The Man Whose Dream Came True (12 page)

‘Saturday,’ the girl in the travel agency said, and tapped her pad with a pencil. ‘BOAC flies Tuesdays and Thursdays, Air France on Sundays. Now, let me see.’ She delved into time tables and came up with a bright smile. ‘You can either fly Iberia or KLM, both from London Airport. Iberia leaves at eleven-fifty Saturday morning by Caravelle, arrive in Madrid fifteen o five, then you have a long stop over in Madrid, leave there o one o five Sunday morning in a Boeing, reach Caracas o seven hundred hours. KLM might suit you better. Depart London o eight one o hours Saturday morning in a DC 8, call at Amsterdam, Zurich, Lisbon, reach Caracas twenty-two twenty-five hours Saturday evening. Depends if you mind getting up early on Saturday morning or if you’d sooner stop over half a day in Madrid.’

‘I’ll take the KLM. As Jenny had said, there should be no danger, but the sooner he was out of the country on Saturday morning the better.

‘You want to make a booking now? Single, not return? Single is a hundred and forty pounds, return can be a little cheaper. Single, right.’ She got busy on the telephone, returned smiling and began to fill in a form. ‘Business trip? Are you staying long?’

‘Yes, it’s business, and I’m not sure how long I’ll be there. I may be coming back by boat.’

‘Smallpox inoculation is obligatory, yellow fever is not obligatory but advised. No visa necessary.’ He handed over the money, she counted it and gave him the ticket. ‘Have a good trip.’

Sitting in a café afterwards, he looked at the ticket. He was going to Caracas. In less than seventy-two hours he would be in a city of which he had barely heard, and of which he knew nothing. It is so simple, then, to make your dreams come true. Yet even now he did not believe in what he was doing. It could not possibly be true that on Friday night he would go to the Villa Majorca and help Jenny – he could not frame the words to describe it. And on the following morning was it really possible that he would walk across the tarmac at London Airport, step into the great mechanical bird, and in less than a day step out of it into a new life? He found that he was able to envisage the new life itself easily enough, the apartment in town with a villa in the hills for the hot season, scarlet bougainvillaea climbing round the terrace where they ate breakfast, orchids and jacaranda trees, continual lovemaking, the pleasure of possessing and being possessed. All this was much clearer to him than what was to happen on Friday and Saturday.

He spent most of the afternoon finding out about Caracas. ‘At 3,164 feet above sea level, Caracas has one of the world’s best climates. Springlike the year around, the temperature averages 64 degrees with a high of 80 degrees during April, May, September and October… English is spoken everywhere… The city has recently undergone a tremendous transformation. In the eastern part, where peons drove cattle just ten years ago, sophisticated Caracas residents now sip coffee and cocktails in chic sidewalk cafés in the best continental manner…the population of one and a half millions is cosmopolitan, and the faces of Italians, Spanish, Portuguese and North Americans are a familiar sight in the streets.’ Not, he noted, English. As Jenny had said, the chances of recognition by anybody who knew Foster would be very small. And really, the place seemed idyllic. There was nothing about poisonous insects or snakes crawling out of bunches of bananas, only descriptions of the variety of flowering trees and the national birds, turpials, toucans and humming birds, ‘resplendent in every size, colour and variety’. Photographs showed him great white skyscrapers, enormous hotels with curiously-shaped restaurants and swimming pools, eight lane highways leading out to the mountains. Altogether, Caracas seemed as dreamlike as everything else. Caracas, he read elsewhere, was one of the most expensive cities in the world, but was also ‘a city where, if you have money, you can live like a king’. And he would have money, he would live like a king with the queen always by his side.

But before that happened he had to endure an eternity of waiting. He went to the cinema and saw a Western, ate a meal, deliberately lingered in the streets so that he should take a late train back. In the Seven Seas he almost tiptoed up the stairs to avoid seeing Widgey. On the following morning he came down late, but met her coming from the dining-room to the parlour, cigarette in mouth.

‘What’s up, not working?’ When he said that he had given up she nodded. ‘Husband find out? I tell you, that woman’s a fair bitch.’

‘How can you possibly say that when you haven’t met her.’ It seemed important to defend Jenny, especially in face of attack by Widgey.

‘Some women you don’t have to meet. Come in, I can do with a bit of help.’ The parlour table was piled with old bills, receipts, sheets on which figures had been scribbled. ‘Trying to do the accounts for the year, can’t make head or tail of ’em. From what I can see I made about three thousand quid last year, only I know I didn’t. See if you can sort it out, there’s a good boy.’

