Ventriloquists (34 page)

‘She knew what was happening and she chose to abscond. I respect her for that.’

After handing Don his drink, Roger had stayed close to the chair. Now he squatted down onto his heels. ‘A lot of bereaved parents,’ he said, ‘think they see and hear their children.’

Don nodded. ‘I can imagine so. Why should it only happen to me?’

‘This has got something to do with the hole?’ asked Dorota, gesturing towards the kitchen.

Don nodded again. ‘It’s got stronger in recent years,’ he answered. ‘Like she wants to come home. Don’t laugh.’

‘No one’s laughing at you, Don,’ Roger tried to assure him. ‘Is Polly getting older as you go along? I mean… wherever she is, is she still a baby, or is she growing up nicely? How old were you when you had her?’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘And how old are you now?’

‘Seventy-two. And no, she’s not keeping pace with me, if that’s what you’re asking. She’s going faster. The years go by faster there than they do here.’ Don paused. In one single swallow
he drained his glass and added: ‘She’s close to five hundred years old.
’

6.

Roger was kneeling on his chair in his home office, facing backwards with his elbows crossed on the chair’s leather shoulders.

‘So he claims to be trying to lure his daughter back,’ he said, waiting for the next blow to his bared buttocks.

His wife obliged. She struck him with a wooden spoon and said, ‘And his mental state – how would you describe it?’ Disappointed by the absence of a wince or any intake of breath from her husband, Phyllie hit him again, harder this time. Red marks blotched his bum cheeks like an infant’s paint daubings.

‘Thoroughly delusional, I would say,’ Roger answered. ‘Harder, please. But with a fully functional internal logic. If I had to guess, I’d say that he really believes it.’

Phyllie, behind Roger’s back, changed her cudgel; a selection of kitchen utensils decorated the top of the desk for the purpose of this evening’s activities. She had placed them there while Roger was out at Don’s place. Holding a spatula this time, she whipped a blow to Roger’s arse that made him hiss.

‘Thank you. Again, please.’

While they continued to discuss the meeting with Don, Phyllie beat and spanked Roger’s posterior until it was disproportionately red. With the versatility of a freeform jazz drummer, she used the spoon, the spatula, an egg-whisk and a frying pan. It wasn’t long before Roger had grown tumescent, at which point it was time to sit him down on his raw buttocks and masturbate him with one hand while planing his testicles with the cheese-grater in the other.

At no point, however, did Roger lose himself fully in the moment, despite an appearance to this effect. He could not stop thinking about the pit in Don’s kitchen.

And Don’s story.

So.

Don claimed that he’d lost his daughter in a tragic accident involving a horse.

Believable.

Two. He claimed that the dead daughter had made contact with him over the years.

Believable. Not checkable in the slightest (did Don keep a diary?); but hearing the voices of loved ones lost was far from uncommon, especially if there was an element of guilt involved. The accident having happened at the place where Don stabled the mare would qualify. The guy was guilty: it didn’t matter that it was not Don himself who had brought the baby on to the yard: there was guilty by association… and plenty of it.

Borderline psychosis, too.

If the daughter’s ghost was Don’s guilt manifest, it was probably psychosis that kept him in his own private darkness, by choice; that kept him blinking too long, way too hard.

Wait.

What if
Don
killed the daughter? The horse is an also-ran: this is filicide.

Creates a story to paint over his own memory: paramnesia. Could be.

‘Roger? What are you thinking?’

7.

‘He’s nuts, Vig. He needs a doctor.’

‘I don’t know where my responsibilities lie as an employer.’

‘Never mind as an employer! What about as a human being? He’s a seventy-two year-old man who thinks his five hundred year-old daughter lives on another planet!’

‘No, he didn’t say
that
exactly,’ Vig argued.

Dorota cursed in Polish. ‘Near as damn it,’ she said. ‘I don’t want him nearby. I’m serious.’

‘I know.’

‘He could be a danger. To us or to himself. The best place for him is in a nice warm secure unit, where he can be treated by professionals who know what the hell they’re doing.’

Vig and Dorota were in the bedroom, Vig under the covers and Dorota pacing. ‘Not really what I had in mind when I won the money,’ the former admitted. ‘I feel I owe him.’

Dorota stopped in her tracks; her toes flexed in the abundant carpet. ‘You don’t owe him anything. He’s been paid!
Over
paid, if you ask me, but that’s not for now. He should be resting, if that’s not obvious. Resting, Vig. Not being left alone will this time on his hands to dream up stories.’

