Ventriloquists

by David Mathew

  The guy was bleeding to death, Branston was certain of it.

  Blood was pouring, Virginia.

  No.

  Not the interview with Virginia, this was the real stamp. This was it.

  The man was dying.

  Ignoring the lolling hulk of Chris’s body, Branston drove as fast as he dared. To spin too quickly, left or right, he imagined, would result in Chris being catapulted out of the passenger side window, in a waterfall of smithereened glass. And killed.

  Thud.

  Sound of the wanker, bouncing on the tarmac.

  Thud.

  No, not really, it was the sound of Chris as he rammed his temple against the side window, once again.

  If the tumble doesn’t kill him, I will.

  Branston paused to wonder (waiting at a roundabout) if he himself would be the reason for Chris feeling rough with bruises in the morning. It amused him (briefly) that he might be held responsible. If Chris survived this evening, he would be well within his rights to complain about the quality of the chauffeuring service he’d received.

  So let him complain, thought Branston.

  Never were the Chiltern Hills more luscious than at night. The hills were tipped with dunkings of magnesium light (or was it manganese?). Entrance to the forest wrapped sleeves of darkness around Branston’s nippy car. A bare ten metres on, and these sleeves were tied securely. The vehicle felt airlocked. It was lifeless and drained – drained of energy and force: the inside of the car was no different from pernicious anaemia… or so Branston though as he formulated his account of the journey. By this point he was all but damn it alone in the vehicle. Chris’s consciousness had slipped away, light as a breeze. Loneliness and anger rattled together in Branston’s skull. As a result of these emotions, he summoned up Virginia, in the way that an only child might summon up an imaginary friend.

  If he dies, said Virginia – what then? What’s the plan?

  In the interview, Branston smiled in the style more often described as indulgently.

  If he dies, Virginia, then I’ve done nothing wrong. Not a thing. I was a Good Samaritan, in the wrong place at the wrong…

  Again, no; this wasn’t good enough – this was not a film magazine interview.

  So what was it? A police interrogation?

  Seriously, Tim – what is it? asked Virginia, dipping her head low to consult the pad of notes that she’d made in preparation.

  Up ahead, the vehicle that he was following made a perfectly well-indicated left-hand turn… One thing that Branston had noticed: the driver in the lead was no roadhog – no bitumen prick – and furthermore, he seemed not to give a damn who happened to be following him.

  Almost like he was courting the dance…

  Well exactly, Virginia… like he wants me there… wherever ‘there’ might end up being.

  The road beneath the car’s wheels was stiff and ragged with mud dried into lunar puddles and ravines; the vehicle shook like a cocktail-maker, the red tail-lights ahead describing the ECG reading on a patient’s electronic equipment… The road angled left. It decreased in professionalism and became a path. In Branston’s vision, the vehicle in the lead bounced manically, the tail-lights sprinkling daubs of illumination.

  The house reared up from behind a buttress of hedges. They had arrived, it seemed, at their destination; and although no lights were on within (or none that Branston could detect), this didn’t mean that no one was home. Indeed, already parked on the driveway was the white van that Branston had seen reverse into the house’s garage, back in Edlesborough. The workmen – the delivery men? the collection men? – had made good time.

  Branston tensed at the wheel… and followed the older man and the Traveller girl onto the property. Now was no time to act coy, he reasoned; surely to God they would have discussed the fact that they were being tailed, at some point during the drive over. There was no sense in pretending to be invisible now. Apart from anything else, Branston had a series of questions on the subject of Yasser to pose; and he also had a man bleeding to death on his passenger seat… and he wanted to know why.

  Wondering where the nearest hospital was for when the time came to drop off his passenger, Branston exited his car. The driveway was awash with a fawn-coloured light (the old man’s car had turned on the security beam), which meant that Branston could see fairly clearly – with far greater clarity than he’d been able to in Edlesborough, at any rate. The man’s face, in the light, was deepened with shadow; very briefly a comparison with a Halloween pumpkin entered Branston’s mind. Then the image fused and shorted out.

