Ventriloquists (25 page)

The man’s face glowed softly. He couldn’t believe his luck either, but he was wary with it, not used to getting his own way, perhaps. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah, that’s right. Twenty pounds – and twenty pounds only – for the names and addresses of the people you played poker with the other night. Any information appreciated.’

The student nodded.

Goodbye to the Carnivores

No more fire.

These were the words that Connors repeated silently to himself.

No more fire.

A tattoo as he marched along, as best he could.

Although he was now three days away from the village (and by his own reckoning, out of danger), there was to contend with the fact that his cigarette lighter had run out of gas the previous evening, and if he didn’t make it back to the harbour town where he’d landed on Toenail Island today, he would most likely freeze in the absence of a remarkable blaze.

No more fire.

Was he going the right way? To his eyes all the landscape looked the same, and he had long since grown to distrust his inbuilt instinctive compass. All he could hope for, as long as he wandered in a vaguely straight line, was that he’d encounter civilization sooner or later.

And then what?

The hell of it was… he didn’t know. After dining with Ruth and her extended family (but before he had learnt what he’d eaten) he had sought opinion on the subject of his proposed journey to God’s mouth. In no uncertain terms he had been told that the voyage was impossible: if it had ever been attempted, the reckless sailor or crew had not returned home to tell the tale. It was suicide. Thus, it was right up Connors’s alley: something suicidal sounded good, about now.

Ruth’s father had fed Connors well, and had sold him provisions for his onward travels – something herbal and spicy, he had had to insist on it. It was filling but samey, and Connors couldn’t wait to find the butcher’s shop-cum-restaurant where he had dined with Elvis on their first night on the island. Couldn’t wait to blow the rest of his wages on a big pile of something bloody… as long as it had once owned more than two legs. A new golden rule.

Several stories had been told that night, interspersed with the singing. The tribe consisted of cannibals, but as they were at pains to convey, this did not make them murderers: in a spirit of waste-not-want-not, they ate what died naturally. They ate the elderly deceased, tumours and warts and all; but they didn’t kill, and Connors was informed several times that he was in no danger of routine execution.

So happy and tipsy had Connors become that he had almost believed them. And now he missed their company. Eventually hobbling into the outskirts of the harbour town was one of the loveliest activities that he’d ever taken part in. When he knew where he was, he sat for a rest on a bench near a yard where some children were playing basketball. The tears that flowed down his cheeks were copious… After Connors had rebuked himself for the outpouring, he told himself that he should have bottled what he’d shed. In
this
fucking nut-house, he had no way of knowing when he’d need to drink his own tears. He stood up.

Connors headed back through town, towards the harbour, having pulled from his bag a small bouquet of plant life wrapped in grass – an analgesic that Ruth’s father had also sold him. As he walked he plucked a stalk free and popped it in his mouth. It tasted foul; but chewing it made him feel better almost on the instant. Some of the pain retreated; some merely dulled, ready for the next time that Connors was unprotected. Good shit they packed here, the man mused. He wondered if he could smuggle some back to the real world. Sell it in Marsh Farm or High Town. Make a killing. Despite everything, Connors smiled.

Near the harbour where he’d first arrived, he sat again. Not once in his life had he been more depressed. He had nothing left. Thanks to the flies that had attacked him, he scarcely had skin on his palms; a grand total of five or six coins jangled in his pocket – coins of a lousy denomination. All but worthless, Connors reasoned. And all that he’d done was circle an island, like a tourist with time on his hands, starving the flesh off his rump… and eating boy soup.

This time, when he cried, he did not stop so easily. After a few minutes, in fact, it seemed as though he would never stop crying ever again. It didn’t feel good: but producing the tears felt marginally better than not producing the tears.

It was all he had.

Property Viewings

1.

