Those Who Feel Nothing

by Peter Guttridge

  You checked your compass occasionally. You needed to reach a decision soon. At some point the road would fork and you needed to be sure that Rogers wasn’t just making a run for the border. That he was, in fact, taking Michelle and her father back to Angkor Wat.

  Michelle and her father were archaeologists. Angkor Wat was her area of expertise. What you were puzzled about was how Rogers knew this. You were certain he did – you couldn’t think of any other reason for him to take them. You wondered about the conversation Westbrook and Rogers had been having as you headed for the museum.

  You’d been trying to figure out how Michelle and her father had been captured. They should have left Cambodia years earlier, when the French organized a convoy of lorries to take all French subjects over the Thai border. Westbrook, despite his cut-glass English accent, had dual nationality – his mother French, his father English. Michelle’s mother was Cambodian.

  The only reason they would be caught in Cambodian waters was if Michelle and her father had been doing something to secure the magnificent ruins at Angkor Wat. Perhaps they had been accused of looting as well as spying. Though you couldn’t be sure that Westbrook wasn’t a spy.

  The motor on your bicycle started to falter. It missed strokes, belched smoke, hiccupped then died. You carried on pedalling but the bike was sluggish and it was hard work. Eventually you pulled up under a tree. You leaned the bike there and sat down beside it. You were hungry and tired. You had a little water left and took small sips. Your stomach gurgled.

  You’d been travelling for six hours. Maybe fifty miles. Rogers could have done as many as ninety.

  You’d been resting under the tree for about fifteen minutes, weighing your options, when you heard an engine. A jeep bouncing along the road towards you. You watched it approach. A soldier was standing in the back, facing backwards, a machine gun on a tripod in front of him pointing back down the road. There was another soldier beside the driver. He was pointing at you, starting to stand in his seat. You looked beyond them. The road was empty.

  It was brief and bloody. You shot the driver first and as the jeep twisted off the road you killed the machine-gunner. The soldier in the passenger seat – he had stripes on his shirtsleeves – was struggling to get his gun from his holster when you shot him.

  You dragged the three bodies from the jeep and piled them behind the tree. The soldiers were little more than children. You tipped the machine gun and its tripod off the jeep and climbed in. You set off down the road in a cloud of dust. It was no longer a hopeless pursuit.

  Anjelica Rutherford was an attractive woman in her fifties with her dark hair pulled back from an intelligent face. She shook hands with Gilchrist briskly and ushered her down a side corridor on the ground floor of the Pavilion into a spacious but cluttered office. As in the rest of the building the blinds at the long windows were down, presumably to prevent sun damage to the expensive-looking wallpaper. The soft light gave the room an air of tranquillity.

  ‘Nice place,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Isn’t it? This was the mayor’s parlour for ages before Brighton and Hove merged and the Pavilion got it back.’

  ‘We’ve been assuming Rafferty put those artefacts there,’ Gilchrist said. ‘But maybe it was someone else?’

  ‘From the Pavilion?’ Rutherford sounded sceptical.

  ‘Or the Dome?’

  Rutherford sucked in breath. ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Not because I don’t think my colleagues are capable of such iniquity but for strictly logistical reasons. They could never get that stuff in without anybody noticing.’

  ‘You know we’ve found an iron door at the back of the storeroom. Where does it lead?’

  Rutherford shrugged. ‘That’s been sealed for years, as far as I know.’

  ‘So no ideas about where it might have led?’

  ‘It could link to any number of tunnels – you know there are a lot under old Brighton.’

  Gilchrist remembered doing the Brighton sewers tour one summer, getting in them near the Palace Pier and emerging from a manhole cover a few hundred yards north in the Old Steine. Parts of the tunnels had been cavernous.

  ‘You mean the Victorian sewer tunnels?’

  ‘Not just those. Do you remember the first City Reads, when we were all encouraged to revisit Alice in Wonderland?’

  Gilchrist did. She’d liked the book when she was a kid.

