Authors: Wilbur Smith
Vicious Circle (63 page)
Hector drove Jo and Catherine Cayla north to Scotland, where they spent three days as the guests of a noble duke at his castle on the Tay river.
Jo and Catherine watched from the bank as Hector waded out waist deep into the river, and Spey cast with a fifteen-foot rod.
That evening, while they were changing into black tie and dinner dress, Jo gave her opinion of his day’s performance. ‘It’s very beautiful to watch. It’s like a ballet, so graceful and skilled.’
‘So tomorrow I will teach you to Spey cast,’ he offered.
‘No thank you,’ she declined. ‘It’s pretty but it does seem rather a plentiful waste of time.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ he demanded.
‘Well, you didn’t catch any fish, did you?’
‘It’s not the catching that’s important, it is the fishing in itself.’
‘It all sounds a bit daft to me,’ she said. It was heresy, but Hector let it pass. The rift between Jo and himself was now healed and forgotten, and he was happy. He did not want to open it again.
By the third day the two girls had lost interest in the proceedings. Jo had her book and Catherine had her dolls. When those palled they went for short walks, holding hands and telling each other wonderful stories that neither of them understood. When Catherine tired, Jo carried her on her hip, and Catherine tried to make Jo share her dummy with her.
They returned from one of these walks to find Hector still in the middle of the river, but now he was no longer casting and his rod was bent almost double. He was uttering strange cries that really caught their attention. They stood hand in hand and watched with curiosity. Then the salmon jumped. It erupted out of the water, bright silver in the sunlight, and fell back with a mighty splash. The two girls shrieked with sudden excitement.
Fifteen minutes later Hector waded ashore carrying a gorgeous twenty-pound salmon in the landing net. He laid it on the grassy verge, and removed the hook from its lip. Then he lifted it out of the net and, holding it gently in two hands, offered it to Catherine to touch. She hurriedly removed her thumb from her mouth and pressed her face into Jo’s bosom.
Hector looked at Jo. ‘What about you? Would you like to touch a real live Scottish salmon?’
Jo thought about the offer for less than a second and then she shook her head. ‘Perhaps next time,’ she said.
Still carrying the fish, Hector went back into the river. He held the fish up and kissed its wet cold nose, and then he lowered it into the water and held its head facing into the current. It lay quiescent in his hands for a while, pumping its gills, recovering its balance and its will to live. Then it shot away into the tea-coloured waters.
That night after they had made love and were settling down to sleep in each other’s arms, she whispered drowsily, ‘You are a strange man, Hector Cross. You kill men without the least compunction. On the other hand you go to infinite pain and expense to haul a fish out of the water, and then you let it go again.’
‘I only kill those who deserve to die,’ he replied. ‘That fish had twenty thousand eggs in her belly. She didn’t deserve to die. She and her babies deserved to live.’
The next day they drove back to London. It was a long road and they arrived back at The Cross Roads and watched Catherine Cayla devour most of her dinner of minced chicken and squash. What she didn’t swallow dribbled off her chin onto her bib.
Afterwards they were invited by Bonnie to attend the complicated ritual of putting Catherine to bed in the nursery with all her bunnies and teddies arranged around her cot in their correct order.
‘But, how do you know the correct order?’ Hector asked.
‘She lets us know,’ Bonnie explained. ‘I know you think we are just making noises, but it’s a secret language. You will only learn it if you spend more time with us.’ It was a rebuke, and he knew he deserved it.
Later that evening, when Jo had finished her pre-bedtime routine and emerged from her bathroom glowing with unguents and redolent and lovely as a spring garden, Hector lifted the covers on her side of the bed to make room for her. She snuggled down in the circle of his arms making soft comfort sounds, not unlike those emitted by Catherine Cayla settling down for sleep.
‘May I consult you on a client–attorney basis before we move on to more important matters?’ Hector asked her.
‘You pick the damnedest times, don’t you?’ she murmured. ‘But ask away if you must.’
‘If Carl Bannock were dead, then what would happen to the assets of the Trust?’ She went silent for a while, and when at last she spoke her tone was distant.
‘I have no reason to believe that Carl Bannock is not in blooming health.’ She looked him unashamedly in the eye as she made this hypocritical denial, then she went on. ‘However, if one were to assert the contrary then the law of the State of Texas is quite clear.’ She sat up and hugged her knees, considering for a moment before she continued.
‘Any person claiming that Carl was dead must be able to lay before the court irrefutable evidence of his death, such as a death certificate issued by a medical practitioner or a sworn statement by a credible eye witness of the death. Hector, are you able to think of anyone who would be prepared to stand up in court and swear under oath that they witnessed the death of Carl Bannock?’
‘Not off hand,’ Hector admitted.
