Get a Load of This (9 page)

     
     It all happened so quickly he hadn't any chance of making plans. They had come to him and offered him three hundred dollars to give Pedro de Babar the heat. Three hundred dollars! They were crazy! Well, he'd got them up to five hundred and there they stuck. When he found they wouldn't give any more, he agreed. He knew once he had given it to de Babar he'd have to get out of Cuba. That didn't worry him. He was sick of Cuba, anyway.
     In the afternoon he went up to de Babar's bungalow with the intention of having a look round. It was a nice place, fitting for a General of the Cuban War Department to live in.
     The big garden that surrounded the one-storied building flamed with colours. Palm trees bent graceful heads against the blue of the sky. The place was so nice that the boy was violently envious. He would have liked to have been a devastating god with powers to destroy by a wave of his hand.
     The heat of the afternoon sun had driven the guards to shelter. The boy could see no one as he made his way cautiously towards the bungalow. So he went on, until he came to a little path leading to the back of the building.
     He moved soundlessly, beads of sweat running down his yellow-white skin. He was not frightened for himself, only that he might make some mistake that would prevent him from killing the General. He reached the bungalow and began walking slowly along the wall, glancing into the windows.
     That was how it happened. He looked through the window and saw the woman and de Babar on the bed. He couldn't see very much of the woman. She stared up at the dirty white ceiling, her eyes very wide. He could see she was chewing her bottom lip, and every now and then she would toss her head from side to side on the pillow. As he stood watching, she suddenly shut her eyes and began to drum on the bed with her heels.
     He could only see the back of the General's head and his bull neck, creasing into three great rolls of fat. He could see the sweat running down behind the big fleshy ears, and the slow movement of the gross body.
     Without thinking, the boy pulled the blunt-nosed automatic from inside his coat. He did not hesitate. Perhaps such an opportunity would never come his way again. The General was helpless. There was no one to protect him, and he would have to take his chance of getting away.
     He hooked his fingers under the window and pushed it up. As it went up, it made a little grating noise. The General heard it. He moved his head languidly and looked over his shoulder.
     The boy smiled at him. He thought it was very, very funny to kill the General like this. He wondered if any other man had ever been killed doing what the General was doing. He leant a little way into the room and brought the automatic up.
     The General looked at the automatic. He remained very still. The blood congestion of his face gradually faded, leaving the pock-marked flesh a greenish white.
     The woman said urgently, “Go on—go on—why do you stop?”
     The General didn't say anything. He couldn't do anything. He just stared with hot intent eyes at the gun. He was in a hell of a jam.
     The woman opened her eyes. “What is it?” she said. Her voice was unsteady, as if she were out of breath. “What is it?” She looked across at the window.
     The boy smiled at her too. The shock of seeing him there with the gun was so great that the blood even went away from her lips. She looked as if she were going to die.
     The boy squeezed the trigger gently. He would have liked to delay the shooting longer, because these two did really look very ridiculous, but any moment the guards might come. The gun went off with a sharp crack just as the General began to move away from the woman. The heavy bullet smashed the side of his skull. He flopped on the woman, pinning her flat.
     The boy leant further into the room. She had seen him. It wouldn't be safe to leave her. She made no attempt to move. She lay still, the blood from the General's wound running on to her cheek and neck. It was all so horrible for her that she wanted to die. There wasn't much to aim at, but the boy didn't have to fire a third time.
     It was a great pity that he had to wait to kill the woman, because the guard, turning out on the first shot, saw him; and although the boy managed to get away, they knew who to look for and it made it very difficult for the boy to get down to the harbour where a boat waited to take him across the Straits.
     By nightfall the search had intensified. They had no intentions of letting him get away. He had spent the evening hidden in a back room of an outlying farmhouse. The farmer asked no questions because revolution was constantly rearing its head, and General de Babar had deserved to die.
     Under cover of darkness, the boy made his way down to the waterfront. He had still three hours before the boat that was coming for him would get in. The journey was very trying because of the heat and the soldiers who were looking for him. He was fortunate to see the soldiers first, but it meant crouching in dark shadows for a long time, and then running very hard when they went away.