‘I can’t sleep,’ Vig said; ‘not after this.’ And he rolled out of bed; pulled on his dressing gown. Dorota followed him along the hall and down the wide stairway.

Vig used the preparation of a drink as a ship to sail through a storm of silence – silence that seemed polluted by static. Watching Don push down the brandies had made him thirsty. Why had he assumed that they’d be able to sleep after Don’s story?

‘What are you making?’ Dorota asked from the embrace of one of the library’s large green leather chairs.

Lifting the bottle off the tray on the cabinet and shaking it gently, Vig answered, ‘Whisky and coke. Want one?’

‘I’d prefer a gin and tonic.’

‘Coming right up.’

If Dorota’s previous pacing in the bedroom had not been proof enough of her similar inability to grow restful and doze, her squirming in the chair was a further powerful clue to the same. She had ants in her pants and no mistake. As Vig got the cocktails together, she sprung up, crossed the room and checked on the car situation in the drive.

‘It’s still there. Where could he be?’ she wondered.

While waving goodbye to Roger, they had noted Charlie’s car and thought nothing of it: after all, Vig had told him to go into the house and make himself at home. The confusion had arisen since then. They had not been able to find him.

‘Surely he hasn’t tried to walk home from here,’ Dorota continued. ‘It’s a long way.’

But booze had been on his breath
went unsaid but was understood between them. Eastlight’s breath would have been a hazard around a naked flame; there was no way that he’d been in any fit state to drive in the first place.

Vig repeated what he’d suggested when Charlie’s absence had first been noted. ‘Maybe he called a cab.’ He walked over to the window and handed Dorota her G&T. ‘More likely he’s passed out in one of the spare rooms.’

Dipped if not deep in thought, Dorota thanked her partner in Polish and took a sip. ‘But we checked the rooms,’ she protested.

‘We took a peek. Or is it peep? We didn’t do it thoroughly.’

‘No. I will in a moment though. It’s not as if we live in a mansion.’

‘Yes we do.’

Dorota smiled. ‘I know, Viggy-Loo…’

‘Oh don’t
you
start with that.’

‘I was English humour attempting,’ she joked in an exaggerated version of her own accent.

‘Sorry, I’m tired. Humour’s beyond me at the moment.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still out there,’ said Dorota, and the two of them strolled back to the leather chairs.

‘Out where?’

‘Out there in the cosmos. Where do you think?’

‘In the woods? He’ll freeze.’

Dorota shrugged. ‘He’s a big boy, I suppose. I don’t know why I even mentioned it.’

‘Yes you do.’ Vig smiled. ‘Because you hate him.’

‘Guilty... We’d better find him. We don’t want a manslaughter charge on our hands.’

8.

His visitors dispersed, Don sloped into the bathroom and turned the spider-leg taps to run a bath. The water emerged in pure white gusts and then cleared; it had been a while since he’d treated himself to anything more than a strip-wash (a slag’s ablution, it had been known as in his days in the saddle) and the pipes must have clogged up with chalk. Once the water had turned transparent, Don reduced the force of the output, jitteringly thinking over his next move.

First things first. In the lounge he drained his seventh or eighth brandy (he was wankered) and sipped his roll-up to death. With an elaborate flourish he flicked the dog-end the length of the kitchen; it landed near the sink in a cup half-filled with abandoned cold tea and fizzed satisfactorily.

Then he donned his bodywarmer and slipped out the kitchen door.

9.

Eastlight watched Vig, Dorota and Roger leave Don’s cabin. Though the cold had done a good deal of work to slow down his mental responses, a sense of revenge had helped keep him warm in short bursts, and as before he was mindful of his need for an alibi. Whatever happened, he must be able, in the future, to say that he’d been here on the estate all evening.

The other side of this, however, was that he could not longer recall why this might be important. The Eggington house was a distant concern: Eastlight knew that there was work to do there, but it had to wait. The teenagers would keep the home fires burning.

When he stood up, his feet tingled with pins and needles. Eastlight stamped up and down; he flapped his arms. His throat was hot. Something of a burgeoning fever worried his brow.

No time like the present.

Warming slightly with every step, Eastlight approached the cabin’s front door. From within came the sound of running water, and this only served to make Eastlight angrier. How
dare
the cunt be so carefree and blithe! A bath
now?
No no no. (Eastlight shook his head.) This wouldn’t do. This would not do
at all.

