by Rennie Airth
The idea had its seeds in a job he had undertaken some time ago in Singapore – a simple extraction that he’d attempted to turn to his own advantage, but which had gone seriously wrong, leaving any number of vengeful pursuers on his trail, one of them a man he regarded as particularly dangerous. Hideki Kimura was not an enemy to be taken lightly and Charon had no wish to spend a lifetime looking over his shoulder. Nor was he blind to the lesson he’d been taught. The error he had made in Singapore was a timely reminder. He wasn’t getting any younger, and while his speed and strength were still as they had always been and his judgement as razor-sharp, he wanted to quit the life while his powers were still intact. Not for him the role of the ailing wildebeest, a prey to hunters who were quicker and deadlier than he. A civilized retirement beckoned.
At present he was toying with two possibilities (though he had others in reserve). A chateau on the Loire had its attractions, as did a villa in the Veneto. (Why not both?) The furnishing of either would be a pleasant task. He had the money now – or soon would have – to buy the kind of paintings and ornaments he wanted to see decorating his homes. But those apart, there would be no vulgar display of wealth. His taste ran to austere beauty and he would indulge it to the full. In fact, when he thought about it, there was almost no limit to his prospects and he could already see that his first problem would be to decide among so many enticing futures.
He turned off the Strand and strolled down the short cul-de-sac to his destination. He no longer walked with a limp and the grey hair he had sported for a day or two was reduced now to a faint shading at the temples that lent him an air of distinction, or so he thought. Otherwise he was himself and would unquestionably have been recognized by those now busily scouring the great metropolis for him had they thought to include the Savoy Hotel in their searches. But Charon knew they would not. It simply wouldn’t occur to them, and although he scanned the lobby out of habit as he entered the hotel he knew the precaution was needless.
He had reserved a table in the restaurant but he paused in the bar with its comfortable armchairs to drink a blanc cassis and to study the catalogue he had picked up at a Bond Street art gallery earlier in the evening. They were exhibiting a small collection of Giacometti sculptures that were up for sale and since the spare, anguished figures were precisely the sort of objects that appealed to him, Charon had spent some time admiring them and enquiring as to their price, which no longer seemed exorbitant to him. Yes, why not a Giacometti or two? As he studied the catalogue he sensed another’s eyes on him and glancing up he saw there was a woman sitting at a table across the room who looked away quickly, but then looked back, and as their eyes met for a moment she smiled and dropped her gaze. She was with a man who was talking without interruption, leaning forward and gesticulating in a way that suggested he was trying without success to engage her attention. She glanced up again, and this time it was Charon who smiled and shrugged. If only … another time perhaps?
But as he rose to leave he felt a pang of regret, not for the woman across the bar, attractive though she was, but for another, recently lost, for whom he had felt as much as he would ever be capable of feeling and who he had hoped might share his gilded exile; for a while at least. But it was not to be, she had put him in an impossible position, and while there would surely be no shortage of volunteers to fill the vacancy – there was already one waiting in the wings should he so choose – he couldn’t entirely blind himself to the suspicion that like the base Indian, he had thrown away a pearl. But such was life.
And since he’d never been one to dwell on the past, he had already forgotten his momentary surrender to sentiment as he entered the restaurant and was shown to his table which, at his request, was one of those by a window overlooking the Thames. He planned to enjoy an unhurried dinner while he watched the lights of the river craft moving up and down the great waterway and relive the steps of the elaborate game he had played so successfully, which even now was drawing to a close.
The last act of the drama was about to unfold, and though he wished it weren’t so, there was one loose end to be tied up. His disappearance had to be complete. He must leave no tracks behind him. There would only be his legend for others to marvel at. Whatever became of Charon? they would ask themselves. Let them wonder.
So it had to be done, but as he sat there drinking his wine and readying himself for what was to follow, he made a silent vow. It would be quick and painless, that much he could promise, and if it could be achieved by surprise as well, so much the better.
It was Christmas, after all.
TWENTY-EIGHT
It was cold by the river. The earlier winds had dropped to a gentle breeze, but the air was icy and Addy kept her gloved hands buried in her coat pockets as she gazed across the dark water at the lights on the opposite bank. The performance wasn’t due to begin for another ten minutes and there was no reason why she couldn’t have waited in the theatre behind her where it was warm. But a prey to uncertainty now, she had chosen to remain outside and shiver in the cold while she tried to fight the rising tide of doubt that threatened to engulf her.
Was she crazy? Did she really think that she could pull this off?
Or was it something more humiliating that was troubling her – was she simply losing her nerve?
All she knew for certain was she was scared, and it wasn’t just a case of an overheated imagination (though she had one of those too). If she’d got this right – if she wasn’t so far gone in paranoia that they’d be sending out search parties soon – she was on the point of walking into something so dangerous she’d be lucky if she came out of it alive, which seemed a good reason, if one was needed, for calling the whole thing off.
