Ventriloquists (44 page)

‘What’s his name?’

‘Kuba. He’s Polish – last seen walking from farm to farm, offering to pick strawberries and potatoes for minimum wage.’ Eva sounded confident; she also sounded flirtatious (to Maggie), as if she was on the brink of divulging a brand new joke. ‘Sometimes he talks in the mother tongue.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not
encouraged
to talk to our residents, but Benny has never exactly forbidden it either. It’s good to be reminded of how much vocabulary you’ve forgotten in your second language.’

Although Maggie had not come here to listen to anyone’s war stories (not even Yasser’s), she felt that she might learn something from Eva; but neither the time nor the place seemed appropriate. Something about Maggie’s demeanour must have said that she was impatient to proceed. Eva’s features tautened, all good nature frittered away. Without checking to see if Maggie was behind her, she walked on.

Lights winked on ahead of them as they approached Yasser.

The Village Idiots

1.

Needless to say, the explorers’ arrival had not gone unnoticed. Though the game underway kept hold of the attention of many, there were some who turned to view and size up the new arrivals, their expressions (if they could be read at all) mixing wonderment with candid disgust.

Bernadette (for one) did not enjoy being the object of such open evaluation. Usually it was she who did the evaluating: she assessed a head wound, the result of a sharp instrument trauma; she broke bad news and read faces. It had been a while since the tables had been turned in this way, and she said:

‘Guess they don’t get many tourists around here.’

The comment had not been meant as a joke – not exactly – but Massimo smiled good-naturedly, and was about to say something like:
I’m not surprised, if that’s how they treat them –
when Connors pipped him to the post and spoke first.

‘That’s Dorman’s head,’ he said clearly.

The game was brought to a rousing finale a few minutes later, when a shortarse pug on the three-eyed players’ side performed a turnaround jump shot of which a basketball professional would be proud. Dorman’s battered face did not touch the hoop: the head described a perfect arc, and with a gentle sound it fell through the ragged netting and was caught by one of the opposition’s defensive line.

Whoops and applause. A long whistle.

2.

As Bernadette and Massimo embarked on a round of handshakes, encouraging smiles and what they hoped were friendly nods (even the occasional curtsey), the better to let the crowd know of their amiable intentions, Connors eschewed all formalities and strode out into the middle of the makeshift basketball court, and sat down. The sit did not appear voluntary: it was more like a slump and a collapse; and as soon as he was established on his backside, he leaned forward slightly and cupped his bearded chin in both hands, his elbows on his knees. No portrait painter could have fashioned a more convincing portrayal of despondency or melancholy.

What to do?

Bernadette and Massimo exchanged glances, their expressions flickering from warmth to worry and back again. Atchoo and the guides were several metres away, presumably telling the story of their travails. For the moment, it was impossible to ask the boy to go over and sit with Connors. Any attempts to offer consolation to Connors were firmly the responsibility of Bernadette and Massimo… and Bernadette was not
absolutely
convinced that Massimo would know what to do either. She was not sure that the two men got along.

No.

Bernadette would do this on her own – she would have to. Many had been the friends and relatives that she’d spoken to and held, following the death of a loved one – an unsuccessful operation, perhaps. Bad news was a language she spoke. Not fluently, granted; but competently.

Making international gestures of abject apology, Bernadette moved through and away from the crowd that was swiftly disbanding. She crossed over to the hunched potato sack that Connors had become. Wordlessly she sat nearby him, maintaining a respectful distance. He noted her presence, then resumed an inspection of his palm.

‘First sign of madness, you know,’ said Bernadette.

Connors regarded her again.

‘Looking for hair,’ she explained.

She’d intended it as a joke but it was not taken as one.

‘I’m already mad,’ Connors told her.

‘There is absolutely no way I can tell you to snap out of it.’

‘Good.’

‘Not after you’ve seen your friend’s head used as a netball,’ said Bernadette.

Connors was shaking his head. ‘He was no friend,’ he answered quietly. ‘I hardly knew him more than three hours or so. And it wasn’t like I didn’t know he was
dead.
I saw it happen.