‘Well then, failing irrefutable evidence of death, the law states that a period of seven years must elapse before interested parties may petition the Texas High Court for a Presumption of Death Ruling. Evidence presented to the court must show that there has not been any reason to believe the subject is still alive, such as a reliable sighting of the subject or any contact with him by persons who might reasonably expect such contact. In our case the trustees can reasonably expect Carl to contact them to demand the benefits owing to him by the Trust, such as quadrupling any funds that he earns on his own behalf. If Carl does not do so, it would be strong evidence that he is dead. Are there any more questions? Or can we get on with the main business for which we are gathered here tonight?’
‘I have no more questions, but I do have just one comment: it’s a bitter hard world if my poor helpless little waif has to wait until she is almost eight years of age before she can afford to buy her first Ferrari.’
‘Oh! You!’ she exclaimed. She picked up a pillow and hit him with it.
*
Their lovemaking that night was especially intense and satisfying to both Jo and Hector. Afterwards he fell into such a deep and dreamless sleep that he did not hear Jo leave the bed.
When he woke again he heard her in her bathroom. He checked the bedside clock and found it was not yet five a.m. He roused himself and went for a short walk to his own bathroom. On his way back to the bed he paused at her door and heard her speaking on the phone. She was probably calling her mother in Abilene. Sometimes he wondered what they still had to talk about after all these years of phoning each other almost every night. He returned to the bed and drifted off into sleep once more.
When he woke again it was seven o’clock. Jo was still sequestered in her dressing room behind the closed door. Hector put on his dressing gown and went to the nursery. He came back to bed with Catherine in his arms, clutching her morning bottle. He propped himself up on the pillows, and held her in his lap. While she sucked away at the teat of the bottle he became enthralled by her face. It seemed that she grew more beautiful, and more like Hazel with every passing day.
At last he heard the door to Jo’s dressing room open. When he looked up smiling, she was standing in the doorway. The smile slowly faded from his face. Jo was fully dressed and she had her small travelling valise in her hand. Her expression was sombre.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, but she ignored the question.
‘Johnny Congo has escaped from prison,’ she said. He stared at her and he felt the ice forming around his heart. Jo drew a deep breath before she went on speaking. ‘He killed three of his guards and got clean away.’
Hector shook his head in denial. ‘How do you know this?’
‘Ronnie Bunter told me. I have been on the phone to him for half the night, discussing it with him.’ She broke off to clear her throat. Then she went on softly. ‘You will blame me for this, won’t you, Hector?’
He shook his head, but he could not find the words to deny it. He knew what she had said was true.
‘You will go after Johnny Congo again,’ she said with quiet certainty. He did not answer her immediately.
‘Do I have any other choice?’ he asked at last, but the question was rhetorical.
‘I have to leave you,’ she said.
‘If you truly love me, you will stay,’ he protested, but quietly.
‘No, because I truly love you I must go.’
‘Where to?’
‘Ronnie Bunter has offered to give me back my old job at Bunter and Theobald. At least there I can do something to protect Catherine’s interests in the trust.’
‘Will you ever come back?’
‘I doubt it.’ She began to weep openly, but she went on speaking through the tears. ‘I never imagined there could be any other man like you. But, being with you is like living on the slopes of a volcano. One slope faces the sun. It is warm, fertile, beautiful and safe there. It is filled with love and laughter.’ She broke off to choke back a sob, and then she went on. ‘The other slope of you is full of shadows and dark frightening things, like hatred and revenge; like anger and death. I would never know when the mountain would erupt and destroy itself and me.’
‘If I cannot stop you going, then at least kiss me once before you do.’ But she shook her head again.
‘No, if I kiss you it will weaken my resolve, and we will be stuck with each other for ever. That must not happen. We were never meant for each other, Hector. We would destroy each other.’ She gulped another breath and then she looked deeply into his eyes and said, ‘I believe in the law, while you believe you are the law. I have to go, Hector. Goodbye, my love.’
He knew in his heart what she had said was true.
She turned her back on him and went out through the door. She closed it softly behind her. He listened for the last sounds of her departure but the house remained silent.
The only sound was Catherine suckling on the teat of her bottle. He looked down at her and said softly, ‘Now it is just you and me, baby.’
Catherine popped the teat out of her mouth. She reached up to his face to touch with one chubby pink finger the single tear on his cheek. She had never seen anything like that before and her eyes were huge and awed. She said softly but clearly, ‘Good man, Baba.’ And he thought his heart might burst.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS
.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
VICIOUS CIRCLE
. Copyright © 2013 by Wilbur Smith. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Smith, Wilbur A.
Vicious circle / Wilbur Smith.—1st U.S. Edition.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-250-00031-6 (hardcover) ISBN 978-1-25003762-6 (e-book) I. Title.
PR9405.9.S5V58 2013
823'.914—dc23
First published in Great Britain by Macmillan, an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited First U.S. Edition: October 2013
eISBN 9781250037626
First eBook edition: September 2013