by David Mathew
Introductions ensued, with Eastlight the master of ceremonies.
‘Hartvig Klossen – this is Donald Bridges. Don Bridges – this is the man with a heart so big he’s allowed you to keep your job, when the done thing would’ve been to move the hell out with the rest of the staff force...’
‘Charlie,’ Vig interrupted. ‘Please. Delighted to meet you, Don – finally.’ He extended a hand, and the hand it met was as rough as pork rind, tanned to the hue of tobacco spit.
‘Viggy-loo,’ said Eastlight calmly. ‘Don knows I’m dicking, don’t you, Don?’ He clapped his hands in a wringing motion. ‘Now about that drink...’
‘Delighted to meet you, sir,’ said Don, averting his eyes to peruse a roadmap of shrub-scratches on the inside of his right arm.
Having skipped back over to the hostess trolley, Dorota called out for drinks orders.
For Don the offer led to no lessening of tension; on the contrary, the notion of social interaction alerted a taste of capers and vanilla ice-cream to his tongue. Not a man who drew breath knew the pleasure of a glass or two of brandy better than Don, but it was supposed to be a solitary activity.
‘Thank you, not for me,’ he replied. ‘Very kind of you, but I’d best be getting back–‘
‘To the birds?’ cried Eastlight. ‘Don’t forget what you owe Mr Klossen.’
Vig shook his head. ‘If he wants to go, Charlie...’
Don imagined himself being pulled in the middle. Through his mind flashed an image of Larry the lizard, a wellyboot heel stomping down on the scales of its backbone. As far as Don was concerned, the creature was already posthumous.
‘It’s all right, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m just not a one for the drink. It’s not that I’m ungrateful...’ He dipped a shallow bow. ‘I just need to do a feed, sir.’
‘Another one?’ called Eastlight. ‘You fed em not half an hour ago, Don!’ He gulped at his glass of port. Crinkled cuts of barely suppressed mirth twitched at the corners of his eyes. ‘We need some music! I wanna dance!’
‘Do you dance, Don?’ Dorota asked, pouring port into two other mismatched glasses.
Don laughed. ‘A long time ago, maybe, madam. Bit of a jitterbug boy I was, back then.’
‘Well show us your shapes, birdkeeper!’ Eastlight shouted.
‘I don’t think so, sir. I don’t think me knees could stand the strain.’
‘Oh go on, Don! Teach us to boogie!’ Eastlight persisted.
‘Leave it, Charlie,’ said Vig. ‘Don’t be getting boisterous on me.’
‘Oh he doesn’t mind, Vig – do you, Don?’
‘No, sir. But I have to be on my toes. I’m up early in the morning, rain or shine.’
‘It was nice to meet you, Don,’ Vig told him. ‘Catch up soon, yeah?’
Again, Don bowed. Leaving the room he heard Vig whisper For God’s sake, Charlie, and he knew that the encounter had gone worse than anticipated. For reasons that he could only put down to stubbornness – his own, the fact that he’d refused to move out – he seemed to have made a rival in Charles Eastlight. An enemy, even. And if there was one thing he didn’t need it was a competitor for the affections of Hartvig and Dorota. Not when so much rested on Don maintaining his position.
With the sounds of laughter receding in his ears, Don left the house by the kitchen door. Air as fresh as creek rain brushed the bristles bearding from his caramel-coloured nostrils. As he scratched his left cheek his jowls dappled and wobbled. One-handed he rolled a cigarette, pinching from a pouch of tobacco in his poacher’s pocket. The one-handed ministration was an old party trick from his days in the saddle and not even the wind could put him off his stride as he crossed the yard, stones rattling underheel. From the aviary to his right, hidden by a buffer of seven-foot hedges, came the sounds of birds calling.
His cabin was a five-minute walk away, due west into the melting chocolate of the autumn afternoon sky. The front door gave onto the lounge and its welcoming kissy breath of stale Drum tobacco. The concepts of relief and being home were interchangeable. Don sighed and locked the door – he locked them both in – and with aching shoulders he removed his coat and draped it over the arm of a prodigiously overstuffed chair. He took the four steps required to transfer himself into the square kitchen. Sweat traced the W of his greyed hairline.
