Death Trance (9 page)
Neil inclined his head and nodded as if to say, 'Well, that could be so, but it isn't really the main point.’
Randolph stood up and thrust his hands into his pockets. 'Why should I harbour any sympathy for the Association's point of view when it does nothing but slow down expansion and reduce quality? We've built ourselves into the second-biggest cottonseed processor in Memphis because our prices are low and our product is good, and I'm not interested in anybody's point of view if it compromises either of those criteria. And I'm particularly not interested in
anybody'?,
point of view if I'm being made to accept it by violent means.’
'Sir… surely that couldn't have been sabotage,’ Neil protested.
'Well, I'm glad
you're
sure because
I'm
not.’
'Whatever you think of the Association, Mr Clare… they're all honourable men.’
'What are you, their public-relations officer? Orbus Greene is the tackiest, most devious, most self-serving mountain of human flesh that ever disgraced this city, and as for Waverley Graceworthy -’
'As for Waverley Graceworthy,’ put in a clear, husky, patrician voice. 'Waverley Graceworthy is here to pay you his respects.’
Randolph turned around. Petite, white-haired, dressed immaculately in a grey Cerruti suit that could have been made for a ten-year-old boy, the Grand Old Man of Cotton Row walked into the office, his glasses flashing for a moment in the reflected light from the window, his tiny shoes twinkling. He held out his hand to Randolph almost as if he expected it to be kissed.
'Your dear secretary was nowhere to be found,’ Waverley said. He had been brought up in Corinth, Mississippi, and his accent was as high-stepping and as steel-sprung as the arches of the Hernando de Soto bridge. 'You won't object if I sit down?’
'How can I help you?’ Randolph asked. 'Would you care for some coffee?’
Waverley perched on the edge of the sofa, supported his withered chin on his liver-spotted fist and regarded Randolph with an expression bordering on amusement. Behind his rimless glasses, his eyes were rheumy and bloodshot, but they were acute nonetheless.
'I have come to pay my respects, as I said. I was very distressed to learn of what happened to Bill Douglas and those two workers of yours. Also, to that fine new factory. A considerable tragedy.’
'Well, thank you for your condolences,’ Randolph acknowledged, trying not to sound churlish. Neil Sleaman shifted uncomfortably in his chair, as if he would have preferred not to be there at all.
'I gather that Orbus had a few words to say to you out at the plant,’ Waverley went on. 'You know something? You mustn't take too much notice of Orbus. He has a way of expressing himself that tends to put people's backs up. Remember that he was brought up the hard way, when a man had to be sly, uncompromising and even unprincipled if he was going to survive. Even your father, may his soul rest in peace, was not the paragon of virtue that
you
can have the luxury of being now that times have changed.’
'Do you want to get to the point?’ Randolph asked.
Waverley was silent for a while, watching Randolph carefully with those swimming, pallid eyes. Then he sat back, neatly folded his arms and said, 'You're causing us considerable grief, you know. Far more grief than your father ever did. Your father could at least be accommodating. Your father understood that in the cottonseed business, the interests of each processing company are intertwined. You, for instance, you may
think
that you're an independent, but there's no such thing. Your prices wouldn't be low if ours were lower. Your delivery dates wouldn't be quick if ours were quicker.’
'Then why don't you cut your prices and speed up your delivery dates?’ asked Randolph. 'I'm not afraid of competition.’
'Well, I'm afraid that things don't work that way,’ Waverley replied. 'Some members of the Association are strong, but the strong are far outnumbered by the weak. Most of the processors around here could not stay in business if the Association didn't fix prices, and that would mean that many of the cotton plantations would go out of business too. We're talking about the wider picture here, you see. We're talking about what would happen to this whole district, to Shelby County and DeSoto County, if the Association didn't take care of its members' interests.’
'I'm afraid you don't impress me,’ Randolph growled. 'You're thinking about your profits and little else. What's more, Orbus is sore because he didn't get the Sun-Taste contract.’
'Orbus has a right to be sore. Brooks is the biggest processor around here and Sun-Taste should have gone to him as a matter of sheer practicality. He could have subcontracted at least two-thirds of the supply to some of the smaller members of the Association.’
'At rock-bottom rates, no doubt,’ said Randolph dryly. 'And besides, Sun-Taste specifically insisted that there should be no subcontracting whatever.’