Throughout the ordeal, Nero had endeavoured to stay physically fit, though he’d discovered, as the days ploughed on, that it wasn’t the case that he had less and less energy for his exercises: it was more that the thought of exercise crossed his mind less and less often. Things that had once been second nature to Nero were falling from him as the weeks passed: things like an awareness of the need to exercise; things like his (already limited) vocabulary. Indeed, there were times – notably in the hum of the long afternoons – when he had to grasp and make the effort to recall events before he and Jess had come to live in this bedroom. He had to chase his own memory – hunt it down and hold it – while reminding himself (occasionally, when he forgot) of the colour of his skin, or that the burgeoning blimp of activity about his lower body was a signal that he must defecate soon. It was only when he remembered to exercise – some lunges, some push-ups, some sit-ups, but he didn’t count his rounds or even his reps – that Nero also remembered the rage that went with them. And the reasons for the rage in the first place. It was only while gunning his body temperature higher that Nero pictured the faces and the penises of Eastlight and Massimo… and how he’d once believed that no man should ever see another man’s erection in real life (in porn was fine).

It was only while engaged in callisthenics or aerobics that Nero recalled that he intended to kill them. And yet… even this urge was less pronounced; and less pronounced; and less pronounced… as time went on. Nero knew this for a fact because he was doing his exercises now. And very little in the way of revenge was playing in his head.

He stopped exercising.

A few days earlier, he had awoken from one of his many daily naps to find that the door to the walk-in wardrobe had been left unlocked. Still naked as the day, he and Jess had crept out of the wardrobe and into the unfurnished bedroom, the carpet comfortable beneath their bare feet.

It had felt like a treat – a reward, perhaps – to have been entrusted to the run of the bedroom; at first they hadn’t wanted to try the door handle. It had been locked. But the bedroom was better than the wardrobe; and under its bare light-bulb, Nero surveyed it with something like self-respect. He had arrived. He’d been promoted. This was his and this was Jess’s. And he would do whatever he could not to enrage his captors, in case they wanted to tie them both up again.

Such at least was his opinion
this
hour. These opinions changed often, and Nero had long since realised that he (and possibly Jess as well) was suffering from a sort of captive madness, a cabin fever; he had long since doubted that his mental health was entirely cloudless.

By way of avoiding more painful decisions, Nero wondered once again if they – Charlie and Massimo – actually
wanted
him physically fit? Should he exercise again, right now? Or was he simply deluding himself and killing time? (Why would they require him to be physically fit?)

Confusing.

The thought of more activity stirred a memory in Nero’s mind
– but also in his upper arms and shoulders (muscle memory).
Underaged in the HeartLines Gym (he remembered), Nero had worked out with his older brother, crashing weight after weight – curling, shoving – bending those muscles and wanting the fuckers to twang. And now, sitting down on the carpet in the bedroom, Nero thought again about Molecule: really
thought
. With effort he framed the young man’s face; then he watched an old film of the two of them, in the gym, with Molecule daring him on and calling him pussy for fearing the addition of another half-kilo on the stack.

Nero smiled.

But now he was puffed out and aerated as the result of two minutes of squat thrusts. Sweat ran off his (twitching) shoulders in a steady trickle.

Why hadn’t Molecule found him?

‘Who’s Molecule?’ he heard through his highly laboured breathing.

‘My elder brother.’

‘What about him?’ asked Jess.

Had Nero misheard the original question? Turning in Jess’s direction, he saw the girl squatting, leaning against the wall, an inquisitive expression on her face. Odder than this look, however, was the query that Nero held in his head.

Who’s Molecule?
and
What about him?
had been asked in two different voices. While the second had belonged to Jess – no question about it – the first had sounded… masculine. Through the exercise-heated breathing it had seemed normal enough, but now that he examined it, the voice had sounded like a man’s. And Nero hadn’t said his brother’s name out loud anyway. Had he?

‘Did you ask me about Molecule?’ Nero wanted to know.

Jess shrugged. ‘Who’s Molecule?’

