The Siren's Sting (40 page)

The bull charged again and Jesulin skipped a step or two backwards, passing him again. The matador was right below Stevie; she could see the sweat on his face, the sheen of pain, the determination. She could not swallow.

The bull came again, and this time it found Jesulin, the right horn piercing him like butter as the beast tossed him into the air. Stevie cried out, jumping to her feet; Henning and the rest of the crowd leapt up too. The
banderilleros
rushed in but no one could get close to the bull. Jesulin lay limp on the sand. The bull picked him up again with his horns and once more tossed him into the air. Stevie's heart was in her mouth; it was a terrible spectacle. Her eyes roamed the crowd for help and found Krok and his horrid guests.

The look on the mad mercenary's face, the anticipation, the satisfaction, told her everything she needed to know. She turned away. ‘Krok's done this,' she said to Henning. ‘He's done something to the bull to make him crazy, to kill the matador, to please the Korean.'

She gave a cry as the bull rushed towards the wooden barrier with Jesulin on his horns, the broken man motionless now. ‘He wants to crush Jesulin against the wall,' whispered Stevie, terror rising. There was nothing she could do—she could only watch this drawn-out murder.

The man in the fedora next to her turned. ‘Do you know who has done this to the bull?' he asked.

Stevie nodded. ‘
Si
,' she said, turning her head towards the box. ‘
Es él
'.

The man in the hat followed her gaze. Skorpios was staring back at them and Stevie turned quickly away, frightened.

Her neighbour in the fedora pointed at Skorpios. ‘Him?'

Stevie shook her head. She stood and went to the railing, pointing straight at Krok. ‘
Es él
,' she repeated quietly.

The man in the fedora began to yell at the crowd. ‘He has drugged the bull, the one-eyed
pirata
has drugged the bull.'

The crowd stomped and roared in anger. Krok stood and made as if to exit but all eyes in the ring were on him now, and he sat back down and pretended to ignore the outrage. His white knight unbuttoned his jacket and rested a hand on his holster.

A slow, rhythmic stamping began in the crowd, growing heavier and faster until the whole place was shaking. The bull snorted and began his charge. Stevie turned to see the creature bear down on the wall. The spectators stood, eyes wide with horror, unable to interfere in the events unfolding before them. Stevie went to step away from the railing—she had noticed she was leaning on a simple bolted gate, and it made her nervous—when Skorpios appeared beside her. He offered his arm to help her move away, quickly, before the bull crashed into the barrier, then grabbed her elbow before she could refuse. To Stevie's horror, the little gate swung open. The grip held her a moment then thrust her sharply backwards and let go. Stevie tumbled into the bullring.

She hit the sand with her shoulder, whirled around still on her back and was faced with the thundering hoofs of the bull. It snorted in fury, and kept on coming. Stevie curled into a tight ball, closed her eyes and tried not to anticipate what it would feel like to be gored by the beast, to be torn apart, trampled—to have everything end here in a dusty ring in Spain. Inside her head there was nothing, only the heat, the smell of manure and sweat and dust, and a wild prickling on her skin as it waited to be pierced. Then she opened her eyes. She decided she wanted to see death coming. There would be time enough for endless black oblivion.

Like a cat, Henning landed on the sand right in front of her and drew himself up to his full six foot three. The bull saw him drop into the kill zone and this time he stopped, one wild eyeball on the new arrival, so much bigger than the first. Henning reached slowly to the side, ever so slowly, and picked up a pink and yellow cape dropped by a
banderillero
. Stevie wanted to scream his name, tell him to get back, flee—
Don't be a fool, Henning
—but she knew that any sound could provoke the bull, could put them both in even more danger. Her body produced sweat instead, rivulets that stung her eyes and blurred what was happening in front of her. Henning dashed to the left, away from her. She saw the bull, the dust, Jesulin's body now dropping to the ground, the bull snorting, charging at Henning now, his back to the wall . . .

The crowd screamed in one voice, a terrible roar. Like a gymnast on a vault, Henning flew upwards. For a moment, he was silhouetted against the cloudless blue of the afternoon sky and for Stevie, looking up from the dust, it was as if he was flying. Then his body fell, hitting the barrier with a crash before bumping down onto the sand next to her.

