Ventriloquists (39 page)

‘Oh I won’t be going to court, Yasser. I’ll die first. By me own hand, as they say. I can’t say I haven’t thought about it for long enough.’

Again, the owls made whoopee. A bat flapped over the garden.

Yasser said, ‘I started to think you wanted me to do it for you.’

‘Take my life?’ Maggie smiled. ‘You could if you wanted to; I wouldn’t fight much. Not if I could help it, anyway. But I don’t know what my instinct for self-preservation would throw up in your way. We’d be on the voyage together, as virgins.’

Yasser shook his head. ‘It’s not a voyage I’m going to take, Maggie.’

‘But how do you know? Imagine your afterlife! A thousand vestal virgins for killing scum!’ Maggie laughed. ‘I’m your passport to Paradise and you don’t even know it.’

‘You’re a fruit loop, is what you are,’ Yasser mumbled, walking away in the direction of the house once more. ‘Where
are
they? I’m going in,’ he called over his shoulder (a light twinkled on in an upstairs window of the house next door). ‘Are you coming with me?’

13.

Benny had placed the torch on a shelf near the door; the light it provided was fairly strong but not focussed on what was happening in the room. This defect in illumination combined with the torrents of pain in Chris’s skull, and it took Chris a few beats to work out what was going on.

‘Get off her!’ he shouted.

Benny turned by rotating his shoulder as best he could. He had positioned Shyleen so that she was only just on the bed’s edge, on her back, her ankles on Benny’s shoulders. Benny himself was kneeling on the floor, pushing his groin against hers in hurried spasms.

Chris crossed the room in four strides – faster than Benny could disconnect and stand up. Chris fell on Benny’s body, the two of them landing on the squelchy mattress. Rage burned in Chris’s brain – it was hotter than the agony – and punch after punch he landed on Benny’s face. Throughout the attack he swore fluently amid tangled, complicated breaths.

‘You tried to kill me,’ Chris eventually managed to say. By this point he had straddled Benny’s torso; apart from the laboured heaving of chests, all action had ceased.

‘I thought I had, mate.’ Benny gasped breath. ‘You must be tougher than you look. I whacked you a coupla good ‘uns. You’re no use to me, I’m afraid.’

‘You took my money fast enough,’ Chris argued, immediately regretting the inappropriateness of the remark.

‘Overheads,’ Benny said simply.

‘And what about her? Have you killed her too?’ Chris’s voice rose in amazed disgust. ‘Is she no use to you either. You were
fucking
her, man!’

Benny sniggered. ‘Tell me you’ve never been tempted to crack open a cold one.’

Chris punched him in the face. The nose broke.

‘
Jesus!
No! No I didn’t all right! She’s breathing and she’ll just have a bad hangover… I need her. For my collection. First Indian woman, see.’

‘My God…’ muttered Chris, feeling nauseous, afraid, tired (his biceps ached) – even mildly affronted at not being required by this murdering maniac. ‘What do you mean,
collection?
Are you collecting
people?
’

‘No, I’m collecting stamps.’

‘I’m warning you, mate.’

‘
Benny?
’

This was Yasser’s voice, from below.

‘Up here!’ Chris shouted. ‘Quickly!’

Benny did not wriggle beneath Chris’s weight. Motionlessly they awaited Yasser’s arrival, joined together in something like prayer.

Entering the bedroom, Yasser assessed the situation, or as much of it as could be assessed, and demanded to know what was going on.

‘Your monkey attacked me,’ said Benny. ‘When I told him he couldn’t have his money back.’

‘You liar!’ Chris protested. ‘Look at the state of me! He hit me with a bat or something!’

‘Self-defence,’ Benny explained.

‘
Get off him, Chris,’ said Yasser. ‘And what’s up with Shyleen?’

‘He was raping her!’

‘Bollocks!’

‘Your fly’s still undone! Her knickers are on the floor somewhere, Yasser – with her trousers.’