Bending at the waist, Don whipped back a plum-coloured rug that was frayed at the edges and corners. What the rug had hidden was a wooden door; it lay flush to the dirt floor – the floorboards themselves had long since been removed. (And burnt: Don had put the boards on the barbecue a month earlier and smoked a couple of kippers and a few pork chops.) It didn’t matter to Don. No one came here; they’d never know.
He lifted the heavy door; a hinge squeaked, an octave higher than the sound of the kitchen door in the main house. The hole was five feet deep; the walls were smooth and sheer.
Peering out of the gloom, a tiny face looked up at Don. A briny parcel of bodily waste aroma was delivered to his hirsute nostrils, and he said, ‘Hello, darling. Are you hungry?’
At the bottom of the well the little girl started to cry again.
4.
Eastlight made it home in time to prevent the kitchen burning down, but only just. Getting out of the car he noticed the smell of mown grass mouldering in a pyramid of black plastic sacks near the shed. Vowing once more to take them to the dump as soon as possible (and silently berating his partner for not having done the same), Eastlight was pulling down the garage door when the stronger smell of something being reduced to carbon flirted with his nostrils. He entered briskly.
The kitchen rolled in a peasouper of acrid fog. Massimo was throwing open the windows on top of the draining board and sink. Having done this he fetched a newspaper lying on the microwave and started to usher smoke out with eagle-wing gesticulations.
By the door leading in from the garage Eastlight asked him: ‘So what’s for dinner?’
Massimo summoned up a dry snort. ‘Sorry.’ He maintained his flapping while Eastlight twisted dials on the cooker until he found the one that needed to be returned to zero: the dial for the oven. As the smoke cleared slightly, Eastlight donned a baking glove as a precaution and opened the oven door. A fresh gust of filthy burnt air bellowed free, making Massimo cough. Inside the oven a shallow tray had taken on the appearance of a nuked submarine.
Using the baking glove, Eastlight took hold of the tray; warmth slipped through to his fingers. He pulled the tray out and deposited it, smoke leaping from its charred contents, onto the hob.
‘It’s dinner, Jim, but not as we know it,’ said Massimo in his best Captain Kirk. It was enough to make him laugh. He ceased whipping the air with the tabloid. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, relieved.
‘Cooking and drinking,’ Eastlight replied. ‘Overrated as a pairing… What was it?’
‘Chinese snacks. You were late – I thought you’d be hungry.’
‘I am. I still will be, you silly sod. Come here.’
The men embraced and shared a quick kiss.
‘Thought that counts, I suppose,’ Massimo offered in a ruminative manner.
‘Are you fishing for praise?’ Eastlight asked him.
‘Yes. Bad day I’ve had.’
‘What happened?’ Eastlight removed the glove and fanned some of the remaining smoke by thrusting open and closed the door to the garage. ‘Let’s adjourn,’ he added quickly. ‘Catch emphysema stay in here.’
Relocating next door to the lounge, Massimo said, ‘First of all I didn’t get back till four this morning.’
‘I heard you.’
‘Sorry again.’ Massimo dropped into one of the chairs in the small room. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘You didn’t. I was worried.’
‘You were angry I was late.’
‘That as well.’
‘Do you want a drink?’
Eastlight nodded his head. He stretched on the couch until the joints in his knees clicked to his satisfaction. ‘What house did you use?’
‘The big place in Eggington. Beautiful by the way. Any offers today?’
‘Not on that. They’re asking too much but they won’t be told. So what happened?’Massimo poured wine from the bottle on the coffee table; his own glass had already been stained a rabbit-eye pink by previous dolings-out. Eastlight’s glass, beside it, was temporarily chaste. Handing Eastlight’s over he said, ‘Not only did they go to the wrong house…’
‘Where was this? Thanks.’
‘Edlesborough… They then went to the right house but there was some soft of explosion or something. The place was blown to smithereens… How’s the wine?’