‘True. But a team sport’s a different thing,’ Bernadette attempted to rationalise. ‘Surely.’

‘His
whole
head, you’ll notice. I didn’t imagine that, did I?’

‘You didn’t. So you’re not mad.’

‘I think I am – but not for that. Cuz I saw the cunt’s head get cut in half. I fucking
saw
it. The glass chopped it in two in the back garden, right?’

‘…Yeah.’

‘So how comes his
whole
head’s here?’ Connors asked. ‘That doesn’t make a lick of sense, does it? Half of it was left on the grass.’

‘I guess so,’ said Bernadette.

‘I saw it!’

‘I don’t doubt you.’

Connors paused. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really, Chris. The question is, what does it mean?’

‘Or what do
we
mean?’ Connors replied.

‘Sorry? Mean to who?’

‘Exactly! Mean to who!’ His eyes lit up with a flare of excitement. ‘Who’s controlling us – right now? Have you thought of that? I think back to when we were in the village…’ He might have been talking to himself or to a counsellor; he wasn’t talking to Bernadette. ‘Very briefly – just for a few days there – I felt like I was on top of the world. Like I got to the end of something… I should’ve known better.’ Now he looked at Bernadette once more: back in the real world. His voice soft he said, ‘I’m a puppet. We all are.’

Connors paused.

‘But I know one thing,’ he added. ‘Whoever’s in charge here, it’s someone with a small imagination for this stuff. He hasn’t thought it all through. It’s
not consistent.
’

3.

The group’s arrival was destined to be a transient pleasure. No more than an hour had passed since the culmination of the basketball game, and already Connors, Massimo and Bernadette were no more appealing than yesterday’s news. Did this mean it was over? That their struggle down the mountain had led only to this? This apathy, this lassitude…

‘It can’t be the end,’ Massimo reflected in a murmur, thereby spoiling a long (frightened) silence. But it felt like the end of
something
. There was no more fuel in the tank.

During the preceding forty minutes, a few matters of note had occurred.

First they’d been offered food, at a price. Any sense of goodwill or charity that they might have expected from the villagers as the result of their achievements had evidently been a non-starter from the off. They were not all-conquering heroes; in the eyes of this encampment, much to the singeing of their individual senses of pride, they were jack shit. They were nothing. A source of momentary curiosity, at best. And so they’d politely declined the sale; a little of the supplies remained. Their refusal to buy had been seen as an act of defiance.

It was not a stance shared by Atchoo and the guides. They’d been ushered into what looked for all the world like a mechanic’s garage, complete with a rattling pull-down metal front door. From this building the aroma of meat and spices had crept out on the wind and crept up on their senses; it had smelled like an Indian restaurant, and some of the perfume lingered in the air. The sounds of revelry had been a further insult.

When Atchoo had emerged from the garage, he’d boasted a broad, satisfied grin, and a gravy moustache that Bernadette had pointed out for him to wipe away. The smile had intensified. ‘I’m saving that bit for later,’ the boy had said.

Connors had become angry at the boy’s remark – not only because of its glibness, but also because it was something that he himself had used to say to his own mother, when he was a boy. To Connors, the remark was a reminder of home – yet another reminder of home – and of the miles that separated there from here. He had swapped being treated like a king for being treated like a cunt. And he wanted to know why.

‘I want to speak to who’s running the show,’ Connors had instructed the boy.

Connors, Massimo and Bernadette were sitting on a blue rock, near a deep-red pond. On the water’s surface swam a coterie of pink creatures that were made not of flesh and feathers but of concentrated overlaps of air. They swam upside-down, their splayed feet above the water (if it
was
water) and pedalling madly,
their tubby torsos underneath, breathing like fish. The only time that their spectators saw their bodies was when they inverted in order to snap at some golfball-sized flying insects. Massimo loved them.

‘I could watch them all day,’ he announced.

‘I wonder what time it gets dark,’ said Bernadette, idly.