The plan she had begun figuring out while she was talking to Kimura, the scheme that seemed flawless and foolproof two hours ago, was starting to feel like one of those yarns she and Rose used to dream up for their own amusement and to while away the hours; fictions that might have looked at home in a book of fairy tales, but nowhere else.
The doubts had been gnawing away at her almost from the time she’d got back to Molly’s and her hostess’ reaction when she’d heard Addy’s plans for the evening had done nothing to reassure her.
‘What a wonderful idea!’ Molly had been gushing. ‘How good of Peter to suggest it. And how like him.’
She had been garbed as though for a party in a slinky black dress cut low in front that went well with her golden hair which she’d left hanging loose on her shoulders.
‘I was going to suggest that we went out to dinner rather than stay cooped up here feeling miserable. But this is a much better idea. Do give Peter my love and say we really ought to get together. I was thinking we might have him round after Christmas if he’s not too busy.’
She’d been giving it her best, wanting to show how happy she was at the news, but Addy wasn’t convinced. Her hostess had seemed on edge, plucking nervously at her pendant and running her fingers up and down the thin gold chain it hung from. She’d been on the phone in the sitting room when Addy got back and when she came out into the hall to greet her Addy could tell she was upset.
‘That was my former sister-in-law I was talking to.’ Molly had thought it necessary to offer an explanation for her manner. ‘She always rings up at this time of year full of maudlin reminiscences. I sometimes think Christmas brings out the worst in people.’
Molly’s late husband was a subject seldom referred to, Addy remembered Rose telling her. Some years older than her, he had died in a skiing accident in the Alps and his widow had had to console herself with a handsome inheritance along with the title. If Molly was bothered by the loss, she’d never shown it before, and Addy was surprised to see how jumpy she was that evening, fumbling with the frying pan when they went down to the kitchen for supper – she had made them an omelette – stopping in the middle of what she was doing to stare into space, and when they finally sat down to eat, picking at her food.
Was her dead ex really such a b
urden on her conscience, or was there another reason for her distracted manner? By now Addy had come to think of her hostess as being made of … how would the Brits put it … sterner stuff?
‘I’d offer to take you up to the theatre, dear. But I’ve promised to look in on some friends across the square. They’ve asked me in for a drink.’
‘No problem,’ Addy had assured her. ‘I’ll use Uber. But I expect I’ll be late getting back. Peter’s going to show me the theatre, the Globe that is, after the performance is over.’
‘Is he really?’ Molly’s face had lit up. ‘How very kind of him!’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘I can’t wait to hear what it is that he’s going to tell you.’
‘Me neither.’
Addy had spoken the line with feeling. But now she wondered. Was she really that eager to find out?
The pub was crowded. Although there was a broad terrace in front of it furnished with chairs and tables, it was far too cold to sit outside and Addy had been lucky to find space at the end of a bench in one corner where she could sit wedged against the wall while she nursed the glass of wine she’d bought, untouched apart from a sip or two, and waited for the call she was expecting.
At least she’d had the play as a distraction – something to take her mind off the gathering sense of doom that was gradually settling over her like a cloud in a Wile E. Coyote cartoon – but watching it had been the weirdest experience. Not surprisingly, her mind had wandered and even as the actors were doing their thing, speaking their lines, some of them familiar – Addy and her group had spent a term at drama school doing Shakespeare plays, performing one or two and reading through several – there were other voices in her head as she remembered the events of the past few days, things that had been said to her that now seemed to carry a different meaning. Maybe the setting had had something to do with it. The theatre where the play was performed, part of the Globe complex, was small and intimate and the only stage lighting was provided by candles, an attempt to lend a historical atmosphere to the occasion Addy supposed. The play she was watching was a comedy, but seeing the actors go about their business she had found herself imagining other times and other plays by the same magical hand, of the doomed and driven characters who had strutted their way to dusty death across the centuries while audiences sat spellbound. And thinking these thoughts, Addy knew she couldn’t kid herself. Like it or not, she had stumbled into a drama no less bloody and tragic than any played out on the boards, and who could say how it would end?
And so she had sat there in the pub with her phone resting on Rose’s shoulder bag, which she’d placed on her lap, until finally it rang and she picked it up.
‘Peter?’
‘Addy! Did you find your way to the Anchor?’ The soft Irish tones sounded sweetly in her ear.
‘I’m here now.’
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, my dear, but I’m glad to say everyone’s gone home and we’ll have the theatre to ourselves. Just go round to the stage door. You’ll find it open.’
‘Thanks again for doing this, Peter. I’ll see you in a few minutes.’
‘I can’t wait. By the way, did you enjoy the play?’
‘Loved it,’ Addy said. ‘And I thought you were great.’
Which was true as far as it went. Peter Flynn had played Malvolio and it was clear to Addy that he had the role down cold. She felt he’d probably acted it many times and if he’d made a little too much of the comic passages, overdoing the facial expressions for one thing, it was only to be expected from a seasoned thesp. She’d seen older actors, sure of their place in the hearts of theatregoers, do the same thing on New York stages. But he knew what the part called for and after making himself look ridiculous in the cross-gartered scene, he had still managed to win the audience’s sympathy at the end for the cruel trick played on him. Any other evening she would have watched fascinated, taking it all in and learning in the process. But seeing the character tormented by the others made her all too conscious of the fraud that had been practised on her and his closing vow to be revenged on all of them had struck a chord as deep as any in her.
