Ventriloquists (43 page)

Don opened the door. Dressed in a vest and white longjohns, he held a fizzing snout in his right hand, so he mustn’t have been asleep, but his eyes were perimetered red – brandy and enforced wakefulness.

‘
What is it, boss?’ he asked, lifting the burn to his chapped lips.

Dorota jumped in.

‘We want to see your hole,’ she said.

Don smiled around his cigarette and leaked smoke. ‘Hadn’t you better buy me dinner first,’ he said.

‘Don’t be sly, Don,’ Vig told him. ‘Is Charlie here?’

‘I thought he was with you.’

‘Why?’ Dorota’s tone was harsh.

‘Because his car is in the drive. But come in if it helps. I’ve had enough of this.’

Don stepped away from the door and waved them in.

‘Be quick though, if you would. It’s cold as a dead tramp’s cock.’

Vig and Dorota stepped in; the smell of roasted chicken remained on the air. The bird had been half-devoured; evidently Don had suffered an attack of the munchies. On the coffee table near his comfy chair were the remains of his midnight snack: chicken skin and bread crusts, ashy smidges of a powerful fix of pepper.

‘The hole’s empty,’ Don told them as he closed the door.

In the kitchen the trapdoor was still open. Vig and Dorota stood over the hole.

It was empty.

7.

Breathe, breathe…

Vig was coiled like a bastard cobra. He could not remember being so furious since two boys had a fist-fight during one of his classes. The phone rang.

Pick it up, wanker, he thought.

‘Where the hell are you?’ Eastlight demanded into his ear.

‘No. Where the hell are
you?
’

‘I told you: in Donald Duck’s kitchen.’

‘No you’re not, Charlie. We’ve just been there. And if you’re in my house somewhere, I’m not amused.’

‘I’m not… in your house,’ Eastlight replied.

‘Then where are you?’

‘I’m in a hole; a pit.’

‘Where?’ Vig asked.

‘I
don’t fucking know.
I thought – you
went
there?’

‘The hole’s empty, Charlie.’

Eastlight swore. ‘Where’s he put me, Vig? I’m not joking.’

‘I have no idea… Are you sure you’re…’

‘In a hole?’ Eastlight bellowed. ‘No, I’m in the fucking Maldives!’

‘There’s no need, Charlie,’ Vig answered weakly.

‘No need?
No need?
’ Eastlight paused. ‘
Find me, Vig,
’ he said with menace.

‘Call the police.’

‘Yeah right.’

‘They can trace the call. Why not?’

‘Yeah right. Just find me.’

And he ended the call.

8.

‘Do you know what you’ve done, Mr Eastlight?’ said Don. ‘You’ve just bought yourself a whole day of hunger. I was of a mind to feed you tomorrow morning when I fed the birds. Now I’m not so sure.’

‘Where am I, Don?’

‘You’re in the woods. Where do you think? You imagine I’d be so backward-thinking as to hide you in me own
home?
You’re having a laugh, you must be.’ Don broke into a chuckle; it sounded but a shade shy of malicious. ‘But I don’t suppose a day without food will hurt a fat bugger like you.’

‘I’m diabetic. I’ll have a seizure.’

‘Ah! A shame that’ll be,’ Don answered. ‘Spoil a man’s fun, would you.’

Eastlight attempted a different tack. ‘I only have a little bit of battery left on my phone,’ he said. ‘What’ll you do when I’m incommunicado?’

‘I suggest you turn it off, in that case. I’m not going out again. There’s a nip in the air.’

9.

Don knew that it was coming to an end; it had to be. He had almost been found out. He had taken a prisoner, and there was only one way that
that
could finish up. And that way was disastrously. So it was coming to an end; it had to be. And not before time.

He rolled and lit a cigarette. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, he thought; the chuckle he offered to the room was full of bile – it rattled in his ribcage. As a sixty-a-day man for the last sixty years, the prognosis from his doctor had come as no surprise whatever. He smoked his roll-up with guilt-free relish: the damage to his body had already been done.

And his suicide plan was ready. In fact, it had been ready for months. Free the birds – and then take himself deep into the woods, one last time.

Eastlight would never be found.

