Ventriloquists (47 page)

‘The
uncertainty
is what makes loss loss,’ Tommy was saying. ‘And this whole place – everywhere you’ve walked, every sight you’ve seen – has been built on the grief of someone’s losses. A
world
of grief!’ Tommy grinned. ‘A whole world, lady and gentlemen!’

Oh, quite the showman,
Massimo thought bitterly.
You wait. You’ll change your tune.

‘And you don’t arrive here without grief,’ said Tommy, ‘you mark my words.’

Breathing loudly through her nose, Bernadette said, ‘Well, I think my dog might count.’

‘Your dog?’

‘You didn’t say the loss had to be human.’

‘No I didn’t… So what happened to your dog?’ Tommy asked.

‘That’s a good question. No one is exactly sure, but there was a kind of explosion in a house near where I live, just down the street. And my dog was washed away when the sea exploded out, along with Connors…’ Bernadette indicated Connors, who had not uttered a word for a while and who was gazing down at the filthy furs that covered his feet – as if he expected said furs to show signs of life of the creature they had once belonged to. He did not acknowledge the name-check.

Tommy frowned. ‘Wait a second… You’re not talking about a house in Edlesborough, are you? Edlesborough, Bedfordshire.’

‘Yes. That’s where I live,’ Bernadette answered, immediately smiling either in reflex or in reflection of Tommy’s own spirited beam.

Shaking his head, Tommy offered his opinion of the situation that they’d reached. ‘Fuck
me
it’s a small world,’ he said. ‘That’s just down the road where
I
live! It’s where I left me da a few hours previous!’

Connors looked up from the perusal of his feet. His voice a little clogged with emotion, he said, ‘My brother. For me it was my brother…’ And he waited until he was certain that he had not been understood. ‘The one I lost,’ he clarified. ‘The one I don’t know where he went. It was my brother. We think he drowned. He was never found.’

Stand-Offs

1.

Alarmed clear of a shallow doze by the sound of a vehicle, Nero jumped up and tensed his muscles. He knew Charlie’s car engine… and this wasn’t it.

The male voice that reached his ears was calm, magnified loud.

‘
This is the police! We have the place surrounded! Come out with your hands up!’

‘
Where the fuck’s Charlie?’ Nero muttered.

Glass was being broken downstairs, and Nero ran the sweating fingers of his left hand through the hair on his head that had grown longer during his time in the house than he had worn it in years. ‘Oh my days,’ he muttered. Although he knew the timing to be absurd, he wanted, suddenly and desperately, a head-shave: if he must face the public, in whatever form the interaction would take, he would like it to be while he looked his best… which was only right and proper, wasn’t it? Of course it was! The problem, however, that presented itself was this: by no exaggeration could Nero be said at this moment to be looking his best. The contest needed no judge to settle the matter: from his naked chest down to his naked toes, he looked a mess. A sweating, emaciated bundle of sticks and skin.

It was no way to meet the enemy, Nero believed; but what could he do about it? They were entering the building – he could hear them – and the best he might have was a minute or two.

Where the hell was Charlie?

Where was Massimo?

Where were Nero’s protectors, now that the time had come to really need them? Nero’s brain fizzed with activity; he felt his heart changing gear and moving faster, ever faster. In his right hand he squeezed the stun-gun’s grip.

A mantra had started at the back of Nero’s head –
they’ll be here, they’ll be here –
and was marching forward, increasing in decibels. The
they
were Charlie and Massimo. Even now, in the midst of a panicky despair, Nero believed that the cavalry would arrive on time. ‘They’ll be here!’ he shouted – and the sound of movement inside the walk-in wardrobe reminded him that he had a hostage or two if required.

Get the woman out of there, he thought. She was the weakest; she could be Nero’s passport out of the house.

But then what?

Nero thought of Jess, and twitted himself for not having left when she’d made the break. Together they might have been miles away by now.

I didn’t want to go,
Nero reminded himself.
And I don’t want to go now either,
he continued.

Hearing footfalls on the stairs, Nero took up a position in the centre of the room.

Voices from beyond the door; mutterings; the swish of fabric. ‘Clear!’ he heard a male voice announce. They were checking the rooms one by one.

As nervous as he felt at this moment, Nero raised the stun-gun to his own right temple. They would find him ready: nervous but ready. No need did he have for a hostage – nor even a witness to tell his tale as a caution to others in future days. He would be his own passport out of the house: that or sting himself in the process, like a scorpion with a drop of liquor on its tail. They would either make room for him to exit – or they wouldn’t. But if they did not, he would never need to know about their decision.

Took less than a second to pull a trigger.

2.

