Marrying Off Mother (17 page)

‘God! A crate!' exclaimed Larkin. ‘After his dry-out, who knows what he'll be seeing. It was worse than pink elephants, I can tell you, when I took him over.'

‘I'm terribly sorry,' I said.

‘Not your fault. Natural, kindly action. But look here, see if you can get the rest of the stuff — or some of it — away from him. I warn you, they're as cunning as weasels when they get to that stage. Well, no sense in my coming along. Red rag to a bull. Look, here's my card. If things get difficult, phone me. He has terrible hallucinations, d'you see, but take no notice. He'll probably tell you a lot of guff — play him along — pretend to believe him. I'll try and get over in the morning, all right?'

‘Fine, and I'm sorry I mucked up your AA,' I said.

He smiled briefly.

‘Can't save 'em all,' he said, and stumped off.

When I returned to the house James was well away, the bottle empty except for a finger of whisky lurking at the bottom. Beside him on the table was an ancient wind-up gramophone and a pile of old records. In view of what happened later, it was macabrely apposite that he was playing the Mills Brothers singing ‘Miss Otis Regrets'.

‘My dear fellow,' he said, hastily pouring the remains of the whisky into his glass, ‘my dear fellow, finished your chores, what? Time for a sundowner — I'll bet you've earned it, eh? This bottle appears to be empty, so we'd better open another, eh? That's the spirit.' His hands were now quite steady as he poured out two normal drinks, one for himself and one for me.

As the evening wore on, however, he got drunker and drunker. He scarcely touched the excellent dinner that Anna had prepared for us but sat slouched silently at the end of the table clutching his glass, whisky bottle within easy reach.

Tell me,' I said, more to make conversation than anything else, ‘how did you come by this handsome house?'

‘House?' he asked. ‘This one? Inherited it. My aunt. This house and an allowance providing I never set foot in Merrie England again. She didn't like my reputation, d'you see? Not that I liked it much myself at that time.'

He took a gulp of whisky.

‘What d'you think my vocation was? Go on, guess,' he said, a cunning glint in his green eyes.

‘Well,' I said, ‘it's hard to tell. You're obviously well educated. Were you something in the City, perhaps, or maybe a teacher, or maybe in the Civil Service?'

‘Well, you're nearly right,' he said, and gave a drunken hoot of laughter. ‘I
was
in Government service, quite right. But I was also a teacher. Special sort of teacher. Can you guess?'

‘I have no idea,' I said. ‘There are so many variations in the academic world.'

‘Academic world! I like that. No, my boy, I taught killing. Professional killing,' he said, and filled his glass almost to the brim.

‘You mean you taught commandos or marines or something of that sort?' I asked, but I was beginning to get a decidedly creepy feeling about him and longed to be safely back on board ship in my smelly little cabin.

‘Marines be damned,' he said, gulping at his drink. ‘No, my dear fellow, I taught hanging.'

He suddenly jerked his head to one side in a horribly realistic impression of a hanged man.

‘Yes, that's what I taught. Taught 'em to tie the knot that works wonders. The knot that is the answer to everything. The knot that sends you swiftly to eternity. The knot that causes you less trouble than the wedding knot.'

‘You mean you were a public hangman?' I asked incredulously.

‘No,' he said, ‘I was a
travelling
hangman. Of course, I had my basic training in England. Didn't have much to do except watch and learn. There's a real art to it, you know, cracking a neck just right, so they don't suffer, d'you see? Mathematics enters into it too, you know, getting them to stand on the trap so they'll drop straight, judging height and weight and thickness of neck. It's an art, as I say.' He stopped and shuddered violently and drained his glass.

‘The trouble is the bastards don't stay dead,' he said, his voice breaking. ‘They won't stay away. Why can't they remain where they are and stop coming back and causing trouble? They were condemned, God dammit.'

His green eyes welled with tears which trickled out into his moustache and beard and were absorbed as snowflakes on a tundra.

‘Why can't they leave me alone?' he asked me desperately. ‘I only did my job.'

‘You mean you dream about them?' I asked.

‘Dream
about them? Hell, no. If I
dreamt
about them Doc Larkin's got something that sends you out like a light and you don't bloody dream. I wish I
did
dream about 'em. Doc could cure that.'

