Ventriloquists (46 page)

He shook his head. Time to wake up and smell the embalming fluid. There was work to do. He stood up.

No.

Vig’s knees wobbled. He had caught sight of something across from the trapdoor – something in the next phalanx of trees and growth – and his first reaction was not one of shock or horror. It was one of confusion.

‘Why didn’t I see that before?’ he wondered aloud. His voice suggested that he’d just been struck a blow to the brow.

Not ten metres from where Vig now stood, Don Bridges was swinging from a branch. His feet were half a metre off the ground. He must have tied the noose nice and tight around his neck because the knot and the rope had held his weight.

8.

Part of what I told you was true,
read the letter that Vig held in his hands.
Part of it was guesswork. But here are the facts, at least as I see them.

Four sheets of blue paper trembled in Vig’s grip, partly because of his shock, partly the wind gambolling in the woods. There had been no
Dear Vig,
no address of any kind, but Vig had started reading anyway, in a spirit of ‘finders keepers’.

‘
Vig?
’

Shouted… Dorota was still some distance away, though she was at least searching for him among the trees, which was more than Vig had expected of her. He had time to read on, trembling or no trembling.

My little girl died the way I told you she died, and I swear I hear her from time to time, from the Other Place. Is she a ghost? I don’t know. All I know is she was killed and my marriage was never the same after that, as you might expect.

My wife would not believe it – or would not believe that it was the end. She used to say Polly was trying to call for her – and up to a point I believed her. I did. But then I stopped believing and I started to accept the truth. Or did I?

You see, Mr Klossen…

So it
was
intended for me to read, Vig comforted himself. He even exhaled with relief – he wasn’t spying on a confession meant for someone else’s eyes – and as he straightened his back he heard Dorota call his name once again.

…
there IS a place for the lost, and it’s a place for those who HAVE LOST. As long as you can feel it in your heart that the person isn’t gone, she’d just lost, just missing, then you’ve a chance to visit that person again. That’s what I believe now. I didn’t at the time – not even when my wife started to disappear for days and weeks at a time. Not even then. Not even when she would come home, disheartened, saying ‘I couldn’t find her but I know she’s there, Don, I know it’ – and I’d ask her, ‘Where have you been?’ and she’s answer, ‘Searching.’ And I’d say, ‘That’s not an answer. WHERE?’ And she’d tell me, ‘I don’t know.’

I never would have guessed she was going into the woods near where we lived – about a five-minute walk away, and she always went on foot so her bicycle wouldn’t be discovered.

Well, one day I started following her. I think she knew I was there, I think she wanted me to go with her. And before my very eyes, I saw her disappear, I swear I did, Mr Klossen. She didn’t return for a fortnight – she had a tan! We had to pretend she’d been on holiday!

One day she didn’t come back at all. Eventually I had to admit to people she’d left me and we were seeking a divorce, which was a lot more difficult to file for in those days, believe me! I changed jobs a dozen times, sometimes by my own choice, sometimes I was ‘invited to leave’ as we said in those days. And as time moved on – years passed – and I knew (or I
believed
…which is almost the same thing) that my wife was missing… but she was alive. And searching for our daughter. Tirelessly.

I thought I had to help, but I didn’t know how. You’ll be surprised, I think, at the lengths I went to – things you might not expect of an old man, though of course I wasn’t old then. Hypnosis. Regression. Meditation. And then something called intra-rationalism.

Vig turned over the last of the four sheets of paper. He gasped. The other side was blank. Don had either finished writing it and had forgotten to include it, or he had run out of time. Run out of
time?
What had he done: scribbled this confession while swinging from the bloody branch? How could he have done this? How could he have abandoned it, half-cooked?

‘Vig, where are you?’ Dorota called – nearer than ever now. ‘Vig, I’m worried!’

Stuffing Don’s letter back into the hip pocket of the man’s tweed jacket from which he had taken it in the first place (the pocket at Vig’s shoulder height while the man remained dangling), Vig shouted his response to his partner.

‘I’m here, Dorota! Stay where you are! Do you have your phone?’

‘Yes!’

‘Then call the police! I’ve found Don and Charlie!’

‘…Alive?’ Dorota called.

‘Far from it!’ Vig called back; then he went over to where Eastlight had been buried, and he lowered the trapdoor. The baby foxes would have to find some other form of nourishment for the time being.

9.

‘What made you go into his pockets?’ Vig was asked. ‘How did you find him?’

The questions came as thick and fast as springtime hail, and although Vig tried to answer as well as he could, he imagined that he’d never
quite
finished speaking before the next teaser was posed. He was never finished – and the barrage soon became dizzying; his brain choked in fog. At no point was he sure how he was doing, he answered until his jaw was numb; his mind too. So much talk! Vig wondered (and almost wondered aloud) if it would be okay with all concerned if he just slipped off to bed for a year or so.