Entering Interview Room 3, Sergeant Maureen Tennan thought back to her Post-Hostage Training with excitement and ominosity. There was no doubt in her mind that she must be the worst person on the Force to deal with the girl inside the room; but the girl had specified a female officer, and Tennan was the only one on duty with the right training behind her. It didn’t matter that it was good practice to wait for the subject-experts to arrive from North London: the girl wanted to talk
now,
and Tennan’s colleague had said that the girl appeared stoic and clear-headed.

‘Hello, Jess,’ said Tennan, closing the door. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I remembered something,’ Jess replied. ‘Sorry. Hello. I forgot who I’ve spoken to so far.’

‘My name is Maureen. I’d like to record our conversation if that’s all right with you.’

‘I don’t care. I mean… I don’t mind. I was wondering how I’d know the house again: I didn’t look at it. And then I remembered.’ Jess was squeezing an empty plastic cup in both hands; the recollection caused her to press harder, and it broke with a flamey crackle. ‘Just outside the main gate – I had to climb the gate to get out – there’s a signpost on the verge…’ She sucked in a breath.

‘A house name?’

‘No. A FOR SALE sign. The house is for sale.’ Jess closed her eyes and cleared the memory of debris, as carefully as an archaeologist brushing sand off an artefact. Her subliminal vision, as it turned out, was 20/20. ‘Edmonton and Squires. Estate Agents. Based in Bletchley,’ Jess said.

3.

‘Clear!’

The bathroom was as empty as the first two bedrooms had been, and now the three officers on the landing – two male and one female, all dressed in combats and carrying guns – addressed the fourth door of five on this storey.

Sergeant Roy Card, seven years on the Force dealing with hostage situations, and with the nightmares to prove it, laid his grip on the handle… and opened the door and stepped in.

In the middle of the room, a black boy stood with a gun against his temple, an expression of imbecilic tranquillity blanking out most of his features. The boy stood stark bollock naked, and exuded a scent of carrion. At the very least this room would need the windows opened for a couple of days, just to dissipate the odour, which also contained something electrical, something stormy – ozone-like, polluted.

‘Put the weapon down, son,’ Card instructed, taking a further step deeper into the room to allow his colleagues an unhindered entrance. ‘We’re armed police officers and we’re going to get you out of here.’

‘I’m going on my own,’ Nero replied. ‘Try and stop me and I’m zapping my brains out.’

‘There’s no need, son,’ Card told him.

Three guns were now trained on Nero.

‘Your girlfriend’s made it out safely. We know you two are the victims here. And we’ll find your captors, all right? We’ll search until we do. They won’t get far.’

Nero smiled. ‘I’m no one’s victim, Mr Policeman. The three in the wardrobe are
mine
. I was left in charge.’

As if on cue, from within the walk-in wardrobe came two male voices and the thunder of hands battering the door.

Having swapped a glance with his female colleague, who had taken up a position to his left, Card said again, ‘Put the weapon down, son.’

‘
I ain’t your son, Mr Policeman. Now back the fuck off, man.
’

‘Your name’s Neil,’ the female officer informed him.

‘Once upon a time, maybe.’

‘So what is it now?’ she asked.

‘You first,’ Nero instructed.

‘My name’s Susan.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Susan,’ said Nero, the politeness bizarre in the circumstances; the officers’ guns remained trained on Nero’s bare torso.

Susan continued: ‘We’re here to get you out of here…’ She remembered what she’d learned from the briefing back at The Nick. ‘…Nero.’

‘I ain’t Nero no more either. My name’s Charlie – King Charlie! And I
rule
this roost, sweet. The prisoners are mine until Charlie comes home.’

‘And then what?’ Card asked.

Taking a step towards the trio of nozzles pointed in his direction, Nero answered, ‘Then he gets his name back. And his prisoners.’

Another step, slow…

‘Now leave my room,’ Nero ordered.

‘You need food and water,’ Susan told him. ‘You’ve had a terrible ordeal.’

‘Not as bad as the one
they’re
getting.’ And Nero indicated the walk-in wardrobe with the hand carrying the stun-gun. The gun was only apart from his temple for a second but it was long enough.

Card fired.

The rubber bullet hit Nero in the centre of his chest, the marksman having aimed to miss the area above the mark’s heart. In the echo-chamber acoustics of the unfurnished room, the report was an amplified version of a cork slipping free of a champagne bottle. The shot lifted Nero – or King Charlie, or Neil – off his feet.

Nero fell back into empty space; he was not close enough to the wall or the wardrobe door to make contact with anything. He landed on his back, the stun-gun having left his grip during his temporary flight.

As one the officers moved forward. Susan and Card covered the body; the third man in the room kicked Nero’s dropped weapon towards the skirting board, beyond anyone’s reach.

Not only had Card’s shot robbed Nero of a bargaining position, it had also stolen several other of his liberties: namely, a semblance of control over his own breathing; the façade of bravado that he’d worn; and autocracy over his own bladder.