He spent the next three hours putting the bills in order and totalling them, sustained by several cups of tea and a ham sandwich. Widgey expressed her appreciation. ‘Bloody marvellous you’ve got a real head for figures.’

‘I’m going today.’

He had spoken abruptly, but she simply nodded. ‘This chap, what’s his name, Foster, kicked up?’

‘Nothing like that. He’s going away for a bit, so the job’s finished for the time being.’

‘He’s going alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re going too?’ Without saying so Widgey implied clearly that she thought this strange. He said that it was best in every way for him to leave.

‘You want to get away from those hard boys, that’s a fact. But what I saw in the cards – you know? You don’t want to take too much notice of that. Sometimes they work out, sometimes they don’t.’ It was then, perhaps out of the need to convince himself that the dream had become reality, that he showed her the air ticket. A moment later he cursed his stupidity. Widgey was rarely surprised, but this was one of the rare occasions. ‘Venezuela. What the hell you going there for?’

‘I’ve got a job there.’

Ash dropped on to the butcher’s bills. ‘It’s to do with that woman. Isn’t it?’

‘You’ve got her on the brain. She’s nothing to do with it.’

‘What do you want to go to this place, what’s the name of it, Caracas – for? How much did the ticket cost, two hundred quid?’

‘Nothing like so much.’

‘Over a hundred anyway. You’ve got no money, who paid for it?’

What a fool he had been to show it to her. ‘I told you, I’ve got a job. The man who engaged me paid the fare.’

‘What sort of job? You hadn’t got one yesterday. That ticket means trouble, Tony, I can smell it.’

Something seemed to snap in his mind, as though a piece of elastic had been frayed until it suddenly snapped, and he was shrieking at her, using obscene words that were hardly ever in his mouth, talking about her sexual frustrations and her jealousy of him, accusing her of being like the rest of his family, wanting to rule his life, saying that he would leave now, this minute, and would never come back.

She heard him out, then started to roll another cigarette. ‘Okay, you leave now if that’s the way you feel.’

Upstairs in room thirteen, however, packing his suitcases among the apparatus of the past, the oversize tallboy and the wallpaper and the chest of drawers he had painted, he flung himself on the bed and wept without being able to give a better reason for his tears than that he had wanted Widgey to help in convincing him that the dream was true and that she had failed to do so. When he went down half an hour later he hesitated in front of the parlour door, then went it. She was asleep in the armchair, a copy of her latest library book,
Bettina and the Princess
on her lap. She looked small, worn, old. He put down the cases, went across and kissed her on the forehead. She opened her eyes.

‘You’re off, then.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Give my love to Venezuela.’ Her eyes closed again. He moved from foot to foot like a schoolboy, then walked out of the hotel and down the street with a feeling that he was walking away from the past for ever. He took a taxi to the station and left his cases in the cloakroom. Three-thirty. Six and a half hours to go.

He was on his way to the nearest cinema – time appeared in the guise of a large hole that must be plugged – when a car horn sounded behind him. Bradbury’s face grinned from his car.

‘Tony, old boy, what a bit of luck. Come and have a noggin.’

‘At this time of day?’

‘I know a place. Hop in.’ Listening to Bradbury would fill time as well as anything else. A few minutes later, when they were drinking whisky in a second floor establishment called the Eldorado, he was less sure about this. Curtains were drawn over the windows and the lights were dim. In one corner two young men sat with their heads together whispering, behind the bar an ebony figure stood impassive. Bradbury’s body, near to his, exuded warmth.

‘The question is, old boy, filthy lucre. That money now, I don’t want to press you, but when could you let me have it back?’

‘You said there was no hurry.’

‘That was last week. Things have changed.’

‘Today’s Friday. I can manage it next Monday.’

‘You’re sure about that.’

‘No question. I said it was just a temporary loan.’ On Monday he would be in one of the best hotels in Caracas, perhaps in the oval swimming pool. Now that his future was settled he could look with tolerance even upon Bradbury. He would pay the money back, Venezuelan bolivars converted into pounds and posted from Caracas. Or would that be wise? He saw with surprise that Bradbury seemed slightly disappointed.

‘I had the impression you weren’t too flush.’

‘Next week I shall be.’ It was wonderful to be able to say that.

‘But you wouldn’t say no to making another hundred, I take it.’ Bradbury fiddled with his pony glass. A throaty giggle came from one of the young men. ‘I daresay you’ve wondered about me.’

‘Well, yes,’ he said untruthfully.

‘And if you did, you’re right. I’ve got a little something going on the side. You remember old Van.’

He said that he remembered Van. Bradbury went on talking, a conversation full of half-hints, and suggestions that it would be better if he did not know too much. He did not really listen, until a word caught his attention.