Yasser reached for the torch on the shelf; he swung the light across the bed for a better look at everything, including his cousin’s vagina. Something bubbled in Yasser’s emotions: it might have been jealousy. The reality of Chris having had sex with Shyleen in his house had been bad enough; but to learn that one or both of these wankers had been sliding it to her while she was unconscious… it was too much. It was simply too much. Rage took hold of his reins.

‘I told you to get off him, Chris. I meant it,’ Yasser said in a determined voice.

Chris complied. His objections, however, were far from over.

‘He said he was
collecting
people.’

But Yasser ignored him. ‘We’ll soon find out who was raping my cousin when she wasn’t even awake, you filthy bastards.’

‘Now wait a minute,’ Chris said. ‘I never raped
no one
.’

Sitting up comfortably, Benny took no noticed of the torch’s glare; indeed, as he fastened his trouser zip with little self-consciousness at all, he appeared to be on the verge of grinning inanely, amused by the squalor of it all.

‘I must admit, son, I
have
been a silly,’ he said. ‘I’ve completely forgotten to bring my forensic spunk-testing kit with me tonight. You wouldn’t have one on your person, would you, by any chance?’

‘The police will have one,’ Yasser answered calmly. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘Snake poison. Extracted and distilled by my own two hands.’ Benny showed Yasser the palms of his hands.

Chris stood up.

‘Stay where you are, Chris,’ Yasser told him.

‘You don’t think
I
did this, do you?’ Chris asked. ‘Shine your light on my face; I can taste my own blood! He fucking belted me one!’

‘I can see your blood, mate,’ Yasser replied. Then to Benny: ‘What does the poison do?’

‘What does it look like? It makes the victim dance a jig! It puts the victim into a coma; she’s aware of everything, believe it or not, she just can’t move. She’ll be fine.’

‘But why?’ Yasser wanted to know. ‘Why all the bullshit about another dimension?’ Immediately he answered his own question. ‘To get us up here one by one?’

Benny nodded his head, and Chris said, ‘I told you. He’s
collecting
people – he said it as loud as anything!’

‘For what reason, though?’ Yasser went on.

Chris wasn’t finished. ‘Only I’m not good enough for him, apparently. Me he just wanted out of the way. So he whacked me blind.’

‘Not blind enough,’ Benny interjected. ‘And
definitely
not mute enough.’

‘You need a hospital,’ Yasser thought aloud. He took out his mobile and thumbed the buttons to get rid of his text display and to set up a new call.

‘Do you know,’ said Benny. ‘There’s a black snake that can pretend to be a rattlesnake to scare off predators? He taps his tail on dried leaves to make the noise.‘

‘Shut up, Benny.’ Yasser’s thumb hovered over the third of the three nines that would connect him to the emergency services. It was not only the choice of which service he would name when he was invited to do so – police or ambulance – that made him hesitate. It was also the realisation that he was trespassing; the realisation that there were no innocent parties anymore.

Benny did not shut up. ‘Other snakes work together – different
species
of snakes, I mean. One of em does a dance to hypnotise the prey.’ Benny used his right arm to show what he meant. ‘Then the other cunt nips in and bites the victim on the scrotum. Ingenious, when you think about it.’

‘I said: shut
up,
Benny!’

‘Bob’s your uncle and Fanny’s your aunt. Both snakes eat the prey.’

In the hard wind of Benny’s persistent enthusiasm, Yasser could do no better than to shake his head in exasperation. ‘Why are you
telling
me this? Why
now?
’

‘
It’s called ironic poignancy, son.’ Benny smirked directly into
the torchlight. ‘If
I’m
the
first
snake, Yasser… who’s the second?’

Yasser span on his heels, as hard as he could: it was too late. He had not heard Maggie follow him through the house and up the stairs. Indeed, he had been distracted; he’d been hypnotised.

‘Sorry, Yasser,’ she whispered.

‘Give it him, girl!’ said Benny; and what Maggie sprayed into Yasser’s face felt dry and cold, with an animal house odour and a burning sensation when it hit the back of his throat.

He choked.

