by Stephen Laws
“I’m with you one hundred percent there. I’m just wondering why some of the critics have responded so . . . well, violently.”
“Matt, violence is shocking. It is horrible. And I’ve tried to show that. I suppose if anything, I’ve tried to deglamourise it. There’s something specific about human violence, something squalid and horrible—that sets us a species completely apart. Animals kill for food, or to protect themselves or their young. Humans are the only animals that will kill or maim for the sake of it.”
“Not sure I agree with you completely on that . . .”
“How do you mean?”
“Well—off the top of my head. We had a cat when I was younger. I saw it with a mouse it had caught. It played with it . . . no, that’s not right . . . It tortured it before it killed it. We tried to take the poor thing away from it, but the damn cat scratched me. Now that’s a little example—maybe a poor example, but still an example—of an animal just killing something for the fun of it.”
“That’s a domestic cat, not a cat in its natural environment. You want my view? The reason for that behaviour? No offense to you or your family—but the reason for that incident was human in origin. An animal’s been taken out of its environment, domesticated—tamed, if you like—so that it doesn’t have to hunt for food, it’s got as much tinned food as it could want, a dry place to sleep, probably petted and indulged. So it has no need to kill for food. But it still has that instinct to hunt. What’s happened there is that the instinct has been—well, I don’t want to use the word ‘perverted’ because that seems a bit strong on you and your family—but it’s certainly been bent and misshaped, just by soft living. And it’s come out twisted. There you go—a theory according to Cath Lane, wannabe naturalist.”
“What about the culture of violence in entertainment? The argument on whether violent novels or movies have a negative effect on society.”
“I’m not even going there because the whole debate on desensitization has been chewed to death. In real terms, as opposed to fantasy or entertainment, I guess you could say that I’m appalled and fascinated by what people have called the culture of violence, particularly in inner-city areas—and my books have addressed the issue. I like to think that, as a decent human being who abhors violence, I could never bring myself to actually harm another human being.”
“There are some who’ve said that there’s money to be made from that kind of writing . . .”
“Yeah, right. That I’ve made a fortune out of writing about violence and misery and that with all the cash from film adaptations and TV series, I’ve sold out completely, moved out of the city to a comfortable rural life. I’ve read some of that crap. There are reasons—personal reasons—why I changed my lifestyle . . .”
“Because of what happened in New York?”
Cath became aware of a stillness in the kitchen. “Yes.”
The journalist was suddenly uncomfortable, not knowing how or whether to continue.
“It’s all right, Matt. Go on.”
“What happened then—something like that—something so random—it made me wonder if you’d changed your views at all.”
“There’s a difference between real life and fiction.”
“But doesn’t one inform or advise the other?”
“Well now we’re into the question of writing as serious art, or as entertainment—and I guess that brings us straight back to the portrayal of violence in fiction, and to what purpose it’s put.”
The journalist smiled. “I’m starting to wonder whether you’re a mystery wrapped up in an enigma.”
Cath laughed. “Okay. Time to come clean. I admit it. My books—and the violence in them—are one of the root causes for all the problems we’re faced with in society. There you are, Matt. You can blame me in your review for all the ills of society.”
“Well it would make good copy . . .”
“What I’ve had to say in the past about my own books isn’t a new stance. This is not earth-shaking revelation time. It’s like I said before about glamourizing—and deglamourizing violence. Do I believe that glamourised violence in fiction causes problems in society? Well, greater minds than mine have debated that one on and off over the years. Maybe it desensitises certain individuals; maybe it even encourages others to act out their fantasies. On the other hand, maybe very ordinary, decent and civilised people get some kind of catharsis out of it. That’s an argument for psychiatrists and social workers. Violence is real and it’s ugly and it’s bestial. It exists—and there’s a ‘beast’ in human beings that is so much more destructive than anything in the animal kingdom and leads to so much pain and misery. The cruel ferocity and sadism of our species goes much further than the wildest beast’s kill-to-survive instinct. If any theme emerges from my previous books, it’s the human struggle to overcome this savagery and rise above the animals. I don’t know, maybe that’s a contradiction in terms. ‘Rising above the animals’—when animals are less violent than humankind. There you are, Matt. How’s that for a contradictory and convoluted stance? See what your editorial skills can make of our conversation.”
When Cath had waved off the journalist from the courtyard of the cottage, she turned and caught Faye watching from the kitchen window. With a wry smile, she walked back; her body language indicating that she had issues she wished to raise with her. Faye vanished hurriedly from sight.
“Fayyye . . .” Cath called as she walked through the front door and into the living room.
“You’re going to tell me off,” came a voice from the kitchen. “I know you’re going to tell me off . . .”
“Now what possible reason could I have for telling you off?”
“I don’t know . . . I mean, well yes . . . I suppose I have been . . .”
“Economical with the truth? How’s that for starters?”
“I really don’t know what you mean. Look, I must get the rest of those groceries in before the local store closes so I’ll just . . .”
“Only about ‘a dozen or so’ at the Culture Club. Wasn’t that what you said?”
“Milk. I think we need milk. And eggs . . .”
