Bernard Cornwell

by Wildtrack

  "Hello, Sally. Is Terry in?"

  She shook her head. "They're on exercise."

  "I didn't know. I'm sorry." I was embarrassed to find her so obviously joyless. I'd been a guest at Sergeant Farebrother's wedding, and I remembered even then fearing that the pretty bride of whom Terry was so proud had the sulky look of a girl who would resent the man who took her from the discos and street-corners. Terry had proved no better than I at choosing a wife. "It's just that I've got some kit here," I explained lamely. "Terry said he'd keep it for me."

  "It's in Tracey's room." Tracey was one of the children, but I couldn't remember which. Sally opened the front door wide, inviting me in.

  "Are you sure?" I knew how swiftly malicious rumours went round Army housing estates.

  Sally did not care. "Upstairs," she said, "on the left." She cleared a path for me by kicking aside some broken plastic toys. "I'll be glad to have the space in the cupboard back."

  "I'm sorry if it's been a bother."

  "No bother." She watched me limp upstairs. "Are you all right now?"

  "Only when I laugh." The house had the ammonia stench of babies' nappies. "How's Terry?"

  "They want him to be a Weapons' Instructor." It was said unhappily, for Sally was always nagging Terry to resign the service and go home to Leeds.

  "He'd be good at that." I tried to be encouraging as I reached the landing. "This room?"

  "In the cupboard." A child began crying downstairs and Sally shouted at it to be quiet and eat its bloody breakfast. The house was thin-walled and cheap; married quarters.

  I found my bergen under a broken tricycle in the child's cupboard. I dragged the heavy rucksack out and hauled it downstairs. "Give Terry my best, won't you?"

  "He'll be sorry to have missed you."

  "I'll be in touch with him. Thanks for keeping this."

  "Sure." She closed the door on me. I saw the curtains twitch in other houses.

  I drove back to Devon, reaching Bannister's house at lunchtime. I'd filled the Peugeot's tank with petrol as amends for borrowing it, but no one seemed to have missed the old car which Bannister kept solely for local errands. I could hear voices in the house, so I took the path through the woods down to the wharf where Sycorax lay.

  I emptied the bergen on the cabin floor. There were sweaters still smeared with dark peaty Falklands soil. There was a shaving kit, canteen, monocular, two shirts, and a camera which still had a roll of undeveloped film in it. There was a situation map, a cigarette lighter, a letter from my bank manager which I'd never opened, and a deck plan of the Canberra. This was the kit we'd left behind as we marched to the start line for the last attack. There was a letter from Melissa's lawyer demanding that I surrender pension rights, bank accounts, all joint savings, everything. Like a fool, I'd given in on every demand. At the time it had seemed a most irrelevant letter and I had simply wanted the matter out of the way before the grimmer reality of taking the heights above Port Stanley began. There was a letter from my father that I had not answered, and two photographs of my children. There were three pairs of underpants that needed washing, a towel, a pair of gloves, and a tin of camouflage cream. There was, God alone knew why, a map of the London Underground. There was my beret, which gave me a pang of old and still bright pride. There were no bad dreams.

  And underneath it all was the reason why I had driven so far. It was a souvenir wrapped in a dirty towel. I'd taken it from a dead Argentinian officer who'd been lying in the burnt gorse on Darwin Hill. I unwrapped the towel to find a leather belt from which hung a pouch and a holster. In the holster was a .45 calibre automatic pistol, made in the USA; a Colt. It was ugly, black, and heavy. I turned it in my hand, then ejected the full magazine. I emptied the magazine of rounds and noted that the spring was still in good condition, despite being compressed for so many months. I cocked the empty gun and pulled the trigger. The sound seemed immense inside the Sycorax's hull. The words Ejercito Argentina were incised on the barrel's flank.

  I opened the pouch and took out the spare magazines and rounds. I did not want to use this weapon, indeed I had hoped never to fire a gun like this again, but Jill-Beth's warning, and the memory of how easily Fanny Mulder had resorted to his shotgun, had persuaded me to retrieve this trophy of a faraway war. Now, staring at the gun's obscene and functional outline, I was suddenly ashamed of myself. I wasn't a prisoner, there was no need to stay. Holding the heavy gun I was suddenly disgusted that my affairs with Bannister had come to this. I would get out now, I would resign. I would leave Bannister. There was no sense in staying in a place where I had been driven to arm myself with a weapon.