The bull smashed into the barrier and there was a gunshot, the sound ricocheting through the stadium, joining the rushing sound in Stevie's ears. The bull collapsed between them, crushing Stevie's arm. She saw a fountain of blood spout between its eyes, the blood staining the sand around them red. The bull's body hid Henning from view. Her arm was trapped under the animal, electric flashes of pain told her it was broken but she didn't care; she felt completely removed from her body. It was already a carcass. The blood was seeping around her too now, she felt it, sticky and warm. She couldn't move, although she was sure there was nothing wrong with the rest of her body.

Someone—was it Jesulin?—rolled the bull off her arm and drew her to her feet; the sound of sirens. She looked down. The bull and the red cloud around him had swallowed Henning, who was motionless beside the beast. He lay as if sleeping, on his stomach, his head turned to one side for breath. She watched in horror as flowers of blood bloomed on his back. She collapsed onto her knees, reaching for him with her good arm, reaching for his neck to find a pulse as if for a hand-hold on a Corsican cliff, but someone was holding her back. The paramedics arrived in a cloud of dust and moved her aside, sat her down. She watched, numb to everything, as they lifted Henning onto a stretcher and put an oxygen mask over his face. Her vision swam. The last thing she felt was a pair of strong hands grasping her under the arms and dragging her away from Henning and all the blood.

20

A sleek yacht with a
gleaming ebony hull steamed out to sea under a charcoal-wash sky. Her sails were black and she cut towards the open sea with purpose despite the weather, despite the fact that she was the only boat going out that afternoon. The autumn storms had already begun to pound the coast of the Hebrides and there was a freezing wind. Aboard the boat, a party of people, all beautifully dressed, all in black. Some huddled around the wheel in their woollen overcoats, others had gone inside to the warm light. A sailor handed around a silver tray of whisky: short measures in simple pewter cups—the same colour as the sky. His feet were sure as the boat bucked. Nobody refused a glass.

His name was murmured by every drinker, whispered, mouthed, declared. Faces were pale but no one was seasick. It was Henning's funeral and Stevie found it hard to raise her eyes and look at the horizon. They stung from hours of weeping, the lids chafed red. She had lined them in black although she knew they would run to mud when the fresh tears began to fall.

Somewhere out at sea, the schooner slowed; the faraway cliffs loomed like monuments, like a magnificent tombstone. Henning would have liked the view. A requiem began to play, not competing with the howling wind, but almost dancing with it, using its power to soar higher into the air, to spread further its lament. The dear body was ashes now and Iris held them in a stone jar. She was as pale as milk and thin as a blade; it seemed even the wind might snap her. It was unnatural to survive your child and Stevie would not have wished that fate on anyone.

Iris wore a black fur collar on a black coat, floor-length, with a double breast of onyx buttons. On her left shoulder she wore a large jewelled panther. The black netting she wore over her eyes did not hide enough of the sorrow in them. She stood at the stern, downwind of the gale, cradling the jar in her left arm. She removed her glove and the wind took it, spinning it twice before dropping it into the sea. Henning's mother opened the jar and took out a handful of ash. She lifted her fist to the sky and then released it. The wind caught the matter and lifted it, spread it like music, carried it far. Henning had returned to the universe, to God, to eternity, in handfuls of ash. His remains made a cloud in the sky darker than all the others, before the wind tore it to strips and set him free.

Stevie began to sob, this time uncontrollably. She kicked off her ballet slippers and half ran to the prow of the boat, her bare feet clinging to the wet wooden deck. She needed to be away from the other mourners. The tulle in her black ballgown billowed up around her and she fought it down with freezing hands. On top, she wore a cable-knit jumper that she had dyed black, her broken arm in a sling. The jumper did little to keep out the wind, but Stevie didn't feel a thing.

She sat at the prow, her arms on the railing, her bare feet hanging over the side. The tip of a wave caught them for a moment, then fell back. Alone and unseen, she opened her mouth in a silent scream of agony, tears pouring down her face. She thought she might die.
Henning
. There had been another boat—a ferry, a frozen lake, a rope of gold, a beginning . . . And now the end had come and it was on a boat again but everything was different. Too soon, too late. The chop and spray of the waves wet her through but she could not move. Nothing mattered anymore; the world for her was dead.

