A Bright Moon for Fools (16 page)

“So that’s your answer? Guns and swimming?”

“Sounds like the navy,
amore
. Were you in the navy?”

“Well, I think it’s pathetic! You’ve just turned the most serious issue ever to face mankind into some kind of boys’ adventure holiday.”

“And spears before breakfast? Not an activity I would have thought on the roster for a portly English gent.”

“My dearest Judith, the only activities fit for an English gentleman these days are drinking and cultivated opprobrium.”

“So ignore everything and just go down the pub. Well, if that’s what life’s about, Mr Strong, it’s all just great, isn’t it?”

“No, it is not!” bellowed Christmas. He was getting rather drunk. “Hardly any decent pubs left! Red bloody squirrels in hiding from the bloody grey squirrel of these bloody
office pubs, these idiot stables with televisions in the corner and nowhere to sit. I tell you both, it won’t be long before they’ve invented a vertical toilet so you can vomit while
standing up, right by the bar. Give me a Breezer. Bluurrrgh. Give me another Breezer. Bluurrggh. They’ll stop selling beer altogether and it’ll just be vicious wines and coloured syrup
still sold to the medical industry under its original name. No, young lady, the character of English drinking is by no means a given.” Christmas emptied his glass.

“And how would you define the English character these days,
amore
? Do you think it will be able to withstand all these horrors Bridget is talking about? In its swimming trunks? With
its gun?”

“Judith, I’m sure it will flourish. Being English has always been about a mix of good manners with utter sadism. It’s what allowed us to cut the throats of half the world,
build an Empire, come home and still apologise to the person who has trodden on your foot. I think it’s the perfect character set to deal with the four horsemen of the whatywhat. Or what have
you.” Christmas noted the quickening of inebriation.

“Guns and swimming,” repeated Bridget with disgust.

“Right then,” said Judith wiping her mouth. “Glass of pudding wine anyone?” She wanted to check herself in the mirror. “Back in a tick.”

Bridget and Christmas were left alone. Hunched over the table, Bridget glared at her plate, then darted her eyes at him. She snorted. Christmas put his glass down. Her face was so screwed up it
was like looking into a wastepaper basket.

“For the love of Christ!” he said, “Will you stop slouching!”

“Excuse me?” she gasped.

“Young women shouldn’t slouch like that. You look completely fucking disabled.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“There. That’s better.”

“You know, for my mother’s sake, I’ve been trying to change my opinion of you, but—”

“And what is that?”

“That you are a selfish, self-satisfied, wholly unlikeable
wanker
.”

“Well, my opinion of your opinions, young lady, is that the gallows, arsenic and the firing squad would all be preferable to tasting any more of the tripe that drips from your stillborn
sensibilities.”

For several moments, Bridget could do nothing but blink. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

“I’m writing a book. About a murderer who can’t drive. I shall call it, ‘Drop me off at the corner of hell, just opposite the bookies’.”

“You’re sponging off my mother.”

“Well, that makes two of us. I, on the other hand, am an invited guest. And what are you doing, may I ask, other than swanning around South American yoga retreats and whingeing about men?
In fact it’s pretty clear that underneath the armour you’re just a normal little girl who wants to find a nice little boy, only you’ll reject a string of men who you’ll deem
not clever enough and you’ll end up the wrong side of forty, bitter but
right
– you’ll be so
right
about everything you’ll be
wrong.
You’ll be a
wrong person.”

Bridget folded her arms. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you, Harry.”

“Me?”

“You’re obviously speaking from experience and just dressing up your failures as some kind of priceless and hard-won wisdom. Well – newsflash – I don’t want a
string of men, and besides, which way do you think you’re headed, Mr Strong? Because wherever it is, I’d say you’ve run out of time. We all know you’ve run out of ideas.
You’re what, seventy or something? Obviously you think you were too good for your marriage, too good for a real job, probably too good for any real friends. You’ve certainly lost all
your looks if you had any in the first place, and calling me bitter is the kind of rank hypocrisy that could only come from a man whose self-image is so very far away from reality. You are a fat,
beaten-up old alcoholic. What’s making it all worth it, Harry? Got a secret?”

“Yes,” said Christmas, “Find someone to love you.”

