Ventriloquists (2 page)

Finders Keepers

1.

The directions were blunt but accurate, and he made excellent time through the towns, arriving at the camp before six on a damp, cold morning – a good half-hour before he’d expected to. The wipers smeared greasy rain as thick as curd across his windscreen as the engine panted softly and he tried to talk himself out of driving in. All it would take was a three-point turn in the narrow trash-strewn road between two unkempt fields, and he would be heading back the way he’d come. But he was more nervous than predicted, and he took this internal disquiet as a good sign. If he drove home now, he would never come out here again, he was sure of it. The opportunity would be lost forever. Indignant rage, in the visitor’s opinion, flared briefly.

Having engaged first gear he crept onto the driveway. It was smoother underwheel than he’d imagined it would be, and the slickness sickened him: it was wrong that scum could accumulate enough money to maintain frictionless driving conditions. By the time he had reached the end of the drive, where the first of the trailers gleamed dully in the smudgy rain, his anger was stoked and puckered. As he passed between two grey trailers, a dog italicized itself noisily at the end of a three-metre length of rope, its snarls intermittent with soprano-pitched barks that the driver feared would wake up the camp.

The trailer he wanted, he’d been told, had a fresco painted on its side of the moon and stars, in royal blue. (Shyleen had made an earlier trip to the camp and had made enquiries.) Crawling slowly in first gear, it was not hard to find. He disabled the engine; he watched the fuel gauge ease down from a quarter tank to empty. (He had come here deliberately short of petrol: the possibility that he’d have his car set alight had been uppermost.) Then he exited the vehicle, experiencing the full sub-coastal slap of sozzled wind across his bows.

Next door to the moon-fresco trailer sat a smaller caravan. A short, stocky man in his mid-forties was already outside, in his checked shirtsleeves and a pair of water-resistant green plastic jekylls. He’d been fastening a tarp to the back of his red miniloader, and he only stopped doing so now to watch the visitor unfold out of his own vehicle. There was no expression of cordial greeting on his grey bearded features.

‘Are you lost, son?’ he asked.

‘No. Good morning to you,’ the visitor replied.

‘Yeah, good morning. Now what is it you’d be needing here so early?’

‘A word with your neighbour.’

‘She’s asleep.’

‘Oh? How can you be so sure?
You’re
awake.’

The caravan’s owner smiled briefly. ‘Man’s gotta work,’ he answered. ‘Them draincovers and hubcaps won’t be stealing themselves now, will they?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Cuz that’s all we do all day, right?’

‘I never said that. I don’t
believe
that either. But now you mention it, I
am
particularly fond of my hubcaps, so if you wouldn’t mind –’

The stocky man had taken a few steps to close the gap between them. ‘Now don’t be chatten the bollocks,’ he said. ‘Are you the law?’

‘No.’

‘Then I’d advise you to make a swift exit. You’re on private property.’

‘I beg to differ.’

‘Oh you do. Listen, son. You’ve woken up Excalibur –’ He had to be referring to the dog on the rope, near the entrance, still yapping in an earnest but frustrated manner. ‘ –which means you’ve woken up the camp.’ Indeed, the visitor had noticed a few lights winking on in the caravans and trailers nearby. ‘So it’s not looking handsome, is it?’ As if to suggest some further point of protocol he took another step closer: his plastic trousers swished and the visitor heard his boots squelch in mud underfoot.

The visitor had come prepared for confrontation. Stood his ground. ‘I’ll need a name.’

‘What name?’

‘
Your
name. Sir.’

Again, the caravanman smiled – it was even briefer this time, little more than a twitch. ‘They call me the Brazilian, son. Do you know why?’

‘You were born in Buenos Aires?’

‘Cuzza me tendency to tear strips off a poor cunt. So be going, why don’t you, before I have cause to give you a free demo. We protect our own here.’

The visitor shook his head. ‘I’m no threat to you,’ he elaborated.

‘I should say you’re not!’

‘Unless my car’s damaged, of course. Took me a lot of cold Saturdays to earn that car, and I repeat what I said about my hubcaps.’

