‘Have you indeed. Thanks for letting me know.’
‘You look to me rather like a chap acting as a guard.’
He picked up a revolver lying in his lap. ‘I am.’
‘Is that a Webley?’
‘What does it matter?
‘I’m not sure. What’s in the tin?’
‘Syrup.’
‘I see. Mind if I look?’
‘It’s sealed, I’m afraid, like your fate if you don’t start minding your own business.’
I stepped closer to the tin, and peered at it. ‘How exactly is it sealed? Can’t we open it?’
Roger laid the gun down and stood, squaring up to me. ‘It’s completely sealed, there is no lid, the top is like the base of the tin. There’s nothing in it, it’s just a prop for the film. Empty.’
‘Why guard it, then?’
He flinched, and I could see in the dim light the throbbing Adam’s apple of a man swallowing anger. ‘Because someone might steal it, of course. Props are expensive. Now clear off before you get what for.’
‘What if I want what for?’
‘The way you’ve been asking for it, you certainly seem to.’ He stepped closer to me, until there was less than a foot between us. He smelled of cologne, with a hint of whisky. ‘You’ll do what I tell you,’ he said.
I stared into his face. He placed his hand on my chest and shoved, and I stepped back with one foot to brace myself. He pushed harder and my supporting foot dug into the lawn. A member of the hotel staff, a waiter, came out on some errand and stopped a few yards from us, arrested by the sight.
‘You’re getting my goat, Wenlock,’ he said, and grabbed the lapels of my jacket. ‘It’s time to teach you a lesson.’
The waiter cried out in alarm.
Roger, for all his power, was not a skilful fighter and signalled clearly his intention to smash his forehead into my nose. I swung my arm over his, as I had been taught at school, and broke the hold of his hand. We fell to the ground, and began trading blows in the most uncivilised fashion, most of them missing their mark in the confusion. The boy ran back to the hotel, and there we squirmed on the lawn, grappling and writhing until eventually the matter was settled when Roger grabbed his revolver and brought the butt crashing down onto my head.
Chapter 19
I opened my eyes and found myself in a bare stone room, lying on straw. Instinct told me the stone floor should have been cold, but it was blood-warm. The air was moist and hot, and it stank. Far away a man cried out in pain, a faint but harrowing sound that chilled the bowels, fading like the wail of a man thrown from a high tower. I could not discern whether it was the cry of a man being beaten or one simply fed up with the indignities of the world.
In the far corner of the room stood a boy. He was dressed like a Dickensian urchin with torn and ragged trousers that he had clearly outgrown. Though a child, he wore a waistcoat under a shabby bottle-green jacket. His face seemed a stranger to soap. It was Ben Hawkins, the boy who appears from time to time in the dreams of all railwaymen.
Once, long, long ago on a cold winter’s night when all eleven-year-old boys should be warm and snug in bed, he was shivering in the engine shed, cleaning the locomotives, and finding one in which the firebox was still warm from the day’s exertions, he climbed inside for a while then fell asleep. The next day they shovelled in the live coals and that was the end of him.
‘You must not give up, Jack,’ he said.
I closed my eyes and slept again. It was morning when I next opened my eyes. My body throbbed with pain. It felt as if I had been given a good kicking by Roger, or maybe he had used the revolver to deliver the blows. But I did not appear to have sustained serious damage. I passed out again.
When I woke again it was evening and I found myself sitting in a chair staring into the smiling face of Lieutenant Colonel Nopsansuwong.
‘You, Mr Wenlock, are in what you call hot water.’
I struggled to gather my thoughts. I had been fighting with Roger, but before that Jenny had run away. Because of a photograph. I remembered her telling me about her miscarriage, and a bolt of pain shot through me as I recalled, in turn, the thoughtless gift I had given her on the boat. For our son.
‘Very hot water.’
‘I feel as if I have fallen from a tall building.’
‘You are bruised, but it will heal. But what about your reputation? Two men, Europeans whom we are brought up to respect, fighting like labourers. You could go to prison for a very long time for this. Do you want to be the second-most lonely man in the world?’
My mind turned to our first visit when he had outlined the terrors of this fate. ‘I was only defending myself against Roger.’
‘He said he was defending himself against you.’
‘He would do.’
‘The hotel boy confirmed his story.’
The simple statement hit me like a punch. ‘No!’ I said in despair. ‘It can’t be true … the boy must have been bribed.’
‘Do you have any evidence for that allegation?’
‘I can assure you, Lieutenant Colonel, I had more important things on my mind than starting fights. My wife … after we had a disagreement she ran out of the hotel door into the night and … and …’
‘What does that have to do with Mr Roger?’
‘It’s difficult to explain.’
‘Tell me, why do you care about this man Curtis?’
‘I have reason to believe he knows the whereabouts of my mother, who left my life the day I was born. Furthermore, I have reason to believe that Mr Spaulding and his friends may have killed Mr Curtis by putting him in that rattan ball that stands in the glass case at the hotel.’
‘And what makes you think that?’
‘The night he disappeared he had been wearing a circus ringmaster’s jacket. I found it in the garden of the hotel. It had puncture holes in it.’ I described the little demonstration I had performed with the kitchen boy and the pot of strawberry jam, aware as I did that he must surely have known all this.
The answer seemed to impress him. ‘Mr Wenlock, would you describe yourself as an honest man?’