'You're always making things difficult, aren't you?’ Waverley asked mildly. His fingernails picked at a stray thread on the arm of the sofa.
'I don't have to make things difficult. Things are difficult enough already.’
'Randolph, there isn't any need for us to argue. I came here today with a proposition. I know that the unfortunate fire out at Raleigh has somewhat reduced your ability to meet the demands Sun-Taste has been placing on you. Might I suggest that the Association assist you to meet your requirements… in return for a more cooperative policy on your part in the future?’
'You can suggest what you like. I think I'd rather cooperate with the Ku Klux Klan.’
'Randolph!’ Waverley said sharply. 'This is not being wise.’
'Well, apparently not,’ Randolph agreed sarcastically. 'It seems to be common knowledge in.Memphis that the Association is going to start squeezing me out. If not by negotiation, then by vandalism and threats. For all I know, with that fire out at Raleigh and my company limousine going off the road, you've started already.’
Waverley stood up. It was impossible for Randolph to see his eyes because of the silver reflection on the man's glasses. 'I resent that,’ Waverley said, his voice gently admonitory rather than resentful.
'You can resent it as much as you like,’ Randolph told him. That's your privilege.’
Waverley stood unmoving for a moment, as if he were about to say something. But he apparently changed his mind, nodded first to Randolph and then to Neil Sleaman, and buttoned up his coat.
'You're causing us grief, Randolph,’ he repeated.
'I know.’
'You know what you'll get in return.’
'Tell me,’ Randolph challenged.
'You'll get grief of your own, that's what you'll get.’
Randolph eased himself off the edge of his desk, clapped his hand on Waverley's shoulder and escorted him to the door. Wanda stood there, looking anxious.
'Wanda,’ said Randolph with false magnanimity, 'Mr
Graceworthy is leaving. I just want you to know that if he ever turns up here again without an appointment, you are to refuse him admission and redirect him to the Memphis Zoological Gardens, where he can join the other reptiles.’
'Well, cheap shot,’ said Waverley, taking his grey fedora from the hatpeg and opening the door. 'I can see myself out, thank you,’ he assured them.
Once he had closed the door behind him, Randolph turned to Wanda and said, 'I mean that. This office is off limits to anybody from the Cottonseed Association, and especially to
him.’
'I don't know,’ put in Neil. 'I still think Waverley has great dignity.’
'A boa constrictor has great dignity,’ Randolph retorted. 'Just because those men managed to squeeze all but the very last ounce of independence out of my father, it doesn't mean they're going to do it to me.’
'Mr Clare,’ Wanda appealed to him.
'Did you get my cookies?’ Randolph asked.
'Mr Clare,’ Wanda repeated, and Randolph looked at her and suddenly realized that her eyes were filled with tears.
'Wanda? Are you okay? What's the matter?’
Wanda went suddenly white and sat down behind her desk.
'Wanda?’ Randolph repeated and came around the desk and laid his hand on her shoulder. He looked up at Neil and mouthed the question, 'What's wrong?’ but Neil could only shrug.
At last Wanda managed to collect herself enough to say, 'I had a phone call only a minute ago.’
'You had a phone call? From whom?’
'It was the ranger station at the Laurentide National Park. They spoke mostly French, so I couldn't really understand them at first.’
A freezing-cold feeling of dread began to clutch at Randolph's heart, even before Wanda could begin to tell him what the rangers had said. Marmie had not answered her calls this morning, had she? And why? She rarely woke up early. She always stayed in bed, even after he had left for Cotton Row in the morning, lingering over her breakfast. Even when they were on vacation, she rarely got up before half-past eight.
Why hadn't it occurred to him that something was wrong?
'Wanda,’ he said; his voice seeming oddly dispersed, like raindrops on a polished car. 'Calm down, Wanda. Just tell me what they said.’
Wanda looked up at him, tears streaming from her eyes. 'They said that somebody had called them from the fishing club. One of their anglers had gone out early this morning and' - she paused, breathing deeply to collect herself -'and his outboard motor had broken down, and he had managed to row to the shore where the cabin is, and he had gone to the cabin to ask for help.’
'And what?’ asked Randolph.’
What,
Wanda? What else did they say?’
Wanda could scarcely speak through her grief but somehow she managed to go on, and when she had finished, time seemed to stand completely still, as if it would always be 8:47 in the morning, in early May; as if Randolph and Wanda and Neil would never move again; as if the world outside would hold its breath forever after, the traffic motionless, the flags frozen, the steamboats marooned in the middle of a gelid river.
