by Robert Power
‘No,’ I say, shaking the water from my head, ‘nothing like London.’
‘You have the weekend bag, as I recommended?’ asks Fritz as I settle into the seat, fastening my seat belt, noticing Fritz does not wear his.
‘Yes’ I reply, tapping the case that was delivered to my room the previous afternoon and now rests on my lap, ‘just as you suggested.’
‘With the samples?’
‘All the samples we need.’
‘Then off to the Zoo,’ says Fritz, turning on the ignition and heading the car into the Bogotá traffic.
Up in the bell tower of Christ the King, Jeff Ward is doing all he can to get the oak-wood stay patched up in time for the funeral. It was he who had warned Derek Matthews, the tower captain, against letting amateur ringers loose on the bells. ‘At the very least,’ he had said to Derek one afternoon before practice, ‘give them a simple test of competency before inflicting them on us.’ But the church was a great tourist attraction and Derek was always generous in his welcome to any self-professed ringer who happened to pass by. And now the stay had been snapped in two by the latest enthusiast on the last day of her holiday on the Broads. And then all this terrible business with the professor and his wife and the note in her will about ringing the bells at Christ the King. Jeff’s been working up in the bell tower all morning and one last bolt in the ancient oak beam should be enough for now, though a complete refit is the only long-term solution. Jeff looks down from his lofty perch when he hears the smooth purr of the hearse turning from the lane and into the gravel drive leading to the church. Like Quasimodo in Notre Dame, he watches, unseen, as the tiny black figures below are disgorged from the shiny limousines. He climbs halfway down the ladder inside the bell tower, whistles to the verger and gives him the thumbs up. Then he climbs back up to his beloved bells and waits for the peel to put his handiwork to the test.
Peter Blake sits solemnly in the front pew, staring at a stained glass window of Jesus at the well, listening to the eulogies of the wife he never really knew. The Irene who picked up shopping for the two old sisters who lived in the Alms Houses by the common. Irene who wrote letters to the district council to stop the lopping of the poplars on Stanhope Lane. Irene, the great listener; the humorist; the arranger of flowers in the church; the stalwart of the Spring Fete.
As he stands over the grave, and the red-brown soil leaves his hand and bounces off the solid oak of the coffin, Peter ponders the mystery of his marriage. How could love have flamed and faded so powerfully? How did he live so long with a wife he’d forgotten to know? Why did every single person around him cherish her more than he? What was missing in him?
Waiting for the cars to take them back to his country cottage for ham sandwiches, tea and brandy, Peter finds himself standing next to Matilda. He thinks she looks extra beautiful. Her tight-fitting black dress and high heels show off a handsome body. She wears a huge floppy black hat that would grace any racecourse.
‘Walk me away from the crowd for a minute,’ says Peter. ‘I need a break.’
‘Of course,’ she says, linking arms and leading him to a grassy verge by the old stone wall of the graveyard.
‘We had some really fantastic times. Us four,’ she says, putting a gloved hand on his shoulder.
‘We did, we did.’
‘I don’t know why, but during the service Brixham came to mind,’ she says.
‘Oh my God,’ he remembers, ‘not Brixham.’
‘I have this vision of you and Anthony in the pub garden across the river and me and Irene waiting for the next ferry,’ she says.
‘We had run out of money and we were counting on you two to get the ferry over from the other side of the estuary before closing time.’
‘That’s right,’ says Matilda. ‘You were both waving frantically. Desperate for another drink before last orders. And then we got on the ferry. Irene pleaded with the captain, even though the boat was full.’
‘I remember. And Anthony got so excited when he saw you coming,’ continues Peter, the memories flooding back. ‘He ran back into the pub to tell the barman you were on the ferry and to get the order in. Then he cracked his head on the low door and knocked himself flat. Solid stone wall. Two foot thick. Seventeenth century. He almost scalped himself. He had a great flap of skin hanging off his forehead, like Colonel Custer at the last stand.’
‘But he got up and ordered the beers. Happy as could be. It was like having a drink with a prize fighter,’ says Matilda.