Conscious of the sound of water falling, he opened the door and entered in the time it took to draw breath. He had hoped for the element of surprise, catching Don asleep in his chair, perhaps (drunk, naturally); but Don was not in his chair, and a look through into the kitchen informed him that the old man was not munching his roast chicken either. Not unless he was doing so inside… a
hole?
A hole in the kitchen floor? What the hell?

Momentarily puzzled by the hole and the trapdoor that had been left open, Eastlight turned with gratification in the direction of the closed bathroom door.

Bliss! The geriatric mouthbreather was in the khazi! On his throne or in the tub: it didn’t matter. Oh joy, Eastlight thought, conscious of the need for speed, however tempting it was to remain where he was and warm up. Hoping that his luck was really in and that he’d catch Don on the toilet, Eastlight moved to the bathroom door – and flung it open.

Inside the room the light was on, the bath was filling… but Don wasn’t in there. So where
was
the old wanker?

A movement flickered in Eastlight’s peripheral vision. Turning toward the kitchen door, Eastlight had a second to take in Don striding closer… and the shovel that Don carried.

Not only had the trapdoor been left ajar, the kitchen door to the outside had as well; and Eastlight understood in a split second that the running water and the trapdoor hanging open had been deliberate sensual distractions. The kitchen door had been open just a crack and Eastlight hadn’t thought of Don waiting outside
for him
. The clever bastard.

‘Don…’

Don Bridges swung the shovel like an axe. It struck Eastlight’s right knee and Eastlight squealed like a stuck pig.

When he didn’t fall immediately, however, Don swung the shovel once more.

At the left knee this time.

The Shredding of Sleep

1.

Something different, Nero realised; something different about the air quality, about the light…

Nero took stock (a matter of seconds) and then stretched and bounded to his feet. And he stared. The reason it was not so dark, and the reason why the air was a tad fresher, was the same reason. The door was open. And Nero could not stop staring at the doorway, his self-preservational instincts prodding at him to acknowledge the inevitable trap.

To his left and rear, Jess stirred – a bone clicked. Sleepily she asked, ‘What is it, Nero?’

‘Door’s open.’

Jess stood up; Nero glanced to his left and saw her white skin, refulgent in the gloom. ‘Are you gonna be a man about it, or are you gonna pussy out like a girl?’

‘Shut up, Jess. I don’t know what’s out there, do I?’

‘The real world.’

‘Yeah right.’

‘Together then, tough guy?’ Jess took his left hand and squeezed.

Nero inhaled like a madman. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

‘You’re squidging me fingers.’

‘Come on. What’s the worst? It’s a landing. It’s a stairway out of here.’

Side by side, they stared at the bedroom door.

2.

Jess could hear them crying behind the door, and it was not just the woman in tears. The sound made her cold. Sitting still on the carpet, she covered her ears with the heels of her hands. The sound became muffled and merged with the drum of her blood: blocking her ears wouldn’t help. She stood up.

Nero was awake – his eyes traced her movement across the room – but she treated him as if he was asleep. Pointless to try to explain herself to Nero – not after so much had happened. Only yesterday (she believed) she had asked him if he wanted to go home. His reply had disappointed but not surprised her.
I don’t understand the question,
had been his answer.

As far as Jess was concerned, Nero was gone; he had vanished days earlier – maybe weeks. His mind was broken. The will to live had lost him; it had run away, eloped with Jess’s respect for the boy. There was no point wasting any more time with him. Without Nero, Jess would be stronger.

This, at least, was Jess’s latest theory. Was it because thought and opinion came slower to her than it ever had that she was according the theory such weight?

Maybe.

But she had seen it in Nero’s eyes, in his expression, when Charlie gave them the responsibility for looking after the new prisoners, when he’d given them their promotion: she had seen that Nero was
flattered
. He was pleased. He had sailed through the interview and now he had a job to hold down. Unless he was a better actor than she’d ever known, Nero was on Charlie’s side… at least for now.

Loyalty was something that they couldn’t discuss: they hadn’t really discussed it since they’d been brought here. Loyalty to Massimo and Charlie; to the men who controlled Jess and Nero, who made them do the things they wanted, and say the things they longed to hear. Allegiance to the ventriloquists had always felt like a taboo subject… and it felt more so than ever right now.