‘What was that?’

‘A little trip abroad. On Saturday.’

He almost burst out laughing. If he could only show Bradbury the air ticket to Caracas, that would make him sit up. ‘Amsterdam,’ Bradbury said. ‘I’ll tell you the routine. Van won’t meet you at the airport, but I’ll give you an address to contact him. You spend a weekend there, he shows you the sights, and believe me old Van knows how to do that, Sunday evening you come back. Then we forget what you owe me and there’s a hundred to come. What do you say?’

A second whisky stood in front of him. There was nothing to lose by agreement, but the drink made him feel truculent. ‘What is it, diamonds or drugs?’

‘Quiet.’ Bradbury’s hand squeezed his knee beneath the table.

‘Anyway, the answer is no, thanks.’

‘You don’t want it?’ There could be no doubt of Bradbury’s surprise.

‘You wouldn’t be making the offer if there weren’t strings attached. When I’m caught they can’t touch you. That’s the way you were at school. Any trouble, you slid out of it, somebody else carried the can.’

‘What’s up?’ The mottled red face raised to his own wore an expression of injury. Tony could smell the lavatories. Should he mention them, would Bradbury know what he was talking about?

‘You were a bully. At school. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.’ He stood up and Bradbury got up too. His thick cheeks were puckered with distress. He looked bewildered, like a man who has been bitten by a pet rabbit. His hand moved as though in reflex action and took its hard grip on Tony’s upper arm. With one decisive blow, a man slapping a mosquito, he knocked off the hand. Bradbury’s face purpled, its expression changed.

‘I can be a bad enemy.’

‘You just go to hell.’ The cry was brave, although somehow inadequate. The face beside him, full of bad blood and reminiscent for a moment of another face he could not remember, seemed the most hateful thing in the world. He took a swing at it and missed. The whisky glass fell from the table and clattered on the floor.

‘I shall want my money back. Next Monday. Or look out for trouble.’

He ignored the words, turned and, consciously bracing his shoulders, walked away. The ebony barman watched his going, the two young men raised heads for a moment and stared. Out in the street, after turning the corner he remembered whose face Bradbury had called to mind. It was that of his father, involved in argument at a football match.

He went into the nearest cinema, saw another Western, fell asleep and woke when nudged by the man in the next seat, tried to eat a sandwich in a pub but got no further than the first bite, walked about the town at random for an hour, looked at his watch. Nine-thirty.

The last time, he thought as he walked up the wide sweep of Byron Avenue in a light damp mist coming off the sea, this is the last time. Even as he said this to himself it seemed impossible. The road with its cracked pavements and wide grass verge and dim street lamps now melting in mist was so utterly familiar that he seemed to have been walking up it for ever. This was where he had become a person, where love had given him some object in life. Was love the right word? ‘We want the same thing,’ she had said, and what did that mean but love? In his wallet the air ticket warmed him.

He passed the ‘For Sale’ notice, only dimly visible tonight. The Villa Majorca was completely dark. He was suddenly certain that the whole thing had been some kind of hoax. His knock at the back door would go unanswered, he would be left with the ticket and an unanswerable puzzle. A small gravel path wound away to the back of the house and he walked down this, making as little noise as possible, although what ears were there to hear? Somewhere inside the house, here at the back, a faint light showed. He rapped lightly with his knuckles on the kitchen door. Silence. He rapped again and the door opened.

The face she showed him was a white blur. As he stepped inside he saw that she was wearing gloves, a raincoat, high boots, a scarf round her head. They stood in a passage which led on the right to the kitchen, on the left to the main part of the house. The light came from a small scullery.

‘All right?’ She made a gesture and he saw the body, lying on the floor beside the kitchen door. It was wrapped in sacking and tied round with rope. He caught his breath in relief that he did not actually have to see the thing. Then the thought came to him that Foster might still be alive, that she had put him into the sack unconscious.

‘The garage,’ she said. They each picked up one end of the body, which felt horribly soft and pliable. A covered way led straight from the kitchen door into the garage and they took their burden round to the back of the car. Foster was a small man but he did not go in comfortably. He had to turn aside while she doubled up the legs and pushed them in. She closed and locked the boot, then switched on the garage light. The illumination showed her face not truly white but grey as tobacco ash, the lips drawn tensely together. They spoke in whispers.

‘Are you sure?’

‘What?’

‘Is he really dead?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Was it difficult? I mean to get him to take–’

‘Shut up,’ she said quietly but viciously. A shudder which he was unable to control passed through him. She stared, then asked if he wanted a drink. He shook his head. She whispered, ‘You’re not wearing gloves.’