‘...Cheeky bastard,’ the other man muttered, closing the gap again to a distance of two metres. Then they both heard:

‘Leave it, Tommy.’

The voice emerged from the frescoed trailer. When the visitor turned at the waist, the voice’s owner was standing in her narrow doorway. Dressed in a little pink housegown, she had pale hair piled in a haystack on top of her head. She was somewhere in her early twenties, but with a rinsed longsuffering air that made her appear a decade older.

‘Are you for me?’ she asked the visitor calmly.

‘For Eloise.’

She paused. ‘You’d better come in then,’ she said.’ You’ll catch your death.’ She turned her back. ‘Don’t you boys believe in coats?’ she added. ‘Or did the Prophet prohibit the bloody things?’

2.

‘She’s sleeping. She wouldn’t go down until about five, I’m
exhausted
... Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Thank you, yes.’

‘Take the weight of your indignation, sir. The sofa won’t bite.
’

Unnerved more by the hostess’s civility than he had been by the Brazilian’s aggression, the man sat down. It was like an interview: one of the dozens he’d attended, seeking a job that would facilitate his escape out of his world of frozen fingertips and charmless punters.

‘Do you take sugar?’ he was asked.

‘No, thank you. Are you alone?’

Three metres away, in the narrow kitchen, the woman sniggered. ‘Are you scared now?’ she asked teasingly.

‘No. Are you alone, I asked.’

‘Me Da’s on nights. Be home soon.’

‘And what does
he
make of the Eloise business?’

‘It was his idea.’ She sniggered again and crossed towards him. ‘It’s a bit strong,’ she warned, handing him a mug of brackish soup-like tea, for which he thanked her regardless.

She sat close by (there was no choice as to the distance), in the compact dining area. On the table before her, her Man U mug
sprinkled steam into the air. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked him.

‘Yasser.’

‘As in Arafat? That’s a funny kind of name, Yasser.’

‘I’m a funny kind of guy.’

‘
You’re surprised I’ve heard of Yasser Arafat, aren’t you now?’

Despite himself, Yasser smiled. ‘I am a bit. What’s yours, if we’re getting acquainted?’

‘Maggie. Maggie Earl.’

‘Well, Maggie Earl, how about we go straight from the
h’ors doeuvres
to the cheese board? You know what I want: I want the child. I want Eloise. More specifically, her
parents
want Eloise. Me, I’m just a go-between.’

Maggie blinked at him and asked, ‘How’s your tea?’

‘My tea’s fine. The other matter, on the other hand, remains
not
fine...’

‘Why, you haven’t so much as sipped at it, Yasser. I’ve been watching.’

Yasser shook his head. ‘My tea’s not in doubt... Maggie. The issue at stake is the child that belongs to someone else, sleeping where?’

Maggie jerked her makeshift bouffant in the direction of a closed door beyond the kitchen area. With a smile on her face she said, ‘Did you think I might’ve put her up in the South Wing, you dafter? Where else? I’m sorry if she’s more accustomed to a
room with a view
.’

Yasser sat back against the sofa; his back was tense – the muscles more clustered than he’d imagined. The thought trampled through his head that Tommy the so-called Brazilian might be waiting outside for him – and the longer he spent in this long box the better chance the bastard had of rounding up troops.

He took a sip of the tea: strong as cyanide. Again he said, ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome, Yasser. So what happens next, if you’ve got a script?’

‘I return Eloise to her parents, that’s what happens next.’

Maggie nodded. ‘Out of interest,’ she said, ‘how did you find us without a name?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘You didn’t know my name. So how did you find us, Yasser?’

‘I employed the services of a professional.’

‘You cheated, in other words.’

‘If it pleases you to think so...’

‘You’re a college boy, aren’t you?’

Yasser frowned. ‘That’s not relevant.’

‘But aren’t you though? Central Beds or Barnfield?’

‘Barnfield College. A.V. course, level 2. Mature student.’

‘What’s an A.V. course?’

‘Audiovisual.’

Maggie brightened. ‘So you’ll be making a
film
about me? I wasn’t far off with what I said about a script after all!’

