When would the ax fall? When would the thugs from Browner come? As the days went by, he began to wonder whether Browner was trying to torture him, make him sweat with tension for awhile, and he used the time as a condemned man might, drawing upon his pension check to buy pints of Guinness at the pubs. He drank his tea slowly in the mornings, layered his scones with piles of butter. He made sure that when eating dinner at Vaughn’s he savored every morsel of the dishes served by this excellent cook, the one for whom Jenny would still be there after the strong men beat him up and left him lying dead some place. The pain he’d feel when they worked him over would be the unbearable part, but aside from that he envisioned his destruction as he might have envisioned a machine’s. His body was old and pretty much useless.
Another misty night, another dinner that Vaughn was fixing, and he and Jenny were crossing the street to join Vaughn again in his flat. The muscular Welshman materialized, shooting out from the alley next to Vaughn’s building. With him this time came his boss, the grim-faced Browner, and he had a conservative jacket on, the shirt opened at the collar. “This is it,” Arthur muttered, “This is the end,” though he hadn’t expected anyone to come when he was with his wife. Unsure what to do, he stopped, and he watched the Welshman back into the shadows. That left Browner standing before them, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders squared, and Jenny gawked when she saw the bookie since she herself remembered him from their years living in Africa.
“Browner! What are you doing here?”
The gravity in his expression silenced her, the look he directed at Arthur. Then she noticed the black-clad Welshman lurking there by the mouth of the alley and she seemed to recall the last visit when Arthur had told her he had a small debt.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. “I can’t pay it.”
“You’re sorry?” Browner said. “How do you think I feel?”
“It was unbelievable....a streak like that.”
“You never came to see me again.”
“I had no money to give you.”
“But you never came by. I was waiting. I gave you an extra six days.”
“I had no money. What could I have said?”
“But to me, Arthur. To me. I’d expect what you did from real scum. Not from an old friend.”
Browner snapped his fingers and the Welshman moved forward. Arthur saw in the big man’s hands something that flashed bright as silver--not a knife but iron knuckles. Though ready for pain, Arthur gave ground, backpedaling on his heels, and it took an intrepid maneuver by his wife, sliding in front of the scowling Welshman, blocking his path and making him stop, to forestall the attack. The Welshman made to swat her aside but Jenny stuck to her spot without flinching. Arms crossed and chin lifted, she returned the Welshman’s icy stare and he went redder and redder in the face. Giving in, he lowered his hand. He looked over to his boss for guidance. Her audacity seemed to have stunned the Welshman and Arthur could see that Browner was smiling, chuckling even, his shoulders going up and down.
“You’re loyal, Jen, but I think you’d better move.”
“How much does he owe you?”
“More than you have.”
“How much, goddammit?”
“Ten thousand pounds.”
To hear the sum spoken and to hear Jenny’s gasp proved too much for the mortified Arthur, and his effort at remaining a stoic crumbled. Wracked by sobs, he fell to his knees, and he snatched Jenny’s hand to spin her toward him. He acknowledged his part in creating such a mess and asked her if she could possibly forgive him.
“I couldn’t help myself,” he said, tears gushing. “And I couldn’t bring myself to tell you.”
If embarrassed by his weeping, she did not show it, and she held his hand with the one he’d grabbed. No longer smiling, Browner told her again to move, but Jenny continued to stand firm. Browner then signaled to the Welshman, who gripped one of her arms by the wrist, and though she lashed out at him, trying to kick him in the groin, the Welshman yanked her straight to the side and hit her backhanded in the jaw. “Stop!” Arthur said, jumping up, energized by his terror, and he started to shout at Browner and the Welshman, telling them to beat him. They could do whatever they liked with him. He deserved whatever he got but Jenny had played no part in his betting and she should be left alone.
“That’s enough,” Browner said, all business now. “I can hear what you say without you shouting.”
Arthur stifled himself, like a child rebuked, and Jenny cast warm eyes at him as if his pleas for her had touched her. Browner too, stern as he looked, seemed affected by Arthur’s emotion and he ordered the Welshman to let Jenny go.
“What’s it gonna be then?” Browner said. “I can’t let you off the hook.”
“I can get the money,” Jenny said.
“What?” Arthur gaped. “You don’t have ten thousand pounds.”
“I might be able to get it,” she said, ignoring him while she spoke to Browner. “Can you give him another day, just one, and I’ll meet you here at the same time?”
“Jenny!” Arthur had risen, his arms pumping in his wife’s face. “I won’t let you sell the store. I’m not worth it.”
But she kept talking past him, talking to Browner, requesting from Browner twenty-four hours to get together the sum owed, and to Arthur’s amazement she got what she wanted, though the bookie laid down one condition.
“Ten thousand, the whole thing, or Arthur’s still in deep shit.”
“Understood.”
“And if he’s not here, if he runs somewhere, you’ll have to deal with me.”
“He hasn’t run yet,” Jenny said. “Why should he now?”