  My disgust tempted me to hurl the gun far into the river, but there are still seaways where such a thing is needful, and so I oiled and greased the pistol, loaded it, then sealed it in two waterproof bags. I hid the gun deep in Sycorax, deep down where the sun would never shine, deep beneath the waterline in a dark place where such a thing is best kept.

  A hand rapped on the outside of the hull and I jumped like a guilty thing.

  "Mr Sandman?" It was one of Mulder's crew. "Mr Bannister wants to see you. Now."

  It wasn't a request, but an order. But I wanted to see Bannister too, so I obeyed.

  Bannister was waiting for me in his study. He had taken care to provide himself with reinforcements. Fanny Mulder stood to one side of a table littered with charts and weather maps, while Angela slumped in a deep chair in the corner of the room. They all three looked tired.

  "Ah, Nick!" Bannister seemed almost surprised that I'd come. I sensed that there had been an argument before I arrived. Angela was sullen, Mulder silent, and Bannister was nervous. He crossed to his desk and shook a cigarette out of a packet. "Thank you for coming," he said.

  "I wanted to see you anyway."

  He clicked a lighter, puffed smoke. "Angela tells me you borrowed a car this morning?"

  "I filled it with petrol," I said. "I should have asked you before I borrowed it. I'm sorry."

  "That's all right." His denial was too hasty. Bannister, it was clear, did not have the guts to go for a confrontation. Clearly Angela and Mulder were expecting a fight, and I guessed that was what the argument must have been about. They wanted to attack me, while Bannister wanted to keep things gentle. For all his tough-guy image, he crumbled at the first touch.

  "Is that all you wanted?" I asked. "Because I've also got something to say to you."

  "Where did you go in the car?" Mulder asked in his flat voice.

  I ignored him. "I've come to tell you that you can count me out," I said to Bannister. "Not just out of the St Pierre, but out of everything. I don't want any more of your film, any more of your company. I'm through."

  "Where did you go?" Mulder insisted.

  "Answer him," Angela said.

  "I've got nothing to say to you! Nothing!" I turned on her furiously, stunning the room with my sudden anger. "I'm sorry," I said to Bannister. "I don't want to get angry. I just want out. After last night"—I glanced at Angela, then looked back to Bannister—"I don't see how I can decently stay. And as I understand things, you promised to restore my boat, so give me a cheque for a thousand pounds and I'll finish Sycorax myself and leave you alone."

  Bannister hated the confrontation. "I think we should talk things over, don't you?"

  "Just give me a cheque."

  Mulder seemed to despise Bannister's pusillanimity. He moved close and looked down at me. "Where did you go in the car, man?"

  "Get out of my way."

  "Where did—"

  "Get out of my bloody way or I'll break your fucking neck!" I astonished myself by my own savagery. Mulder, even though he could surely not have feared me, stepped back. Angela gasped, while Bannister stayed motionless.

  I made my voice calm again. "A cheque, please."

  Bannister found some courage for the moment. "Did you go to see Miss Kirov, Nick?"

  "No. A cheque, please."

  "But you did invite her to the party?" Banni
ster insisted.

  "Yes, but I didn't know Fanny was going to try and rape her. Are you going to give me a cheque?"

  "I didn't—" Fanny began.

  "Shut up!" I snapped. I'd harried them all into submission. They'd summoned me to this room to dress me down as if I was a small schoolboy, but they were all now silent. Mulder stepped away from me, while Angela fumbled in her bag for a cigarette. I could hear the murmur of voices from the terrace beneath where the guests gathered for brunch. "I want a cheque," I said to Bannister.

  I thought I'd won, for Bannister walked to his desk and pulled open a drawer. I expected him to bring out his chequebook, but instead he produced a stack of cardboard folders. "Please look at those, Nick."

  I didn't move, so he lifted the top one, opened it, and handed it to me.

  My own photograph was in the file and curiosity made me take it from Bannister. "Read it," he said quietly.

