The Foreigners

by James Lovegrove

  It was the aborigine. What was he called? Greg.

  “Evening, Greg,” Parry said, leaning towards the intercom microphone, falsely breezy. “Foreign Policy Police. I was wondering if we might have a word.”

  “Pretty late for a social visit. What’s this about?”

  “Can we come in?”

  “Hold on.”

  There was silence from the intercom for a while. Parry exchanged glances with Johansen, then with van Wyk. The lieutenant gave him an encouraging wink. The Afrikaner had still to be impressed.

  “Captain Parry?” Now the voice from the intercom speaker was the rich, sinewy baritone of Toroa MacLeod.

  “Mr MacLeod.”

  “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “I’m here with two of my fellow officers. We’d like to speak to you.”

  “Again? What’s it about this time?”

  “I’d prefer we didn’t do this standing out here.”

  “You can at least tell me what it is you want to discuss.”

  “A matter of some importance. The sort of thing that’s better said face-to-face.”

  “I’m not even going to think about letting you in until you state your business, captain. I’ve told you before, I know my rights and I know my Constitution.”

  “But you know me, too, Mr MacLeod. You know what sort of person I am. You know that you can trust me, but also that I’m persistent.”

  “And that’s supposed to be some sort of threat, is it?”

  “All I’m saying is, I’m prepared to stand out here all night if I have to. Do you want that? Do you want me standing out here, leaning on the doorbell button every five minutes?”

  There was a pause, then MacLeod said, “Harassment.”

  “It’s only harassment if you have nothing to hide.”

  MacLeod laughed. “Can I really be talking to Captain Jack Parry? This doesn’t sound like him at all.”

  “Will you let us in, Mr MacLeod?”

  Another pause, then heavily, calculatingly, the Xenophobe said, “All right. Very well.”

  The intercom buzzed. The gate clanked open, and as it did so, Parry noticed that there was a bolt fitted to its outer upright, pointing vertically downwards. When the gate was fully open, the bolt could be lowered into a socket embedded in the edge of the path.

  Without knowing quite why – sensing, perhaps instinctively, that a clear exit route might be necessary – he waited until the gate had swung through the full ninety degrees and come to a rest against its stop, then bent down and shot the bolt home. There was a click as the gate’s automatic closing mechanism disengaged. With a glance at his two companions, Parry ventured forth, up the path, van Wyk following him, then Johansen.

  They were halfway to the house when a floodlight mounted above the front door came on, bathing the garden in brilliance. As Parry raised a hand to shield his eyes against the sudden dazzle, he heard the front door open. The next thing he heard was a familiar tick-tack pattering, the sound of dog claws on gravel.

  He had warned van Wyk and Johansen on the way over here to expect the Alsatians. He had also told them what they should do in order to stay safe – keep to the path. He was confident Johansen would heed the advice, but van Wyk he was not so sure about. There was no guarantee that the Afrikaner might not attempt something rash.

  Against the flare of light, Parry glimpsed Pinkerton and Butterfly hurtling towards him in a series of long, hunching lunges, their paws kicking up small scuffs of gravel behind them. Their heads were hung low, their ears were flattened, and as they drew closer he could see that the muzzles of both of them were split by great brutal grins.

  All at once he was certain that, this time, the dogs had been sent out not to provide an escort but to attack.

  He stopped dead in his tracks. Behind him, Johansen and van Wyk did the same. There was no time to run, and even if there had been, he doubted he would have been able to move. His body had seized up, leaving him locked inside himself, a prisoner in a statue-stiff shell, petrified. Thoughts flashed. How much pain would there be? How bad would the injuries be?

  At the last possible instant, almost as if they had never had any intention of stopping, the Alsatians came to a halt, skidding on the gravel. They stood in front of Parry, angled towards him like the hands of a clock at ten-to-two. Their bodies were rigid, their heads raised, their teeth bared. Their eyes defied him to move, to so much as twitch a finger. He remembered how intimidating their silence had seemed the last time he had encountered them. It was worse now, when they were showing him their fangs, clenched and snugly interlocking sickles of bone, exposed clear to the gums. A growl from either of them would have been, in a strange way, welcome. It was not normal, this inculcated muteness. It was eerie, unnatural. Machinelike.

