‘But he paid you forty grand,’ Kane was horrified. ‘Money he obviously didn’t have. He paid you in good faith…’
‘Good faith?’ Peta chuckled. ‘Just listen to yourself! What’s happening to you, Kane?’ She reached out and tousled his hair. ‘How sweet you suddenly sound…’
Kane glowered at her.
‘Anyway,’ she confided (in the kind of voice you might use when counselling an idealistic child about why it was fine for his parents to lie about the existence of Father Christmas), ‘I think you’ll find that these things generally have a strange way of working themselves out.’
‘Do they?’ Kane wasn’t buying it. ‘How, exactly?’
‘The way I’m seeing it,’ Peta shrugged, ‘forty grand is a small price to pay to get your only son back.’
Kane scowled.
‘So what about Dory?’ he demanded, keen to move on. ‘How did he fit into the whole thing? Did he help Dad? Did he betray him?’
‘Oh please don’t make me trawl through all this, Kane,’ Peta groaned, ‘I’ve got a train to catch. And life’s too short. Just enjoy the mystery. Take from the situation what you need. Be selective. Pick and mix. You’re usually so talented at that.’
‘But I saw Dory in your cottage,’ Kane wouldn’t let it drop, ‘and I know you said you’d hired a private detective. That’s what Dory does, isn’t it? I also know that he’s cunning, that he’s fucked up. That he hung a bell on Beede’s cat. Or Higson’s cat. Or whoever the hell’s cat it actually was…’
‘A bell?’ Peta seemed astonished.
‘I know that Dory was actually there when the tiles were stolen, that he was on the scene during the burning down of Higson’s warehouses, that he had some kind of a grudge against Harvey, something that possibly even went back way beyond…’
‘Are you sure you shouldn’t turn the engine off?’ Peta was peering over towards The Commissar again. ‘In my experience…’
‘Screw the car,’ Kane interrupted her. ‘Stop evading the issue. Just tell me the truth, for once…’
Peta suddenly burst out laughing. ‘The truth? Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
Kane was indignant.
‘The truth,’ Peta informed him, baldly, ‘is just a series of disparate ideas which briefly congeal and then slowly fall apart again…’
‘No,’ Kane shook his head, ‘I’m not buying that. What’s been going on feels really…really coherent, as if…as if everything’s secretly hooking up into this extraordinary…I dunno…this extraordinary jigsaw, like there’s a superior, guiding logic of some kind…’
‘The truth,’ Peta smiled, ‘is that there is no truth. Life is just a series of coincidences, accidents and random urges which we carefully forge – for our own, sick reasons – into a convenient design. Everything is arbitrary. Only art exists to make the arbitrary congeal. Not memory or God or love, even. Only art. The truth is simply an idea, a structure which we employ – in very small doses – to render life bearable. It’s just a convenient mechanism, Kane, that’s all.’
‘I’ve seen things,’ Kane doggedly maintained, ‘I’ve experienced things…crazy things. I’ve felt this energy, this sense of…of connectedness…’
‘Just chemicals,’ she pointed to his head. ‘Up here. Too much coffee. Too many hormones. Too much sugar…’
‘But other people have felt it, too…’
‘Then a kind of joint hysteria…’
‘No.’ Kane shook his head.
‘We’re all raised to think we’re so special,’ Peta scoffed, ‘that all our experiences are so important, so meaningful, so particular, so individual. But if you look at the work of the confidence trickster, the magician, the psychic – even the priest, for that matter – what they depend on – how they function – is to play on the universality of human experience, on how bland, how predictable, how homogenous we all really are…’
‘But what if I’ve discovered things – or seen things – which are completely beyond my range of possible experience. Stuff about the past. Stuff about…’
‘You were telling yourself a story. You were weaving a spell. You were making all the parts fit. You were feeding into a general energy, a universal energy. You were probably adhering to a basic archetype – a “first model” as the Ancient Greeks would have it – something like…’ she shrugged, ‘he’s threatened by his father, he loved his mother, he’s terrified of death…or maybe something more intellectual, more esoteric like…I don’t know…like the idea of this disparity between fire and water,’ she pulled a moronic face, ‘or the absurd idea that language has these gaps in it and that lives can somehow just tumble through…’
‘That was Beede’s idea,’ Kane interrupted her. ‘You said it was a good idea before. You liked it.’
‘Nah. I probably just said what I needed to,’ she shrugged, ‘so we’d both end up here.’
Kane took a step back from her. ‘You’re a class act,’ he smiled, ‘I’ll give you that.’
‘You seriously believe I’m behind all this?’ Peta grinned. ‘You honestly think that I have the energy – the means – to bring this all together? That I’m some kind of a conduit? Some kind of…’
‘But why not?’ Kane demanded. ‘It’s your story too, isn’t it?’
‘I’m flattered,’ Peta chuckled, ‘touched, even.’ She paused. ‘And perhaps I was an unwitting midwife to something,’ she conceded, ‘but if I was, then it was something that was already born. Because everything already exists. It’s all there for the taking. But we never actually take it all. We just choose the little bits we need to further our agenda. And why shouldn’t we? Because it doesn’t serve our purpose to see the whole picture. And the parts that we do see? The parts that we do discover? They’re often the same parts. And how we keep it fresh is that we constantly re-create them, then conveniently forget them, then suddenly rediscover them anew, own them anew…’
‘Maybe,’ Kane said. He didn’t seem entirely convinced.