‘Not bad for thirty quid a crate,’ Eastlight answered.
‘Thirty-five if you please.’ Massimo grinned. ‘I wouldn’t want you to think you share your life with a cheapskate!’ The grin faded as fast as a strong smell in a high wind.
‘Don’t make me plead, Mass. Something’s given you the willies.’
Massimo nodded, but turned away. After a fortifying half-glass of the knocked-off Rioja he said simply: ‘They didn’t come back.’
Eastlight paused and considered, stopping short of collecting in the full range of possibilities represented by his partner’s summation. His immediate understanding was grave enough: the men had found something shiny and had then gone elsewhere to fence it. Greedy and stupid; however, not the end of the world. But then his mind tacked on the word explosion. ‘They were killed?’
Again, Massimo nodded. ‘One of them,’ he answered. ‘Decapitated: broken glass.’
‘…Jesus.’
‘The other one’s nowhere to be found.’ Massimo leaned towards the coffee table for a refill.
‘Go steady, Mass.’
‘I’m in shock.’
‘Then drink some sweet tea… How do you know all this?’ Eastlight asked.
‘The police called me.’
‘Double Jesus.’
‘Silly bastard only had my name in his phone, didn’t he? And he was supposed to be teaching the young dog some new tricks!’ Massimo’s voice sounded disgusted.
‘Go slow. What do you mean explosion?’
‘The opposite of implosion.’
‘Cute. What exploded?’
‘The house! The fucking house exploded!’
‘But specifically – what inside the fucking house exploded. The gas mains…?’
‘No.’ Massimo shook his head. ‘They don’t have gas pipes in the villages. That’s just one of the places the copper got vague on me.’
‘Like he didn’t know?’
‘She. No; more like she didn’t comprehend.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Eight, eight-fifteen. I was still asleep – but as soon as I heard the phone I was sure it was one of them. So I rallied. I was ready to come out swinging, I can tell you that: making me wait three hours. But then it’s the law, and I’m painted into a corner, aren’t I? I have to start making up stories about my relationship with the deceased – you know the way they talk, the officious bitch. Probably only seen three cocks in her life and two of them’s her dad and her Uncle Jimbo.’
Eastlight was well aware that Massimo entertained certain reservations about the nationwide and local constabulary: in Massimo’s opinion (Eastlight had used to believe the man to be joshing; for a long time now he had not been so sure) they were inbred and incestuous. They saw the world through the same pair of eyes.
‘What did you tell her?’ Eastlight asked.
‘What could I? We sometimes bartered, I said.’ Massimo shrugged. ‘Do you want a top-up?’ he said, lifting the bottle.
‘Yeah, a little one.’
‘And then I’ve got Benny on the phone, a few hours later…’ Massimo poured them both another half-glass. ‘…asking if I’ve seen Dorman.’
‘Dorman’s the younger one?’
‘No, the older one… Keep up for Christ’s sake. Dorman is the one with the experience, who can’t tell the difference between a seven and a one.’
‘…What?’
‘Never mind. The point is, Dorman’s dead – and they called him too.’
‘The police did.’
‘No, the Bee Gees did. Of course the police – and now I’ve got him wanting answers! It’s a right mess, Charlie. Catastrophe. It’s only a matter of time before they find the van.’
‘But it’s nothing to do with you, Mass,’ Eastlight said cautiously, browsing through his words (and given Massimo’s mood he didn’t dare ask who Benny was).
‘Charlie, it was me who sent them!’
‘I know: they were doing a job. Something went wrong, one of em’s dead. But there’s no comeback to you. Is there? Unless there’s something more you’re not telling.’
Massimo sniggered greedily. ‘You know me, Charlie: there’s always more I’m not telling.’
‘All right.’ Eastlight thought about it for a few seconds. He made a decision. ‘I promise I won’t ask you this ever again, Mass,’ he said, ‘and I’ll appreciate it if you think I’m interfering or prying, or any of those things I swore I wouldn’t do… but what were they going to that house to bring out?’