Yasser dropped to his knees, clawing at his neck with short-nailed fingers. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes were hot and streaming… he was aware of commotion behind him… he didn’t know where he was… his temples throbbed… sickness weakened him…
choking
…

‘Don’t fight it, Yasser,’ a woman’s voice said. Maggie’s voice.

He was choking, choking…

…too much darkness… weird light… no air… no… things no

Nothing.

Faithful Following

1.

‘Okay, got it,’ the first man said into his phone, ‘reverse and then… yeah, got it… be there in…
yeah,
Benny, I got it. We’ll be there in about five minutes. Cool, mate.’ He clipped his mobile phone shut. ‘Did you get that?’ he asked the second man, who was driving the van with one hand splayed limply on the wheel.

‘Something about reverse.’

‘He wants us to reverse up the drive and back into the garage. Then we go in the house round the back and load up. Five bags. Five hundred quid each for fifteen minutes’ work, not including the delivery of three and the disposal of two. A grand for ninety minutes? You having a laugh? Fair exchange is no robbery, mate!’

‘I know. But Dad –‘

‘Den. Call me Den.’

‘But Den,’ the younger man continued, ‘why won’t he tell us what’s
in
the bags?’

‘I didn’t ask. None of my business. Bloke’s paying us good money not to know, that’s all.’ Den paused, then went on with a sighed confidence. ‘But he’s a scientist, right? I expect they’re bodies.’

‘Yeah. I think they are too,’ the son replied. ‘That’s what creeps me out.’

‘Why?’ Den laughed. ‘We can’t have new medicines without testing em first, can we?’

‘No.’

‘No, of course not. So what? So he’s got five bags of dead rabbits or summing. Big deal! All
we
need to know is where we’re taking the bags for his keepsies, and where he wants us to take the other two for cremation. Right?’

‘Right. Yeah okay.’

‘Good boy.’ Den laughed again. ‘Mean, it’s not as if they’re gonna be
human
.’

‘Nah. Nah they won’t be human.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Exactly!’ the son agreed.

‘Good boy. Now turn off your lights; this is the road,’ Den instructed, in the back of his mind wondering if he’d managed to convince his son against what was obvious or not.

2.

Conducting his endless internal interview with Virginia, Branston leaned into his steering wheel, his arms limp in a vague cross. He watched the house – Number 11. He was part detective, part peeping tom; and when the van laboured into sight, Branston could not have been more content.

He watched it swing wide in the empty road, then negotiate a reverse up the short driveway and into the garage. His pulse quickened. His imagination had been playing with possibilities about the Edlesborough house since he’d arrived in this road for the first time tonight in Yasser’s wake. Now the suspense was something harder, like a cramp.

Hours earlier, Branston had followed Yasser to the house up the road, Number 77; he had seen the Asian girl slip around the side, while Yasser rang the front doorbell. While Yasser and the house owner had talked on the step, what had the Asian girl been doing at the back of the building? A burglary? (Branston waited for the reveal.) In a state of serenity Branston had watched Yasser walk away and get back into his car. A long wait had followed. Even pumped up by the mission – by the story! – Branston had grown bored. Then Yasser had started his engine and had driven off.

This had been the most difficult decision that Branston had needed to make. He’d been torn between waiting outside the house to try to discover what had happened to the Asian girl and starting his own engine to pursue his student. Although the house clearly meant something significant, and although the home owner and Yasser were not friends (otherwise why the doorstep conversation at this hour?), there was something appealing about keeping Yasser in his line of sight, for as long as possible, for the sake of dramatic continuity, if for no other reason.

But what if Yasser is just going home?
Branston had asked himself… in the voice of his interviewer, Virginia.

Then I’ll come back here.

But won’t it be too late by then?
Virginia had continued, her voice slightly spiky with agitation.

‘For what?’ Branston had answered in a whisper.

Indeed, for what? All of this time later, and Branston was no clearer about the night’s purposes. He had followed Yasser to the Travellers’ camp; he had waited outside, not wishing to push his luck. While parked outside, he had even become jittery because of his proximity to the camp’s entrance, so he’d driving back the way he’d arrived, fairly convinced that Yasser would drive back to the house in Edlesborough sooner or later.

