A Bright Moon for Fools (35 page)

Christmas tried to get closer but Ricardo and Gabriel caught him and pushed him back inside, into the kitchen, into the main room and against a wall as he struggled against them.

Ricardo, his hands on Christmas’ shoulders, told him what had happened, every detail pulling another groan from him, as his head rolled and the sound system pounded across the village.

The policeman came inside and tried to question him. “You know this man responsible? He’s a friend of yours?”

“No, he’s not a friend of mine! He is my
enemy
!” and then, in English, “Do you understand, do you fucking understand?” and Christmas started towards him but
Ricardo held him fast.

“Listen to me,” Christmas said to the policeman, “This man raped a gringo woman in Rio Caribe, OK?”

“Are you sure? This is the man?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure! I know that woman. That’s where I left my passport, in Rio Caribe; that’s where I’ve just been to get –” and he dug into his
pocket and threw his passport at him “– there!” The policeman blinked, absorbing this information. There was the possibility of a high profile arrest here.

“Well?” shouted Christmas. Ricardo and Gabriel had let go of him, all three men facing the officer, others on the porch looking in, with still more that had come into the kitchen
from the yard. “Well?” Christmas repeated, “Are we going to get him?” The policeman put his hand on his gun. He nodded.

Christmas picked up the hatchet.

I
t seemed as if the whole village had emptied into the forest. Once the word got out that there was a manhunt, all the men, most of whom were
drunk, had arrived carrying machetes and knives, some with ancient rifles used for hunting.

With the sound of salsa pounding the air above them, the policeman tried in vain to keep order; a rough line from Lola’s house to the foot of the mountains where it was judged too steep
for an injured man to make headway.

Lola had seen Slade running eastwards so they swept the forest in that direction, picking up the blood trail, then losing it, the policeman somewhere in the middle, bellowing orders everyone
ignored. Some moved east but others spread north or wandered back into the village. Some fell over and fell asleep. There were kids everywhere.

Those that were close to Lola’s family, or had seen the damage done, or were sober, maintained the line. They thrashed the overgrowth with their weapons. They made catcalls and
threats.

Christmas said nothing.

He scanned the territory in front of him. The men on his left and right disappeared and reappeared.

For the first time in his life he was experiencing the will to murder.

They hacked through the brake, seethed through cacao plantations, into close forests of bamboo and coffee, Christmas puddled in sweat, wiping his face again and again, trying to keep his eyes
clear.

San Cristóbal was ringed by cloud forest. From Lola’s house on the outskirts of its western end, they advanced between the village and the mountains until they had covered all the
ground north of the village up to the ridge that defined the eastern side of the bay. There the men reconvened, coming out of the trees, squabbling about where Slade had gone. Some said he was
hiding, others that he had pressed north into the mountains, the policeman trying to shout above all the other voices and maintain his authority.

Christmas looked around him. The path he often took to Lola’s cacao trees traversed the ridge, went over the headland and then down into the fields and forest of the northern side of the
peninsula. That path went on to connect the tiny villages there – Uquire, Don Pedro, San Francisco – and if an injured man could make it beyond them, eventually he would come to the
start of the road and perhaps secure transport.

The policeman was dividing the party into three groups. One to go back over the ground they had covered and continue west to search the old cement factory in case Slade had doubled back, a
second to head north, the third to go over the ridge. The policeman selected the gringo to go with him in the third group. Christmas only nodded.

The groups separated. Christmas, at the end of the line, began the familiar climb up the headland path and over the ridge. He looked west over the village, the festival still continuing, as the
policeman fired questions at him. Soon all the Venezuelans, far fitter and stronger than he, were leaving him behind. There was the sea.

At the path’s apex, Christmas rested for a few breaths against his usual rock. From here the path doglegged down the other side into jungle and cacao. He saw the policeman’s back
already disappearing around the next corner. Christmas was panting. He inhaled the smell of dust and sea and put his hands against the rock, hanging his head. He heard someone talking.

Christmas froze.