Guided Tour of the Atrocities

1.

Even now – now that he was an older man, playing dangerous games of his own devising – Benny thought back on the excitement-influenza of the stands, the memories of chilled fingers and twitching furled twenties. And he wanted that fire in his bones. He wanted that life. Though decades had passed since he’d last stood among the roaring crowds, wishing home a filly in the two-fifteen at Towcester, it was like an old coat in his closet. Rare was the day that he didn’t miss the thunder of voices and hooves, or the hare out of the trap, the confetti of torn-up ticket stubs. Rare was the day that he wouldn’t go back there: back into the past, where a Saturday was more than the simple enjoyment of a flutter, it was also the company of gamblers that had made it all worthwhile. The shuttle between elation and despair; the sickening lurch in the stomach – that final wasted fifty of the day, the last knockings – when the awareness of cornflakes till payday bit hard. Ah yes! how he missed it like a favourite holiday, a childhood pet…

And if gambling was an old coat in his closet, it was good to put it on once in a while.

Now relax…

Having returned home at past three in the morning, Benny was tired and wired at the same time; he was ordering himself to
relax…
Relax, you’ll give yourself a heart attack, Benny. Have a drink. Have a snooze… And he stood in his library, a vodka in his fist, waiting for his books to calm him down, as they sometimes would. But no, it wasn’t going to happen, he knew. This evening and this morning – oh, what a buzz! – had been a little like the old days; the rambling, gambling old days, in the sense that he’d placed a couple of small bets and he’d won big.

Yes. Recently, Benny had won big, thanks to Maggie.

2.

She hadn’t minded any of the deception up to now, nor the thinly-veiled disguises, the apparitions, the sleights-of-hand, some of it had even been fun. Most of it, in fact. In Maggie’s opinion, Yasser had become a lovely puppet, obedient, erotic and lithe; so no, it would not be fair to say that she lost sleep contemplating how she’d used him. Maggie hadn’t minded any of that at all…

However. She really
had
minded blasting Yasser in the face with reptile venom anaesthetic. She had not enjoyed that bit one iota. Not even letting him have his way earlier in the evening – allowing him briefly to become the monster that she believed existed ‘neath his skin – had worked as a way of forewarning herself about the guilt that was sure to follow. She’d convinced herself, partly (how? she now wondered) that if Yasser was given the opportunity to slap her around a little, and of course to get his penis wet, then he wouldn’t mind it quite so much when he had to face the next act of Maggie’s betrayal.

She’d remained fully dressed, and now she stood up and adjusted her clothing. ‘I’d like to ask you a favour,’ she said.

‘Me too. Turn the light off on your way out.’

‘
I will. Don’t hurt him. That’s the favour I’m asking.’ Maggie wondered if she would also ask another. She contemplated enquiring if he’d mind if she used his
en suite
. There was bound to be some mouthwash or some toothpaste in there… but she’d never entered his
en suite
before. She should ask his permission first.

‘…Who?’

‘Yasser. You know who.’

Lying naked on top of his duvet, Benny frowned. ‘Have I ever hurt anyone?’ he asked – somewhat disingenuously, in Maggie’s opinion. An affectionate smile brightened his features. Nostalgia? Reminiscence? Unselfconsciously, no longer looking in Maggie’s direction, he began to brush his scrotum with his fingertips.

‘You hurt
me
.’

Maggie was now by the door. Before she knew what she had done, she had smacked her lips together, the better to generate some saliva with which to refresh her tastebuds in the absence of anything minty. Her breath was crowded with the remains of stale drink; with the taste of burning petrol, the flavour of stagnant moisture from the Edlesborough house’s waterlogged air… and now with Benny’s own most recent contribution to her mouth. No. There was no doubt about it. Her breath was rank, and it was heartbreakingly so. Maggie had long since got used to the taste of Benny’s semen. But she’d been shocked by his penis tasting of another woman’s secretions.

‘You’re special,’ Benny answered. ‘Of course I won’t hurt him, girl. Not interested in that game no more.’

Maggie waited for the unspoken clause, to be added to this blatant lie, but it didn’t arrive. If she couldn’t find mouthwash or toothpaste, a coffee would make do.