Yeah, who’s Molecule?
Nero heard in the original interviewer’s voice.

‘Woah!’ said Nero.

‘What?’ said Jess.

‘Did you hear that?’

‘No. What?’

‘Someone said
Who’s Molecule?’

‘That was me.’

So who is he?
said the man’s voice.
You’ve told me your brother, but gimme something else. I need a story!

Jess looked worried. Inasmuch as she ‘sprung’ anywhere these days, she sprung to her feet. She crossed over to Nero, taking careful steps, as if a layer of black ice had formed on the carpet.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

‘Yeah I’m peachy. Apart from this
voice
in my head.’

A beat.

Jess considered the information and chose not to challenge it.

‘What’s it saying?’

Nero bent a little at the waist; he cupped his hands over his ears – like Molecule used to do when wearing headphones, mixing beats. Nero found that he wanted the transmission: he was urging it on. And it didn’t take him more than a second to wonder why: it was contact with the world outside this room. It smelt of freedom.

‘What’s it saying, Nero?’

‘
Ssshhh!’

But there were no more words in Nero’s head – not for ten seconds, twenty…

‘Shit,’ he whispered, gradually becoming aware of Jess beside him but not wishing to acknowledge her. By allowing her back into his reality (or trudging his way back into hers) the connection would be cut, the spell broken. Nero did not want to hang up just yet: there was
something
there, wasn’t there? A small sound using his skull as a pathway; a noise of weather – the wind? Yes! It was wind! Nothing drastic, nothing heavy; maybe wind stirring through trees, a light patter of misty rain on leaves. The sensation followed – still in Nero’s head – that the weather was chilly. Not icy, but chilly. Where?

Nero gambled. Surely the signs had been strong enough, these last days. It wasn’t as if it mattered if he ended up looking like a fool. There was only Jess to judge him… and
she
had been made to watch while he was raped. The aggressors had taken turns to hold her head still. As a result, there wasn’t much further he could fall in her eyes. So he said:

‘Are you there, Chris?’

Nero waited for an answer – as if he’d shouted next door to one of his brothers (if he’d been shouting for one of his parents he would’ve had to have shouted
way
loud).

No response.

‘Nero?’

‘I said
ssshhh
.’

Nothing in words… but that sense of cold present, which Nero attempted to picture. What he saw was the inside of a hut, where Chris had taken refuge. If not a hut, an equivalent haven. Comparatively warm – compared with the outside. Wind like a tongue round a lolly.

Where was he?

‘
Nero.
I
hear
something,’ said Jess.

That same wind? The rain?

‘They’re here,’ Jess continued. ‘That was a door. They’re downstairs.’

‘Who? Oh yeah. You ready?’

‘For what?’ she asked, panicked.

‘Jesus,’ Nero sighed.

‘Is it Jesus Christ you’re hearing, Nero?’ Her tone was hopeful and large.

‘No. I meant Jesus-I-don’t-fucking-believe-you. Are you ready to fight them?’

‘No.’

‘No, nor am I,’ Nero confessed; ‘but I’m not sure they’ll give us much of an alternative.’

Footfalls on the stairs.

‘I can’t do this,’ Jess confided.

‘Do what? Do what comes natural.’

‘That’s what I’m scared of doing.’

One set of footfalls or two?

Nero wasn’t sure. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he was praying to his new leader, to the distant man named Chris, for guidance and strength. For the wherewithal to know how to brain his captors if the chance was presented.

He heard Jess hold her breath. Good idea, thought Nero, doing the same thing (but he didn’t know why). Depleted of oxygen, he waited.

The next thing would be the key in the lock.
The door will open…

Pounce and strike.

But there was no key in the lock. The handle turned and the door swung inwards.

How long had it been unlocked? Nero wondered, bewildered.

And who were these people?

For neither of his rapists – not Charlie and not Massimo – stood on the landing, peering into the bedroom. In fact, Nero had never set eyes on any one of these three visitors in his life.

