Restoration (38 page)

  "Later," the box said, "he comes later…
if
you do as you're told."

  And so Chester had relented, placing the box safely inside his coat pocket and resolving himself to the night ahead.

  He had sat with Penelope and Dolores, listening to the house band with feigned interest. Lighting Penelope's cigarettes – she smoked too much, that was one thing against her, he didn't like ladies that smoked, it spoke of no self-control – and waiting patiently for the night to draw to a close.

  By the time they left the club, Dolores had been stumbling drunk. Which was good, that would make her far easier to control.

  "You can control
anyone
," the box insisted in his head, "with my help."

  Henryk let them in to the back of the car and Chester saw him grin at the sight of the girls, no doubt thinking of what treats he had in store. Let him salivate, Chester thought, if that's what it takes to keep him at heel.

  They drove out of Harlem towards Chester's father's plant. He was confident that neither of them would know their way around well enough to realise they were going the wrong way. Certainly not while they still had time to do anything about it. Chester tilted his head back against the leather of the seat. Penelope was talking about the things she always talked about: people she knew, things they had done, the music, who the musicians had been… all things that Chester had once made a show of caring about. He had enjoyed the game – and that's what it had been he realised, the box was quite right in that, he had been pretending to be someone else and the mask would always have fallen off in the end. He really wished he didn't have to do what the box had told him would be necessary. "Is there no way I can just drop her off first?" he asked, stroking the box in his pocket. "You can have Dolores, who cares about that drunken idiot? But not Penelope, let's leave her out of this."

  "I will not have this conversation again," the box replied, "you will do as you're told."

  Chester acquiesced. In his head was the unwelcome image of the voice of the box leaning over him and clamping its lid down on his index finger. Was I ever really in control? he wondered as the car pulled into the rear entrance of the meat-packing plant.

  "Where are we?" asked Penelope.

  "My father's plant," Chester replied.

  "What for?" asked Dolores, leaning drunkenly to peer out of the window. "All you big families blend into one, steelworks to chicken plants, I can never remember who's who. What do you guys do?"

  "Whatever we want," Chester replied, reaching forward to shove Dolores' face hard against the glass of the window. And there, with that simple lie there was no going back.

 

 

But it hadn't gone according to plan had it? In a matter of half an hour Chester had been left with aching balls, a dead woman in his front seat and the knowledge that his precious box was currently bobbing somewhere down the Hudson. Control? No, he had certainly never possessed that.

  He had helped Henryk dispose of the body, feeling as he did so that this finally set him on the same level as the chauffeur, certainly not the man of authority he had always dreamed of being.

  They had scrubbed the car clean, Chester working in silence, thoroughly resolved to his subservient status. He had fulfilled his father's expectation of him and lost everything. Now there was no hope with Penelope and no higher power guiding his hand. That had passed on, floating away to someone more worthwhile.

  They drove home, Chester's head as empty as his dreams.

  He had gone to bed, and lain there in cold, pointless darkness.

  The next morning, there had been conversations with the police supervised by his father and – later – the family lawyer.

  No, he hadn't seen or heard from Penelope since he dropped them off last night. Yes, he should have walked them to their door but Dolores had been drunk and Penelope had insisted she walk that off in the grounds before she faced Penelope's parents. He had been tired and, besides, it wasn't as if he'd just abandoned them on the street was it? He had not wished to cause Penelope any further embarrassment – and in truth she was quite insistent, in fact he wondered if she hadn't had a few mouthfuls of whatever it was that Dolores had been drinking. The police were far from satisfied, naturally, and when Dolores' body had been discovered floating face down some miles away from his father's plant they had come to the logical decision that the remains of Penelope would soon join them. Even when they did not, nobody seriously expected to see her alive again. There had been accusations from her parents but Terrance Arthur squashed them. He was a man only too used to making unpleasant suggestions vanish. It was all a matter of business.

  When they were alone, those looks of suspicion that Chester had grown used to on the faces of investigating officers had been present on his father's face too. But he never asked. He didn't want to know.

  Eventually it was agreed that Chester should take some time away from New York, travel a little while the gossip ran its course. Europe perhaps, there were always opportunities for a young American in Europe.

  Satisfied with this – Chester no longer cared where he was or what he did, he was a shell of a man and nothing interested him – he went to his bed and lay there in the darkness giving serious consideration to ending his life.

  Which is when the box broke its silence and began talking to him again.

 

 

And it had never stopped, leading him away from New York and over into Europe. They sent Henryk with him to act as both a facilitator and – if they were honest – a wet nurse. The chauffeur wouldn't be missed. If Terrance Arthur was pressed he would admit that he had never been all that comfortable with the fellow, and had often considered sacking him. Things were just about perfect. The dirty linen was sent away where it could no longer embarrass and Chester knew that one day, soon, he would see the box again.

  Now, with the business of burglary dealt with, Chester lay in the dark once more. He listened to the buzzing in his head, a brutal tinnitus that never quietened. The box had told him where it was, had demanded he retrieve it. Then, when it was back in Chester's hands, he would have it open at last. He would ride through that door that lived inside. Just as Penelope had done, the box had made that clear, much to Chester's jealousy.

  "Get up!" the box insisted in that voice of the actor he couldn't place. "You've botched the job, as usual."

  "I haven't," Chester replied, rolling off the bed and putting his feet on the floor. "I've done everything right. Jimenez is going to steal the box and…"

  "That dullard will never lay his hands on me," the box replied, "someone else has beaten him to it."