Cath leaned in the kitchen doorway, arms folded. Faye tried not to look agitated. “And it just so happened that Drew Hall was also invited. And then somehow we all end up having a meal together.”
“It was a nice meal.”
“It was a lovely meal.”
“Just a shame that horrid Kapler Dietersen turned up to make trouble.”
“Now that’s one part of the whole affair that I believe you didn’t organise. Did you know that journalist was going to be there?”
Faye paused, straightened her dress, fiddled with a lock of hair behind her ear. They were somehow very young gestures, and Cath couldn’t help smiling at her discomfiture.
“Well, yes. Yes, I did! He telephoned one day when you were out. I don’t know how he got the number, but he did. And well, I’d already persuaded you to give the talk, so I just mentioned that—and he seemed very interested, and I said it was open to the public and if he wanted to come along, then no one could stop him, of course . . .”
“Fayyye . . . ?”
“Oh all right—I suppose I did fix it. And yes, I asked Drew to come along and give his talk. But you know, he’s very like you in lots of ways, and he—well . . . I’ve known him a long time—and he needs to be mixing with people again. He’s too alone.”
“And you think I’m too alone?”
“Well, yes, darling—I do think you’re too alone. I know you’re different from other people . . .”
“Do I take that as a compliment?”
“Yes, you should—because I mean it that way. You’re different, but there are times I can see that you’re suffering, and I think that just being alone and just working—well, it’s all right for a while. But not all the time.”
“So you thought you’d be a matchmaker for two lonely people?”
“Oh God—it does look like that, doesn’t it?
”
“Come here, you.” Cath moved to take Faye in her arms, hugging her tight.
“I’m sorry, Cath. I really am an interfering old busybody, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you bloody are. But I love you. And I don’t know what Rynne and I would have done without you. There you go. Clichés again.” When Cath pulled back to look at Faye, she could see that there were tears on her cheeks. “Now, none of that. Or you’ll have me blubbering all over the place.”
Faye pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, dabbed her eyes and blew her nose.
“No more interfering. I promise.”
“How’s Rynne?”
“Napping. She’s fine, though.”
“Whatever happened on the other side of the wall, it gave her a nasty fright. What do you think she heard?”
“Maybe a sparrow hawk. Who knows? After the talking-to you gave her, I don’t suppose she’ll be climbing over that wall again.”
The telephone rang in the hallway.
Cath looked at it, then back at Faye with one eyebrow raised. Faye held her hands up and turned back into the kitchen.
“If that’s another journalist . . .” Cath said.
“I’ve learned my lesson,” Faye called, as she busied herself with unnecessary chores, rearranging plates and cups.
Cath moved to answer. “I’m going to lose my reputation as reclusive novelist, thanks to you. All the mystery will go away and . . . Hello?”
Back in the kitchen, Faye strained to listen—now puzzling at the silence. She picked up a cloth, began wiping a plate that did not need wiping, and moved to the door into the hall. Cath’s face was very serious as she listened to whoever was on the other end of the line.
“Slow down,” Cath said. “Slow down—and tell me again.” She looked up and caught Faye’s eye.
“Who is it?” whispered Faye.
“All right—well yes, I think so. Now? Okay—I’ll have to check but . . .”
“Who is it?” Faye mouthed again.
“Just a second, Drew. I’ll have to ask Faye.”
“Drew? Something’s wrong,” Faye said.
“Faye, can you stay a little later tonight? To look after Rynne?”
“Well, yes, love. I’ve no plans. What is it, what’s . . . ?”
“Drew wants me to go down to the farm. He’s got something to show me.”
Faye smiled. Cath put her hand over the mouthpiece and gave her a warning look. There was nothing lighthearted about it now, and Faye wiped that smile away. “You go on ahead. I’ll stay and hold the fort.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Do I ever mind?”
“Faye, I don’t know what . . .”
“I know, I know. Cliché time. You don’t know what you’d do without me.”
Cath looked at her watch. “All right, I’ll be with you in about—fifteen minutes? Up at the farm. Gate locked or open? Open? Okay, then—fifteen minutes. Do I need to bring anything? Okay.”
Cath hung up and stared at the telephone for a moment, chewing her bottom lip. Faye didn’t know whether to break the silence or not.
“He sounded—strange,” Cath said at last. “Wouldn’t tell me what it’s all about. But he was excited. Breathless even.”
“Doesn’t sound like the Drew I know,” Faye said. “Big Cat. Bet he’s seen one of his Ferocitors.”
“Maybe. But the way he sounded . . . I don’t know. Odd. He said there might be something there that I’d want to write about. Are you sure about this, Faye? I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you.”
“Let’s just say that I’ve been a naughty girl, and I owe you one. You go on ahead, and take your time. I’m happy to stay. I’ll tell Rynne where you are when she wakes up.”
Cath kissed her, grabbed her bag from the hallway stand and was gone. Faye moved back to the kitchen, watched as she climbed into the car. Moments later, the car engine gunned into life and in a crunch of gravel and screech of tyres, Cath was gone down the Fell Road.