  “Well, well, what do we have here?” Out through the front doorway came MacLeod, rubbing his hands together. Greg emerged behind him. “Captain Parry. And friends. Captain van Wyk. And the big Aryan poster-boy, what’s your name again? Jonsson? Jorgensen? Something like that.”

  Johansen let out a huff of displeasure, which he would have followed up with some kind of surly retort had Parry not interrupted him with a raised hand. “Pål. I’ll handle this. Mr MacLeod, I think it’d be better for all of us if you were to send the dogs back indoors.”

  “For all of us? What would I gain from it?” MacLeod strolled a few paces down the path, then halted, fists on hips.

  Parry glanced down at Pinkerton and Butterfly – poised, pointed, patient, primed. There was no doubt in his mind that the dogs were ready to attack on command. One word from MacLeod, and they would be on him. Those teeth! The question was: would MacLeod dare give that command? And the answer was: if Parry’s guess was right, if MacLeod was the one responsible for the shinjus, then yes, he probably would dare. He had nothing to lose, after all. He must realise why the FPP were here. He must sense that the game was up, and that although he might have succeeded in bluffing them yesterday at HQ, he wasn’t going to be able to do so again, not this time, not now.

  “I just thought that a man like you wouldn’t need to hide behind guard dogs,” Parry said, selecting his words as carefully as a watchmaker selects components. He knew that he had embarked on one of the most important negotiations of his life. Maybe even a negotiation for his life.

  “Meaning what, exactly? That I’m a coward?” MacLeod chuckled, a lightless sound, like coal tumbling into a scuttle. “Try and see it from my point of view, captain. You come to my premises, my home, unannounced, in the middle of the night. You ask to be invited in without giving a reason for your presence. You bully your way in as though you’re, I don’t know, let’s think. The Stasi? The KGB? Someone like that. I, on my part, have a legitimate form of security, a means of protecting myself and my colleagues from just this kind of unwarranted intrusion. I’d be foolish if I didn’t use it.”

  “I understand that. Nevertheless, you strike me as a man who prefers to be on an equal footing with his opponents. A man who likes a level playing-field. Which this” – Parry risked a tiny nod at the Alsatians – “is clearly not.”

  “Ah yes. That’s me, isn’t it? The noble savage.”

  “Don’t put words into my mouth.”

  “I don’t have to. I know what you think of me. A jumped-up savage. Little better than a missionary-boiling cannibal.”

  “I think you need to believe that that’s how people think of you. It gives you something else to feel aggrieved about. In a way, you’d hate to be thought of as civilised. But of course that’s exactly what you are.”

  “Right, yes. How flattering. ‘Civilised’. And the civilised thing to do would be call the dogs off, am I correct?”

  Parry nodded.

  “It would also be the unwise thing,” said MacLeod, folding his arms, intransigence personified. “Only an idiot fails to use all the advantages at his disposal, and Pinkerton and Butterfly are definitely my best advantage over you.”

  “Parry?
” said van Wyk. “Parry, let’s just turn and go. We can come back later. With reinforcements.”

  “Yes, yes, very sensible of you, Captain van Wyk.” MacLeod twiddled a finger in mid-air. “Turn and go.”

  And, thought Parry, then what? While they were walking away, MacLeod would set the dogs on them. Or he would not, but by the time they returned (with, as van Wyk had suggested, reinforcements, including people to handle the dogs if necessary) MacLeod would be gone. Onto the mainland. Over the hills and far away. He would be found eventually, and brought to justice and convicted, but in the meantime he would be free to commit more crimes, and Parry could not allow that. MacLeod had to be arrested today. Right here. Now.

  He fixed his gaze on MacLeod. The floodlight tinged the Xenophobe’s head with a corona of yellow radiance. His tattooed face was cast into shadow. Amid the shadow, his eyes, small in their sockets, glinted blackly. Here he was. The man who had killed four Sirens and committed four Xenocides. The man who had sullied the sanctity of New Venice. The man who had poisoned the place for Foreigners, so that now word was spreading among them – steer clear. The man who had ruined the city. Here he was. And Parry knew he was never going to get another chance like this. And so he knew that he had no choice.