Where was it coming from? It was faint, carried on the sea breeze.

He stood with his back to the sea and stared up at the ridge.

He couldn’t hear the voice any more. He closed his eyes – there it was again. Christmas turned round. It was coming from the sea.

With his hatchet ready, he edged around the rock. There was a tiny path that went down the face of the headland to the waves below.

He leaned over the edge.

He couldn’t see anyone, couldn’t hear anything – but there – again – definitely the cadence of English. Christmas couldn’t make out what was being said but he
could tell it was a conversation.
He must be on the phone
, thought Christmas.

His fury redoubled and, grasping at sprigs while keeping hold of the hatchet, Christmas struggled downwards.

“Boo-hoo,” said The General. “You’re dying.” Slade was slumped into a cranny. He was soaked in his own blood; some dried, some fresh. The sun
baked him, the smallest movement kneading liquid from his clefts and cracks and ruptures. He could only see out of one eye, the left side of his face ripped and mushroomed by the force of the pan,
his cheekbone and jaw both shattered. He had lost a great deal of blood and was falling in and out of consciousness.

“Where’s my father?” Slade asked the cat again as dislodged earth began to rain onto the rocks in front of him. The General looked up.

“Boo-hoo,” he said. “He’s coming.”

Slade tried to pull himself up, to be presentable, squinting with his remaining eye against the blood and the sweat and the sun and suddenly there he was, his father, with a hatchet.

“Daddy?”

Never before had Christmas seen a man in such a condition. Slade looked like some mangled sea-creature, torn apart by a harpoon. His face was unrecognisable. His chest jerked
up and down.

“
What
?”

“Daddy—” and Slade tried to raise himself further, gasping, crying out, his body quivering with the effort as Christmas stood there, unsure of what to do. The animal in front
of him was so terrified it sucked the vengeance out of him. He was left with so strange a fusion of disgust and sadness that he just stood there, disbelieving.

“Twenty-six thousand pounds?” he hissed, and then, yelling, “You’ve done all this for
twenty-six thousand pounds
?”

Slade, his hands struggling against the rock, almost standing, spitting with the strain, saw heaven open up in the sky behind his father and in that same moment understood that
it was not for him. The sun was different, grey, massive. It was expanding. It grew bigger and bigger. It was charging towards him.

Slade threw himself out to his father for protection.

The next thing Christmas knew he had banged his head against rock, Slade’s weight on top of him.

He looked up into that one mad eye: a child’s eye.

Slade pushed himself up from Christmas’ chest. He picked up the hatchet to examine it and the policeman shot him through the neck from the path above. He was aiming for his hand.

A slingshot of blood splattered over Christmas’ face, pumping fast all over him as Slade fell forward.

Crying out in horror, Christmas pushed the body away and wriggled out from beneath it.

Slade was still alive. He made a gargling noise as he tried to speak. His eye was wild with death. Then it turned into cold jelly. Christmas looked up at the men above, shouting things, making
their way down.

He turned back to the corpse of Diana’s murdered stepson and thought
I did this
.

C
hristmas would never remember with clarity the moments following, only that he was walked into the sea to wash away the blood, his hands held, his
head dunked; a baptism.

They carried Slade’s body down to the village, wrapped it in plastic and left it on a table in the medical centre, surrounded by children. The festival was stopped, the music turned off.
Christmas was only aware of crowds and questions and being in several rooms with the policeman, unable to speak except to ask after Lola and the old man.

Many more policemen of every stripe arrived by boat. He was questioned over and over. His photograph was taken. He spoke to British embassy officials on the phone, answering yes and no. He was
taken into the small prison that stood next to the electricity turbine and left in a cell. It was dark, with graffiti chiselled into the wall. They brought in two chairs. Sometimes police officers
sat with him. Sometimes he was alone, listening to conversations and phone calls outside.

The door opened. An officer came in.

“Can I see Lola? Is she there?”

“Who’s Lola?” the man said. He took out some handcuffs and arrested Christmas for defrauding the Gran Melía hotel in Caracas.