Faye’s big smile was like the cat that had gotten the cream.
“I do love it when things come together,” she said, and put the plate in its proper place in the rack.
SIXTEEN
“If you hit me, Kapler, you’ll be sorry!”
“Is that a threat, darling?”
“Why do you have to be so mean?” Trudi flinched away from under Dietersen’s raised hand and flung herself across the sofa in his study. The manoeuver snapped one of her stiletto heels and she wobbled as she fell, taking the edge off the drama of her fall. “Shit!” She yanked the shoe from her foot and flung it across the room. It rattled against the interior door, spinning on the carpet.
Dietersen lowered his hands to his sides and clenched both fists. A nerve was twitching in his jaw.
“If not for you . . .”
There was a knock on the door from the other side. Gingerly, it began to open. Garvey nervously began to put his head around.
“Mr. Dietersen?”
“Get out!”
The door quickly shut, and Dietersen turned his attention back to Trudi.
“If not for you and your road-racing skills—or lack of them—then I wouldn’t have to be humiliated in my own house.”
“It’s that bloody farmer again, isn’t it? Why are you letting him get under your skin?”
“I am not letting him get under my skin.”
“Look at yourself, Kapler.”
“You don’t understand, Trudi. There are—there are a lot of things happening at the moment. Business-wise, I mean. And the last thing I need is hassle—of any kind. So when you start pissing about . . .”
“I get bored . . .”
“When you start pissing about! And when fucking yokels start turning up at my front door to complain, when I’ve got sensitive business issues at stake—it gets my goat, darling. Now do you understand?”
“I’m bored, Kapler. Bored!”
“I’ll cure you of that darling.” Dietersen began to unfasten his trouser belt, knotting it around one hand. “See if I don’t.” He took a step toward her.
The intercom on Dietersen’s desk buzzed. Growling, suddenly aware of his lack of control, he turned back angrily to it; rethreading his belt around his waist as he stabbed the Listen button.
“What!”
“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt again, Mr. Dietersen. But there’s a gentleman here who says he has an appointment to see you.”
“Is his name Fuller?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let him in. Take him to the library.” Dietersen jabbed the Off switch, snatched up a decanter and poured himself a large shot of bourbon, glaring back at Trudi, who had straightened herself on the sofa—realizing once again just how close to the edge she had come. She was pretending a teenage sulk, but Kapler clearly wasn’t now in the mood for one his favorite sex-fantasy reconciliations.
“Kapler, why don’t we . . . ?”
“Don’t say a word! Just listen. I’ve got an important business meeting with our visitor. We don’t want to be interrupted for any reason. Do you understand? It’s now three o’clock. In exactly three-quarters of an hour—that’s forty-five minutes from now, you can’t miss it, darling—the big hand will be on the nine and the little hand will be on the four of the fucking expensive watch I bought you last week. When it gets to that time, then you can interrupt us. You will knock on the library door with that expensively manicured hand of yours—trying not to break the nails—and you will come in when I say ‘come in.’ Do you understand so far, darling?”
Trudi nodded.
“Then you will come in, looking just as pretty as you can—and when I say so, you will give our gentleman caller whatever he wants. Do you understand, Trudi? Whatever it is that he wants you to do for him—you’ll do it. Understand?”
“Yes, Kapler. Then will you be nice to me again?”
“If you’re a very good girl, and do just exactly what’s required of you.”<
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“All right, Kapler. I’ll be a good girl.”
“That’s right—a very, very good girl.”
Dietersen finished his bourbon, tightened his belt and rearranged his jacket.
“Business first—then pleasure. Right, darling?”
Trudi nodded.
Just before Kapler left the room, he looked back at her—and emphatically tapped his wristwatch.
When the door closed, Trudi feared to weep—lest her mascara should run.
SEVENTEEN
When Cath reached the farm, she could see that Drew had left the main gates open as he’d said. But there was no sign of him waiting as her car turned up the rough track that led to the main building, pens and outhouses. She’d somehow expected the place to be smaller, given that he was running a one-man operation. But there were large empty pens at one side of the main farmhouse that looked as if they hadn’t held stock for quite some time. One of the barns to the rear of the farmhouse was missing its roof, and its interior looked ruined and dilapidated. Cath remembered what Faye had told her about Drew’s wife—the terrible accident—and his subsequent withdrawal from life. She could understand that. The haphazard nature of the farmhouse and buildings suggested that the place’s days as a real working farm were well behind it.
She stopped outside the farmhouse and honked the car horn.
Invisible hens squawked, but there was no sign of movement from the house. Cath was just about to climb out when she heard an answering car horn. She looked around, but could see nothing. When the horn sounded again, she looked up the dirt track ahead that led up the valley side—and saw Drew’s Land Rover parked on the rise. As she watched, he climbed out of it and began to wave.
Cath drove on ahead, past another ramshackle barn with wrecked front doors held in place by an iron chain. Through the wooden slats of the barn door she could just make out the shape of a giant, hulking piece of machinery. A combine harvester, by the looks of it—long retired. She looked around as she drove and could see no evidence of the need for such a piece of machinery.