  Someone else? Chester couldn't begin to imagine who…

  "You need to come!" the box shouted, its voice so loud inside his head that Chester convulsed. "Come now!"

 

 

He had pulled on some clean clothes – a dark pinstripe suit, far too heavy for the weather but the first thing he could lay his hands on that wasn't sodden with sweat – and ran above deck.

  "We need to go," he told Henryk, "there's a problem."

  Henryk nodded. Chester was sure he had caught a glimpse of mockery there, a little "of course there's a problem" twitch of a smile. Even the hired help considered itself his superior.

  Henryk reached down to a strongbox beneath the wheel housing, unlocked it and held out a small pistol. "Should we?"

  Chester snatched the gun off him and stuffed it behind his back, pinning it in place with his belt.

  Henryk gave a small cough. "What?" Chester asked, impatient and sick of always feeling he was on the back foot.

  "The safety catch," said Henryk, "you may wish to ensure it is engaged. There could be an accident."

  Chester's head was starting to pound, the heat, the voice of the box – Come now! Come now! – and now this. He pulled out the gun and looked for the safety catch. Henryk glanced at the gun and pointed to the small lever near the handle. "My apologies," he said, rather insincerely, "it would appear that you are safe."

  Chester came very close to thumbing that little lever and shooting the chauffeur. His rage was such that he actually feared he may burst something in his head. It felt like his brain was swelling, little veins throbbing in his temples, jaw clenched so tight that his teeth were grinding together.

  "Come now! Come now!" the box shouted again and Chester nearly burst into tears, anything to relieve the pressure.

  He put the gun back in his waistband and clambered off the boat, Henryk following.

  They ran along the marina, Chester following the sound in his head as it gave him directions, barking at him like a platoon sergeant.

  They moved up into the city, following the route that Chester had taken to Jimenez's house.

  Chester was soon exhausted, the weight of that damned suit dragging him down. It felt like swimming full clothed, moving through this hot, muggy city. He would leave Spain once this business was done, he had decided. Go somewhere more civilised, somewhere that had a more equable climate.

  "There!" the box shouted. "The girl!"

  Looking ahead of them they could see a young girl pushing past an old man – with a face Chester thought he recognised, something definitely familiar about it – and running down the street away from them.

  "Shoot her!" the box shouted. "Now!"

  Chester pulled out his gun and aimed it towards her. Then froze. She was just a kid… what the hell was he becoming?

  He saw his face in the bathroom mirror as he had pleasured himself with a bloodied hand. He saw his reflection in the dark window of the De Soto as he punched a naked Penelope in the face. What was he doing? Dear Christ… what was he
becoming?

  "Shoot her! Shoot her! Shoot her!"

  No… he had to stop this, had to…

 
 

"Give it to me," Henryk said, snatching the gun from him. "I'll do it."

  He aimed the gun…
  "We need to go," says the boy – and he
is
a boy, for all his money, his suits and his affectation – "there's a problem."

  Henryk is not in the least surprised by this, as far as this boy goes there are always problems. Sometimes those problems are pleasant – he still thinks fondly of the slippery little American girl he had enjoyed on the front seat of the family car – sometimes they are simply work.

  Henryk does not mind work, he has no wet streak in him that turns up its nose at unpleasant things. A man can do anything if he puts his mind to it. There is no shame in any job done, any mess cleared. There is only shame in failure and that is something Henryk has never experienced. Unlike the boy.

  He offers him the gun and tells him how to carry it safely – if he shoots himself a new arsehole it will mean the end of Henryk's current employment and he would not wish for that, not yet. He has plans for that day and while it is soon it is not now. He knows this as the box has assured him it is so. And Henryk trusts the box, it has never lied to him. It tells him that his employer is an idiot, this is true. It tells him that the idiot will lose the box, this was also true. It tells him that the idiot will make a mess of getting the box back. And look "there's a problem". This would turn out to be a truth as well, he was sure.

  He had been talking to the box for some time. Not as long as the boy but long enough. It had first spoken to him while he had been sat in the car, staring out at the grey New York streets waiting for the boy and his woman to finish their shopping. They would be hours, he knew, while she picked out shoes or hats that she did not need. Paper bags filled with consumer glitter, things his family would not know what to do with and could never afford. Then he would get out, take these flimsy bags filled with silk or leather or lace, throw them in the back and drive them home. In the meantime he had nothing to occupy him but the view of a city skyline a world away from the village in which he had grown up. Not that he missed his home. It was cold and miserable and smelled of shit. He was much more comfortable here. But sometimes he grew bored. And sometimes he grew resentful.

  "You'll get what you want soon enough," a voice had said to him. Startled, he spun around, checking the back seats for what he assumed was a stowaway. Of course there had been nobody there. Nobody could have got in without him hearing them. Besides, the doors were locked, he always kept them locked while he was parked. New York was full of idiots and while he was more than capable of dealing with idiots – it was his job after all – he did not believe in making work for himself.

  "Who is this?" he had said, checking the wing mirrors.

  "Nobody you can see, Henryk," the voice had replied, before going on to list things it should not have known. Events from his life that he kept as secret from the outside world as the money he had stashed in his sock drawer back at his employer's house. Money he had taken – these people were blind to those with careful fingers – and money he had saved.

  It told him about the boy he had beaten back home, beaten so hard that now his mother had to feed him like a baby. A vacant boy, his brain turned to mush inside his thick head.

  It told him about the girl he had got pregnant. There had been a few of those, but only one that had been trouble. Trouble until she fell down the stairs of her father's small cottage at least. After that there had been no trouble at all.