“The old man – the one who was injured – is he OK?” The officer shrugged. “Can you get me some rum?” begged the prisoner. He bought Christmas a glass of water
and, as he left, Lola came in.

Her face was swollen and gashed. Christmas groaned and whispered his congratulations to the devil. She went towards him then changed her mind and sat down on the chair opposite.

“How is your father?”

“He’s OK—” but she fell quiet. Tears ran down her bruising. “He’s OK, he’s OK,” she said, as if trying to convince herself of its certainty. She
was looking at his handcuffs. “You are a liar,” she said. “You are a criminal.”

“I’m not a criminal, it’s just – I should’ve told you – I was going to tell you everything, I swear it but – but—”

“So tell me! Tell it to me!” Christmas bit down on his lip.

“There was a woman – in England—”

“Is your wife really dead? Did you even have a wife?”

“Yes I did – and after she died, I just went bad. I went crazy. And I lost all my money and I ended up with this woman and I took some of her money and it was the biggest mistake
I’ve ever made in my life – these debts and – and there was – I barely had the money to eat, the bank had taken my home, Lola ...” but he could see the disgust in her
face. “I know how it sounds, but she was trying to get my money too, and—”

“Your money? You just said you had no money.”

“Yes, but—”

“So you lied to her? Like you have lied to me!”

“Lola—”

“Who was this man?”

“Lola, please—”

“Who was he?”

“Her son.”

“
Dios
...” she gasped, holding herself.

“Her stepson, an evil fucking monster I didn’t know about – she never told me about him and he followed me to Venezuela ... Lola, I have made such a mistake but I never knew, I
never thought for one moment – how – exploded into this and ...” Lola was on her feet. “Don’t go, please—”

“Stop it!”

“Lola, you have to let me explain the full story – I can’t just – here – like this – I love you, don’t you understand?”

“Understand?” she shouted. “Look at my face! You did this! Do you even make movies?” Christmas was silent. “Fuck you, gringo,” she said in English.

Then she was gone.

The next thing Christmas knew he was holding a mobile phone to his ear and talking to someone else from the British embassy. The man was explaining that he would be brought
back to Caracas.

“If you agree with the police officer’s version of events, that this man Slade was about to strike you with the implement and therefore most probably kill you, then this whole
unfortunate business will be concluded relatively quickly and you will only have the hotel fraud charges to face. If, however, you disagree with his report and there is any doubt, any doubt
whatsoever, as to the legitimacy of the killing as far as the British government is concerned, well that could mean weeks, months – even longer to be honest – of delay. There will be
inquiry, legal proceedings, court etcetera – are you following me, Mr Christmas?”

“Do the Lambs know?”

“What?”

“Bridget Lamb, the woman he raped – do they know?”

“Yes, I believe they have been informed.”

“I—”

“Yes, Mr Christmas?”

“I ... I don’t have any money.”

“Really. Well, I can tell you, especially in that case, that it would be better for everyone all round if you agree with the officer’s version of events. You do agree, is that
correct? He was about to strike you with a – what was it now – an axe? A hatchet? Correct?” Christmas didn’t reply. The official coughed. “Mr Christmas? Is that
correct?”

J
ust before Christmas was escorted to the boat, the policeman who had killed William Slade came into the cell. He had bought Christmas’
passport for the custody officers. “I saved your life, gringo,” he said. He spat on the floor, raised his eyebrows and walked out into the sun.

Christmas was taken outside. The whole village was there. He searched desperately for Lola but couldn’t see her. They all watched him, some silent, some murmuring. Ricardo and Gabriel were
there. They nodded their heads in consolation and patted him as he was led past.

“Take care of yourself,” said Ricardo.

“Tell Lola—” said Christmas but he had seen Aldo. They stared at each other. The prisoner was pushed on.

He was taken onto the jetty and into a small boat filled with policemen. He sat down and looked up at all the faces.
Lola
. Would he ever see her again?