‘Analyse it any way you want,’ Dorota suggested in the lunchtime lull between interrogations, ‘I was right about Don all along.’

She scarcely had time to bite the end off a banana before Vig did the same with her head.

‘Is that meant to make me feel
better?
’ he shouted. ‘Does it make
you
feel better? I hope it doesn’t.’

‘Why are you raising your voice?’ Dorota went on, her mouth full of fruit.

‘You had him down for a murderer from day one, did you?’ Vig was incensed. ‘Funny you didn’t mention it, Dorota. And all the
more
funny you seem to take some sort of pride in being able to pick out a weirdo. Maybe it’s a skill you could market!’

Dorota turned away from Vig and from his bait; she stared out of the kitchen window. ‘I was right, that’s all I’m saying; and I never trusted Eastlight either. You know I didn’t, unless you weren’t listening.’ She swallowed. ‘But do you want to know what else?’ she asked.

‘I’m not at all certain I do.’

‘I’m glad they’re both gone.’

‘Say that when the police get back, I dare you.’

‘I am.’ Dorota shrugged. ‘Now it finally feels like our house. No trespassing real estate guy; no birds; and no bloody Don Bridges.’

‘Who helped keep the grounds tidy and neat,’ Vig reminded her.

‘
So what? We can’t hire another gardener? Don’t be stupid.’

‘Don’t call me stupid,’ Vig replied.

‘I’m
pleased
they’re gone, Vig. What’s the word we heard the other night? I’m
chuffed.
’

‘So you say…’ Vig opened the door to the patio and stepping into the wellies that he had left on the step.‘Where are you going
now?
’ Dorota wanted to know.

‘To the bird cages. In case he left something for me there. And Dorota?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s not
our
house. It’s
my
house. Paid for with my money… You’d be well advised to remember that.’

Benny Hill

1.

So it seemed that there was at least one more incline to ascend before things could progress, but by their recent standards the slope ahead of them was little more than a speed-bump on a village road. Though their legs ached from the trek down the mountain, Connors, Massimo and Bernadette had no difficulty with the climb.

What Massimo had a problem with was the signpost that announced the name of this particular slant. On the wooden board at the top of the six-foot pole, two words had been written in white paint:

BENNY HILL

‘Oh he’s taking the
piss
,’ Massimo said.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Connors and Bernadette as a duet.

‘Benny Hill? I ask you…’

‘It’s Benny – the guy with the reptiles,’ Bernadette tried to explain.

‘Yes I know,’ said Massimo, ‘and this is his hill. But what else does Benny Hill suggest to you?’

The look that Connors and Bernadette shared implied that the words ‘Benny Hill’ suggested nothing to them. Massimo was incredulous.

‘The
comedian
,’ he almost shouted.

‘What comedian?’ Connors asked. ‘Benny Hill?’

‘No, Richard Pryor. Of course Benny Hill! Who else are we talking about?’

‘I’ve never heard of him; sorry. What about him?’

‘It’s Benny’s joke. On us. Benny Hill used to do a routine… you’re not
that
fucking young, either of you! You must remember him!’

Atchoo tried to hurry the three of them along: by this point they had stopped in the middle of the dirt track that led up to what looked like one solitary dwelling.

‘Shut it, son,’ said Massimo, and he wagged a finger in the boy’s face. ‘You made
us
wait long enough – now it’s your turn.’

‘It’s
his
turn,’ Atchoo countered. ‘He said
now
.’

‘Well, in that case, you can run along ahead and tell him where he can stick his now, can’t you, son? I’m talking to my friends.’

‘I know,’ said Bernadette, ‘who you’re talking about – the comedian – but so what? His name was Benny Hill. It’s a coincidence.’

‘No such thing, Bernie. We make our own coincidences… or some wanker makes em for us. I am telling you this is another little joke on our ventriloquist’s part.’

‘I still don’t get it,’ said Connors.

‘Benny Hill did this routine where he chased women in bikinis through a park, or some bullshit, or they chased him, and it was all speeded up and the music was really fast, like a… what do you call it? Like Kazoo music.’

‘What’s a kazoo now?’ Connors asked.

Massimo shook his head. ‘It don’t matter. The point is, it was all about manipulation and control… Why would twenty babes chase a middle-aged chipmunk like Benny Hill through a park, or anywhere else for that matter?

Connors was attempting to warm to the theme. ‘To manipulate him?’ he guessed.

‘No; because
he’s
manipulating
them
. Like Benny’s been doing, from the start I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s made us chase him here, hasn’t he? A lot more than through a fucking park an’ all!’

