When Anthony came home, Hamnet told his story again, with the same omissions. The three of them had dinner together, and both the Bullens agreed that Hamnet was free to stay with them for as long as it took to sort things out and find a job. Hamnet declined coffee and excused himself, saying he was tired but that coffee might keep him awake. Margaret nodded understandingly, and Anthony found him some sleeping tablets.
Back in his bedroom, Hamnet put the bottle of white pills on the bedside table with a glass of water, then sat silently in a chair, in the dark, and waited. Slowly the hum of conversation from the end of the corridor grew more sporadic, then died completely. There were the sounds of doors shutting, taps running, the toilet flushing. It was still only ten o’clock. Hamnet waited another half an hour before gently opening the bedroom door and letting himself out. The house was dark and quiet. The screen doors to the dining room had been pulled shut. He quietly opened one end, leaving it ajar for his return, then strode down the drive, turned left and kept walking. It was time to settle things with Dubre.
Chapter 18
It was a short enough walk through an area that was a traditional favourite of the expatriate community. Dubre’s house wasn’t quite as impressive as the Bullens’, but that was a failure of taste and timing rather than wealth. It was a brand-new, five-bedroom pile that owed a lot to the kind of expensive architecture that dots Florida and California — columns, shutters and stucco walls in bright, fairytale-castle pastels. Hamnet eyed it with a new malevolence as he stalked up the path and rang the doorbell. Violent crime wasn’t a problem of any significance in Singapore, and while the owners of such houses in America wouldn’t have dreamed of opening their doors to an unknown visitor at that hour, Dubre had no such reservations.
That was a mistake.
The instant it was off the latch, Hamnet snapped the door open with a standing kick. The handle was torn from Dubre’s hand as the leading edge of the door smashed into the inside of his elbow. He spun half a revolution under the impact, and had just acknowledged the blinding stab of pain up his arm with a scream when Hamnet’s shoulder hit him in the chest. Totally unprepared for this assault, Dubre went down hard, flat on his back. The blow knocked the wind out of him, and as he snatched for breath, Hamnet’s hands closed around his throat. Not a word had been spoken. Dubre certainly wanted to speak, but he wasn’t in a position to get anything through his windpipe. And if he’d had a choice it would have been air in rather than words out. Hamnet hadn’t said anything because he didn’t need to. He watched first recognition, then surprise, swiftly followed by understanding and fear, travel across Dubre’s contorted features. Dubre realised why he was there, why this was happening.
Hamnet tightened his grip. He knew exactly what the inability to draw breath did to the majority of people. It induced panic. Many died because of that panic, unable to see the route to their next lungful of air. Dubre was such a man. If he had kept his head, with his greater weight and strength he could have pushed his legs against the floor and rolled Hamnet off him. But he didn’t; instead, his shoes thrashed ineffectively at his expensive tiles while his hands clawed desperately for a grip on Hamnet’s bare forearms. It wasn’t enough, and as Dubre’s face reddened and his eyes bulged, Hamnet was able to strengthen his hold. The thrashing slowed, weakened and stopped. The chubby red features were mottled with blue, the wild eyes deadened and stilled.
Then something snapped inside Hamnet, and he let go. For Dubre it was probably the very last instant he could have done so to any effect. While Hamnet couldn’t finish what he had started, equally he wasn’t about to resuscitate the man he blamed for his wife’s death. But there was just enough life left in Dubre’s body to sustain a reflex to breathe. He sucked back the lungful of air he had needed since his back had hit the floor, and it flooded into his bloodstream and through his body. Another and another — great heaving lungfuls pumped through the fatty tissue and the overstressed organs. He lay like a beached whale, panting, staring blankly at his rococo ceiling. His stunned mind struggled to come to terms with a man who had returned from the dead only to visit the same fate on his own self.