She looked back at Iris, still standing on the stern. She watched as Henning's mother reached up to her chignon and pulled out the comb that held it. Her hair tumbled down and blew out with the wind as she shook it free.

Stevie stared; she suddenly remembered the Sardinian tradition:
Sciogliere i capelli al cimitero significa vendetta
. When a woman lets her hair down by the fresh grave of her son or father or husband, she is asking for revenge. Someone at the funeral must undertake to carry it out. Did Iris know what she was asking when she took out her comb? The grieving woman turned and caught Stevie's gaze. She held it for a second before turning away—but a second was enough for Stevie to know what Iris wanted. It was what she wanted too.

With no words, someone placed a heavy black overcoat around her slim shoulders. It was David Rice. He sat down beside her on the tossing prow and encircled Stevie with his arms. He held her so tightly she could hardly breathe and she was grateful. She felt that David's arms were the only thing holding her together right now, the only thing stopping her from jumping into the sea, from evaporating like her lover into clouds of cinder. She put her exhausted head on David's shoulder and closed her eyes. Her face was streaked black, but the tears had dried.

Rice let her rest there a moment then reached into the pocket of the overcoat and drew out a small red leather box. ‘This came for you this morning.'

Stevie sat up and opened her eyes. The box was from Cartier. ‘Who . . .?'

Rice shook his head. ‘It came by courier direct from the shop.'

Stevie took the box gingerly. In the risk assessment business, mystery gifts were to be treated with extreme caution. Inside was a jewelled brooch in the shape of an owl. Underneath the brooch was a small scrap of blue tissue paper in the shape of an H. Stevie picked it up with trembling fingers; it disintegrated with her touch. She looked up at Rice, her lungs so tight she could hardly breathe. ‘It's from Henning,' she gulped, her head spinning now. ‘It's a message.' She paused to take a slow breath. Could it be possible? She had lain next to the bleeding body, seen the screaming headlines about the fatal goring in the Spanish papers—but the owl . . . ‘He's not dead, is he?' she whispered finally.

Rice put a heavy hand on her shoulder. ‘Don't do this to yourself, Stevie. It will only hurt twice as much. Henning is dead. You have to grieve, then move on.'

But Stevie was no longer listening. The blood and the wind in her ears rushed out all coherent thoughts.

If . . . Why? How?! When? Where? WHY?

The boat was coming in to port now and darkness was falling around them. In the half-light, the black ship with its black sails was almost invisible. Did Iris know? She had to find her. Henning's mother was walking down the gangplank, a handsome older man with thick silver hair was supporting her with a hand under her elbow. Stevie called out to her. Iris turned and her veiled eyes met Stevie's, then she looked away and kept on walking. Stevie rushed to the stern of the boat, but Iris had disappeared into the night.

21

Stevie did not know what
to do, and half the time she felt she was going mad. Had she imagined the pale blue H made of tissue? But there was the owl brooch, sitting in its box. David disagreed, but to her it was proof that Henning was not dead. Who else could have sent it? No one else had a reason to. He wanted her to know. Stevie couldn't bring herself to wear the jewelled bird; her mind was a mass of contradictions and confusion that drove her wild and would not let her sleep. She was bewildered—elated that Henning was alive, and angry that he was pretending to be dead; she was afraid of why he had to pretend, afraid of how bad his injuries were, guilty that he had been hurt trying to save her, and unsure if she would ever see him again . . .

David Rice had opened his London flat to her, and she was to stay there as long as she wanted. Stevie knew it was his sanctuary and the offer meant a lot to her. Unfortunately, David was in Herefordshire; minor health complications had him on a forced rest cure, uncertain of a return date. Stevie roamed the rooms of his flat—even a few months ago, she would have been fascinated by every object in them, little clues to the private life of her boss that he kept so well hidden. But now it only made her more melancholy, reminded her of how close she had come to losing David too. Her world was in turmoil and nothing felt as it should be. And so she mostly stayed inside and ate almost nothing, drank only camomile tea with honey, or whisky. She hunted down Iris' telephone numbers and called them at different times throughout the day, but none of them were ever answered. Mostly, she sat on the Persian rug and watched the rain, and the cars moving about on the street below. When she did leave the flat, Stevie wandered the streets for hours, aimlessly, most often drawn to the river with its flat grey face and slow-moving traffic.