  ‘Can I help you, friend?’ the old man asked from over the roof of his car. Neither he nor the Traveller woman had moved more than a step from the doors that they’d climbed out of.

  Almost as if they’re waiting, said Virginia.

  They’ve got nothing to be wary of, Branston told himself (ignoring his interviewer for a second). You’ve got it all wrong, Tim! They’re innocent! And you’re on private property in the middle of the night.

  Maybe. Or like I say… they’re waiting for you, Branston. At the very least they’re waiting for you to make the first move.

  Branston wondered if he was in a film, right now; wondered if this guy took his security seriously.

  ‘You left a man for dead, back in Edlesborough,’ Branston answered. He had not moved from his own driver’s door either. There was righteous and there was foolish.

  ‘Is that a fact?’ The old man appeared neither perturbed nor put out by the allegation. For all his breezy manner it might have been mid-morning; he might have been asked the time.

  ‘Yeah, that’s a fact. He’s bleeding in my car.’

  ‘I’d say that makes him your problem – and not mine – wouldn’t you? Come on, Maggie.’

  Benny moved towards the house, prompting Branston to think quickly. A glimpse of Maggie’s expression – as flat as pummelled dough – was all it took to recognise the weaker link in Benny’s chain. Had something disturbed her? Maybe something the old man had said on the ride over?

  Something to do with Yasser?

  ‘Stolen any more infants recently?’ Branston called to Maggie.

  The woman said nothing in return, but Benny did. Turning quickly to face them, he said, ‘Have you what?’

  ‘It’s nothing, Benny,’ Maggie protested.

  ‘Stolen an infant?’

  It took Branston a beat to understand that beneath Benny’s anger was something else: something disbelieving.

  Maggie tried to make Benny approve. ‘I did it for you. I was going to… donate him to you.’

  A donation? What horror show had Branston stumbled into?

  ‘…for your project.’

  Benny had returned to his side of the car; he and Maggie were conversing across the roof – they might have been in a supermarket car park, discussing price rises or fish fingers.

  The word project sounded eerie to Branston’s ears. Indignation was the fuel in his engine. ‘That’s not what you told Yasser,’ he said to Maggie.

  She spat at him: ‘Keep your nose out of it… Who are you anyway?’

  ‘I’m Yasser’s teacher,’ Branston answered. ‘The one who got a copy of your sex tape.’

  Benny was fighting to keep up. ‘What sex tape, Maggie? What the hell?’ Then he reorganised his priorities. ‘Where’s the child? What happened to the child?’

  ‘Yasser took him back,’ Branston answered, ‘…back to his parents. She told him…’ He indicated Maggie. ‘…that her dad and a bloke called Tommy made her do it. That’s something… that’s one of the things I didn’t get. Why? But it was for you, wasn’t it, Benny? She stole the child for you… but what happened?’

  Maggie had dipped her head. Her accusers had her in a pincer movement; there was no getting out of her lies.

  ‘Hey Maggie
, I’m talking to you,’ said Branston. ‘Benny’s got a point. Why didn’t you hand the child over to him straight away? Why didn’t he know about the child’s existence in the first place?’

  ‘Good question,’ Benny piped in.

  ‘Did you fall in love with the child, Maggie? Did you start to doubt what you were doing for this man?’

  Maggie looked up and fixed Branston with a powerful stare. ‘Why don’t you mind your own business? We’re going inside, aren’t we, Benny.’

  ‘Not yet we’re not,’ Benny replied. ‘The man’s questions seem sensible, I reckon. I’m not happy, Mags.’

  ‘Or did you want to get caught?’

  Maggie frowned. ‘Now what eejit wants to get caught?’ she demanded.

  Branston shrugged. ‘One with nowhere else to go? One at the end of the road? One prepared to steal a child for the love of a substitute father?’

  ‘This is bollocks, Benny. And I’m cold. Let’s go in.’