Atchoo said, ‘Come on, please. Come on now. Benny waiting.’

Connors rounded on the boy. ‘Have you been our guardian angel in this story, son? he demanded. ‘You were there as Elvis in the beginning and you got me as far as I needed to get to start this nonsense. And then, when we got lost, you got us delivered here – a different appearance, a different name: the same kid. Same guiding angel.’

Atchoo regarded Connors with distrust and distaste. ‘Benny waiting,’ was all he repeated.

As they started up Benny Hill, they argued about running away – in the opposite direction. In
any
direction. But if Benny was godlike in these parts – if the three of them
had
reached the mind of God, ironically – then was it so difficult to imagine a deity capable of engineering a double bluff? If they tried to escape now (they agreed), it would only be because Benny wanted them to escape.

They were trapped. They would do as they were told. Speak the lines they were given, and dance when the hand on their spines squeezed or stroked. Puppets. Being returned to their box.

The house’s front door opened.

2.

The ground floor consisted of one large room; there were no divisions. At the far end – no more than seven metres away – was a green two-seater settee that had seen better days, and three wooden chairs facing. On the settee sat a man whose appearance deflated Massimo’s mood of self-righteousness at a stroke. What surged through Massimo was anger, pure and simple; Connors and Bernadette stuck with confusion.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ Massimo demanded. ‘Where’s Benny?
’

‘Welcome to my home!’

The man grinned, slowly opening his arms like fat wings. His khaki-coloured t-shirt was a size too small on his squat and muscular upper body. Fading green-and-blue tattoos poked out beneath the tourniquet sleeves. He was also wearing brown floppy tracksuit bottoms and a pair of scuffed workboots with metal toecaps. His face was weatherworn and tanned. Most certainly this was not Benny.

‘I asked you a question,’ said Massimo.

The man on the settee made the V for Victory sign with his chubby sunbronzed fingers.

‘You asked me
two
questions,’ he answered. ‘The first one’s easy. My name’s Tommy. But they call me the Brazilian. Do you wanna know why?’

‘I don’t care why. Where’s Benny?’

Tommy was not about to let an interruption spoil his punchline. The grin that polluted his features was stoic. ‘It’s because of me tendency to tear strips off a poor cunt.’

He waited a beat for a reaction – and he got one.

‘You are aware there’s a lady present, I take it.’

‘Don’t defend me, Mass…’

‘Sorry, Miss,’ said Tommy, who actually managed to appear sorry too. ‘But who
are
you exactly? I was expecting a sturdy Wop.’ He indicated in Massimo’s direction. ‘That’ll be you, mate. And I was expecting a twenty year-old weasel dick wanker. And that’ll be you.’ Tommy nodded at Connors. ‘But nobody told me nothing about you, m’darlin. What’s your name?’

‘Angela.’

‘An angelic name, to be sure. And what brings you to me neck of the wood, darlin?’

‘Don’t call me darling. Or anything else. My name’s Bernadette. The Angela was to test your reaction to a lie.’

Tommy smiled. ‘Did I pass?’

‘Funnily enough, you did. I can tell a liar when I see one, I think,’ said Bernadette. Momentarily her mind counted the scraped faces in Casualty, the broken noses, the red eyes… and the promises – oh, the promises.
I’ve only had a couple of pints… He hit me first, it was self-defence.

‘Which brings me to your second question,’ said Tommy, ‘concerning the whereabouts of a character named
Benny
. Who is he?’

‘The man who gave this hill its name,’ Connors answered.

‘Benny Hill?’ Tommy appeared surprised. ‘Well I didn’t know that. I thought it was a corruption of
bene
– from the Latin, I believe. But I could be mistaken on that score. Books and me have never been on what you’d call good speaking terms.
Bene
meaning good.’

‘I’ll give
you
a corruption in a minute,’ Massimo told him. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

Tommy laughed. ‘What was that you said about a lady being present?’

‘I’ve heard worse,’ said Bernadette.

‘I dare say. Why don’t you take a seat? Take the weight off your paragraphs.’

Glad of the invitation, Connors and Bernadette claimed a chair each immediately. Massimo, more wary, hovered, his fingers twitching. After a few seconds, however, he changed his mind and sat down. Although it felt like a relief to do so, his wariness and his dislike of Tommy persisted.

‘Now isn’t this cosy,’ Tommy ventured.

By no means was this the first time that Bernadette had witnessed the strut and flared plumage of an alpha male contest. A woman’s word, perhaps, was what was needed.

‘Please could you explain what’s going on,’ she said.

‘I could. But first tell me how you got here.’

‘There’s no time,’ Massimo protested.