Bridget opened her mouth then closed it again. After a moment she said, “You know, Harry—” but Christmas roared at her, leaping a little way across the table. It was so loud,
so unexpected, that it genuinely frightened her.

“Now if I may beg your leave to pursue my libations ...” he said, settling back into his seat, “I would be so very grateful.” He downed his glass and bared his teeth with
a smile. Bridget stormed out of the room.

“Where’s Bridget?” said Judith re-entering a moment later with a bottle of Sancerre and rearranged hair. “What was that noise?”

“She’s gone to bed. I was trying to cheer her up with some animal impressions.”

“Really, Harry, she’s not a baby.”

“Isn’t she?”

“Oh, look,
amore
...” Judith put the bottle on the table and slipped onto his lap. “... we’re alone ...” She caressed his face with a drunken hand, poking
him slowly in the eye. It was time to succumb to the inevitable.

T
hat night Christmas dreamed he was with Emily. They were on the balcony in their house in Malaga. Slade came out of nowhere and cut her
throat.

He woke gripping the bed. Judith was already up and gone. He turned to the window. A trail of insect bites registered themselves across his back and arms.

Christmas stood beneath the shower, the gash on his head tender under the heat. He rested his forehead against the tiles and replayed his argument with Bridget. He had to leave. He had to find
Guiria. Expanding his torso, he thought about the chest pain of the previous evening. There was no tightness, only a belly hot from drink. Christmas rotated his arm, pinched the top of his nose and
cleared it towards the plug.

Walking downstairs to breakfast, Christmas spied Bridget already in the kitchen reading a newspaper.

“Hullo,” he said, sitting down, ready for round two.

“Oh, hello,” she said brightly. “Do you want my egg?”

“Egg?”

“Here you go. I don’t want it,” and with that she put her boiled egg on his plate, flicked him a smile and continued reading the newspaper. Christmas was surprised, but quickly
recognised the phenomenon of women, used to endless supplication on account of their beauty, enjoying nothing more than being violently disagreed with. Indeed they could develop a strong affection
for anyone who treated them normally. In Bridget’s case this was compounded by the small embarrassments of a hangover. She hadn’t meant to call him a fat old alcoholic in quite such
forthright terms. She’d had time to reflect on how happy her mother was. This man had roared at her like a lion. Perhaps he was quite interesting.

“Listen to this,” she said, reading aloud, “‘Armed Pirates Loot French Lawyer’s Yacht: The attack came just a few miles out of Puerto La Cruz where the family were
in the middle of a two-week fishing holiday. Anchored for the night, the thirteen-metre steel-hulled ketch was approached at dusk by a six-metre open fishing boat that contained five men carrying
pistols and machetes. The family was bound head and foot, and a shotgun held to their heads while the boat was ransacked for electronic instruments, sail clothing and other effects.’ God, how
frightening.”

“Could’ve been worse.”

“Worse?”

“They could’ve outraged the women. Pressed the lads into service.”

“I bet you fancy yourself as a bit of pirate, don’t you, Harry? Bet you think you would’ve fitted right in.”

“A gentleman of fortune? An ambassador for the Republic of the Sea? Never thought about it.”

“Of course you haven’t.”

“Well, m’lady, perhaps you wouldn’t be so slow to sign the articles and step under the Black Flag yourself.”

“A female pirate?”

“Ever heard the story of Mary Read?” he said, de-shelling his eggs.

“Nope.”

“Seventeenth-century daughter of a sea captain. Brought up as a boy so the mother could ensure her husband’s inheritance for her ‘son’ after his death. The young Mary
gets a job as a footman but then runs away and finds work on a Man O’ War. Big mistake. Not fun.”

Christmas smeared the eggs onto a piece of toast. “Mary jumps ship, joins the military – all still as a boy, mind – is promoted to the Horse Regiment after displaying bravery
at the Battle of Flanders, falls in love with a soldier, confesses her sex, the two get decommissioned, marry, scandalize the military and open a pub.” He added a layer of marmalade over the
eggs. “Hubby dies, she gets bored, gets a ship to the West Indies which is captured by the notorious pirate Calico Jack and his mistress Anne Bonny. Bonny takes a shine to her, discovers her
secret, Jack gets jealous, draws his cutlass, and so they let him in on the secret too. Mary joins the crew and off they go a-pirating.”