Feeling mildly ashamed, Yasser looked away and did his best to let her down gently. ‘I’m not exactly making a
film...
’

‘Your face, Yasser! I’m only teasing. Why would you waste time and celluloid on
us
scum, eh? Shall I put the kettle on for another cup of tea?’

From outside came the rumble of a vehicle drawing closer.

‘I don’t think we’ve time for tea, Maggie. I’m taking her. You know that, don’t you?’

Maggie nodded.

‘Irrespective of who that is. Even if it’s your dad.’

Maggie nodded; she brushed back a stray frond of hair that cornered down over her left eye.

‘Because it’s the right thing to do,’ said Yasser, as softly as he dared. He stood up. Light on his feet, he moved towards the door at the end and opened it. He peered in, leaning slightly. He was able to see pencilly outlines, not much more, but he believed he could make out a cot beside the bed. The cot surprised him a little bit: he had expected the child to be wrapped in a towel or a blanket or something, asleep on the bed itself. But they’d bought a cot. And the sight of it made Yasser’s temples throb with heavyweight disgust. What better indication of their arrogance – of their belief that they’d get away with the abduction – was there, than the fact that they’d gone out and
bought a cot
! Or at least obtained one from somewhere… maybe the transaction of filthy lucre had had nothing to do with it…

The important thing was that the girl was inside it. Yasser bent at the waist… Part of his preparation for today had been to ask his cousin for a hold of her baby, and now he knew how to do it, reasonably well. He picked up Eloise – and he took it as an added slice of good fortune, the contented near-silence that she maintained as he transported her, gifted in a wrapping of blue blanket, towards the door. Her breathing was soft and still sleep-dunked, near Yasser’s left earlobe.

When he carried Eloise past Maggie, he tried to catch the woman’s eye. A transmitted note of apology (but from whom to whom?) he might have expected; but Maggie was having none of it. Her eyes stared at the surface of her drink, and Yasser shook his head. That Maggie had moved not a muscle to defend her newfound property might have come as little surprise to Yasser – not since he’d met her, although his doubts in the car over would have begged to differ – but her shameful reluctance to look up from her cup of tea was what he found disconcerting. Not even to say
goodbye
? he wondered.

Well, some people found farewells terrifying – brittle and hollow. If that was the way she wanted it… maybe it was for the best. Keep the break clean.

Yasser unfastened the door; the wind outside did the rest. A brassmonkey sou’wester stole the door from Yasser’s grip and flung it back against the side of the trailer, where it collided with a fearsome
clump
.

If the noise of the door was not enough to rouse Eloise, the wind and the rain combined certainly were. It took the girl a second to get her emotions straight, as if to make sure, then she started crying with a vengeance, her lungs sucking in moist, chilly air.

Yasser heard the noise – he had no choice but to hear the noise – but it was something distant, something dreamy. What occupied his attention at this moment was his welcoming committee, all three of whom were armed in one way or another. The man that Yasser had met originally – the Brazilian – was tapping a crowbar into the palm of his left hand. A second man (a stranger to Yasser) was older, but by no means necessarily wiser; he was carrying a petrol can. A third man (the oldest still) had parked a blue van next to Yasser’s car, angled slightly in front of the headlights of the latter in a way that might impede but not prevent an escape. Yasser guessed that this third man was Maggie’s father. Not that Yasser was any good with estimating ages, but he figured the man would be about right. Early fifties? Mid-fifties? Shoulder-length grey and white hair, not a bald spot or receding enclave to be seen; a thick but tidy grey beard. Surely this man – a father himself no less – would see reason. Surely Maggie had been fibbing about the kidnapping having been this man’s idea…

On the other hand, this oldest man of the three held a simple but effective weapon. Simple and effective, at any rate, if it was used in conjunction with the second man’s petrol can.

A box of matches.

They wouldn’t, Yasser told himself as he descended the three steps down from the trailer. But if he was so sure, what accounted for the sudden doughy texture about his legs? What accounted for the fact that despite the wind and rain, his body had broken out in a rash of perspiration?

A waft of ugly perfume – the smell of petrol – reached Yasser’s nostrils. It might well have reached Eloise’s too, for she emitted a fresh scream, as piercing as a needle through skin.