Yasser had done so, albeit after a length of visit that had shown Branston the opening acts of a new work entitled
Panic at Gypsy Park.
Having waited so long, he had thought that he’d made a mistake. Yasser must have taken the other way when he’d left the camp. But then Yasser had come along, whizzing past Branston (who ducked low in the seat), accompanied by the woman in the film that Yasser had shot; the woman who had snatched the child.

On Yasser’s tail once again, half believing that he saw the glow of fire in his rearview mirror, Branston had been led back to Edlesborough, where some sort of party must be gathering at the original house. Or maybe not. When they’d all repaired to the damaged house down the road, Branston had got out of the car and followed on foot, his training shoes making no sound. Not that it would have mattered if he’d clicked along in high heels, he had reckoned - these people were on a mission tonight.

Now that the van had reversed into the garage of the damaged house, Branston believed that they would all move into the next chapter… Having jogged up and down the road a couple of times, Branston had moved his car nearer to Number 11, where he waited now. Not so close, he hoped, that he was easily in sight (although he had to concede that it wouldn’t be difficult to be spotted), but close enough to keep a good eye on the place.

However, there was not much to see. From within the garage, the guy who had been in the van’s passenger seat was pulling down the door. None of the original four had emerged either. What could they be doing in there? Branston wondered. And what significance did the van play?

Virginia asked Branston a question.
Did you ever consider the possibility that the van drivers live here?

Branston informed his interviewer that this was a good question, but added:
No. No, I don’t think so, and I’ll tell you why. The garage door was unlocked, Virginia.
The passenger got out and opened it – without a key. And I don’t think men who don’t come home from work until this late are in the habit of leaving their garages unlocked in Edlesborough, any more so than they are anywhere else these days.

Someone had unlocked the garage door before the van had arrived, either before the four visitors had arrived (which suggested at least a fifth person present, unless it had been the guy who lived at 77); or perhaps it was one of the four who had slipped into the garage via an entrance adjacent to the back garden.

Why did it matter anyway? Vowing to edit his answers more scrupulously while on surveillance in the future, Branston was contemplating the next move – when the garage door opened again.

The van’s main beams flared. Branston heard the engine roar, but he waited before starting his own vehicle.
Be patient. See what the others do…
This advice to self despite the seemingly obvious: the van drivers had come to collect something or to drop something off – something that had required a bit of privacy.

As the van eased out of the garage, a man that Branston had never seen before walked down the path between the house and the garage, the woman from the Travellers’ camp a few steps behind him. The man – oldish, ruffled – gave the van a wave in the driveway, then he closed the garage door again. Wordlessly as far as Branston could tell, the two of them walked together on the pavement, not in the direction of Number 77: in the direction of the end of the road, where the park began.

Perhaps they’re parked in the park car park, Virginia…

Shouldn’t you find out? Start the engine. Follow them!

But where was Yasser? He had not exited the house, which meant that he was still in the property somewhere (minus Maggie, who seemed to have just deserted him), or he had left in the back of the van, with the delivery men.

Did he mean to leave in the back of the van? Was he conscious?

Storyline.

Boy goes to gypsy camp to take back child stolen by lady gypsy. Lady gypsy has had her own child stolen earlier. Boy tries to find lady gypsy’s child. Goes to home of old boy with criminal clout. Old boy whacks the younger boy. Dead. Van drivers collect the body…

With no way of knowing how far away from, or close to, the facts this outline was, Branston reminded himself that an Asian woman had gone in there too – as had the man from Number 77. Where were
they
now?

In the back of the van as well, Branston supposed. Why would the three of them hang around in an abandoned house?

Oh I don’t know. Ghost-spotting? A sexual threeway?
(Branston blinked several times.)
Perhaps they intended a fivesome…

Yeah right. So who are the guys in the van?

He had three alternatives, and two of them were shrinking from sight.

Follow the van.

Follow the old guy and the baby-thief woman.