  ‘Yeah all right,’ Benny replied, but his words were slow and indecisive. You could not have accused him of not taking Branston seriously.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it, Maggie?’ Branston took his first step away from the car – he almost remembered what it had been like to toddle. ‘It wasn’t your dad, it wasn’t Tommy: it was you who made the sex tape. And you who hand delivered it to my door. Wasn’t it.’

  Now, Maggie looked petulant. Did she also appear embarrassed? Branston wondered. She dipped her head; she had stopped in her tracks.

  ‘Maggie?’ Benny’s voice was soft. ‘Answer the teacher or you’re sleeping out here in the cold, darling. Nothing else to be done about that.’

  ‘Okay, I filmed it,’ Maggie answered. ‘It’s not a crime, believe it or not. I borrowed Tommy’s truck one afternoon when he was sleeping off a late card game. I followed you home. Yasser had told me what you drive.’

  Branston examined the evidence, searching for a weakness. But why bother? he wondered. There was nothing in it for Maggie. A long shot attempt at getting caught being a manipulative bitch? Unless that’s what you’re into- getting caught. Maybe. Some people are. Some people like the moment of revelation.

  Benny and Maggie walked towards the house’s front door.

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’ Branston asked.

  Once again Benny turned. ‘What subject do you teach?’ he asked.

  ‘Film.’

  ‘So you’ve got cameras at your disposal, have you? All the gubbins.’

  ‘…Yes.’

  ‘You ever made a documentary?’ Benny continued.

  Branston thought about his thwarted ambitions to be a movie director. ‘Nothing but,’ he answered wistfully.

  ‘Do you want to film us then? Be of use, and all that. How long’ll it take you to fetch a camera? A good one, mind. I want it to look pro.’

  Branston remained baffled but he responded anyway. ‘About thirty seconds. It’s on the back seat.’ Very calmly he went through his teaching commitments. He did not have a class to teach tomorrow. He had planned to work out and then mark some student assignments that he had printed off earlier on today.

  ‘Juicy. Then come in, my boy. Another witness won’t go amiss. Show them intra-rationalists where the new money’s growing.’

  Benny smiled.

  ‘What’s your name again, son?’

  ‘Tim. Tim Branston.’

  ‘I’m Benny. Let’s go in. The poor girl’s frozen half to death, ain’tcha, Maggie?’

  Maggie nodded her head.

  The Canines of Strangers

  1.

  Jess was fifteen, and although she had known mobile phones all her life, she was nevertheless aware of the existence of phone boxes. She had never used one – she had never needed to use one – but she knew what they did; she understood their function. She was looking forward to using one.

  The problem was finding one.

  Through a mildly foggy darkness she had already walked (at a brisk pace) for what seemed like half an hour. But it couldn’t have been as long as that, could it? Jess wasn’t certain. After so long with so little exercise, the escape had dunked rivets of cramp deep into her thigh muscles; but this didn’t mean that she’d walked for long – or walked far, for that matter. Try as she would, Jess could not make her legs move faster or stretch further with each stride, and the suspicion that a hand would land on her shoulder any second was like an emotion, as strong as grief.

  So keep walking, she demanded of herself.

  Where Jess and Nero had been imprisoned was in a village. However, it was not a village in which the next house stood half a mile away: in fact, by the standards of some of the villages that Jess had visited, this one was positively stodgy with occupation. How come no one had heard their shouts and screams? With every footfall Jess thought back on her time in the house; the images were gooey with mist and dream-grease, the memories both real and unreal. Anger prickled in her breasts; nausea swept through her upper body. No one had heard them!

  Jess realised that she was emerging from a pocket of shock. Questions sparked at her synapses –

  Where am I?

  What’s the name of this place?

  How will I show the police where we were?

  – and she understood, with a sickening surety, that in her desperation to be away from the house, not only had she failed to register the property’s name or number, she had not so much as looked over her shoulder to commit its façade to memory.