But then Randolph lifted his head and turned around, and time started up again, slowly at first, as if he were wading across the office towards his desk, and then faster and faster, like a blur of broken film, until he toppled and fell, hitting the side of his head against the corner of a chair and lying sprawled on the floor on his back, unconscious.
'Ambulance,’ Neil ordered.
Wanda, her face splotched with tears, dialed Emergency. Meanwhile, Neil knelt down beside Randolph and loosened his necktie. Randolph was pale and breathing harshly but the cut on his head appeared to be superficial and there was very little blood. Neil tugged his neatly three-cornered handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabbed at the wound as gently as he could.
The medics said four minutes,’ Wanda said, coming across the office. She stopped and looked down at Randolph. 'Is he unconscious?’
'Shock or concussion, maybe both. Whichever it is, he's probably better off.’
'I still can't believe it.’ Wanda pressed her hand against her mouth. 'How could all of them be dead?’
The rangers didn't say?’
Wanda shook her head. They kept repeating "serious accident," that's all. Perhaps there was a fire.’
Neil said, 'Hand me that cushion, would you? He'd be better with his feet raised.’
Wanda did as she was told and then turned away, her face covered by her hands and sobbing in silence as if she would never stop.
He woke up and the afternoon sunlight was spread across the ceiling in fanlike stripes. His head no longer seemed to belong to his body and there was a steely taste in his mouth, but he felt peculiarly serene and wondered if he had been involved in a serious traffic accident.
After all, hadn't someone been talking about the brakes on his car only a few minutes before, describing how they had failed?
He tried to raise his head off the pillow. It was an effort and it hurt his neck, but he managed to see that he was in a large, plain room decorated in the palest of greens. There was a modernistic print on the wall, not very distinguished; a sickly yucca stood in a woven planter on the opposite side of the room, its leaves tipped with brown as if it badly needed watering. The light was filtering through a parchment-coloured Venetian blind that had three broken slats.
He let his head fall back on the pillow. It had not occurred to him yet to wonder who he was or what he was doing here. It seemed enough that he was alive.
He slept for a while and then woke up again. The stripes on the ceiling had faded, and he had the feeling that someone had been in the room to look at him as he slept. The bedside table had been moved.
He began to try to piece together the recent events of his life. For a brief flicker of an instant he thought he could remember tires squealing and metal crunching, that terrible smash-bang sound of serious accidents. Yet he was sure that somebody had told him about that and that he hadn't experienced it for himself. His brain must be making excuses, trying to divert his attention from what had really happened.
It began to enter his mind then that something truly terrible had taken place, not simply an automobile accident. But what was it? He kept trying to form a coherent picture of it in his mind's eye, but it always seemed to refract and break up, like the shadow of a huge shark deep underwater. He frowned and concentrated, but the shadow slipped away.
Twenty minutes passed. From somewhere in the distance he could hear the sound of shoes scuffling, and amplified voices. He slept, and then he awoke. It was growing dark now and the blinds had turned to blue. He groped around beside him and found a trailing light switch, which he clicked on. A bright bedside light shone into his eyes and he turned his face away.
After a while he slowly lifted his right hand so he could examine it. He was wearing a wide-sleeved gown of pale yellow cotton, obviously industrially laundered to judge by the inaccurate but well-starched creases in it, and there was a plastic band on his wrist. When he twisted the band around, he could see that it was carrying somebody's name, written in ball-point pen. He squinted hard at the writing, trying to decipher it, but after two or three minutes he decided that he must have lost the ability to read. The squiggles of the pen refused to coagulate into letters and the letters themselves refused to assemble into comprehensible words.
He thought:
I
can't read. I must have suffered brain damage. There was an automobile accident and I suffered brain damage.
He even believed that he could remember his forehead striking the walnut cocktail cabinet in front of him. Howling tires. Splintering decanters.
But that shadowy shark was rising out of the depths, bearing that shadowy, threatening truth that his mind was desperately trying to keep submerged. He had half an idea of what it was, more than half of an idea. And he knew that when it broke surface, he was going to be faced with the absolute reality of what had happened, and why, and what he was doing here lying in this bed. The shark was rising swiftly now. At any moment he was going to have to accept the truth it brought, and he knew that he would not be able to bear it. His brain would not let him articulate what it was even though his mouth was struggling to form the words that would describe it. Suddenly his hands flew up before him as if he were trying to protect himself from a blizzard.