‘You mean you — er — see them?' I asked. I hesitated to use the term hallucination for fear he would take offence.

‘Let me tell you how it is. As I said, I did my basic training tail end of the war. Quite a few we topped then and so I got the hang of it. Ha! Sorry, slipped out, wasn't intended as a joke. Well, the war ended and of course there were dozens that needed topping and in most of the countries — you know, like New Guinea, parts of Africa, Malaya, even Brisbane in Australia — they didn't have hangmen, I mean proper hangmen that knew the art d'you see? So they used to send me out and I'd top 'em in bunches because they'd save 'em up. But while I was out there I'd teach one or two of the local guys how to do it. I was a sort of travelling professor in death.'

He gave a small, hiccoughing gulp of laughter and some more tears welled out and trickled down to become invisible in his moustache. He refilled his glass and checked the level of the Scotch in the bottle.

Then I was sent out to hang a man in a place in Malaya. Owing to overcrowding in the township prison, he'd been moved to a village prison twenty-five miles away. You know the sort of thing, six mud cells, a sergeant and two lesser ranks in control. The sergeant was all right but slovenly. The lesser ranks were, as usual, vacant-faced and even more vacant-minded. Finally I got the scaffold up and working to my liking. Then came the day of the execution. I got up at dawn, tested the scaffold and then found the sergeant drunk and drugged out of his mind in bed with a sixteen-year-old girl in a similar state. I routed out the two underlings who were, thank God, sober. They brought the prisoner to the scaffold and I prepared him. Then, as usual, I asked him if he had anything to say. He, of course, spoke only Malay, but one of the underlings translated in primitive English. He said that the man said he was guilty of no crime. Most of them say that of course, so I put the hood on and away he went. Quick and clean.'

He lowered his head on to his arms for a moment and his shoulders shook. He lifted his tear-stained face and stared at me.

‘I had hanged the wrong man,' he said.

‘Dear God!' I exclaimed, horrified. ‘What did you do?'

‘What could I do?' he asked. ‘I had seen the man through the Judas window in the town jail. I'd been given his weight and height, of course, and I had assessed the thickness of the neck, the shape and balance of the head. All important stuff. But, bloody hell, I can't tell one heathen from another, never could. And the bloody sergeant was too drugged and drunk to guide me, and his underlings too stupid.'

‘But didn't he struggle or anything?'

‘No, they seem to take death very calmly in those parts.'

He poured himself another tumblerful of Scotch. I wondered how many bottles were left.

‘You can imagine the furore it caused when it leaked out. World headlines. “Horrific Hangman”. “The Man Who Kills for Fun”. “The Brutal Executioner”. “The Careless Killer”. That sort of thing. Surprised you didn't see it.'

‘I was in Africa, a bit remote,' I said, not adding that I was most likely in a village forty miles from the nearest road and
The Times
was not delivered each morning.

‘Well that was the end of me. Of course, they had an official enquiry and sort of implied I was guilty of negligence. They said I should have waited until the sergeant surfaced. But how could I? I had a plane to catch and another job to do. I couldn't keep the other poor chaps hanging around now, could I?' He seemed unconscious of what he had said.

‘So they gave me the golden bum's rush. My aunt, a pillar of the Church, was horrified, of course, and so she fixed me up financially and sent me out here. It was beginning then but I thought, dammit, Paraguay's so far they can't follow me there.'

‘Who couldn't follow you?' I asked, puzzled.

He looked at me and his eyes filled with tears again.

‘The faces,' he sobbed. ‘Their bloody faces.'

I waited until he got control of himself.