     So he was glad to sit down in a little cafe overlooking the waterfront, near the harbour. He sat at the table, very tense, and tried to control his laboured breathing. Such was his outward calmness, that no one, looking at him now, would believe that not five hours ago he had killed one of Cuba's most important generals and politicians. He looked tired, certainly, and he looked hot and untidy, but he managed to control the shivering fear that possessed him, and the furtive feeling that at any moment the soldiers would burst in and shoot him.
     A waiter came over to him and asked him what he wanted. The boy, fearing that the waiter might read the hunted look in his eyes, did not look up. He ordered beer.
     While he waited for the waiter to bring it, he looked round the dim room. There were only two other people, besides the waiter and the barman, in the room—a sailor and his woman companion.
     The sailor was terribly drunk. He was so drunk that he had to hold on to the table very firmly to prevent himself falling to the floor. The woman was talking to him softly and rapidly with a fixed smile on her face. Her big black eyes were hard and suspicious. It was obvious that she was trying to persuade the sailor to spend the night with her.
     Watching these two, the boy forgot for a moment that he was a fugitive. He felt a sudden nausea as he watched the woman's desperate attempts to arouse the sailor's interest.
     About a year or so ago the boy had gone with a woman. It was curiosity that made him go with her. It was not that he wanted her, but because he wanted to know. He went with her because he was tired of the sniggers and the whispers of the other boys. He was tired of listening and not knowing what it all meant.
     The house was dirty, and the room seemed soiled, as if the things that had happened there had seeped into the walls, leaving dark stains. Even the woman wasn't very clean, but he learnt the reason for the sniggers and the whispers, and when it was over and he had got outside, he had been very sick in the street.
     The boy was, and would be, fanatically virginal. He loathed the stirring of lust, which he couldn't understand, and over which he had no power of control. He hated any contact with anyone. He wanted to live entirely on his own, his pure, horrible little life. Nothing else mattered to him but money. It was for money that he had killed de Babar. It was for money that he had done so many mean things in his young life. And yet, he never had money. It slid through his fingers like grains of sand, urging him again and again to make more by further mean little deeds.
     The waiter brought the beer and put it in front of him. He stood waiting until the boy paid him, then he went back to the bar. The boy drank the beer; he didn't stop drinking until the glass was empty. Then he set the glass down with a little shudder. His face twisted and he hurriedly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
     A telephone rang sharply, startling the boy, so that he nearly jerked the glass to the floor. The barman reached under the counter and lifted the instrument. He listened for a few seconds, then grunted and hung up.
     He leant over the bar and said to the sailor: “You'd better get outta here. The soldiers are coming this way; they're searching all the bars.”
     The boy heard him. He put his hands on the table so that they should not tremble.
     The sailor sneered. “What the hell do I care?” he said. “I ain't movin'.”
     The woman said quickly: “Come on, honey. Come home with me where the soldiers won't worry you.”
     The boy looked at the woman. “Where the soldiers wouldn't worry him,” he thought. If he went with her, he'd be safe. He shuddered at the thought of being alone with her, but he was more frightened of the soldiers.
     The sailor put his head on his arms. “You go to hell,” he said, and began to snore drunkenly.
     The boy pushed back his chair hurriedly and went across to the woman. “Take me to your place,” he whispered urgently. “Now—at once.”
     The woman stared at him. What she saw didn't give her any confidence. This was just a down-at-heel bum. A kid without any dough. “Go climb an alp,” she said, “I'm busy.” And she shook the sailor roughly.
     Shivering, the boy pulled out some money. He opened his fist under her eyes and showed her several crumpled bills. “Don't wait for him—take me.”
     The woman looked down at the notes. She forgot the sailor. A fixed smile came to her lips and she got up. “Sure,” she said, “you come along with me. For that amount of dough I'll give you a good time. I'm Therese. It's a nice name, ain't it?”
     The boy was so anxious to get out of the bar that he didn't hear what she said. He said, urgently: “Is it far? Come on, let's get outta here.”