Hamnet sat back against the wall and watched sullenly as the life flowed back into the man he had come so close to killing. When Dubre had recovered sufficiently, he rolled onto his side and slowly pushed himself to his feet. Still wordlessly, he staggered down the hall and through the first door on the left. In less than a minute he returned, and now he was holding a revolver — an old Browning that looked as if it had been left behind by the British army at the end of the Second World War. Hamnet eyed him cynically before finally saying, ‘Why don’t you? You killed Anna. Finish the job, you bastard. Or haven’t you got the guts to do it personally?’
Dubre cleared his throat with an evil wheeze and a coughing fit before finally saying, ‘I have no wish to harm you, Phillip.’ He waggled the revolver. ‘This is just in case you change your mind.’ As he spoke, he slumped into a sitting position on the third stair from the bottom. Then he, too, leaned heavily against the wall. He looked at Hamnet for several seconds with a pained and bewildered expression, before finally asking, ‘How in God’s name did you get back here?’
Hamnet got up and turned to the open door.
Dubre watched him, the revolver barrel lodged on his knee and pointing at Hamnet’s stomach. ‘Where are you going?’ he said, suspiciously.
‘To bed,’ said Hamnet.
‘Phillip, please, stop. There will be lots of people who want to talk to you. You can’t just disappear.’
Hamnet turned to face him, shoulders sagging, a thousand years of living etched on his face. ‘You know where to find me, Dubre.’ And with that, he stepped outside and slammed the door behind him.
Hamnet was woken by a knock on the door the following morning. He stirred slowly and saw Margaret Bullen’s head appear round the bedroom door.
‘I wondered if you’d like breakfast, or if we should clear it away.’
Hamnet frowned drowsily, glancing around for his watch. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just after eleven.’
His frown deepened. ‘You shouldn’t have let me sleep that late. I’ll be there in a minute.’
‘Jolly good. I’ll put some fresh coffee on.’ And the door clicked shut.
Hamnet showered and dressed quickly, arriving at the table at the same time as the coffee. He exchanged greetings with Margaret and she updated him on Ben’s morning, which had been dominated by food and sleep. Her report was detailed and careful, and full of further positive indications that Ben hadn’t suffered materially for his ordeal. As Hamnet launched into breakfast, he explained that he ought to go to the flat to pick up some papers and clothes and to start dealing with Anna’s things. Would Margaret be all right with Ben, and did she have a spare key? Hamnet knew the answers to both questions before he asked them, and half an hour later Margaret pulled the Rover up outside the building, just off Holland Road. Hamnet looked lugubriously out of the window as the car stopped. He had been dreading this moment.
‘Would you mind if I went up alone?’ he asked.
‘Of course not. Should I wait?’
‘No, I think I might be a while.’
‘Well, call me if you need me, dear. I can come and get you any time.’
Hamnet managed a weak smile. ‘Thanks.’
Anna had hated the lift, so Hamnet took it, avoiding her presence on the stairs. It was a temporary respite. He emerged onto the bare concrete landing and stopped outside their front door. He leant forward gently until his forehead rested lightly just below the plastic number plate. He tried to picture the interior of the flat, to prepare himself for the avalanche of memory, the ambush of sadness, that awaited him. But there was no way to make it any easier, no way to put it off any longer. He suddenly wished that he had brought Margaret with him after all.
He unlocked the door. The tears were coming and he wanted to do his grieving inside. He slipped into the apartment as if sli
ding into some dark crevasse. In the blackness, despair over a lost future was fuelled by flashes of light, of happy memory. His actions became automatic. A life, boxed and filed — just a few things picked out for her parents.
The phone startled him. He watched its barely discernible vibration with deep suspicion before remembering. He picked it up.
‘Phillip?’ It was Dubre.
‘You can come over,’ said Hamnet. ‘One thing first. Have you spoken to Anna’s parents, or my mother?’
‘Ah, yes, three or four days ago,’ Dubre replied.
‘OK.’ Hamnet’s voice stayed restrained. ‘When will you be here?’
‘Ten minutes, if that’s all right.’
‘Give me half an hour.’