‘It was never about the tiles, Kane,’ Peta sighed. ‘It was only ever about Beede and what he felt. Or maybe – more to the point – what he couldn’t feel.’
‘Perhaps you underestimate him,’ Kane maintained. ‘Perhaps Beede actually knew something – all along – that you didn’t.’ Peta merely shrugged. She glanced down at her watch, then looked up. ‘The Commissar is just about to overheat,’ she announced.
Kane peered over towards the car. He saw a tiny plume of steam ascending from the bonnet.
‘Balls,’ he cursed.
‘Just as the traffic starts to shift,’ she groaned. ‘Would you believe it?’
She leaned down and grabbed something from the van’s front passenger seat. It was a large bottle of water. She handed it to him. ‘He’ll take twenty minutes to cool down,’ she said, ‘and give it five, at least, before you risk unscrewing the radiator cap.’
Kane took the bottle and started walking, backwards, towards the car. ‘I’m not finished with you,’ he yelled.
‘Yes you are.’
She switched on her indicator, and slowly overtook. Kane was reaching – anxiously – into the steaming engine as the van drew past. He glanced up. He saw her lips moving. He heard her mutter something – a parting shot. And it was either, ‘Take care not to burn your hands’ or ‘Take care of your surgeon’s hands…’ Either one or the other. He couldn’t tell which. But after she’d spoken, he saw her head tip back, and he could’ve sworn he heard a sharp, cruel cackle – a chuckle, a chortle – as if she’d actually just said something totally hysterical.
TWENTY
‘Beede?’ Dory was muttering. ‘Beede? Beede? Are you still with me?’ Beede was sitting on a bench in a stationary ambulance, clutching on to the feather as if his life depended on it. Dory was lying on a stretcher beside him. He was bleeding heavily. His shattered head had been fitted with some kind of padded helmet and he’d been heavily sedated.
‘Dory?’ Beede leaned over t
owards him. ‘It’s Beede. I’m here. I’m right beside you.’
He tried to grab Dory’s hand, but his free arm was too heavy to lift. He shuffled a little further forward instead, wincing as he moved. One of the two ambulancemen gave him a warning look but Beede ignored him.
‘Dory?’ he repeated. ‘I’m here, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.’
Dory’s blue eyes fluttered open. ‘Is he gone, Beede?’ he gasped. ‘Is it finally done with?’
Beede considered this question, carefully. ‘Yes,’ he said, glancing nervously over his shoulder, ‘I’m sure he is. I’m sure it must be.’
‘Oh thank God,’ Dory panted, smiling. ‘Oh thank…’
Then his eyes suddenly widened. ‘Sm…smoke…’ he coughed. His voice sounded hoarse again.
The second ambulanceman gave Dory some oxygen. ‘Just try and stay still,’ he advised him. ‘We’ll soon be on our way…’
He glanced over at Beede. ‘There’s a terrible traffic jam,’ he explained, ‘because of a huge fire on one of the local estates. An entire street went up, apparently.’
Dory tried to knock his oxygen mask away. ‘What’s happening?’ he gasped. He tried to lift his arms, to sit up, but they were strapped down too tightly.
‘You’re in an ambulance, Dory,’ Beede told him. ‘You’re going to hospital. You’re going to be…’
The ambulance jolted forward. Its siren began wailing. Beede winced again.
‘But I need to…’ Dory’s eyes were starting, his temples were pulsing. ‘I must…’
‘Calm down,’ Beede tried his best to soothe him, ‘just calm down and…’
‘Stop…I need to…to…’
Dory gazed, in desperation, towards the ambulance’s back windows. ‘I need to stop…‘
‘Try and stay still,’ the second ambulanceman repeated. ‘You’re in shock. Try not to move your head around too much…’
Beede glanced towards the windows himself.
‘No. I must…I can’t…’ Dory continued to struggle.
‘We may need to sedate him further,’ the first ambulanceman murmured to his partner.
‘Can we really risk that?’ his partner murmured back.
‘Tür,’ Dory suddenly wheezed, his hands struggling with the straps that bound him, ‘can’t…can’t…tür.’
‘Do you know what he’s saying?’ the first ambulanceman asked Beede.
‘He’s saying…uh…tür,’ Beede interpreted, slightly panicked. ‘I think that’s German for…for door…although…’ he frowned, confused, ‘although tier…it could be tier. That means an animal, or…or – more formally speaking – a breathing thing…’
Dory was hurling himself around so violently now that some of the straps which bound him were beginning to loosen up.
‘He’s incredibly strong,’ the first ambulanceman muttered, battling to re-tighten them. His partner replaced the oxygen mask over Dory’s face. Dory tried to knock it off. He was frantic. His voice echoed away, hollowly, inside of it.