     She went with him into the dark, hot night. “It's behind the Custom shed,” she said. “Hey, not so fast! Where's the fire?”
     The boy went on, moving through the narrow back streets fast. He didn't look back, although he wanted to, because he was scared that Therese would suspect something was wrong and would not give him shelter.
     She almost had to run to keep up with him. “You're a hot one,” she panted, with a giggle. “I ain't goin' to run away—we'll get there soon enough.”
     The boy shuddered, but kept on.
     “Look, over there,” Therese said, as they stepped into a dark square, “that's my joint—where the stairs go up the side of the house.”
     The boy said, “Lead the way.” His whole body was tense with listening, but he could hear nothing that alarmed him.
     They went up the stairs, and Therese groped her way into her room and fumbled for some matches. “Just wait a second, honey,” she said, “I'll get the lamp goin'. You'll be fallin' over somethin' an' hurtin' yourself.”
     The boy felt the bile in his stomach rise. He stood in the darkness with his back to the room, looking down on to the dark square.
     The lamp flamed up suddenly and Therese adjusted the wick. She walked over to the window and pulled the faded cotton curtain. “Come on in, handsome,” she said, “an' shut the door.”
     With the light behind him, the boy no longer felt safe. He moved further into the room, and shut the door. He stood looking round uneasily. The unfinished wooden walls were decorated with cheap lithographs, and immediately over the bed was a photogravure sheet of a nude, taken from some magazine. A faded, rather ghastly Chinese screen partially concealed the small bed, and the inevitable Singer sewing-machine stood against the wall.
     The boy said, “Put the lamp out.”
     Therese threw back her head and laughed at him. “Don't you wantta see what you're buyin',” she said, “or are you coy?”
     The boy hated her with all his vicious little soul. He said, “Put out that lamp.”
     Therese took the hem of her skirt and raised it over her hips. She was naked under the dress. The boy felt the blood surge into his face. He shifted his eyes, feeling revolted and frightened. Therese had quite a nice little body, but the proximity of any woman nauseated him.
     Therese stared at him. “What's the matter with you,” she said sharply, letting her skirt fall, “don't you like me anymore?”
     The boy wanted to scream that she was the filthiest thing he'd ever seen, but he stopped himself in time. Outside, the soldiers were looking for him. With Therese he was safe for a little while. He must not risk anything.
     He said: “I'm all right. The lamp worries me—that's all.”
     Therese held out her hand. “It's cash, honey. That's the way I run my business.”
     The boy hated parting with the money. He hated parting with his money almost as much as he hated being shut in with this whore. The money was buying him safety and he pushed the crumpled bills across the table. Therese scooped them up and shoved them down the top of her stocking.
     “There,” she said, “now you can have the lamp out.” She leant forward and blew sharply down the glass funnel. As she leant forward, her breasts swung against the thin cotton of her dress. The boy stepped back. He thought, “In another minute she will be coming to me.” He blundered across the room to the window and drew the curtain aside.
     Therese said: “What's up with you, honey? Don't you feel well?”
     The boy didn't hear her. He was looking on to the dark square. Three soldiers were standing in the shadows. Now and then one of them moved, and the moonlight glinted on a naked bayonet. He hastily dropped the curtain and stepped back. His hot hands touched Therese's bare arm, and he jerked away.
     “Come on, honey,” Therese said, “let's get it over. I got to get out again tonight.”
     The boy stepped away from her voice, collided with the screen and abruptly sat on the bed. Before he could rise, Therese put her arms round him and drew him down. His hand touched the soft inner part of her thigh, and he stiffened with the horror of it.
     She said, “I bet you ain't had a woman before.” She said it quite kindly.
     “Don't touch me,” the boy almost whimpered; “getaway from me.”
     Therese put her hand down on him. “Don't be screwy. You got nothin' to be scared of.”
     Under her touch, a long-forgotten lust stirred in him. The quickening of his blood terrified him, and he threw her away from him so violently that she rolled on to the floor. He sat up in the dark. His shirt was plastered against his thin chest, and his eyes glared into the suffocating darkness.