It was early morning in Brittany, where Anna’s parents —her mother was French, her father English — ran a yacht marina. They were astonished and delighted to hear from their son-in-law, presumed dead, and utterly distraught that he hadn’t brought Anna back with him. The phone call to his own mother was only slightly less painful. She and Anna had become close friends after the death of his father in a skiing accident at Thredbo six years previously. It was then that his mother had moved back to England, to Cumbria, to the family home. But somehow the trauma of others, their readiness to lean on him, made him stronger. He promised to call back soon, they would organise travel plans, there would be a memorial service.
Hamnet had just cradled the phone the second time when there was a knock at the door. Dubre entered quickly at Hamnet’s call, then slowed. It clearly hadn’t occurred to him before he arrived that this was the place where he would most fully confront Anna’s death and his part in it. The realisation hit him as he walked through the door and grew as he paced into the lounge. He sat heavily in the chair Hamnet indicated.
Hamnet let him roast — he had brought him there for that very reason. On the walls were shots of Anna winning the Route de Rhum, and the pair of them at the presentation of his Légion d’Honneur in Paris, awarded for her rescue. In front of Dubre sat three boxes of her clothes and papers, her computer on top. Beside him were books she had written, magazine covers she had graced. All around were reminders of her missing presence. The flat was filled with her energy, her ambition and her life. Now it was Dubre’s turn to struggle with his emotions.
‘Christ, I’m so sorry, Phillip. If I’d thought for one second that either one of you would come out of there alive, I’d have held on.’ He blew his nose a couple of times on a large white monogrammed handkerchief, wiped his eyes, and asked, ‘Can you talk about it?’
Hamnet nodded. ‘He killed her just after you sent out the Navtex warning. I think it was probably quick. He doesn’t seem to have taken any pleasure in it, perhaps he even quite liked her.’
‘Oh my God.’ Dubre looked down at his feet. ‘Everybody liked her, Phillip, everybody did,’ he mumbled.
Hamnet nodded again, mind rigidly focused on what he had to say, not how he felt. ‘Before she died, she gave birth to a baby boy, who’s called Benjamin. He’s being looked after by Dr and Mrs Bullen, who own this place, at their home in Bukit Timah.’ Hamnet continued over Dubre’s gasp of surprise. ‘That’s where I’ll be staying for a while. Clearly I have a responsibility to the authorities to report the full story of what happened aboard the Shawould, and up to my arrival back here. I’m sure they will want to investigate the matter in some detail. I am offering myself to you for that purpose, and I’d be grateful for your assistance in handling it properly.’
Dubre’s face cleared. Relieved to be talking business, he became more assured in his tone. ‘Of course, I don’t see how any blame can be attached to you. Nevertheless, I’m sure you’re correct, and several authorities will want some kind of report on the matter. Just say the word and we’ll begin.’
‘I think tomorrow morning would be as good a time as any,’ replied Hamnet. He reached for a pen and paper from the nearby bureau. ‘This is the address and phone number at the Bullens. You can reach me there whenever you need to.’ He handed the piece of paper to Dubre. ‘Obviously, now I have a son to bring up, I can’t return to sea, even if I hold onto my master’s ticket. I need a shore job, Dubre, perhaps on the operations side. Can you help?’
‘Absolutely. Of course, no question.’
‘Good.’
The two men fell into silence. Dubre studied the piece of paper he had been given, his feet fidgeting. Hamnet watched him. Would curiosity win out over discomfort? It did. ‘So, Phillip, can you tell me what happened up there?’
‘It’s simple enough. He let me go. We had an understanding, my side of that was broken, Anna paid the price. There was no more to be gained by killing me or my son.’
‘My God.’ Dubre flinched as though he had been struck. He stood quickly, eyes cast down. He patted the missing hair anxiously. ‘I’ll leave you, Phillip. I’m sure you have things to do. Saying sorry isn’t much help, I know. But I want you to know that I am desperately sorry. I also realise that it isn’t a comfort now, but what happened may well have saved the lives of other seamen — other sons, brothers and husbands. I’ll do everything I can to help you, Phillip.’ He hesitated, glanced up briefly. ‘Will there be a funeral?’