So she had done it, she’d bought him time, and Browner and the Welshman walked into the alley. But Arthur didn’t have the foggiest notion of what his wife intended to do, unless she meant to kill him herself.
“Jenny, how can you pay it?”
She took him by the hand, pulled him to the sidewalk, marched him over to Vaughn’s flat. Inside, Don Giovanni was playing so loud they knew right away why Vaughn had heard nothing of their confrontation in the street, and they found him standing at the counter in the kitchen as he sliced a tomato for salad. In time with the bellowing man on the record he was letting his voice soar, but their faces must have told him something was wrong because his eyes darkened when he saw them. As if ashamed, he stopped singing. He put down the knife and the tomato, wiped his hands clean on his apron, and rushed past them into the living room to turn the record player off.
“Wait here,” Jenny said to Arthur. “Let me speak to him alone.”
And that told Arthur what she planned to do, where she hoped to get the money. Yet it seemed unlikely that Vaughn would give him ten thousand pounds. Vaughn had the money--that was not the problem--and Vaughn was quite a generous person, but would his friend go that far? Maybe he would for something different, unavoidable, something like a medical emergency, but this gambling debt was his own doing. It was sheer folly, and not even an affluent friend could be expected to rescue him.
Thirsty from the yelling he’d done outside, Arthur drank a glass of water. He sat down in a chair by the kitchen table, resting his head against his forearms. The energy he’d exerted defending Jenny against the Welshman was more than he’d dredged from himself in years, but now he felt empty and despondent. He wanted to close his eyes and forget his predicament, return in his dreams to the emerald jungle where the wild horses ran...
“Arthur, come on, get up. I have to tell you something.”
On the beach, under a glittering blue sky, he smacked his hands over his ears, but Jenny persisted, talking louder.
“Arthur, wake up.”
With the greatest reluctance he opened his eyes as the vision of sun and water faded, as the copper-red colts running on the sand melted away into nothingness. He felt Jenny put her hand on his shoulder.
“What is it?” he said, sitting up, rubbing his eyes. “What’s the decision?”
“You’re joking.”
“He’ll pay it, but you have to do something for him.”
“Anything.”
“Come inside and we’ll tell you. You’re going to be taking a long trip.”
In Vaughn’s study, hunched over the map of the tropical island, Arthur could barely contain his excitement. He’d acknowledged to Vaughn the startling fact that yes, indeed, he was a heavy gambler, and Vaughn had then astounded him with a revelation of his own. This island off the coast of Guyana belonged to him, Vaughn, and he wanted Arthur to go there. He needed something done there, and hopefully Arthur, if he could summon the energy, would be able to do it.
“Absolutely,” Arthur said, when informed of the job. “I can do that.”
He saw now, he said, that he had been dreaming of this island for months, that in his dreams he had foreseen a visit to the island. It sounded fantastic, but that was how it was, and to express his gratitude for their saving of his life, Arthur embraced both his wife and Vaughn, promising Vaughn he would not disappoint in carrying out his assignment on the island.
“I feel like I have a clean slate,” he said.
PART
TWO
Chapter 5
The seaplane rose off the water, white against the turquoise sky. Arthur watched it tilt, swing round in a circle, and begin its trip back toward the mainland. The sight of it leaving, shrinking in the air, convinced him finally that he had left England behind, and from under a flowering mango tree he surveyed the long flat beach. Sand a blinding white in the sun, tall palms, along the rear edge of the beach the brilliant red of flamboyant trees. Sitting in the jeep was the woman June, her arms on the wheel and her chin on her arms, her black hair tied into a braid extending nearly the length of her back, and Arthur wondered where her husband was.
“He might be annoyed you’re coming,” Vaughn had said, “and be a little resentful at first. But you can say you’re only there to help, to bring fresh eyes to the project.”
Already, then, Cripps seemed like a jerk, and Arthur stared at Cripps’ wife. She smiled at him and stepped from the jeep, and came across the sand with her hand outstretched. Arthur relaxed his guard somewhat when he felt her strong handshake.
“Glad to meet you,” he said. “No, the trip was fine. Do you think we can manage the luggage by ourselves?”
Lean as a rope, she nevertheless had strength in her frame. She helped him lift his trunks, the crates from Guyana with supplies, the cardboard bottles filled with rum. It all fit into the back of the jeep and Arthur fell into the passenger seat huffing and puffing. The sun, so often an invisible presence in England, here was a blazing ball of fire, and just this brief labor of lifting had brought the sweat pouring from his skin. It would be awhile before he adjusted to the tropical heat.
The jeep’s engine coughed and stuttered as they climbed the muddy road. Arthur heard the sound of the sea lapping at the shingled beach below them. He heard the occasional blast of water hitting rock in what must have been a nearby cove. The ride was bumpy and full of turns and they passed from shadow to sun to shadow, and somehow the light and the motion of the car put him into a drowsy mood. If only he could sleep, sleep and then dream of the jungle horses…but no, that was silly. On this island he would see the real thing, wild horses, actual horses living in the bush, and there’d be no need to fantasize about them.
“Smell that? It’s oleander.”