‘Why? You got a dentist’s appointment or something.’

‘No. Obviously not.’

‘Well then…’

‘Well then…’

Eventually and at length, they talked.

3.

‘So who have you lost?’ Tommy asked. ‘In order to be here, like.’

While Connors and Massimo exchanged rapid glances, Bernadette took the question seriously enough not to ask for further explanation. Once more (she believed) her willingness to adapt was part of her nursing training; Tommy’s query was no different, really, to when she asked a man with facial contusions:
So how many drinks have you had tonight?

And there was something else, she realised… and the realisation shocked her. Since meeting Tommy she’d recovered a portion of her inquisitiveness – her will to strive on. The sense was upon her once again that by moving towards a goal – by cooperating, really – the path back home would be cleared. She was growing undepressed; she was floating away, slowly but unarguably, from the lassitude that had ensnared all three of them.

‘I’m an orphan,’ she admitted. As she kept her gaze level at Tommy’s face, her eyes meeting his, she was aware of the attention of Connors and Massimo, one on either side of her. ‘My dad raised me – and my younger sister – virtually solo. Mum died when I was nine; Rachel was seven. She killed herself. She was a manic depressive and she took herself off to Land’s End and jumped off a cliff. I was
nine
. And it was a week before Dad could tell us what had happened… Dad was four years ago. Cancer.’

Tommy nodded his head; his facial contortions suggested to all present that he had no idea what to do with this information.

‘Was your mum’s… decision what made you want to be a nurse?’ he asked at length.

Folding her arms, Bernadette replied, ‘How do you know I’m a nurse?’

‘About a year ago. A neighbour of mine, Max O’Hara – he decides he’ll go in for a bit of street racing with some eejits from Lewsey Farm. And you can’t say I didn’t warn the cunt. It was me brought him into A&E. You were on duty. You were very good – a lot kinder than I was feeling.’

Bernadette smiled at the compliment. ‘He broke his left arm,’ she remembered.

‘That’s the wanker.’

Bernadette laughed briefly. Of all the places to meet someone you’ve met in the line of your work! Here! ‘And how is he these days?’ she asked.

‘Well he’s given up street racing.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Look.’ It was Massimo. ‘I’m sorry to break up your let’s-remember party, but we’re here to learn something new, aren’t we?’

Tommy’s face betrayed no sign of amusement at the interruption. ‘Well,
aren’t
you?’ he demanded.

‘Learning something new? No I’m not.’

‘Then you’re not listening properly,’ Tommy told him. At this point he turned back to Bernadette, and added: ‘I admire your honesty, I really do. But that’s not what I meant when I said lost. The death of a parent is terrible; the loss of two is more than double that pain… but you know where they are. They’re not
lost
. Right?’

‘Well…’

‘You either had them buried or cremated. You know where to visit when you want a word,’ Tommy continued.

Bernadette shrugged. ‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘Then they’re not lost,’ said Tommy. ‘They’re absent but they’re not lost.’

Massimo was seething. Everything he said was being treated with derision by this stroker, and it had been a long time since he’d felt power drained from his soul so effectively – so comprehensively. Had Massimo been able to read the thoughts inside Bernadette’s head (after that time on the road together he could guess them, but he couldn’t
read
them), he would have seen her opinions on the disgraceful posturing of the alpha male set-up, and no doubt with a wince of inner embarrassment, he would have agreed with her view. He’d been downgraded. The fact that he did not like the situation was only part of the picture. He couldn’t
believe
it, that was the worst part. To have fallen from a state of princely grace – his two willing slaves, Nero and Jess, kept in ignorance and a position of supplication – to
this.
To a belly yawning for food; to penury, exhaustion and a fear that he’d never once more see home. It was shameful; it was humiliating. He had half a mind, right here and now, to confess his crimes to the other three people in the room (and who knew how many others who might be eavesdropping). Just to claw back some respect. Even if the respect manifested itself in the guise of disgust (and who could blame anyone for experiencing disgust at the telling of Massimo’s tale?), at least it would mean that he would be noticed again.

As Bernadette said, ‘Then I don’t think I understand the question…’ Massimo felt his buttocks clench, as if he was about to stand up. But stand up and do what? It didn’t matter that his instinct was to cross the distance between the three wooden chairs and Tommy’s couch in two strides, and then swing for the bastard. What was the best that he could achieve? A couple of blows to the side of the man’s face? Pathetic. Connors and Bernadette would be on them like a fall of rain, pulling them apart… No. Better to wait, thought Massimo; hear the man out, with his drivel and his prevarication, and then – when the opportunity arose – to take Tommy somewhere and incapacitate the big-headed dick-splash. And then bugger him. Hard.