Stay put and wait.

Then a fourth choice became clear, quite unexpectedly, as the man from Number 77 stumbled out onto the front lawn, swaying like a sailor, his face filthy with something that Branston did not want to be blood.

As fast as he could, Branston got out of his car and crossed the deserted road. He wouldn’t be able to catch the van anyway; perhaps the other two (who knew where they intended to walk?), but not the van: and now it scarcely mattered. The man from 77 needed help – Branston’s help – and could hardly stand up straight. He’d been attacked, it seemed.

‘What happened?’

Chris looked at Branston – each a stranger to one another – and in the streetlamp’s illumination his eyes were milky and liquid.

‘Cut myself shaving – what does it look like? Which way did they go?’ Chris asked.

‘The old guy or the van?’

‘The van.
Which way?
’

Branston pointed in the direction of Chris’s house and Chris shuffled off.

‘Where’s Yasser?’ Branston asked.

‘He’s in the van,’ Chris slurred over his shoulder. ‘He does
experiments
on them… and my Bernadette’s already there.’

‘
Where?
’

‘Somewhere in Ashridge… Gotta get to my car…’ He sounded drunk.

Are you part of this story or not?
demanded Branston to himself. The answer took less than a second to compute.

‘Get in my car,’ he told Chris. ‘I’m driving – you’re talking. I need explanations… The van can’t’ve got far. We’ll catch em.’

3.

Chris attempted to explain to Branston what had happened in the house…

When Yasser collapsed in the darkened bedroom, Chris felt edgy. It was pretty obvious that he was now on his own; it was just him and Maggie and Benny in the room, and Maggie had just nailed her colours to the mast. She and Benny were together. Quite how or quite why was a matter that Chris felt he needn’t dwell on. If the crack on the head that he’d received from Benny had not been sufficient to convince him of the danger he was in, he had now witnessed Maggie’s deconstruction of Yasser. The stench of the evidence lingered – in the stagnant, compromised oxygen – and Chris pressed a hash-stinking palm to his nostrils.

To run or not to run?

Chris would have to push past Maggie (and step over Yasser) in order to get out of the door; but once clear of the room, of the landing, surely he could make it through the pitch-dark house safely enough. The morning would smell delicious… but then what? It was utterly inconceivable – it was totally
unacceptable
– that he would phone the law. A matter of general principle. But what else was left?

‘Do you wanna be on your way?’ Benny asked – Chris wasn’t sure if the question was for him. Benny sniggered. ‘Or do you want your money back?’

So the question
was
for him.

‘Yes I do,’ Chris answered.

As though nothing more serious than a difference of opinions had occurred in the last few minutes, the three of them walked back down and through the house. Such was the drumming in his skull by this point that Chris did not pay much attention to the others’ proximity. If they wanted to attack him again – to boot him down the stairs, to snap his neck – then there was nothing he could do to stop them. His injury had robbed him of his survival instinct. Parenthetically he wondered if he had also lost a life-threatening quantity of blood. He didn’t dare check if his wound was still bleeding.

The cold air outside made him dizzy. A few minutes earlier he had asked himself if he was ready to run – to barge out of the house if necessary – but now it was an effort simply to stand up. The black-and-cream lawn, dyed a thousand variations of greyscale by the moon and stars, looked awfully inviting as a place to lay his head…

Chris imagined Bernadette, and how she’d nurse him on those rare occasions when he was ill. She would hold his head; remind him to drink his Lemsip… Where
was
she? Where was she when she should be nursing him right now?

‘Is Bernadette with you?’ he asked Benny. ‘Wherever you’re keeping them all… is she with you?’

‘She’s the nurse, right?’

‘You know she is.’

‘Yeah I’ve got her. She’s safe…’ Benny sniffed the air and reminded himself of something. ‘Listen, mate, I’ve gotta make a phone call, all right? Chat to Maggie or be on your toes – as you like it. But if you wanna stick around you can see a bit of the process: the collection. I just need to give em a bell for the directions. They’ll be here soon.’