She didn’t trust him. In fact, Jess hadn’t trusted Nero for a long time, and she wondered what had happened to sever that bond. The answer probably mattered very little: the bond had been severed. It was a thing of the past. Dead. She didn’t trust Nero, and for all she knew he didn’t trust her either; and this was just fine and dandy.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked her.

Jess was standing in front of the door to the walk-in wardrobe.

‘To Paris. Where do you think?’

‘You’re not going in there, Jess.’

‘You’re not my keeper.’

‘That’s as may be. You still ain’t going in there.’ But no anger accompanied Nero’s words; indeed, he couldn’t have sounded more bored if he’d worked in a call centre. He had taken his eyes off Jess and was re-examining his flaccid penis, a scrutiny that had stopped being habitual and had become obsessive a few days ago, when a virulent rash had flared on his helmet.

She owed him nothing – not so much as a simple explanation – so why did she turn? Why did she place a hand on her naked hip? Why not just defy him?

Because he didn’t know that she had their interests at heart. All of them. All of their combined interests; which were basically the same interest. A path out of here. A way back into the sunshine, into the rain; it didn’t matter which. The only thing that mattered was the one thing she lacked; the one thing she could get from the woman in the wardrobe, the woman bawling gustily behind the door.

It wasn’t difficult for Jess to take stock once again; the information had been collated a hundred or so times already; it was available in a trice. And while she was alive to the fact that it could be a trap – that Charlie might have planted these new arrivals for the sole purpose of testing her fidelity – then it would have to be a trap that she fell into, wouldn’t it? Even if Charlie and Massimo were waiting for her downstairs, or on the garden lawn, waiting for her (or Nero) to make a break for freedom, the better to justify a worse punishment than those that had already been meted out, she had to try. She couldn’t stay here. Even if the torturers had more loving on their mind. Even if their breath stank of the anticipation of the murder that they were sure to perpetrate.

She had to leave.

Now that she had lost Nero, she had to leave.

But she needed something first.

‘Don’t go in there,’ Nero almost yawned.

‘Or you’ll zap me?’

‘I might. I might at that, girl.’ His voice sounded foggy and dreamy; still he did not look up again at her, his concentration locked on his penis.

‘No you won’t.’

‘Why not? Maybe I got an itchy finger,’ said Nero, and this time almost chuckled.

‘You got an itchy
something
,’ Jess told him, ‘and you’ll need more than cream to sort it out.’

Now, Nero looked up from his infected glans. Could he honestly have assumed that his genital rash had not been spotted? The signs were unmistakeable… and yet he had about him the air of a baby who has seen a first balloon – an admixture of wonder and trepidation.

‘What you getting at?’ he asked.

‘I need to fetch you some antibiotics. And me some, for that matter. I’ll be back as soon as.’

Nero scuttled to his feet. ‘You can’t
leave
.’

‘They’ll never know, Nero. And if they
do
come back… say you were asleep. It was my watch; I took the zapper…’

‘No way, babe.’

He stepped in her direction, poking the air with the weapon.

‘I can’t have it.’

Pointing at his groin, Jess said, ‘Do you know what you’ve got there? Do you? That ain’t no fucking clap, mate. That’s genital herpes. And so have I, by the way. It’ll eat your bollocks and then it nips into your anus. So when they make you fuck the new prisoners, you’ll give it to them.’

Nero harrumphed. ‘So what? Sod em!’

‘It’ll be murder. You’ll kill them. You.’

Nero paused.

Jess seized the slender advantage. ‘I can be back in a few hours.’

‘You don’t know where we are… and where will you get the pills?’

‘Sex clinic. There’s one in Leighton Buzzard – it’s a walk-in centre, I’ve used it before. Very few questions asked.’ Jess stopped shy of confessing that the
reason
she had used it before went by the name of Molecule. Now was probably not the best of times to admit that she had had sex with Nero’s older brother. ‘What do you say?’

‘I was asleep,’ Nero answered, showing her the wasting muscles on his back, walking away.

The key was in the lock. Jess turned it and opened the door. She had not warned them to try no funny business: if they rushed her, the results would probably amount to much the same. But they didn’t rush her. Inside the wardrobe, all three of the incarcerated huddled – serene and already broken – as close to the far wall as they had been able to get. If an escape plan had been discussed, it was not to be acted on at this moment.

Jess cleared her throat and addressed Mrs Murphy.

‘Madam?’ she said. ‘I need to borrow your clothes.’