‘More like Banquo, with blood trickling down his nose. We all laughed,’ says Peter, ‘though everyone else in the pub was horrified.’
‘Yes, they shooed their kids out of the garden.’
‘Where was Lottie that day?’ asks Peter.
‘Hmm …’ Matilda hesitated, thinking. ‘You know, I don’t know. She was definitely born then, but I’ve no idea where she was. Just as well. The sight of Anthony dripping blood into his beer would have terrified her.’
‘We should have known something was wrong way back then.’
‘But, Peter, we didn’t, not then. It all seemed like such fun.’
‘Now look at us.’
‘Yes, I know. Things haven’t really turned out the way we might have thought.’
The church bell peals a last farewell to Irene, just as she’d wished. The splinter in the main shaft opens in a sigh under the effort, but Jeff Ward’s hard work has been sufficient to hold it fast. As the ring rolls across the hilltops, Peter turns to Matilda. She is looking up to the sky, soaking in the beautiful sunshine that has peeked out from behind the blanket of cloud.
‘I always thought you and me might …’
‘No,’ says Matilda, turning to face him.
‘I often think about that night.’
‘What do you mean often?’ she asks, unable to resist.
‘Every time I see you. I’ve never been able to see you the same way. Not since then.’
‘Peter, it was a very long time ago. Anthony and I were going through a terrible time.’
‘I know,’ he says with a sigh. ‘Didn’t he end up on Euston Road with a choir master or something?’
‘Something like that. He was going through one of his phases. But then he’d do anything for a drink.’
‘For a bottle of gin?’
‘Sherry,’ says Matilda.
‘But it gave us a night.’
‘Best forgotten, eh, Peter?’
‘Best forgotten,’ says Peter, leaning forward and pecking her on the cheek.
‘Yes, forgotten’s got to be best,’ he says, and looks up to the bell tower, where for a second he is sure he sees a ghostly figure looking down at him.
13
Heads have rolled
He sits on a huge throne. But he is bigger still. Mounds of his flesh hang over the sides of the marble chair. The room is open to a terrace, from where the bright sun lights him up from behind. Very biblical. Fritz deposited me at the majestic double doors of this inner sanctum, then headed off to another part of the building.
Along the walls hang animal heads. Trophies of the great white hunter. I shield my eyes in an attempt to make out their forms. The enormous man shifts in his seat, beckoning me forward. As my eyes become accustomed to the piercing sunlight I begin to distinguish the rows of heads peering down. Each trophy is mounted on a varnished mahogany plinth.
‘You like my friends?’ says Ascavar, in a voice softer and more effeminate than I would have predicted.
‘Impressive, they are certainly impressive,’ I respond somewhat hesitantly.
This is not my idea of animal conservation, but I have no intention of offending this man. I look along the row of exquisitely kept specimens. There is some order here. Evolutionary? Continent? Species?
‘Not so complicated,’ says Ascavar, reading my thoughts. ‘Alphabetic. A for Aardvark, Z for Zebra.’
‘And H?’ I say, noting a space between the head of a giraffe and an iguana.
‘H is
for Judge,’ he says with a huge grin.
As befuddled and hungover as I am, I recall Mrs Henshaw’s story of the judge being delivered for slaughter. Not that this bloated Mafia boss bears much resemblance to Salome.
‘But I only bring the Human out on special occasions. One has to be circumspect. Think of the guests. I never wish to compromise or upset my guests.’
The floor is festooned with animal rugs. The only chair in the room, the throne, is occupied. I feel sick and sweaty, unsure how long I will be able to stand to attention. There comes a screech and roar from the distance, followed by the chattering of monkeys.
‘Let me make one thing clear. This is the past,’ he takes in the ghoulish display with a sweep of his hand. ‘I see my present, my future, as an environmentalist, a radical environmentalist. I keep these exhibits here to remind me of my past. How brutal I was. How brutal I had to be.’
Another cacophony of animal noises rolls onto the terrace and into the room.