It smelled sweet, and after the years of breathing the grit and dust of London, he felt as if he was taking in the fumes from an incense stick. First thing he’d noticed on stepping off the plane in Guyana had been the rich scents in the air, and here on this island this was true even more; into his nose came mingled odors whose common point was their sharpness. He supposed he would get used to this, too, but until he did he would have to put up with feeling a little bit drunk from the smells, pleasantly drunk but also dizzy.
The winding track continued to rise. To the left and right all he could see was choppy land and dense bush, and every flower on every plant seemed to be in full bloom. There was violence in the colors, in reds and greens and purples so bright, and all the while he kept sweating, itchy in his shorts and cotton shirt. Still, hadn’t he yearned for this? In London, hadn’t he been dying to escape from the grayness?
The road turned pebbly, the trees thinned. On the crest of the hill he saw a house supported by wooden stilts. No larger than an English summerhouse, it had a veranda along its front, and the peeling white paint, the cracked steps, and the layer of ivy covering a wall attested to years of neglect. Across the clearing stood a tiny shed, or perhaps it was the outhouse, and Arthur chuckled when he noticed on the lawn a vegetable garden surrounded by mesh. Wherever they went, Arthur thought, the English loved tending their gardens.
“Who built the house, how long it’s been here, nobody seems to know,” June said. “Not even in Guyana.”
“It’s a mystery then. Like the horses are.”
“Exactly like the horses.”
On the veranda, sitting on a stool in front of a telescope, was a man skinny and pale, wearing a green service cap. He didn’t speak when they pulled up or when June switched off the engine. He just sat with his eyelid pressed to the telescope, scanning the bush and hills below them.
“He’s looking for the horses,” June said.
“You never go out looking for them?”
“Of course. But this is easier. If we’d just catch a glimpse of one, we’d head straight over to the area.”
Arthur got down from the jeep, stretched his arms and legs, turned three hundred sixty degrees to consider the entire island. One could see it all from here, and in every direction he could see the ocean beyond. It seemed impossible, luxuriant though the island was, for the horses to have disappeared from view. They had to be down in the bush somewhere, keeping themselves hidden.
“T.J. Our guest is here.”
Cripps didn’t stir from his telescope, and June had to walk up the steps, cross the veranda, and spin the telescope away from his staring eye.
“I said, ‘Vaughn’s friend is here.’”
Cripps rose from the stool, muttering a curse, and pushed his wife’s arm away. He had a bony face crisscrossed with lines, and even as he came down the steps, his eyes kept straying toward the bush as if he couldn’t get his mind off the horses.
“We’ll talk later,” he said, giving Arthur a weak handshake. “Right now I need sleep.”
“You could help us unload,” June said.
But Cripps scoffed, flouting his wife, and went back up the steps. He moved with a shuffling wobbly gait, and Arthur mulled over how white he was. How could he not get brown in this sun? He looked half-dead, like someone dying from a disease, and his mouth was a hostile rictus.
“What does Vaughn think? You’ll do things we couldn’t?”
Arthur started to answer, but Cripps had turned his back on him. Up on the veranda he had his eyes on the forest again, hoping, it seemed, to will the mysterious horses into view.
‘Dear Vaughn,’ Arthur wrote:
‘I’m in my room after drinks and dinner, and I’ve had my first talk with the two of them. I asked them a lot of questions about the horses, but the only thing they’re sure of is that the horses, over a month ago, simply vanished from the island. Put differently, the horses must be here, the laws of nature say so, but they’ve found a way to keep themselves hidden from Cripps and June. Despite repeated expeditions through the bush, Cripps and June have found no trace of the horses, not even a hoofprint, and it’s clear this mystery is weighing heavily on their nerves. In the six or seven hours I’ve been here, I’ve seen them snap at each other several times, over the most trivial things, and I’ve had to listen to Cripps tell me why he’s upset you sent me at all. He’s taken my coming as an insult to his competence.
‘“You think you’ll lead us directly to the horses?” he asked me. “You have a s
ixth sense that can smell where they are?” Over dinner, as if I didn’t already know, he told me how long he’s worked with horses, studied horses, treated horses for various ailments, and he said that my years raising thoroughbreds in Kenya doesn’t make me better qualified than him. Nobody in Britain, he said, knows more about horses than he does, and he expressed irritation with you for hiring him for this difficult job and then questioning his reports. In addition, he said, his wife is an excellent trainer who’s been around the racetrack herself (She trained Hopping Harry. Remember him?), and so he doesn’t need any extra help in the horse expertise department.
‘Enough for now. I’ll keep you posted. And I’m sure I’ll have added lots more by the time the plane brings in new supplies from Guyana.....in twenty-one days.
‘P.S. Tell Jenny not to worry. The climate will take some getting used to, but I have my malaria pills and the mosquito net you bought me. They should do the job for protection, and I always have thrived in hot, rough places. I did in Africa, and I see no reason why I shouldn’t now. Mad dogs and Englishmen and all that, you know.’
Jungle Horses Page 4