Hamnet shook his head. ‘A memorial service. There’s no . . . body.’
‘No, of course. I . . . I’ll go.’
Dubre let himself out, as he had many times before in such different circumstances. Hamnet watched him leave, rolling the plastic pen between thumb and fingers. Other husbands, other sons. The pen snapped.
Chapter 19
Hamnet watched a teardrop of condensation trickle down the side of the glass — gathering pace, pausing for a moment when gripped by some confluence of surface tension and friction, then shooting forward again as gravity regained control. He lifted the glass and caught the trail of water with his tongue just as it rolled off the bottom. Then he sipped slowly at the Pimms, ice clinking under his nose as he stepped from the lounge onto the patio. The sun was sighing into the arms of the Bullens’ garden, cicada’s serenading its approaching departure. Hamnet sat heavily in the nearest of the soft chairs. There were footfalls behind him and he looked up. It was Anthony.
‘You’re back early,’ said Phillip.
‘The sick of Singapore have, for some unknown reason, been overtaken with a sudden rush of good health. I’m sure things will be back to normal tomorrow.’ His smile lifted the lines and creased the freckles around his hazel eyes. He pulled up a chair beside Hamnet’s and set a freshly foaming beer on the table between them. Anthony had changed his tie for his favourite cravat, and with the mane of silver-grey hair down past his collar, he looked more like an ageing jazz musician than a respectable family doctor.
‘Why do you work so hard?’ asked Hamnet. ‘I can’t believe you need to.’
‘Addicted to it, I suppose,’ replied Anthony, then changed the subject. ‘So, young Phil, how’s it all going with you then?’
‘Oh, another day, another meeting.’
Anthony grunted. ‘Indeed. Now tell me about all that. I catch bits of it, but where do we stand at the moment?’
Hamnet smiled with little humour. ‘We stand in the middle of a god-awful mess.’ He rubbed his cheek with a hand damp from the glass. ‘The Shawould was a Liberian-registered vessel, owned by a British-based but offshore-registered company, with a British master and American chief mate. We were attacked in Indonesian waters by an American-led and Burmese-based gang of multinational pirates. And strictly speaking, because it didn’t happen in international waters, it was armed robbery rather than piracy.’ Hamnet shook his head, picked up the Pimms and took another sip.
‘Quite a collection of interested parties,’ murmured Anthony.
‘Yes. And, inevitably, there’s not even the most basic coordination between them. I must have answered the same questions with the same answers a hundred times.’ He stopped, and stared unseeing towards the sunset.
Anthony watched the other man�
�s thoughts stall, as he knew they must every time he went through this. None of it was helping him forget, never mind forgive. He shouldn’t have raised the topic. Anthony struggled for a question that would move Hamnet along. But it was Hamnet himself who broke the impasse. ‘Although,’ he said finally, ‘four weeks into the judicial process, we are making some progress. The Singaporean government is prepared to ignore my re-entering the country on a false passport with Ben, provided I register his presence and apply for his British citizenship — or are we subjects? Anyway, it’s meant a whole pile of paperwork and a lot of visits to the British consulate. Still, it had to be done, and at least it’s cleared up the concern about being allowed to stay here.’
‘That’s all to the good. You do want to stay in Singapore?’ said Anthony.
‘Oh, definitely.’
Silence fell on the two men again. The garden glowed red with the last of the sun as the shadows thrown by the house lights behind them strengthened. They both considered the next question, which neither wanted to voice.
It was Anthony who found an alternative. ‘Anyone else come to any kind of a decision?’ he asked.
Hamnet nodded, then hesitated, almost reluctant to move on. ‘The flag state of the Shawould, Liberia. No surprise how eager they were to wash their hands of the affair. As far as they are concerned, the ship operated according to all international conventions and standards to which Liberia is a signatory — quote, unquote — and that’s that.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ asked Anthony.
‘Yeah, sure, for me. But you’d rather they showed a bit more interest, really, from a maritime-safety point of view.’
The Wrecking Crew (Janac's Games) Page 14
