. The string snapped with a thin brittle sound and the sharp light fell upon a wildly startled face and
a wide-open mouth.

  “Oh hivven nae!”

  Falling down into the furious eyes that confronted him he discerned something beyond all bourns. Instantly – a near-death experience – sets of dendritic connections absorbed the basic character traits of his assailant. Life felt more precious than ever before. The sonorous timbre of the three heart-felt words echoed in his ears. A violent kick aimed with great force in an attempt to knock the flashlight out of his hand or maybe even in the hope of knocking him unconscious prevented him from getting out of the bed. Springing back with acrobatic agility as the silence closed over his involuntary cry of pain – the thief dived headlong out through the open window. A pied noise – the bruise on his arm – jumping out of the bed he looked down into the garden. Parts of the Wisteria had been torn loose from the wall and hung in a tangled web and woof of twigs and leaves. No sign of human life left on the lawn. Too stunned by the impact of the blow to react quickly enough – he had seen two things simultaneously. The first – a shock of rapture and – the second a sting of compassion. The thief was a woman and she had a slight scar inside her mouth as after a cleft palate operation.

  Springing down the stairs – he flung the front door open – to hear the sound of a car as it disappeared in the distance. Running upstairs to get his trousers – he tried to put them on as he stumbled down the steps – in slow motion. Where had she gone? Towards the main road probably. As fast as he could to follow her lukewarm tracks – but what kind of a car was he looking for? Not even a glimpse. There were no cars on the early morning roads and the fragrant silence was softened by the deep sleep which rocked the tired inhabitants of the green-garden-set houses in the primordial cradle of relief from mundane obsessions. At this sweet hour of the early morning the common roads were spared the burden of goal-fixated activity and that was naturally just what he loved – though not just now. Running hither and thither – knowing she had disappeared like Dawn – he noticed because of gravel on the pavement that he still had bare feet – and yet he knew as he knew himself – that he had to find her – come what may – for she had left him with no choice – no choice at all. Caught in the beam of a beacon the future direction was given. Stealth – courage – strength – independence of mind – but it had been the shock of looking up into her eyes. Soulblack nightlight of infinity. No point in searching for her on the road here – that was futile – no clues. He walked home – washed his feet and made a cup of tea. First a strategy had to be devised for only then could the proper tactics be invented. Necessity prevailed. The cup on the bedside table – to recapitulate the events. The mask! It lay still there on the floor – a token of her physical existence – where he had dropped it when he looked out of the window. Extrapolations only suggested the most likely of futures. The eventuality of an analysis. Not to touch it any more than – a plastic bag around the black soft cloth behind which she had sought shelter – a knot – and then to lie down in the bed and think again. At least – four clues and three of the clues were good. The first was her accent – which had broadened because of the emotional emergency of losing her anonymity. It was Scottish – the north-east coast. He would have to hear the words Oh hivven nae repeated by a woman or rather by a number of different women from the area – between twenty-seven and thirty-six years of age. The second clue was what could be her cleft palate. Hospital records in north-east Scotland would give him access to the names of all female infants who had been born with cleft palates on account of their subsequent operations. Some cases of cleft palate could be ruled out beforehand as there was no scar on her upper lip now – not at least as far as he had been able to see in the short glimpse he had had of her face. Here Seymour would have to help him by getting access to the dusty records by using a research pretext. It should not be difficult to find a plausible pilot project. The third clue was the agility and the force of her kick. The blow had been violent – as if he had been kicked by a Horse. A large purple red spot where the crushed capillaries or venules had let the blood seep out. His arm was sore and burning. He had not dropped the flashlight as she had hoped. Also here he had been lucky though there was not such a phenomenon as luck. She was a martial arts adept – no doubt about it – Jū-jutsu or Jūdō – and member of a local martial arts club in order to keep fit. She would be bound to use the facilities of her club frequently. The fourth clue was hardly a clue yet. The black cloth out of which she had cut the mask might have been bought anywhere and though the fragments of deoxyribonucleic acid adhering to the mask would be adequate for identification once he had found her they would be useless during the process of finding her – though of course in case she had left traces of her activity in the form of a record he could obtain information of her whereabouts if official corroboration could be obtained. But that was very doubtful and she was too astute to have made mistakes that could have brought her into conflict with the custodians of the suicidal status quo. If that had happened she would have changed her ways – naturally – for it was the intensity of her being that had made him aware of her presence – maybe at the moment when he was about to fall asleep and hence had been most sensitive subconsciously.