He squeezed out a flourish of tomato sauce on top of the marmalade. “A few adventures later, Mary, still a man as far as the rest of the crew are concerned, falls in love with a sailor
from a captured vessel. This sailor falls foul of one of the other pirates who challenges him to a duel. Now, Mary knows her sweetheart hasn’t a chance against the seadog, so she challenges
the rogue herself.”

“Are you really going to eat that?”

Christmas added salt and pepper. “In accordance with pirate law,” he continued, “the two get rowed ashore for the fight. She is about to get overpowered by the big brute when
she rips open her shirt and shows him her breasts. The ruffian is so shocked to find out that his crewmember is a woman that he stands gawping for a fateful second – enough time for Mary to
swing at his head—” Christmas picked up the toast, “—and kill him dead.” He bit into it. Bridget wrinkled her face. “No one messed with Mary after that,”
he said through his mouthful.

“That is disgusting.”

“Why? She had no choice. Anyway, the whole crew were caught and sentenced to be hanged, but as she was pregnant with the sailor’s child, she got a stay of execution, which
didn’t matter much in the end as she died in prison from the fever. She is famed for saying that hanging wasn’t such a bad thing, because without it ‘every cowardly fellow would
turn pirate, and so unfit the sea that men of courage must starve.’”

“Well, you learn something every day.”

“And forget,” chewed Christmas, “a little bit more. Perhaps I should go down to Puerto la Cruz and get my own band of pirates together.”

“And do what?”

“Mount a raid.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“I’m sure you’ve outraged my mother quite enough.”

“But her legendary bounty, the famed and priceless
Eroi
...”

“Oh god – don’t start with those things.”

“I shall sell them to Dutch traders in return for gold and furs.”

“You’ll be lucky if you get the sideburns off a rabbit. She started doing them when Daddy was still here. I think it started off as some kind of horrible hint.”

“Oh look,” said Judith, coming in from the garden with a basket full of tools, “everyone’s getting along! How fabulous.”

“Mummy, Harry’s going to be a pirate.”

“Isn’t that nice. Now who’s going to help me with the lunch?” Bridget slipped off her chair and gave him a wink. OK, yes, Christmas reflected, he was in a cage of sorts,
but a gilded one, and if these were his two feisty guards then why shouldn’t he enjoy himself? If he couldn’t find his way out, at least Slade would never find his way in.

“O
h,
si
,
Señor
,” said the concierge, “I know this man.”

“Is he here?” Slade threw a look around the lobby.

“Here,
Señor
?”

“You said you knew this man.”

“Yes. I see all his films. I like the best the one – the actress with the red hair? They in Japan—” Slade snatched back the photo and quit the hotel. He opened his
guidebook and crossed out another name. It was growing dark. Slade took a metro train back to Chacaito and his room at the Hotel Lux.

A mirror overlooked his bed. He inspected himself. He had lost weight and grown a beard. He was hardly eating. There were dark prints underneath his eyes. Slade took off his T-shirt and flexed
his muscles. He started doing sit-ups but suddenly he just lay down on the floor and covered his face with his hands. “No!” he cried. He carried on with the sit-ups, faster this time,
until he gave up and rolled onto his side, breathing heavily. Scrambling to his feet, he sat down by the bedside table and took the phone. He made a call. The ring seemed long and distant and
endless until it cracked open and there was Diana’s voice.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“William? Oh God, William, what’s this number? Where are you? I’ve been going out of my fucking mind!”

“He’s here.”

“Where? Where are you?”

“I’ve followed him. I’ve tracked him down. I’ve—”

“I told you I didn’t want you to do anything. I don’t want you to hurt anybody, do you understand? I was very upset then. I was drunk – where are you?’”

“Venezuela.”

“Oh God...”

“He’s here. He’s here in Caracas. I found out—”

“Just fucking leave it, William, OK? I don’t want you to do anything! Just leave it and come home!”

“Home?”

“You know what I mean.”

“But now – can’t we—”

“Not all that again, William. We shouldn’t even be talking. You know what the situation is between us – Oh God, what a mess ...”