‘I forgot.’

‘Do you want to leave your prints everywhere.’

She turned off the light, went back to the house and returned with a pair of woollen gloves which he put on. Then she motioned to him to open the garage doors. He did so, got in the car, and they drove away down a back road that ran into Byron Avenue. She had been driving for five minutes through the mist when he exclaimed. She turned her head.

‘You’ve forgotten something.’

‘What?’

‘The weights.’

‘They’re in the boot.’

After that they did not speak. She drove carefully down back roads that were unknown to him. After twenty minutes she pulled the car into a natural lay-by, hidden among bushes. He looked round, bewildered.

‘We can’t get any nearer. The river’s through the bushes.’

It was no more than thirty yards away, but the mist was thicker here, and he stumbled once or twice. The boat lay under tarpaulin. Peeled off it revealed itself as dull blue or black in colour. When she said ‘Now,’ he knew it meant that they would have to carry the body.

‘I don’t know if I can do it.’

She said without raising her voice, ‘You have to.’

He could see them carrying the thing through the bushes. They slipped and the head came out of its covering, lolling free, the tongue showing. He turned and retched without vomiting. Without saying anything more she went back to the car. After a few moments he followed and helped her carry the thing. It was not as bad as he had feared, a mere inert bundle. Then he went back and got the weights, which had hooks on their ends. He cast off and began to row down the river while she sat in the stern attaching the weights to the rope round the sacking. The river bank moved past them slowly. Once he got too near to it and was brushed by the branches of a tree, which dropped moisture on to him. After that she took one of the oars. He asked how far they were from the sea.

‘Less than a mile. I’ll start the motor when the river broadens.’ The rowing seemed endless. Everything was dripping, it seemed to him that he was soaked in moisture. Strangely the mist cleared as they approached the sea, and when she scrambled into the bows, knelt down and pulled on the starting cord for the engine he saw in front of him black sea, felt the plash of waves on the side. When she started the motor the chugging sounded loud in his ears. Wind blew through his thin coat, a little spray went over him. The pinpoints of coastal light receded. He asked her how much farther they were going.

‘Do you want them to find him?’ she asked sharply. Five minutes later she cut the engine and asked if he was able to do it. The very lack of passion in her voice shamed him into action. He picked up the thing, heavy now with its weight, half-threw and half-pushed it over the side. There was a splash. She took a torch from her pocket and shone it downwards. Nothing was visible but the black sea. She turned the boat and they headed back to the mouth of the river.

With that final act accomplished his spirits were lightened. He wanted to talk, but sensed that she would not like it. The row back up the river was longer and harder than that out to sea, and he would not have known where to tie up if she had not told him. After tying up he was in a feverish hurry to be away but he helped her as, calmly and methodically, she stowed the oars and fitted the tarpaulin into place.

Walking back to the car he said, ‘I’m sorry. You did everything.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘I wanted to help, it was just–’ He did not finish the sentence. They reached the car. She unlocked the boot, shone the torch inside and nodded with satisfaction at its emptiness. Inside the car he produced the ticket. ‘You wanted to see it.

She took a wad of notes from her bag. ‘Ten tens, twenty fives, the rest in ones.’

‘Jenny.’

‘Yes?’

‘How am I going to get the money out there? I mean, there are currency restrictions on how much I can take out.’

‘Put it in your wallet.’

‘But I might be searched.’

‘It’s a ten thousand to one chance. If you don’t want to carry it, parcel it up and post it to yourself in Venezuela. Then it’s a million to one chance they won’t open it.’

‘There must be some way that’s completely safe.’

‘Not when we’ve got so little time. There’s no risk really.’ She looked at him. ‘what’s the matter? You’ve got an air ticket and two hundred and fifty pounds in your pocket. I’m the one who should worry. You could run out on me.’

‘You know I shan’t do that.’

‘Yes.’ She started the car and drove away.

‘How soon will you come? In a fortnight, you said.’

‘As soon as I can. I’ll have to settle things here.’

‘Venezuela seems to be a marvellous country. The cities, anyway. Do you know Caracas has a perfect climate? I shall stay at the Grand, it has the most wonderful swimming pool. If that’s full I shall stay at the Corona. Shall I let you know where I am, I’ll write poste restante to Southbourne, is that a good idea?’

‘Perfect.’

He felt a need to cancel out what they had just done by speech. ‘We’re going to be happy.’

As they approached the town she drew in to the kerb, shut off the engine. ‘I’ll put you off here, you can walk to the station.’

She looked straight in front of her. He leaned forward and kissed the side of her face awkwardly, then got out of the car. She put in the clutch and moved away.