  ‘It was chosen for Brighton because Lewis Carroll was partly inspired by a visit to a friend in Kemp Town. There was a tunnel going down to the seafront in the corner of one of the squares.’

  ‘Which inspired the rabbit hole,’ Gilchrist murmured, wondering which square the tunnel was in.

  ‘Then there are all the tunnels the smugglers used in the old days to get illegal merchandise up from the seafront to the Lanes. Don’t forget that all those boutique shops in the Lanes were once a warren of fishermen’s cottages. They all have cellars that are essentially sealed off sections of those tunnels.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ Gilchrist said, ideas sparking.

  ‘The pubs in the Lanes were once all serviced by a single brewery. It would deliver barrels via underground tunnels linking them all. It used to be the same in Covent Garden in the area around Seven Dials.’

  ‘And these tunnels in Brighton used to link to the Dome and Pavilion?’

  Rutherford sat back in her chair. ‘There are lots of stories of women housed in the Lanes sneaking down through the tunnels so the Prince of Wales could have his wicked way with them.’

  ‘Your colleague Rachel told us they were just stories,’ Gilchrist said. ‘She reckoned Mrs Fitzherbert would probably have gone in through the front door.’

  ‘True enough. But the women I’m talking about were rather lower in social status and probably up for anything that would please a jaded palate. Plus the Pavilion had a big staff – women would also be visiting men much lower down the social scale too.’

  ‘Are there any maps of these tunnels?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ Rutherford said. ‘The local history unit on the top floor of the museum might well have something though.’

  ‘I’ll get my sergeant on it,’ Gilchrist said. ‘How are you getting on with the artefacts?’

  ‘I’ve got an expert from the British Museum coming down later today – Charlotte Byng. She told me some of these things are on the Red List.’

  ‘The Red List? Is that like a stolen property thing?’

  ‘The Red List doesn’t quite work like that.’

  ‘How does it work?’

  ‘There are a number of Red Lists, each for a different country. They are a series of booklets published by the International Council of Museums about antiquities that are at risk.’ Rutherford glanced across at the shelves lining the opposite wall. ‘I’ve probably got some buried among my books over there. In Cambodia the council works with a couple of government departments and the National Museum. There has been a lot of looting of Angkorian and post-Angkorian sites but there is also concern about prehistoric cemetery sites.’

  More graveyards, Gilchrist thought, stifling a yawn. ‘What kind of stuff?’ she said.

  ‘Sculpture, architectural elements, ancient religious documents, bronze, iron, wood and ceramics.’

  ‘But it isn’t a stolen property list?’

  ‘No – the objects in the list aren’t specifically stolen but they represent the category of objects that are sought after. However, there is one item that has been missing since the seventies. It may have been destroyed by the Khmer Rouge; it may have been sold. It’s priceless and all we know is that it has disappeared along with some Fabergé eggs.’

  ‘Fabergé – I thought he did Russian stuff?’

  ‘His fame spread far and wide so he did some work for the king of Siam and the king of Cambodia.’

  Gilchrist was doodling on her pad. ‘I just don’t see this as the kind of stuff Rafferty would get involved with.’

&n
bsp; Rutherford nodded. ‘I’m inclined to agree,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps we could come over when you’re meeting with Ms Byng and we could all take a look at the artefacts.’

  Rutherford nodded agreement.

  Gilchrist stood. ‘I need to go and see a sociopath now.’

  Rutherford was deadpan: ‘I have colleagues like that too.’

  Gilchrist laughed. ‘I know – it’s your boss I’m talking about.’

  You reach Siem Reap and scarcely recognize it. You’re staying in a hotel just over the bridge from the main part of town. It’s expensive and swish, with a big pool with turquoise lights beneath the surface of the water. You track down the address on the card over the bridge at the edge of town. It’s an office behind a shop. The shop is shuttered up. It doesn’t look like it has been open for a while.

  You return to the hotel and sit on the veranda outside your room, nursing a vodka, looking down at the turquoise ripples on the water below you. It’s not too long before glugging replaces nursing the vodka.