  He raised his right foot. Brought it forward. Let the sole of his shoe come to rest again on the gravel – a soft, biscuity crunch.

  The Alsatians blinked. He could almost have sworn it. Blinked, as though unable to believe what they had just seen.

  He took a second step, placing his left foot ahead of his right. His left thigh was now less than ten centimetres from the tip of Pinkerton’s nose. Pinkerton twitched a glance at MacLeod, the erect black triangles of his ears ever so slightly, just perceptibly, wilting. You could see what he was thinking. This is all very perplexing. Should I attack? Surely I should be attacking.

  “I’d advise you not to come any closer,” said MacLeod. “They’re trained to restrain, not to kill, but you know how dogs are. There’s no guarantee, if I set them on you, that they won’t get ... over-enthusiastic.”

  Parry stared straight at MacLeod, deep into the black pearls that were his eyes. It was a look that said, I’m not bluffing. A look he was able to make convincing only because he really was not bluffing.

  He took a third step, and a fourth, and the fabric of his trousers brushed Pinkerton’s muzzle, and Pinkerton jerked his head back, no longer looking puzzled, now looking downright distraught. The expression on Butterfly’s face was the same. Why were they not being called upon to defend the household? These three men were unquestionably interlopers. They should be chased off the premises.

  “Final warning,” MacLeod intoned. But wasn’t there the tiniest tremor of uncertainty in his voice? As if Parry’s insane defiance was the last thing he had been expecting?

  “Parry...” There was no mistaking the emotion in van Wyk’s voice: anxiety. He could see Parry getting all three of them hurt with this foolhardy behaviour of his.

  Nevertheless: another step. Both dogs were behind Parry now, and MacLeod was just a few metres ahead. A couple more paces, and it would be possible to reach the Xenophobe with a running jump; take him down before he could give the dogs the attack command. Parry’s mouth was dry, his belly was knotted, and he could feel his heartbeat in his teeth. He could not believe what he was doing, and yet at the same time he knew he could not be doing anything else. By deploying the dogs, MacLeod had thrown down a gauntlet, and against all sense and reason Parry had picked it up. Challenge accepted. How about that, MacLeod? What are you going to do now?

  Another step.

  “Very well, then.” MacLeod squared his shoulders. There was resolution in his stance. Finality.

  Oh Christ, thought Parry.

  Then –

  “Hey! Doggies! Here, doggies!”

  Parry wheeled round.

  Johansen was off the path and waving at the Alsatians with both arms. “Look! Look where I am! Come and get me!”

  “Pål, no!”

  But it was too late. Pinkerton and Butterfly were off like bullets from a gun. MacLeod yelled something to them, but they did not hear. Their canine minds registered one fact only: a non-resident of the house had broken the cardinal rule of the garden and stepped off the pathway. That transgression overrode all other concerns.

  As soon as he was sure that the Alsatians were coming for him, Johansen turned and made for the gate. Quite clearly he thought he had a chance of outrunning the dogs. He was not, however, with his tree-trunk torso and thick, lumbering limbs, a person built for speed, and, although accelerating as fast as he could, he managed fewer than a dozen strides before Pinkerton caught up.

  With a leap, Pinkerton snagged Johansen’s shirtsleeve with his teeth. Johansen stumbled but carried on running, lugging the dog after him. Then Butterfly came alongside and lunged for Johansen’s leg, sinking her teeth into the meat of his calf. Johansen cried out, staggered, but kept on going, dragging himself along with his other leg. Pinkerton relinquished his hold, reared back, and went for the same spot on Johansen’s forearm, and this time his fangs were able to close on flesh as well as fabric. Again Johansen cried out, but still, remarkably, he persevered. Momentum and sheer brute strength propelled him on towards the gate, with both Alsatians clinging on to him and blood now visible, spilling out over his hand and his ankle. Reaching the gateway, he lurched through, taking the dogs with him, and as he did so, he twisted his head round and yelled, “Boss!” It was not a plea for help. He had done his part. Now Parry must do his.