‘Infinitely more fascinating when alive. It must be old age, my mellowing, but I prefer the living these days. Much more entertaining.’
He smiles. A villain with a heart of gold. I’d heard all about the philanthropy of the Colombian Mafia. The Robin Hoods from the Amazon Forest, looking after the poor in the barrios, thereby ensuring their allegiance. But animal conservation? This was new.
‘I built the zoo three years ago. It’ll be the finest in South America, with the wildest animals. Animals who aren’t scared to roar at me and bare their teeth. Animals who want to tear me apart and don’t ever pretend otherwise. There’s nothing more honest than a big cat who wants to eat you, is there? Can you think of anything more honest, more direct, more powerful?’
I look up at the heads lining the wall; imagine the jaws opening, teeth sinking into the corpulent flesh of their slayer. It would save the CIA a job.
‘I know three pretty interesting facts about alligators, you might like to hear,’ I reply, putting the briefcase down on the floor, rubbing my hands together to get the circulation going.
Ascavar is looking at a point somewhere above my head. I sense he is no great listener. Instinctively, I look behind me. Two men are standing guard in the room.
‘This city will have never seen a zoo like it. I’ll have the full set. The football team, the zoo, the country club. Did you hear about the country club? I applied to join and they turned me down.’
He grits his teeth at the memory, like a small boy who had been left out of the school sports team.
‘So I bought the land across the highway and in six months built a replica. An exact copy, right down to the handles on the rest-room doors. And I invited everyone to join my club. They did. On opening night we held the biggest firework party they’d seen. And do you know what I did to the old club, the day after the party? I blew it up. Only desert left. Hey presto, the country club has moved across the highway. That wasn’t reported in The Times in London, was it? But this isn’t London, as I think you are becoming aware. Am I right?’
I am speechless, which is probably enough of an answer.
‘Do you know why I’ve made you come here, all the way from the good old US of A?’
I lift the case, a travelling salesman about to close the contract.
‘This?’ I suggest wearily. ‘Personal delivery. Door to door service.’
‘In a manner of speaking. In a manner of detail. You are quite right, of course. Personal delivery is important. Yours will be a small contribution to all our histories, to help the world go round, so to speak. We all have a bit part to play and yours will not go unnoticed. How did your Mr Shakespeare put it? All actors on this stage of life. Some people think this life, this world, is all so confusing and complicated. But it’s not really. Just look at what we are achieving.’
Here is someone who likes the sound of his own voice. He pauses to check his audience of one is still attentive.
‘You are an educated man. I have seen your resume. I know more about you than you might imagine.’
He pauses again, looking for a reaction.
What does he know about me? More than I might imagine? That I have a daughter who loves music. A sister whose pain is my own. A scar on my left knee, a broken finger on my right hand. A collection of old postcards and an alcohol and cocaine habit I’m trying to break. Silence is my reaction for the moment.
‘I have read your research papers. I admire your work. Does that surprise you?’
The thought of Mafia bosses holding seminars on idiosyncratic science does surprise me.
‘What can I say? It does,’ I reply. ‘But I think you’d be surprised if I wasn’t. Surprised, that is.’
‘I’ll let you into a little secret,’ says the big man. ‘It’s in my interest that your work succeeds. I want every drug injector in the world to have clean syringes.’
His eyes sparkle, his arms open wide in the gesture of a benefactor.
‘I run a business, they are my customers. What good are sick and dead customers? Ice cream, beef burgers, cocaine, heroin. Dead customers are bad for any business. And your syringe, the seeds, your delivery, are all part of keeping the customers happy.’
He rubs his hands together, the gold and emerald of his rings glint in the light.
‘I need the new seeds because the US needs cheap heroin. No conspiracy, just human nature and Keynesian economics. The law of the jungle and a touch of Cambridge, if you like. Cocaine prices are too low, so we’ll put heroin on the streets. Cheap to begin with, but high purity to get a captive population. A loss leader, as they say in the supermarkets of the world.’