  There were only two sheets of paper in the folder, both topped with a printed letterhead: 'Kassouli Insurance Fund, Inc. (Marine)'. My photograph was pasted on to one of the sheets with my career, such as it had been, carefully typed out beneath. The citation for the Victoria Cross was reproduced in full. The other sheet was handwritten in what, I supposed, was Jill-Beth's writing. "Captain Sandman's presence in AB's house is unexpected, but could be fortunate for us. Captain Sandman, like many soldiers, is a romantic. In many ways he lives in La-la land, by which I mean he's a preppy drop-out who wants to do a Joshua Slocum, but undoubtedly his sense of honour and duty would predispose him to our side." I was wondering where La-la land was, and whether Jill-Beth would like to live there.

  "That," Bannister said quietly, "is your Miss Kirov's pilot book. We found these files on her boat." He handed me another opened file which had a photograph of Fanny Mulder doing his morning exercises on Wildtrack 's bow. The sparse career details said that Francis Mulder had been born in Witsand, Cape Province, on 3 August 1949. His schooling had been scanty. He'd served in the South African Defence Forces. He had a police file in South Africa, being suspected of armed robbery, but nothing had ever been proved. The next entry recorded his purchase of a cutter in the Seychelles where he had run his charter business until Nadeznha Bannister had spotted his undoubted talent.

  Again there was a handwritten comment. "Despite being a protégé of your daughter's, there can be no doubt of Mulder's loyalty to AB. AB has promoted him, pays him well, and constantly demonstrates his trust in Mulder." The rest of the page had been raggedly torn off, making me wonder if Bannister had destroyed comments that discussed Mulder's presumed involvement in Nadeznha Bannister's murder.

  I was tempted to ask by what right Bannister had searched Mystique, but, faced with the evidence in the files, it would have been a somewhat redundant question. Bannister took the two files from me. "Do you understand now why we're somewhat concerned that you might be a close friend of Miss Kirov's?" He turned to stare at a large portrait of his dead wife that stood framed on the study bookshelves. "Do you know who owns the Kassouli Insurance Fund?"

  "I assume your ex-wife's father?"

  "Yes." He said it bleakly, almost hopelessly, then sat in a big leather chair behind the desk and rubbed his face with both hands. "Tell him, Angela."

  Angela spoke tonelessly. "Yassir Kassouli is convinced that Tony could have prevented Nadeznha's death. He's never forgiven Tony for that. He also believes, irrationally and wrongly, that by making another attempt on the race this year Tony is demonstrating a callous attitude towards Nadeznha's death. Yassir Kassouli will do anything to stop Tony winning. Last night Miss Kirov tried to persuade Fanny to sabotage our St Pierre attempt. Fanny refused. In turn he accused Miss Kirov of dismasting Wildtrack . They had an argument. That's when she pretended to be attacked, and when you played the gallant rescuer." Angela could not resist unsheathing a claw. "That's the truth, Mr Sandman, of which you're such a staunch guardian."

  I said nothing. There had been a ring of truth in her words, however much they contradicted what I'd seen and what Jill-Beth had said, and I felt the confusion of a man assailed by conflicting certainties. Jill-Beth had spoken of murder, and of a million-dollar insurance claim, while Angela now spoke convincingly of a rich man's obsession with preserving his daughter's memory. I supposed that the real truth of the matter was that there was no real truth. Nor, I told myself, was it any of my business. I had come here to resign, nothing more.

  Bannister swivelled his chair so he could stare at the portrait. If he'd murdered her, I thought, then he was putting on an award-winning performance. "I can't explain grief, Nick," he said. "Yassir Kassouli's never forgiven me for Nadeznha's death. God knows what I was supposed to do. Keep her ashore? All I do know is that so long as Kassouli lives he'll hate me because of his daughter's death. He isn't rational on the subject, he's obsessed, and I have to protect myself from his obsession." He shrugged, as if to suggest that his explanation was inadequate, but the best, and most honest, that he could provide. He tapped the folders. "You can see that Miss Kirov believes that you'll help sabotage my St Pierre run this year."

  "I'm not in a position to help," I said to Bannister, "because I've resigned from your life. No film, no St Pierre, I just want your cheque. A thousand pounds will suffice, and I promise to account forevery penny of it."

  "And how will you account for the money already spent?" Angela snapped into her most Medusa-like mood, echoing her vituperation of the previous night. "Do you know how much money we've invested in this film? A film that you undertook to make? Or had you forgotten that you signed contracts?"