‘In…in some other Indo-European languages,’ Beede suddenly began to speak again, ‘in…in Lithuanian and Church Slavonic, for example, there are variants on the word which mean “gasp” or…or “breath”. They come to us via the pre-historic…’
Beede paused. He stared, in horror, at Dory’s contorted face. Dory was still shouting. His eyes were bulging.
‘TÜR,’ he was screaming, ‘BEEDE! BEEDE! TÜR!’
‘Perhaps you should take that thing off,’ Beede exclaimed, shifting even further forward, ‘he needs to be able to speak freely. He needs to be able to…to communicate…’
The ambulanceman was trying to inject a further dose of sedative into Dory’s arm. ‘Just stay back,’ he told Beede sharply. ‘If you actually want to help your friend then just…’
He struggled to hold Dory’s arm still. His partner was physically restraining Dory’s head.
‘TUUUUR!’ Dory screamed. ‘NO!’
He began to experience some kind of seizure. He was foaming at the mouth. His eyes were rolling back in his head. His fists were clenched. A series of mechanical alarms started to go off.
Beede stood up. The pain he felt as he did so was really quite unimaginable.
‘This must be the end,’ he thought, ‘this can’t continue.’ He felt a strange sense of relief, almost of satisfaction.
‘Sit down!’ the ambulanceman yelled.
‘I’m going to the door, Dory,’ Beede informed his friend, staggering around a little as the speeding ambulance raced along. ‘I’m going to the tür! The door. See? I can hear you, Dory, see? I can understand. Look! I’m going to the door…I’m standing by the…the d-d-deur…‘
He blinked.
Huh?
Dory’s quivering body suddenly relaxed. His strong arms went limp. The alarms continued to sound.
‘Oh shit,’ the first ambulanceman said.
Beede frowned. He stared down at the German, confused. He raised a shaking hand to his neck. He felt a terrible pain there, an intense pain, like a blow, almost a kick. Then his eyes widened. He took a quick step back.
A man stood before him – a small, mean, dark man – with both arms outstretched. He was smiling. He was moving forward. There was something cruel, something almost sinister…
‘Oh my God,’ Beede murmured, ‘but of…of course…the tür, the…the door…That’s what he…’
He quickly glanced behind him. The doors flew open. He held on to the feather. He carried the feather with him.
It took exactly twenty minutes for the car to cool down again. During this time Kane loaded his stash into his pockets, shoved the book and the photocopied sheets into the glove compartment, tried to light a cigarette, but he couldn’t find the…
The fucking lighter –
What is it with these fucking lighters?
He peered down the side of the driver’s seat –
Nope
He peered down the side of the passenger seat –
Nope
Although…
He frowned. He squeezed his hand down the thin gap –
Ouch
– he winced (he’d managed to acquire a small steam burn on his palm) and retrieved –
Jesus H!
A bloody scratchcard!
It was the un-used scratchcard which he’d thrown away earlier –
Must’ve dropped out…
Kane stared at it, morosely. Then he stared at his cigarette. Then he stared over at his phone. He threw the cigarette on to the dash. He grabbed his phone. He turned it on –
219 messages
Fuck.
He dropped the phone into his lap and re-inspected the scratchcard. He rubbed at it, idly, with his thumbnail –
One
Two
Three
Four…
Eh?
He picked up his phone again. He drew a deep breath. He rang Gaffar.
‘Gaffar?’
‘Yah?’
Gaffar sounded severely short of puff.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Push this stupid bike.’
‘The scooter?’
‘Yah.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Uh…I dunno. My bike is not petrol.’
‘You ran out of gas?’
‘Yah.’
‘And you don’t know where you are?’
‘Uh…’
Silence
‘…no.’
‘Is there a signpost?’
‘Uh…’
‘Is there anyone around you could ask?’
‘Sure, is plenty car. Is uh…is all stop here.’
‘A traffic jam, huh?’
‘Uh…yeah.’
‘Well just knock on the window of the nearest vehicle and hand them your phone. I’ll do the rest.’
‘Serious?’
‘Sure. Just knock on a window and…’
Long silence
�
��Hello?’
‘Hi. Did some Kurdish dude just hand you this phone?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s great. Would you mind telling me where you are?’
‘Where I am?’
‘Yeah. He’s lost. I’m trying to find out his exact location.’
‘Well I’m stuck in a traffic jam. I’m just waiting at the roundabout for the Hamstreet turn-off. Cedar Farm’s to my right…’
‘That’s great,’ Kane butted in. ‘Thanks. Could you pass him back the phone?’
Pause
‘Gaffar?’
Silence
‘Gaffar?’
Silence
‘GAFFAR?’
‘Yah?’
Gaffar sounded a little distracted.
‘What’s happening?’
‘I dunno. Is this…uh…this sound.’
‘A sound? What kind of a sound?’
‘Is uh…’ he inhaled, and then, ‘Eee-ooo-iiii Eee-ooo-iii.’
‘Fuck.’
Kane pulled the phone away from his ear.
‘Is bird,’ Gaffar expanded. ‘Is big tail bird.’
‘Can you see it?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
Pause
‘Well I’m about 2 miles down the road,’ Kane continued, ‘so if you just stay where you are, I should be with you in about ten minutes. I’ve got some work I need you to help me with…’
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