Massimo shook his head.
Depositing his glass on the table, Eastlight stood up and circuited the latter in order to get to the couch, where he perched on the end of the third cushion and took Massimo’s free hand in both of his own. ‘You can’t or you won’t?’ he wanted to know.
Massimo shook his head. ‘Both,’ he confessed. ‘It was supposed to be an anniversary present. Two years next month, Charlie…’
‘I know.’ Eastlight grinned. ‘Come on now, Mass. We’ll get through this. But until we know what the actual problem is, there’s no point stewing, is there? Is there now?’
‘No.’
‘Or burning down our kitchen, for that matter.’
‘No. I fell asleep watching a Jackie Chan. I’m sorry, Charlie.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Come here.’
They shared a kiss. Eastlight stroked what remained of Massimo’s hair, trying to curl a lock of insufficient length.
‘We need cheering up,’ Eastlight decided. ‘Let’s go west. Do you fancy a trip to Eggington?’
Massimo’s face brightened, a circle of sunlight peering out among his otherwise muddied features. Quite visibly his emotions were fumbling around between themselves, but his sudden joy (Eastlight voted) was a photograph.
‘Yeah. Let’s see how they’re getting on. Can we make em fuck?’ he asked, excited.
Eastlight smiled. ‘Anything for you, husband of mine,’ he said.
Massimo nodded. Warming swiftly to the theme, he added, ‘We’ll watchem fuck, won’t we?’
‘Of course we will. Where’s your coat?’
‘Watchem fuck,’ Massimo repeated. ‘Have you fed em today?’
‘No.’
‘Good. They can eat when they’ve fucked for us, can’t they, Charlie? Yeah. Only after.’ Massimo laughed. ‘You burn off calories faster that way.’
Eastlight stood up. The bulge in Massimo’s trousers was not difficult to discern; nor was the one in his own. There’d be gay times tonight or they would be Dutchmen.
‘Charlie? I went online today. I ordered a strap-on, I hope you don’t mind.’
From the hallway Eastlight called, ‘Why should I mind? Where’s your coat?’
‘I want her to fuck him,’ said Massimo. ‘On our anniversary night. Before we kill em… It’s upstairs, on the bed.’
Entr’acte
‘Do you plan to lie there, boy, or do you plan to help?’
Boy? Did he call me boy?
&nb
sp; ‘Grab that rope, the gods damn you!’
Rope? Connors wondered slowly. Why would I want to grab a rope?
Thought processes moved with a dazed insistence. Getting there in the end. Progress hampered by barricades of logic. This couldn’t be happening.
Snapping out of a corner of his fugue, Connors twisted his body on the bare wooden boards on which he’d slept, in order to look over his shoulder.
Activity. Men in motion, pulling ropes and shouting, an arch of silver-blue water crashing down on their heads. The movement of the floor.
‘Get up, boy, for the last time I’ll say it!’
And Connors struggled to his feet. He was taller than his interlocutor, who was four or so decades older and whose face was scarred and lined and made Connors think of a walnut.
‘If you don’t pull your weight, I will personally throw you overboard!’
You and whose army, Connors thought about retorting; but the question did not need an answer. The man’s own army, was the answer: or at least his crew. This man was the captain.
‘I’m on a boat,’ Connors whispered – and immediately he was thrown to one side: a swell had caught the vessel and punched it hard.
Only by clutching hold of a rope did he manage to stay on his feet. The deck was saturated, filthy with gunmetal spume; the sky over head (he noticed for the first time) was crimson and blue.
I’m on a boat; and the oxygen he could breathe was in short supply, drenched and salty. The air stank of ozone, sweat and manure. And he was on a boat.
How did I get here?
Connors was on a boat on the sea. Violently unpredictable was the motion, the vigour and the energy of the waves, which allowed Connors to add to his list of deductions.
He was on a large boat (or is it ship?) on the sea, in the middle of a storm that had rendered the hour of the day impossible to discern. Perhaps it was too light to be night-time… although night-time was the last time that (he believed) he could remember.