  I still refused to look at her or speak to her. I kept my eyes on Bannister. "I want a cheque."

  "You just want to do what's most comfortable!" Angela had worked herself into another fine anger. "But I want a film that will help people, and if you back out on it, Nick Sandman, then you're reneging on a contract. It's a contract we trusted, and we've spent thousands of pounds on realizing it, and if you tear it up now then I promise you that I'll try and recoup that wasted money. The only property of yours that the courts will consider worth confiscating is Sycorax, but I'll settle for that!" Her voice was implacably confident, suggesting she had already taken legal advice. "So if you don't fulfil your contractual obligations. Nick Sandman, you will lose your boat."

  I still ignored her. "A thousand pounds," I said to Bannister.

  "You're not going to walk out on this!" Angela shouted.

  "A thousand pounds," I said to Bannister again.

  Bannister was caught between the two of us. I suspected he would gladly have surrendered to me at that moment, but Angela wanted her pound of Nick Sandman's flesh and Bannister, I assumed, was afraid of losing her flesh. He prevaricated. "I think we're all too overwrought to make a decision now."

  "I'm not," I insisted.

  "But I am!" He betrayed a flash of anger. "We'll talk next week. I need to look at the budget, and at the film we've already shot." He was making excuses, trying to slide out from making a decision. "I'll phone you from London, Nick."

  "I won't be here," I said.

  "You'd better be here," Angela snapped, "if you want to keep your boat."

  So far, except for the first time she'd spoken to me, I'd succeeded in ignoring her. Now I told her to go to hell, then I turned and walked from the room. The guests on the terrace fell silent as I limped past them. I didn't know whether I'd resigned, been fired from the film, or was about to be baked in a lawyer's pie. Nor did I much care.

  I stumped down the lawn, skirted the boathouse, and saw that Jimmy Nicholls had come upriver and tied his filthy boat alongside Sycorax. He was lifting two sacks into Sycorax's scuppers. "Chain plates and bolts," he told me. "Ready for the morning."

  "Bugger the morning. Can you tow Sycorax away today?"

  "Bloody hell." He straightened up from the sacks. "Where to?"

  "Any bloody where. Away from bloody television people. Bloody stuck-up, arrogant powder-puffs." I climbed down to Sycorax's d
eck.

  Jimmy chuckled. "Fallen out with your fancy friends, boy?"

  I looked up at the house and saw Angela watching me from the study window. "Up yours, too." I didn't say it loud enough to carry. "The bastards are threatening to get the bailiffs on to Sycorax. Where can I hide her?"

  He frowned. "Nowhere on this river, Nick. How about the Hamoaze?"

  "Georgie Cullen's yard?"

  "He liked your dad."

  "Every thief likes my dad." I scooped up a coiled warp and bent it on to a cleat ready for the tow. I wanted Angela and Bannister to see me leave. I wanted them to know that I didn't give a monkeys for their film or their threats. "Have you got enough diesel to get me there today, Jimmy?"

  "You don't want to go anywhere right now," Jimmy said sternly. "I've got a letter for you. Boy on a motorbike brought it from London! Said I was to get it to you, but no one was to notice, like, so that's why I hid it with the bolts, see?" He pointed to one of the sacks. "From London, Nick!" Jimmy was just as astonished as I that someone should hire a messenger to ride all the way from London to Devon. "The boy said as how an American maid gave it he. You want to read it before you bugger off?"

  I wanted to read it. A moment ago I had been full of certainty as to what I should do, but the sudden and overwhelming memory of a naked girl in my dinghy, of her smile, of her competence, made me carry the heavy sack down into Sycorax's cabin. The creamy white envelope was marked 'Urgent'.

  I tore it open. Two things fell out.

  One was a first-class ticket for British Airways, London to Boston and back again. The ticket was in my name, and the outbound flight left Heathrow the very next morning. The return had been left open.

  The second thing was a letter written in a handwriting that I'd just read in Bannister's study. 'If you haven't got a visa then get one from the Embassy and come Tuesday. I'll meet you at Logan Airport.' The signature was a child's drawing of a smiling face, a sketched heart, and the initials JB.