  You are remembering when you caught up with Rogers and the others.

  The jeep had enough petrol in it to take you all the way to Siem Reap. The town looked deserted but even so you skirted it and took the road through the jungle to Angkor Wat.

  The site was vast. You knew it had been constructed as a model of the universe in stone. And you had a pretty good idea where in this universe they might be.

  You shone your torch on the crude map you’d taken from the information desk in the National Museum. You checked your compass. You stopped the jeep beside an enormous reservoir, now only half full. The Khmer empire’s strength had lain in its talent for irrigation.

  To your right was the temple complex you were looking for. You could see lights flickering in the trees. You walked down between crumbling buildings the jungle had grown through.

  A huge tree with vast above-the-ground roots thrust through the main courtyard of the temple. Another was growing through the roof of a wing of the temple itself. Will Rogers was straddling one of the roots of the tree in the courtyard, leaning back against the tree, smoking a cigarette. You could hear the sound of hammer and chisel from the temple behind him.

  ‘Well met by moonlight,’ he growled.

  ‘Shouldn’t that be ill met?’ you said.

  ‘Why be pessimistic?’

  Rogers pushed himself into a standing position.

  You gestured around the courtyard. ‘What is this, Will? What are Bartram and Howe up to?’

  ‘Don’t forget Cartwright.’

  ‘He’s in on this?’

  ‘You should be too. This is the future.’

  ‘What are they all doing?’

  ‘What do you think they’re doing? Asset-stripping, of course. This stuff is twelfth-century, rare art. Going to be worth a fortune.’

  ‘But they’re wrecking the place. Isn’t this like tomb-robbing in Egypt?’

  ‘No. It’s like saving the Elgin Marbles from destruction. Enlightened action by people who care.’

  ‘Doesn’t look very enlightened to me.’

  ‘What’s underneath is not the art. What we’re leaving behind doesn’t need protecting.’

  ‘The art is the art because of where it is,’ you said. ‘Ripping it out of there isn’t going to make it more valuable.’

  ‘Jesus, I didn’t know I was taking part in the fucking South Bank Show. Anyway, tell that to the collectors. I’m a soldier turned entrepreneur. That’s not indecent.’

  ‘You’re going to be smuggling this stuff out of the country and selling it illegally. That’s not so decent.’

  ‘Not for the first time. Got some great pre-Colombian shit when we were down in South America. We talked about cutting you in then but you were such a goddamm boy scout.’

  You shrugged.

  ‘Don’t you want to be rich?’ Rogers said.

  ‘Not particularly. No worries would be nice.’

  ‘Believe me, come in with us and you’ll never have to worry again.’

  ‘Why didn’t you offer me the option in Phnom Penh instead of bashing me over the head?’

  ‘Sorry about that. The others still thought you were too much of a boy scout.’

  ‘Captain America.’

  ‘Right. But I knew you’d turn up. Like a bad penny.’

  ‘You’re the bad penny, Will.’ You gestured to the noise of the men hacking away at the stone façade. ‘This is worrying.’

  ‘This is archaeology.’

  ‘You’re the expert suddenly?’

  ‘Are you? And, actually, Mr Westbrook is kindly providing the expertise.’

  You didn’t know what to do. You weren’t big on history but you knew this was wrong. You looked at Will. Could you do what he wanted? Time to worry about that later. Your priority was Michelle. ‘What does Michelle think?’ you said.

  Will looked solemn. ‘We need to talk about Michelle.’

  You were off balance when you tried to hit him. He had you on the ground in a second. You fell well but it still hurt like shit.

  He looked down at you. ‘I have to say you’re losing your grip, son,’ he said. ‘A little more self-control would suit you well.’

  ‘What has happened to Michelle?’

  Will’s voice was calm. ‘Stay down.’

  ‘What has happened to her?’ you repeated, your voice equally calm.

  You realized Will was sweating. ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘I’m getting up and don’t you fucking try to stop me,’ you said.