  Parry, looking on in startlement and horror, could only nod. He was pretty sure his lieutenant did not see this, for Johansen was already moving away from the gateway. Bleeding profusely now, still jaw-gripped by the unrelenting Alsatians, he was making for the canal. Butterfly, as if sensing what her quarry intended to do, planted her paws on the walkway paving and pulled harder than ever in the opposite direction, and Johansen let out an appalling howl as something in his leg – something intrinsic, something crucial – tore. Not even this, though, could prevent him from reaching the edge of the walkway. He teetered beside the canal, just next to the prow of the Xenophobes’ launch, and for a moment Parry thought he was not going to succeed. Both Alsatians were resisting him now, backpedalling, tugging at him, yanking, trying to bring him down. It was a battle of wills as much as of strength, and had Johansen lost heart and relented and fallen back onto the walkway, one or other of the dogs would have surely gone in for the kill, ripping his throat out.

  But Johansen was stubborn, and had bulk on his side. He strained forwards till he was leaning over the canal, and once he had passed a certain angle of declivity, gravity took over. He toppled, and the dogs, to whom it did not even occur to let go, went with him. With an immense splash he hit the water, and Pinkerton and Butterfly plunged in alongside him, headfirst.

  What happened thereafter, Parry was unable to see. There was a sound of thrashing and churning in the canal, but the walkway was a metre higher than the water’s surface, and Johansen and the dogs were hidden from view.

  He felt an impulse to rush to Johansen’s rescue. But Johansen had drawn the dogs away for a reason. In depriving MacLeod of his canine edge, he had evened up the odds. He would be annoyed if Parry let his effort and self-sacrifice go to waste.

  So instead Parry rounded on MacLeod and levelled a finger at him. “You,” he snarled, “are fucking dead.” And he charged at the Xenophobe, powering towards him over the gravel.

  He would have wagered good money on MacLeod standing his ground. MacLeod, however, for no immediately obvious reason, did the opposite, turning about-face and heading for the front door. Parry sprinted after him, but was intercepted by Greg, who tackled him around the waist and brought him crashing to the ground. The two of them thumped onto the grass, with Greg on top, a position he swiftly capitalised on by straddling Parry’s chest, pinning his arms down. Parry writhed and strained, but Greg leaned forward with all his weight on
his knees. Parry’s heels scrabbled but could not gain any purchase on the grass, and so he could not obtain any leverage with which to buck Greg off. Where the hell was van Wyk? He saw Greg drawing back his fist. He saw the fist – a burled, grey-knuckled, gnarly thing – come hurtling towards his face. He braced himself for the blow...

  ...and then Greg’s weight was no longer on him, and Parry heaved himself onto his side, and there was Greg prone on the grass, and there was van Wyk, knee planted squarely in the small of Greg’s back, forcing Greg’s left arm up between his shoulderblades in an agonising half-Nelson. Greg yelled, Greg lashed backwards at van Wyk with his right hand, but Greg was not going to break free of the hold any time soon.

  “Well, go on!” van Wyk shouted to Parry, with a jerk of his head. “Don’t just lie there. MacLeod! MacLeod!”

  Parry scrambled to his feet, took a moment to orient himself, then set off for the front door. Things had got badly out of hand, but there was no time to dwell on that. Right this moment, what was or was not Constitutional did not matter. What mattered was MacLeod. Getting MacLeod. Making him pay. For the shinjus. For the chaos he had brought to New Venice. For the aggravation he had caused Parry personally. For Johansen.

  The front door was half open. Parry barged through. The hallway, with its array of ethnic artefacts, was empty, MacLeod nowhere to be seen. Swiftly Parry scanned the walls, searching for an absence. There. Next to the knobkerrie. A pair of empty brackets where Senhora Coutinho’s “violin” had hung. The odd-shaped club he had seen on his previous visit to Free World House. There it had been, in plain view. How amusing that must have been to MacLeod – to have invited Parry over, knowing he would have to walk through a room containing the club and that his gaze might even come to rest on the item itself, completely unaware that it was the weapon responsible for the Xenocides and the most recent homicide. The sheer bloody nerve of the man.

  Footsteps.

  Parry spun round.

  MacLeod, running at him from the direction of the staircase. He had been hiding there, behind the stairs.