‘Thanks,’ she admitted finally. Apparently, Benny had nothing more to say. His eyelids had descended.

‘The light. On your way out,’ he muttered, his hand resting on his quickly drying penis.

3.

While Benny slid the greased chute down into an all-but untroubled sleep, Maggie took her time choosing the right room in which she’d spend the remainder of her darkness (she had never been one for resting in the daylight). In the end she settled for a bedroom on the third floor. It was tastefully decorated, old-fashioned and charming. None of this, however, Maggie noted. For one thing, she had slept in the room before – during one of those nights when she was certain that Yasser would not come knocking – and for a second thing, she was weary to her bones.

Fully clothed, Maggie collapsed onto the delicious double bed. She did not turn out the bedside lamp; the illumination was murky and spot-on. Surely sleep would follow like a dream.

It might have… if she hadn’t thought of Yasser, again.

She sat up. She felt dirty. Spastically her fingers twitched, striking non-existent matches until she told them to stop. What to do? The running of a hot bath might wake Benny, so that was out. And besides, there was only one real choice.

Experiencing a resurgence of her desire to see Yasser (to see, to explain and even to confess), Maggie slipped from the bedroom and crept down stairways in the quiet dark. The house was familiar. She knew the groans of its old bones and the creaking secrets of its pressure points, which she largely remembered to avoid, stepping with a dancer’s finesse until she’d reached the ground floor.

Just as Maggie was wondering what she’d say if she encountered any of the help on her travels, she was given the opportunity to find out. Up ahead, six or seven doors down on the right, a figure climbed into the corridor’s murk and closed a door firmly behind her. It was Eva. Maggie had known her for some months, or at least been aware of her. (Eva was not the type of girl, Maggie thought, that one ever
knew
.) ‘Hi, Eva!’

The other woman did not return the greeting. ‘You’re up early,’ she said instead.

‘I haven’t been to bed. I can’t sleep.’

‘I have some horse anaesthetic in my quarters…’ Eva offered, stepping in Maggie’s direction.

‘I’ll pass. Thanks… I was hoping to see Yasser. Will that be okay?’

Eva shrugged. ‘It’s not
my
house. You can see who you want, as long as Benny doesn’t mind.’

‘He won’t mind.’ Maggie pointed at Eva’s right hip. ‘Can I borrow that?’

Eva’s smile was enigmatic. ‘Ever fired a pistol before?’ she wanted to know.

‘A shotgun. Never a pistol.’

‘
They’re chalk and cheese… but seeing as you and Benny are as thick as thieves, how about this? You tell me why you want it and I’ll say no but accompany you, if it’s protection you’re after.’

‘What else would it be?’ Maggie replied, her voice harsh.

Eva shrugged again. ‘You sound fond of this Yasser.’

‘So?’

‘So maybe you’d like to put him out of his misery.’ Eva turned on her heels and walked back the way she’d come.

Maggie followed. Through her mind galloped murderous images; in one she shot Yasser in his pretty little mouth; in another she disposed of Shyleen so that Yasser would have no choices to make in the future. Maggie it would be, all the way.

Beyond the door was the flight of stairs down to the basement. At the bottom of the stairs, another door. Eva placed her left thumb against the panel that was set at her shoulder height, and the electronic eye decoded the whorls in her print. The door buzzed; a lock clunked.

Eva walked into the vivaria.

4.

As usual, it was the smell that first alarmed Maggie – far more so than the thought of what she knew that the interlocking rooms contained – and her nostrils flared and worried as she followed behind Eva.

The basement stank of sleep. Stank of patients and patience and sickness. Part hospital ward, part reptile house at the zoo, the air seemed mouldy and in need of a set of open windows.

From floor to low ceiling, every piece of wall space was occupied by metal shelving units; on every shelf was a glass tank containing reptiles and the incandescent bulbs that kept the creatures and their habitats at the appropriate sauna temperatures. The bulbs burned brightly; they emitted enough light for Eva not to need to flick on the wall switches.

Machinery hummed; and although it was not cold in the basement, Maggie shivered. The sound of her footfalls, and those of her guide, relayed back and forth between the stone floor and the glass fronts of tanks. As if aware of the presence of humans, the occupant of one especially large tank – a yellow adder – uncurled itself swiftly and butted the front of its prison.