Just as she’d been assured, the pub where she’d waited for his call was only a few minutes’ walk from the theatre, but now that the meeting she’d been readying herself for all evening was about to take place, Addy found she was in no hurry to get there. Walking slowly along the path that ran beside the river, she anxiously scanned the faces of other late-night strollers. She wished she had Dave Malek with her, though the thought was meaningless. This was something she could only do on her own. It was personal, a blood debt. It was for Rose, who had saved her life by throwing herself on to that psycho’s knife. It was time to settle their account. And quite separate from that, underneath all her doubts and hesitations, her anger remained untouched. Like a slow-moving stream of lava it continued to burn white-hot and would only be quenched by the cold hand of justice: the ice-cold hand. Addy shivered at the thought.
Ahead of her now she saw the unmistakable circular shape of the Globe and she thought about acting then, what it was, the whole business of suspending reality and drawing your audience into the drama you were playing; of bringing them out of their private worlds for an hour or two, and if you were good, or better, really great, holding them in the palm of your hand.
But even as she turned into the alley that led to the stage door, she felt fear take hold of her again and she would have stopped then and turned back if the thought of failure hadn’t tasted so bitter. Like a drowning victim clutching at a spar floating by, she reminded herself that, as the bard himself had put it, there was a tide in the affairs of men (and of dumb-ass girls too who ought to know better, who ought to have their heads examined for signs of incipient lunacy) that taken at the flood led on to something, and anyway it was too late to turn back now. She had reached the gate he had told her about. It was there next to a bigger set of wrought-iron gates used by vehicles. They were securely locked, but when she pushed on the smaller one, it swung open and she went into the courtyard beyond and then walked across the cobbled space to the stage door. Like the gate, it was unlocked, and after a moment’s hesitation she opened it and went in.
The die was cast.
Addy stood shivering, and not just from the cold. Stage fright was never like this. She could feel her heart fluttering inside her chest like a trapped bird as she stood at the edge of the wooden platform gazing up at the sky. Like the man had said, the Globe was open to the elements and the stars above glittered like splinters of ice in the moonless night.
In spite of the darkness backstage, she had managed to find her way through the cramped dressing-room space – called the ‘tiring room’ in Shakespeare’s time according to a leaflet Addy had picked up in the lobby earlier – without help, drawn by the only source of light she could see, which had led her through an arched doorway out on to the stage that she found was illuminated by a single spot fixed to the rafters above. The beam was directed at an area near the back of the stage where two straight-backed chairs stood half turned towards each other.
After pausing to take in the sight she had carried on walking upstage until she reached the edge of the platform, which was raised several feet above the bare cement flooring below (where the so-called ‘groundlings’ had stood in Shakespeare’s day – another nugget gleaned from the leaflet) and stood peering out into an auditorium that was plunged in darkness.
‘Hullo there!’ she called out.
The silence that greeted her words was scarier than any reply would have been, and she turned round and called out a second time.
‘Anyone at home?’
This time she heard a faint noise, movement of some kind. It came from backstage, but not on her level; it was from above where she could see the faint outlines of two balconies against the dark backdrop.
‘Addy! I’ve been so looking forward to this moment.’
Looking up, she saw that the figure of a man had appeare
d at one of the balustrades. Still only a faint silhouette, he stood outside the circle of light cast by the spot. But after a second he moved forward into the outer edge of the beam and Addy saw his face.
‘Hey there, Uncle Matt.’ She waved a hand in greeting. ‘Look at you.’
TWENTY-NINE
It was too bad he was standing up on the balcony. Addy had hoped at least to see the expression on his face when he heard her speak his name. But she had to wait until he came down and by the time he appeared in the wide doorway that was positioned between the two arched entrances at the rear of the stage her heart was beating so wildly it was all she could do just to stand there with a stupid grin on her face. It was a couple of years since she’d last seen him in the flesh but she hadn’t forgotten the easy grace with which he moved as he strolled upstage to where the two chairs were placed; there was the same casual elegance she remembered, the same sense of a man at ease in his own skin. Watching him as he approached though, she wondered why she had never been afraid of him before. How had she come to miss the menace that seemed a part of him?
‘Did you know it would be me?’ If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Rather he seemed amused. ‘Did Rose tell you?’
‘No way – I just guessed.’
‘Guessed?’
‘It had to be you, Uncle Matt. Rose wouldn’t have done what she did for anyone else. Once I realized that, the rest made sense.’
‘What she did?’ He frowned. ‘What do you mean exactly?’
‘Look, you probably don’t know it, but the police talked to a guy called Bela Horvath after Rose was killed. His company was supposed to be protecting her. They told me what he said. It seems he came clean about you and that memory stick.’