This is one man I can’t imagine searching for bargains in Safeway.
‘The US government will be happy with placid inner-city neighbourhoods. I keep my business flourishing. So in a way we’re working towards world peace, you and I. Together. Helping out the poor nations at the same time. You ask a farmer if he’d prefer to sell flowers or cocaine, heroin or coffee, and he’ll ask you about the price.’
I open my mouth to comment, but he ignores the cue.
‘We look after our own, Dr Malloy. No one else will. And, as I think you are all too well aware, we even help our Marxist friends and dreamers. They can disturb everything just a little bit, just enough to keep everyone’s minds off being creamed alive by the politician bankers. It’s all work, all work,’ he adds, mopping his brow in mock dramatic style.
‘Remember Marlon Brando in The Missouri Breaks? I have my own cinema,’ he waves a hand back over his shoulder. ‘Over there. In other circumstances I’d invite you to a private showing. Wonderful ending to that movie. Brando creeps up on Jack Nicholson. Or it’s the other way around? A hand-held camera, pushing its way through the bushes. And then the sound of a knife across flesh and a final sentence, the last line of the film.’
He makes a slashing movement across his own throat.
‘“You’ve just woken up because I’ve slit your throat.” That’s what Marlon said to Jack, or Jack to Marlon. I waited a long time to use that line. And I did, not so very long ago. I’m not proud of it, but it was a necessary part of the job. I need to keep up appearance, retain respect. But I have to admit it was exquisite. She barely uttered a whisper, just a sigh as the breath left her throat, not through the usual opening, you understand.’
‘Caitlin,’ I shout, almost involuntarily. ‘You don’t …’
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he interrupts, his hand held high. ‘Your sister is fine and well. We will come to that matter presently. I am sorry to have alarmed you. I was referring to another matter altogether. Please accept my apology.’
My heart races. The adrenaline flows.
‘My job is done,’ I say, anger, frustration, all manner of emotions in my voice. ‘Look, here are your precious seeds. I have whored myself for you people, been your messenger boy.’ I hold the bag shoulder high. ‘Here they are, here they are …’ my voice trails off. I am exhausted. It is so hot.
‘I apprecia
te that. You have done well. Your efforts are the seeds of our success, so to speak. In no time at all those New York junkies will be clamouring for our South American heroin. What is the lovely English expression about skinning cats, destabilising world powers?’
‘I am not English,’ is all I can manage.
He looks down at me.
‘Of course not. Not quite. Melbourne, Australia. Irish heritage.’
I wipe the sweat from my eyes.
‘Something cool to drink, Dr Malloy?’
Again he glances over my head. The door opens and closes behind me. Another messenger on an errand.
A man in a sharp linen suit with slick black hair, sentry turned waiter, places a small table in front of me. A second man lays out fruit and a jug of water. The first returns with a chair. They wait for me to sit. I do. They retreat to their posts by the wall.
‘Drink, eat,’ implores my host. ‘It can’t all be work, don’t you think? No, no, it can’t. I have many projects, to occupy me, to amuse me. I, like you, am a man of multiple interests. My animals, my zoo. I find myself more attuned to animals than people. My dealings with people are so one-dimensional. War. With people I am at war. The soldiers go into the barrios, kill the young men, the boys, and say it is because of me. Because they work for me. Bullshit. It is because of the Americans. That’s what it is because of. The Americans want war with me.’
He looks around, as if the invisible enemy (the CIA, the FBI, the Marines) is about to appear.
‘But animals are different. They don’t know who I am. I feed them, they know me, but they have no opinion of me as a man.’
He is quiet, as if trying to conjure an image. This man who holds the knife to slit a woman’s throat and then, with the same hand, feeds his ducks.
I want no more of this. I want to give him the seeds, to know Caitlin is free, to turn away from this nightmare. This mound of a man in front of me. I am tired of his monologues, his pop psychology, his film reviews.
‘Mr Ascavar,’ I offer, ‘I have fulfilled my end of the bargain. I’ve done what has been asked of me …’