He shouted,
'Marmie!
But at that very moment a dark-faced man in a pale blue overall walked into the room and abruptly called out, 'Mr Clare!’
Randolph opened his eyes and saw that his hands were lifted up. Slowly, dazedly, he lowered them and turned his head to stare at the intruder who had interrupted his nightmare. A dark-faced man, but not black; an Oriental with a flat-featured face and peculiarly glittering eyes. Randolph thought that perhaps he was still hallucinating and that this man was not real. Perhaps his brain damage had gone far beyond affecting his ability to read and write; perhaps he was clinically mad.
'Mr Clare,’ the man repeated, his voice more gentle this time.
'Mr Clare?’ Randolph queried, his mouth dry.
The man approached the bed. 'I am Dr Ambara.’ He stood looking down at Randolph and then, without warning, he bent forward, peeled back each of Randolph's eyelids in turn and peered into them with a lighted ophthalmoscope. Randolph saw crisscrosses of white light dancing amid patches of scarlet.
'Well, well,’ said Dr Ambara. 'How do you feel?’
Randolph did not know what to say. He stared back at the doctor and tried to mouth the word 'Fine,’ but somehow his brain refused to pass on the order.
Randolph could see that Dr Ambara was a young man, only twenty-six or twenty-seven, and that he had a silky black moustache and a chocolate-coloured mole on his left cheek in the shape of a diving bird. He didn't know what had made him think of a diving bird, but he articulated thickly, 'Something's happened.’ He hesitated and then added, 'Something bad.’
Dr Ambara said briskly, 'Yes, Mr Clare. Something's happened. Do you know where you are?’
'Mo,’ replied Randolph. His lips were too dry and swollen to say 'No.’
'This is the Mount Moriah Memorial Clinic,’ Dr Ambara told him. 'You were brought here this morning suffering from shock and a mild concussion. I gave you a sedative when you were admitted and since then, you have been sleeping.’
'What's the time now?’ Randolph asked. The shark was still rising but any kind of conversation would keep his mind from having to turn around and face it when it surfaced.
'The time now is seven-seventeen,’ said Dr Ambara, consulting his large gold digital wristwatch.
'Almost the whole day,’ Randolph murmured.
'Yes,’ said Dr Ambara.
Randolph licked his lips and said, 'I keep thinking it was an automobile accident, but it wasn't, was it?’
'No,’ Dr Ambara replied. He drew up a chair and sat down beside the bed. His face was half-hidden by the bedside light, although Randolph could still see his mouth as he spoke and the gleam of his silky moustache.
'You know, the mind often plays us unusual tricks,’ Dr Ambara went on. 'It understands our limitations, our restricted ability to cope with some of the things that happen to us. Sometimes when we have suffered a terrible crisis, the mind simply will not accept that the crisis has taken place, at least not until our emotions are sufficiently calm to deal with it.’
Randolph said, 'You're trying to tell me that a terrible crisis has taken place in my life, is that it? That that's why I'm here?’
Dr Ambara nodded and then without any embarrassment, he took Randolph's hand and held it.
'Something's happened to Marmie. Is Marmie hurt?’ Dr Ambara nodded again, and Randolph was intrigued to see that there were tears running down his cheeks. 'I have to tell you that your wife is dead. Also that all your children are dead.’
The shark fumed to the surface and Randolph was face-to-face with its rows of snarling teeth. He felt fear, desperation, desolation, panic and - most of all - unutterable grief. He was unable to speak.
In a quiet voice, Dr Ambara went on. They were found in your cabin in Quebec. There was no chance of saving them. They were beyond help.’
Tears poured from Randolph's eyes in a hot, unquenchable stream and he clutched Dr Ambara's hand.
The doctor said, 'I am sorry to tell you that they were murdered. Somebody broke into the cabin and killed them. It was a very bad event.’
Randolph swallowed and managed to ask, 'Did they suffer? Did any of them suffer?’
'I would be lying to you if I said no,’ Dr Ambara replied. Randolph crumpled and sobbed uncontrollably. Nonetheless he managed to say, 'You must tell me what happened.’
'I can tell you only what the police have explained,’ Dr Ambara said.
'All the same, tell me.’