  I’ll never recognise it again, she thought. Nero and those other people are fucked…

  She stopped walking. More of the mist in her head had cleared; whether or not this would enable her to think better was open to question, but at least she’d found a place – psychologically and geographically – where she wanted to think better, rather than passively receive a flood of words and pictures, a torrent of pains. It was a start.

  So far on her escape route, Jess had seen nothing but houses, most of them gated properties; a restaurant named Habibi was the first non-residential establishment. Surely it would have a phone that she could use. Surely…

  The windows were dark. Standing on tiptoes and peering in with her hands around her eyes to form a mask, Jess could make out tables and white tablecloths, wine glasses inverted on table surfaces. But no people. Where was everyone? It was dark! Why weren’t people settling down to eat at their lovely local Indian?

  Jess stayed where she was, in exactly the same position, for the better part of a minute. Perhaps by will alone she would be able to summon up a room full of contented diners, all of them willing to assist her.

  However, no one materialised during this period of desperate vigilance. And a voice at Jess’s back made her jump.

  She was forcing herself to recall if any of the houses she’d passed up to now had had lights on within, when she heard someone say:

  ‘Place is closed.’

  Jess twisted so fast that those pains in her thighs reignited. The nearest streetlamp being some ten or so metres away, it was far from simple to make out her interlocutor in the negligible light… but it was easy enough to see that he was neither Massimo nor Charlie. Considerably older than either of her captors, the man who had spoken wore country tweeds and a flat cap; in one hand he held his walking stick’s knob, in the other the end of a leash, attached to the collar of a tiny black terrier puppy that was sniffing dead leaves in the restaurant’s empty car park.

  ‘Closed by a two-month,’ the old man explained. ‘People stopped going after the alth scur.’

  The what?

  Oh, health. Health scare.

  ‘Rancid kitchen, story run. Positively raaaancid. More rats’n noives.’

  More what? Jess’s brain asked.

  More rats than knives?

  Maybe.

  ‘You larst, girl?’ the
man continued.

  Last? As opposed to first?

  ‘Yes, I’m lost,’ Jess answered, the speed of her translations improving – it was only a matter of thinking back, back before any of this had begun. Indeed, one of her own neighbours had spoken with much the same country burr.

  ‘So terribly lost,’ Jess finished; then something soft broke inside her face, and tears that had wanted out for some time fulfilled their salty dreams and came running.

  2.

  Mindful perhaps of all that he’d learned from the news since the 1990s about the repercussions of being perceived to be a child molester (the lynch mobs, the tabloid headlines) – even if one’s intentions were utterly chaste and honourable – the old man with the cap and the terrier did not invite Jess into his home. Indeed, his request that she wait in his front garden arrived curt and gruff. But Jess didn’t mind: curt and gruff was fine by her, as long as it was curt and gruff and safe. Feeling chilly, she sat on a stone bench, near a stone birdbath and a stone cross in a flower bed bearing the single engraved word WILMA.

  A minute or so after he’d stepped into the house, he re-emerged carrying a blanket in the hand not carrying the walking stick. Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, Jess was not in the least concerned that it smelled of pipe smoke and something medicinally minty. Quite the reverse: outside in the chill, enveloped in a whiffy blanket, felt to Jess like the best place in the world. Her rescuer produced a bar of chocolate from an inside pocket of his tweed jacket.

  ‘Always carry one. Blood sugar’s not what it were. Just in case… Now what’s your name again? Jennifer?’

  ‘Jessica.’

  ‘Well mine’s Peter.’

  ‘Thank you. You told me.’ Jess tore at the chocolate bar foil.

  ‘Did Oi? Did Oi carl a police?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. You went in – you weren’t gone long.’

  ‘Carlem now then, y’say?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Carlem now then,’ Peter confirmed to himself. Not without a good deal of effort, the old man shuffled around, turned his back on Jess, and stepped back into one of the village’s more modest properties, a slightly run-down cottage leaking warmth from its open front door.