  If it had not been for the coincidence of having two such distinctive clues the third clue might have been enough. If there were fifty or sixty martial arts clubs within a reasonable driving distance – and if half of them would be more likely than the other half – and if he became a member of every one of them and if he could spend two weeks at each club he would be bound to meet her. Twenty-five clubs meant that he would have to spend a year looking for her if he should find her at the last club – but statistically it would be more likely that he would find her after six months – and if all the clubs were taken into consideration – a whole year. Furthermore she might not really know what he looked like because of the darkness and the blinding light – so he had here a distinct advantage – unless she had been watching his house for several days and seen him. To recapture this epiphany – a wild and wily woman – the first step would be to listen to various North Scottish accents in situ to ascertain whether his assumptions were correct or not. That would be easy and he could do that later – the day after to-morrow maybe – though the sooner the better the beast. He would fly to Inverness – get a car and a tape recorder – drive around to hear women say Oh hivven nae till the tone – pitch and timbre of the area were matching hers exactly. The first imprints remained the strongest – the poems recollecting childhood experiences. Step number two required Seymour’s help. The local hospital files of Northern Scotland – Aberdeen probably – and step number three? Lists of female members of local martial art clubs. As it would be too time-consuming to become a member of each club to get the membership lists – once he had the names of the girls who had been born with cleft palates – Fjodor could approach a technician who could provide such information for a fee. Sipping the green fragrant Darjīling he saw her again as she opened her mouth in annoyance – anger and surprise to say Oh hivven nae. Her accent was a godsend and if the irregularity behind her teeth indeed indicated a cleft palate operation that was a godsend too. Without them his chances would perhaps have looked rather bleak. If he had not been so tired he would have woken earlier – when she came into his room or when she broke into the house even. How did she get in? Through the front door with a special key? She had thought that the house would be empty because there had been no light in the front all evening and she had not – if sitting in her car outside – been able to see the light on the backstairs or in his bedroom. She had concluded that she would be alone – but why had she then taken such care to move slowly and to shield the red light? Even if she had good reasons to believe that the house would be empty she still took all the precautions she could. Although the wall had been scaled she found it prudent to screen herself while she took her pick of his chattels. So what was not a projection – either way? Das Ding an Sich had nevertheless to be experienced or reconfigured in the brain as something if not ident
ical with objective reality then at least as something very close to a fine-grained resemblance of reality – in order to ensure survival. Footprints? They would be useless. She would be bound to throw her shoes away. And she had left no fingerprints as she had worn thin black gloves. And even if she had they would have been as useless as the mask. So what would happen if he could not find her? That was not a realistic possibility. He would find her – sooner rather than later. The clues he had were more than enough. A buoyant certainty in the rhythm of his breath. He would find her – come what may and with the certainty of this feeling he drifted away to dream about what he would do when he found her.

  II

  From a Periwinkle Sky a zenith-coloured Sun filled his bedroom with light and expectation as she appeared in front of his eyes as a semi-transparent image floating around under the ceiling according to the direction of his gaze. What could he do now but find her – living or dying? Looking into her startled eyes he felt again her anguish at being discovered and the misery of having caused her pain made him wince – but he would make amends by kissing all frustration and dismay out of her memories. The shape – a bow of resilient horn – the texture – rose petals and glowing sunshine. Her full lower lip promised sensuality as did the way she had moved – lightly – with a soft feline grace. Her dark hood had hidden her hair and he could not deduct from the sun-tempered hue of her cheeks what colour it might have had. The colour of her eyebrows? His memory had already faded – a cactus flower at night. They had been clearly arched. A shame – his sluggish inattentiveness – but spell-bound by her eyes he had hardly seen anything else. The subsequent remodelling of memories when they were turned over and over in the mind did not as a wine swivelled on the tongue yield more pertinent details but made the details liable to disintegrate and change form and colour to suit conscious and subconscious desires – though the images he had retained patterned his dendritic arborisations so distinctly and over such a large area that his present musings hardly could modify them – for she had released a ground swell that would continue to engulf him regardless of what he thought or did.