  Will showed his palms and stepped back. You got to your feet. Will responded to your stance.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’m not happy about this. Believe me. But you’re going to blow everything if you’re not careful.’

  You looked at the sweat rolling down from his hairline, conscious of the wetness of your own face. ‘Where’s Michelle?’

  Will leaned forward. His voice was quiet. ‘I wish I knew.’

  You were planning a complicated sequence of hits, depending on his responses. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing that makes sense. One minute she’s here, the next minute she’s gone.’ Will stepped back. ‘Way of the modern world.’

  You looked at him, grinding your teeth until your jaw ached. ‘She’s been unconscious for the past twenty-four hours. You can’t just fucking say she’s gone and that’s the end of it.’

  Will leaned forward again. ‘Steady, mate. You’ve already landed on your arse once.’

  ‘Where has she gone?’

  Will stepped back. ‘You know, you never really explained your relationship with the beautiful Michelle. This wasn’t just some simple rescue mission, was it?’

  You ignored that. ‘Where is she?’

  Will shrugged his big shoulders. ‘She left us.’

  You couldn’t help yourself. ‘Left you? I repeat, she wasn’t in any condition to leave anybody.’

  ‘Apparently she was. She left, and how would I know why? You know why anybody does anything?’

  ‘I know why I do things,’ you said, brain racing.

  ‘Do you? Do you really?’ Rogers spat on the floor. Thick phlegm. ‘I somehow doubt that.’

  ‘What about her father? Isn’t Westbrook tearing his hair out?’

  ‘He is, he is.’

  You hit him again. A better blow than before. You caught him on the temple and he reeled, stumbled. You went for the follow-up but he curled away, hugging himself to the floor. You weren’t expecting that. You looked down on him.

  Then something happened to your head you weren’t expecting either but you recognized only too well. You twisted to see who had clobbered you as your brain bounced around in your skull for the second time in a day. An arcing arm withdrawn. A club of some sort in the hand. A familiar face.

  You whispered a single word – or maybe you didn’t – before you lost consciousness. That face.

  ‘Westbrook?’

  On Marine Parade, the light was bibl
ical. Lowering black clouds, a single beam of sunlight looking like a funnel between sea and sky. Sarah Gilchrist half expected someone to be drawn up from the sea into it or to descend from the sky.

  Rafferty was holed up in East Preston, in the opposite direction, but the detour was to pick up some documents the club owner had promised on pain of having his premises closed down.

  Gilchrist watched as the clouds coiled around each other and the beam of light vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. There were a handful of runners and dog walkers. A young woman was scattering bread for the seagulls and pigeons. A benign thing to do. Except that as the bread attracted the birds, her son was rushing among them trying to kick them and stamp on their heads.

  Gilchrist had never had the mothering instinct. She was almost Victorian in her belief that kids should be seen and not heard – especially in cafés, and extra especially in pubs. A ‘family friendly’ pub was a contradiction in terms as far as she was concerned. You want kids? Stay home and look after them until they are old enough to behave properly. Leave the going out to grown-ups who want to stay grown up and not spend half their lives doing baby talk.

  Gilchrist drew her breath in sharply. Where had that little internal rant come from?

  Further down the beach she could see a gang of visiting football supporters in a conga line, all naked but yoked together by their football scarves around their necks. Every other step they thrust their hips forward and their penises flew out in front of them and flopped back. Well, the bigger ones did. She could hear the raucous laughter of the group even with the window up.

  Gilchrist shook her head wearily. ‘You know the word I hate most, Bellamy?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Tribe.’

  Heap nodded. ‘I’m assuming you’ve seen football supporters.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘I’m the driver, ma’am.’

  ‘You mean you don’t have the luxury of gazing out of the window watching the world go by.’

  ‘Your words, ma’am, not mine.’

  ‘What do you make of this antiquities thing?’

  ‘It’s always been a big criminal business in Brighton. Stealing stuff from all the big houses in the area then getting it across the Channel before the theft is even reported.’