Despite everything that Maggie had seen (or done), snakes continued to give her the creeps. She didn’t much like lizards either, but it was snakes that got her the worst - their lazy movements, their cruel eyes… But no more than she could block her nostrils from the scent could she hold her eyelids shut against the sight; the best that she could manage was to hold her gaze straight ahead – at Eva’s shoulders – as the two of them moved through the chambers, and to hope that nothing had mastered the art of escapology.

The notion of stepping on something by accident was a horror; it made her shiver once more, and her mouth tasted suddenly of sick and soot.

Here beneath the house, there were no more doors between rooms and chambers; if you had passed the security test at the first door (the recognition of your thumbprint), there was nothing denied. Doorways had been stripped of their doors and their metal fittings; the warren that this had left behind, however, did not feel welcoming to Maggie. It felt threatening. And as they moved from one monk’s cell to the next, each one stuffed with more tanks of reptiles, not to mention the crickets, bugs and crawlies on which the reptiles would feed, Maggie longed for the occasional closed door, at which she could have tested her courage – with the intake of a vomit-and-smoke-flavoured breath, a measurement of the tingling in her arms. In the absence of any obstruction, her ride through the vivaria was wild; it felt too fast… even though it was precisely what Maggie had wanted (but dared not hope for - a guided tour of the atrocities. Regardless of the fact that she would have ventured down here anyway (her own thumbprint was known by the system, and she would have marshalled the bravery somehow), Maggie far preferred the assistance of her chaperone. (That the chaperone in question was a hard-nosed bitch, with a pistol erect on her waist, didn’t hurt!) But what was the other woman’s
hurry?
Slow down! You’ll give us both heart attacks!

Maybe Eva had been about to complete her shift, Maggie realised; maybe she’d been on her way to the Land of Nod. Maybe. A show of gratitude, in either case, would surely not go amiss: keep her sweet. ‘I’d like to say thanks,’ Maggie began – but Eva cut her short.

‘Do you know the one they call Connors?’ she asked over her shoulder. Her foot hit a sensor and a light was triggered into life in the next part of the catacombs. (This would happen from now on – lights popping awake – and in some places the jogged sensors activated a ceiling fan or an extraction pump.)

‘Only by name. Benny’s mentioned him.’

‘He was telling a story earlier on about his missing brother – when they were kids… Moments like that that I realise what a wretched thing it is we do.’

Maggie thought about contradicting the accusation, but she said instead, ‘Agreed.’ For it
was
wretched. She
knew
that it was wretched. But she also knew that the wretched could be addictive. And furthermore, she knew that she was hopelessly addicted to suffering (that of others and her own), every bit as much as Benny was.

By now the two women were deep underground, and surely beyond the limitations of the house’s walls. The maze of interlocking rooms – some large, some no bigger than a broom cupboard – went on and on and on; and not for the first time, Maggie wondered how long this subterranean workspace – part laboratory, part prison, part mental asylum – had taken to build. And who would Benny have paid to construct it all in the first place.

When she saw the first of Benny’s human prisoners over Eva’s shoulders, Maggie felt clammy all over. And not only because it was so hot this far from the door. Maggie stopped in front of one of the dozens of four-foot high fans that blew the warm air around this part of the dungeon. She hadn’t realised how much her back had perspired; the fan glued her top to her skin.

A few steps ahead, Eva also stopped walking. Having turned to evaluate the hold-up, she followed Maggie’s line of vision.

The prisoner was in the nude on his metal cot. At some point he had thrashed his blankets to the mud floor, but for now he was still, albeit with an eyes-wide-open look of horror on his features, his mouth similarly agape, revealing a bowl of gold fillings – like someone who had been photographed mid-scream. Indeed, the only thing that contradicted the horror of which the man appeared to dream was the unenlargeable erection he sported.

‘Big soldier, ain’t he?’ Eva asked, chuckling.

Although Maggie had never seen a penis quite like it in terms of scale, her first thought was of Benny. She wondered if he got excited when he saw his prisoners getting hard-ons in their sleep.