'I have to warn you that it was a very unpleasant scene.’ 'Tell me. I'm going to have to find out sometime.’ Dr Ambara released Randolph's hand and went over to the window. He parted the blinds and looked southwest towards the distant lights of the Stroh Brewery and Memphis International Airport. Planes circled in the night like fireflies. Dr Ambara watched them for a while and Randolph waited with patience. Apart from the fact that he was still sedated and therefore calmer than he normally would have been, he was prepared to believe that Dr Ambara himself was deeply upset by what had happened and that for this reason, the man could share in his grief.
At last, without looking from the window, Dr Ambara said, 'It was late last night as far as the police can tell. Three or four men broke into the cabin. One of them broke down the door with an axe and then used that same axe to kill your younger son, Mark.’
'Mark,’ Randolph whispered, hoping to God he wasn't going mad.
'After that,’ Dr Ambara went on, 'they shot and killed your older son, John, with a shotgun.’
Randolph was too grief-stricken to even pronounce John's name. Tears began to slide out of his eyes again and he had to clench his teeth to prevent himself from crying out loud.
Dr Ambara turned away from the window at last and said, 'I am telling you this because you have to know and the sooner you know, the better it is going to be. Your mind will have enough to cope with without constantly wondering what has happened and why everybody is being so solicitous to you.’
Randolph wept and nodded. He had not cried like this since his mother had died. He couldn't speak any more. He lay back on the pillow and waited for Dr Ambara to tell him the worst.
'Your wife and your daughter were tied up. The police say that they were raped several times. Then they were hung with barbed wire from a beam in the living room. The police said they must have suffered but not for very long.’
Dr Ambara bent over Randolph and wiped the tears from his eyes with a tissue. His face was sympathetic and infinitely understanding. He studied Randolph for a moment and then explained to him with great gentleness, 'I have told you because you have to know. It was a terrible tragedy, and everybody in the clinic feels for you deeply. They have pain in their hearts for you that they cannot express.’
He sat down and added, 'You must understand that I am your doctor, that I am here to make you better and to overcome your misery. Whatever you want to know, I will tell you. Whenever you want to talk, I will talk with you. This is a shattering event that you will have to think about and talk about over and over again. You will always ask yourself many questions, beginning with why. Why did I leave my family in Canada and not bring them back home with me? Why is fate so cruel? Why did it have to be them? Perhaps the greatest difficulty you will have to face is that none of these questions have answers.’
Randolph said, 'They were so beautiful, all of them.’
'Yes,’ said Dr Ambara.
There was a pause and then Randolph said, 'I'm trying to think of the very last second I saw them. They came out to the jetty to see me onto the plane. I hugged the boys, Mark first, then John. Then I kissed Issa. Last of all, I kissed Marmie. Do you know… I can almost feel them in my arms.’
'That feeling will never leave you,’ Dr Ambara assured him.
'What do I do now?’ asked Randolph. 'I'm alone.’
'Well, you must stay here for a day or two under observation. You lost consciousness when they gave you the news that your family was dead and you hit your head when you fell. We have to make sure there is no damage to your brain.’
'Is that likely?’
Dr Ambara shook his head. 'No, it isn't. But I think you should also take the opportunity to rely on somebody else for a little while; on me, and on the nursing staff. Your own doctor - Dr Linklater - will be coming to see you later and if you wish, you can see your priest. Usually, however, I find that people who have been suddenly bereaved prefer to ask questions about the religious implications later, when the sense of shock has subsided.’
'What do you believe?’ Randolph asked.
Dr Ambara looked surprised. 'What do I believe? Well, I am Indonesian and my religion is Hindu, so what I believe may be rather mystifying to you.’
'Tell me,’ Randolph persisted hoarsely. Dr Ambara sensed that Randolph was clinging to any thread that would begin to weave itself into some kind of explanation that he could accept even tentatively. He thoughtfully rubbed his chin for a moment and then said, 'I believe that death is not a separation but simply a journey of the soul to the next resting place, which is heaven. In heaven there is peace, and freedom from worry and pain.’ 'Do you really believe that? Do you really believe that my family is still there somewhere, that their souls are still there?’
Dr Ambara smiled. 'It depends on what you mean by "there," Mr Clare. Heaven exists both inside and outside the human mind. But, yes, I believe that your family still exists, and as a Hindu, I also believe that one day they will each be reborn, reincarnated, as we all will, probably as the grandsons and granddaughters of distant relatives.’ Randolph said, Thank you.’