As he squealed and tried to catch his breath, the two actions serving to hamper the progress of the other, he also swore in disbelief… and wet himself. The way he’d landed meant that urine slopped up the brushy beach of his groin.

‘You fucking
shot
me!’ he gasped.

And he started to weep.

4.

Roger Billie was finishing up a case study, touch-typing it onto the template on the screen (and dreaming of a bigger office) when the telephone rang.

‘I
t’s me,’ said Phyllie. ‘The police are here. They want to talk about Don Bridges and Charlie Eastlight. And something else.’

‘That’s acceptable, I can pop by in my lunch hour if that’s okay.’

‘…Who’s in the office with you?’ Pyllie asked.

‘That’s right,’ Roger answered, pretending to any eavesdroppers that he’d been asked a completely different question.

‘Well okay. Just get here, could you? You know more than I do, I think, and I’ve got morning sickness like you wouldn’t believe.’

5.

Sometimes, in the middle of the morning, if it was a day that she did not go to work, and if she was lonely or bored (or in not so distant times in the past, brain dead on cannabis), Phyllie would go into the spare bedroom and pretend that she had checked into a hotel room. For the purposes of her masturbatory fantasies, she was usually on a business trip abroad, alone in an Eastern European city, perhaps, or frustrated by the heat of an Argentinian evening.

In her waking dream this mid-morning, Phyllie had undressed out of a sandalwood-coloured suit. She showered, she ate the complimentary chocolates (with a cup of
ersatz
coffee), then she phoned in her kisses to the kids. Trying desperately to get a fix on her geographical location, she considered room service and trotted through a selection of the world’s trouble spots, in her mind. Islamabad, Afghanistan… Whoever came to rescue her would be obliged to hurdle road blocks, and tapdance and zigzag past armed militia in mustard uniforms, as dextrous as Astaire.

But the picture wouldn’t settle: it flickered, crackled and paused. The real room seeped into her fantasy hotel room; Phyllie sneezed and it melted away. ‘Damn it.’ She was not even close to her G-spot jackpot; feeling foolish while kneading through her own secretions, Phyllie stopped and wondered what she thought she was doing. (Shame and a sense of lunacy competed for the lion’s share of her emotions.) Truly, it was no way to behave, was it, flicking the bean as an avoidance tactic: she had tasks to execute, chores to perform – and now the front door bell was chiming. ‘Damn it,’ she repeated, pulling her dressing gown on over her sweaty nipples. Her vagina was sore.

‘I’m coming!’ she shouted to whoever was outside. As she trod the stairboards, a smile inched on to her face.

Her rescuer was dressed in a police uniform. ‘I’m Constable Peter Vash,’ the young man announced. ‘May I come in, Madam?’

Phyllie regretted the lie about the morning sickness to Roger, but she’d had to say something that the officer would overhear that explained the fact that she wasn’t dressed at this hour of the day. Morning sickness would do (she could not really say that she’d been masturbating); and at least there was a grain of truth in the explanation: she had certainly felt ropey first thing, which was why she had called in sick in the first place.

‘This might seem odd,’ Phyllie said to the officer who had been dispatched to her home, ‘but do you actually need me here? For when Roger arrives, I mean. Do you need me?’

‘Do you need to go out?’

‘I’d like to. If that’s okay with you, I mean – if you can wait for him… You see, Hartvig’s a friend of mine from way back. I’d like to drive over and see how he’s doing with all this.’

Although Vash appeared disappointed, he nodded sagely; he even stroked his bearded chin.

‘I’ll have a sandwich in my car while I wait,’ he said, his tone irritatingly long-suffering.

6.

The gates that barred – or should have barred – the end of the driveway were wide open, and Phyllie drove up to the house unimpeded, drawing up alongside two police cars that were already parked there but which were empty of officers.

The estate felt hushed; it lacked the bustle and commotion that Phyllie had imagined would mark a crime scene. As she locked her car door (manually for a change), she wondered where the helicopters were, where the frothing news crews were. It was all as subdued as a parrot with a cloth over its cage… an enforced sleep.

Phyllie did not walk towards the house. Given the fact that no one had come out to greet her – either in a uniform or not – she assumed that no one was in the building at the moment. So be it: if this matter was
al fresco
, then Phyllie could use the exercise. Only last week, her doctor had told her that she was pregnant, not ill, and that a baby inside her was no good reason not to go for a stroll in the fresh air.

And the air did not come fresher than it blew this afternoon! Normal-smelling, good, strong gusts, without the vaguest whiff of blood cavorting among them… Into these guests Phyllie strode, with a heart packed with grief – grief for Vig, not Dorota (not really), whom she neither knew well nor not at all, and whom she neither liked well nor detested. It was Vig – and only Vig – on Phyllie’s cluttered mind this early afternoon, and despite the size of the grounds, she knew – somehow
knew
– that she’d find him at the bird cages.