‘I’m not going anywhere until I’ve met the head honcho,’ said Connors.

Bernadette was quick off the mark. ‘I wasn’t suggesting we go anywhere – I was just.’

‘At what point did we understand – together – that where Atchoo led us was going to be significant? Connors wondered aloud.

No one replied.‘We did, though, didn’t we? Don’t tell me it was only me,’ Connors persisted.

Massimo shook his head.

‘It wasn’t just you,’ said Bernadette. ‘But I don’t remember why we thought
anything
.’ She puffed out air. ‘Actually I’m doubting my memory in general.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Massimo muttered. ‘Christ I’m hungry.’

‘I wonder if you really are,’ Connors told him.

‘Am what? Hungry?’

Connors shrugged. ‘Hungry.
Here.
You choose. We’re being played for cunts, Mass. Someone’s controlling the whole fucking shebang. You mark mine.’

Circles.

Circles of conversation. The same topic, loop after loop.

‘I’ve got a hunch.’ Connors stood up and stretched the muscles in his shoulderblades. ‘With enough concentration we could probably change the weather.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Massimo.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bernadette.

‘We are sharing something. And we’re being controlled.’

‘
You’ve already said that a few times,’ Massimo reminded him.

‘Well exactly. We’re not even capable of original thought!’ Connors waited; he leaned forward, collecting his thoughts. ‘When I first arrived here – on the land, I mean – I was warned about a tribe of cannibals that lived in the hills, right? Well I think – I
think
– these guys here are the sort I was being warned about… Do you feel safe here, Bernadette?’

‘Kind of.’

‘Me too. I feel
drowsy
. Why do you think that is? I mean, apart from the big walk we did. What if
these
cunts are the types I was supposed to stay away from in the first place? Might be something in the air, relaxing our minds. The truth is, I feel suspicious of feeling so comfortable, if that makes any sense whatsoever. So I’m all for moving on. Shake the cobwebs from between me ears, because I reckon…’ Connors sat up sharply; a joint snapped. ‘I reckon I can get us back home if we get back to the harbour town where I first came on land. We get a ship –
somehow
we get a ship.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Massimo. ‘You mean you
really
think they’re cannibals here?’

Connors shrugged. ‘All I know is, from the moment I saw Atchoo he reminded me of Elvis – the boy not the singer – and the moment I got to this village, or nearly, I started thinking about my approach towards Toenail Island… It felt like
déjà vu.
’

‘But why would they offer to sell us food if they intended to eat us? Wouldn’t they say: take off your clothes and hop into the pot?’

‘I don’t
know
. I’m not claiming to be a bloody expert on the subject. I could be wrong – completely – but if you’ve got a better plan I suggest you voice it pretty sharpish.’

On the pond, the creatures made of air rubbed their webbed feet together to make noises that sounded like quacks.

‘Why don’t we hear what the head honcho has to say?’ Massimo suggested. ‘Let’s at least have a few more hours’ rest, eh? You’ve asked to see him, after all.’

Connors nodded. ‘Okay, but then I’m off. If I’m right – if my gut instinct is right – we can get away before it gets dark.’

‘And if you’re wrong?’ asked Bernadette.

Connors smiled. ‘Then we’re casserole.’

Massimo sniggered. ‘With carrots.’

‘And a big bastard
turnip
,’ said Bernadette, also bursting into a smile. ‘I wonder who’s the saltiest out of the three of us…’

They started laughing – nervous laughter at first, which then became richer and more honest. It was a release from the grip of tension. They laughed about being eaten in a stew; about being skewered. And they wondered if the locals enjoyed brains.

Then they saw Atchoo.

The boy was walking towards them, alone. His expression was impossible to read, and he waited until he was a metre away from where they were sitting before he spoke.

‘Benny will see you now,’ was what he said.

Connors frowned. ‘Who’s Benny?’ he asked the boy.

‘You asked to see who was running the show,’ the boy explained. ‘And he’ll see you now.’

Massimo and Connors exchanged glances.