‘You see, it started one day when I was shaving. I noticed that one side of my face was a sort of blur — out of focus, sort of thing. Well, I went to the quack and he sent me to an eye specialist. They couldn't find a thing wrong. But the blur went on and got worse. My whole face was out of focus. I could only just see to shave. Then, suddenly one day, I looked in the mirror and it wasn't my face staring at me, it was the face of O'Mara, the first man I'd hanged — up country in Nigeria somewhere — cut his wife to bits with a knife. Well, I was so surprised I just stared at the mirror and then O'Mara grinned at me. He jerked his head on one side, lolled his tongue, then straightened up, grinned at me again, winked and vanished. I thought it was the whisky. You may have noticed I like a drop or two. So I started to shave and the next minute my face blurred over and there was the face of Jenkins. God, how he glared at me. I dropped the razor with fright. Then he was gone and it was Yu Ling, and then Thomson, and then Ranjit Singh and so on and so on, twelve of 'em. I remember vomiting into the bath and shaking all over as if I had a dose of malaria. I knew I couldn't tell my doc about it — he'd have had me in a padded ceil before you could say Jack Robinson. I thought it might be the mirror, so I went out and bought another. But by the next morning they'd found it. I bought another one — same thing. I thought it might be the size or the shape of it. I spent a fortune on mirrors, but it was no good, they got their faces on every one, every bloody one. That's why I grow all this,' he said, fingering his face, ‘this stupid beard.'

‘But surely a barber . . .' I began.

‘No,' he said, ‘first man I adjusted the rope round, my fingers brushed his neck. Sort of warm, soft, velvety, you know. I remember thinking: “In thirty seconds this neck's going to be broken and in a few hours it won't be warm and velvety, it'll feel like cold mutton.” It sort of shook me up, you know. Upset me more than a little. So I don't like people messing around my throat or neck. Makes me uncomfortable. Silly, really. But there it is. So, no barbers. D'you believe me — about the mirrors, I mean?'

‘Yes, of course,' I said, trying to put what conviction I could into my voice. ‘You obviously saw something that scared you.'

He filled his glass and glanced at his watch.

‘Got a board meeting tonight to settle it once and for all. Can't be late for it. Must keep sober. They're cunning as Machiavelli. But we've just got time. Come, let me show you something.'

Carrying his glass as carefully as if it were a life support system, he led me down a corridor where there were two huge double doors. These he unlocked, threw them open and switched on a blaze from a giant glittering chandelier in the centre of the room. It was a long room, perhaps some forty feet by twenty and down its length ran a wide, beautifully polished rosewood table. Along its sides twelve chairs were arranged, six to a side, and at the end of the table stood the thirteenth chair, a heavily carved ornate piece of furniture with massive arms. The whole end wall was covered by a gigantic mirror in a gold frame, which reflected the table, the chairs and the chandelier above them. It was an impressive room but the most amazing thing about it was the walls on which hung a multitude of mirrors of every shape, size and colour, ranging from tall pier glasses to round bathroom mirrors, to tiny mirrors from ladies' compacts. They were round, oval, square, even triangular. Some had ornate frames, others cheap wooden ones, others stark chromium surrounds. The only thing they had in common was that they were each spiked to the wall by a pointed iron peg, which drove straight through the centre of the mirror, splintering it.

‘D'you see?' said James, swaying slightly and waving at the mirrors. ‘Tried 'em all. But they got into 'em, like rats into a hayrick. There's about a thousand years of bad luck pinned to these walls if you're superstitious. Ha! I got my bad luck
before
I broke 'em.'

He gazed with surprise at his empty glass and glanced at his watch.

‘Let's go and have another drink,' he said. There's plenty of time.'

I noticed then, with a tingle of apprehension, that in front of each neatly pushed-in chair, except the thirteenth, was a printed place card. I had just time to read some before he switched the light off: O'Mara, Ranjit Singh, Jenkins, all the hanged men he had mentioned. He had said a board meeting, but it looked more like a jury room to me — a jury of twelve dead men. I shivered and hoped he would not ask me to attend as an observer.

He carefully locked the big double doors and we made our way out on to the veranda. The storm was crouched directly above us now and was endeavouring to devour the house, shaking it with thunder, running its talons of lightning along the steel guttering producing showers of sparks, salivating a downpour of rain, whose noise on the roof almost obliterated the cackling of the frogs. We had to shout to make ourselves heard.

‘It'll pass,' James said, filling our glasses, ‘they always do.'

But the storm did not want to pass. It remained above us, anchored to us, as though it knew something uncanny was going to happen and wanted to play its part. It sat over us as a cat squats over a half-dead mouse, waiting for movement.