The shock was enough to make him cover his penis with one hand.

2.

‘Anyone know where Charlie is?’ asked Jean, holding one hand over the mouthpiece of her receiver.

There were three other people in the office, two men and one woman – all of them wearing black suits and lighter-coloured shirts with the necks wide open. Towards the end of the working day, and there was little going on: a bit of filing, a bit of appointment planning. When the phone rang, three of them had gone for the call.

‘Gone home early, I think,’ said one of the guys. ‘Something about an anniversary. I wasn’t listening.’

Jean relayed the news to the caller; what followed was a long period of silence in the office, but with the caller’s words buzzing in Jean’s ear.

‘Hold the line, please.’ To the remaining crew she added: ‘Charlie’s dropped a bollock. He was supposed to collect a Mr and Mrs Murphy and take them to the Eggington property for a viewing. They’ve been waiting outside the gate for half an hour and can’t get in.’

‘He cancelled,’ said the second man present – a man named Joe, who was arranging appointment notes on his computer. ‘I heard him call and leave a message when I was having a smoke.’

‘Well, they’re still outside the house and they’re pissed off. I think they’ve told me four times that it’s started to rain.’

‘I’ll take it.’ Joe stood up. ‘It’s on my way to the farm shop – I said I’d pick up some carrots for my neighbour’s Shetland.’ When he crossed the office, the floorboards protested and groaned. He flicked open the key safe and checked the chart.

‘One of Charlie’s colleagues will be with you in twenty minutes,’ Jean continued into her phone. ‘Sorry about the mix-up… Okay. Bye.’

‘The key’s not here,’ Joe called. ‘Maybe he’s gone there after all.’

The other man – the one who had answered Jean’s first question – looked up from his filing. ‘No, he definitely said he was getting something ready for his anniversary.’

‘Well, it’s not here!’

Jean unlocked a safe near her desk – it was where the master keys were kept. She asked for the reference of the house in Eggington; the first man clicked a tab and brought up all of the properties on the company’s books. He read Jean the code and she fished out the relevant key.

‘Don’t lose it.’

‘No, Mum.’

3.

The drive to Eggington took Joe twenty minutes, as Jean had promised the potential house-buyers. Preparing to leave the car, Joe brushed crumbs from his jacket’s lapels – he had eaten a sandwich
en route
.

Mr and Mrs Murphy were waiting in their vehicle near the house’s front gate. They did not appear happy to see Joe.

‘I’m sorry about the mix-up,’ the estate agent repeated on behalf his firm, and of Charlie Eastlight. ‘Let’s get you in to have a look around.’

He unlocked the gate.

4.

Already shocked that the gate had been left open, Eastlight was horrified to recognise one of the two cars parked on the driveway. It was Joe’s. And seeing as the other car was not a police car, Eastlight was forced to accept that his work colleague was showing someone around the house.

The panic that he felt was rich. It warmed him throughout, then it turned to ice in his organs. There was no conceivable good way that this could go.

‘I cancelled you fuckers,’ Eastlight breathed into the rearview, steaming up the glass with his poison and fear. Didn’t anyone check their voicemail anymore?

To Hell with that. What was he going to do? They were here, that the was meat and potatoes of the fact:
they were here
. And nothing that Eastlight could do would make them
not here
. One way or another they would find the teenagers in the unfurnished master bedroom; and sooner or later the teenagers would finger him and Massimo for the kidnapping, for the sex games… even if he drove away now.

Think!

But it was difficult to think (he had discovered) with sweat running down into his eyes. It was difficult when his bladder felt fit to burst.

Eastlight dialled Massimo from the dash. Get him over here, perhaps: it was
his
mess as well. Actually it had all been his idea! So let
him
come up with a solution.

The answering message cut in. Eastlight killed the call and thumped the steering wheel. Seconds were passing.