‘Of course.’
He pulled a wan face. ‘That saddens me, for as much as you are honest, so I am poor. We do things differently in this country. We prefer to help the poor rather than see them go hungry all in defence of a noble but empty principle. The police are poor.’
My stomach lurched as the implications of his speech became clear. ‘Are you asking me for a bribe, Lieutenant Colonel?’
He feigned mild shock. ‘Of course not! A consideration perhaps, some tea money … It pains me to be so blunt, but I know you do not understand our culture and must make allowances. It would be terrible if you were to end up spending the rest of your life in this most unpleasant place all because of a trivial misunderstanding.’ He smiled, then stood up. ‘I will be back in a short while. In the meantime I recommend you reflect on the decision that faces you.’
I sat for a while, aware only of the pounding of my heart. Again I heard the wail of the man being thrown from the tower. I thought of Curtis, and the chaps putting him in the rattan ball.
I did not need to buy an envelope from the post office to know that, in Mrs Carmichael’s system of classification, Siam was a type-B country. A land where one could get into a lot of trouble if one failed to bribe the police. I remembered my indignation at catching Cheadle stealing coal. All my life I had felt that same sense of indignation, had chased chaps who stole coal, even though they must surely have done it for compelling reasons. Who but a desperate man steals coal? Was I wrong?
I took out the photo of my mother and examined it. I had still not got over the shock of seeing her; it was like a blind man who wakes up one day and can see. In the photo there was a sparkle in her young eyes, an impishness, the hint of a dimple in her chin. It was a picture of innocence and kindness. I recalled the pain in Jenny’s voice as she related the bitter tale of the child she lost and saw
clearly how I, though alive, was a child dead to Millie. It broke my heart to think of her suffering. What had they done to her? What had Curtis discovered here that made him inscribe the words ‘The horror! The horror!’ on his postcard? What could possibly be even more scandalous than turning up at a birthday party wearing a necklace of human ears?
Lieutenant Colonel Nopsansuwong returned and said, ‘Well, Mr Wenlock, what is it going to be? A little tea money for a hard-working policeman?’
I raised my eyes to his. ‘I have to tell you, sir, all of my life I have been utterly incapable of offering a bribe to a policeman. I condemned my friend for stealing coal in winter for his fire, for robbing the greater crooks who stole his life from him. That coal was more his than theirs. I disdain the attitude found among my fellow passengers on the boat to Singapore that foreigners are less honest than us, and that it is natural to bribe their policemen. It is born, I believe, of the misconceived notion that we alone are honest, when in truth very few people are and they do not all belong to one country. Hitherto it would have been impossible for me to contemplate such a course, but hitherto I passed my life in a stunted fashion, and that all changed when Jenny walked into my life. And though I find the prospect disagreeable, I am ready to offer you, sir, whatever you ask, within reason, although I must honestly tell you that I am disappointed – you have always struck me as an upstanding man.’
He stared at me long and hard and finally said, ‘Are you sure?’
I assured him that I was, whereupon the policeman laughed. ‘Your instincts were right, I have no intention of taking your money. I was just seeing how you would react. I have to say, I like your speech very much. I will have you driven back to your hotel.’ He laughed at the look of puzzlement that stole across my face, saying, ‘What else can I do? You are clearly an honest man, and therefore your account of your fight with Mr Roger must be true. In fact, I know it to be so because the hotel boy told me. Perhaps you think I would take your bribe because you have spent too long listening to Mr Spaulding, who has a very low opinion of me, and has indeed attempted to bribe me in the past. I’m going to drive you back to your hotel. And I will ask my men to search for your wife, they will be a lot better at it than you. Although I suspect it will be difficult for you, I suggest you simply wait at the hotel until you hear from us.’
I nodded.
‘Might I also offer you a piece of advice? Take your beautiful wife away from here and forget about this man Curtis.’
I stared at him, looked into his eyes. He seemed to be genuine in offering his advice.
Nopsansuwong stood up. ‘Let us return to your hotel.’
The policeman drove me back. I went to the lounge and ordered a Scotch. It was early evening.
Solveig Connemara walked in and joined me.
‘You look how I feel,’ she said. She pulled back a chair and sat down.
The waiter brought my drink and set it down on a side table next to the arm of my chair. There were five or six origami cranes on the table, and the waiter pushed them gently aside.
‘I’m afraid I won’t be much company for you,’ I said.
‘Buddy, when it comes to company my expectations are not very high. Besides, from the look on your face I’m not sure it would be safe to leave you alone.’
I forced a smile.
‘You and your girl had a tiff?’
‘Rather more than that, she … she ran away.’
‘That’s tough.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s none of my business, but don’t let that stop you.’
‘It’s nothing really, it would probably bore you.’
‘Until you’ve spent ten years in a funny farm, you don’t know what boredom is.’
I explained to her the events of the previous evening. She evinced no great surprise, merely said, ‘Well I’m sure the cops will soon find her and bring her back. Cops are good at that.’
‘I don’t imagine she’ll ever forgive me.’
‘For a lousy staged photograph? She’ll forgive you in five seconds flat. Don’t be an ass, Jack.’
I nodded. ‘I would very much like not to be. You see, I can tell you frankly, I’m not a man of the world. I have lived a life that would be considered most unusual. I spent almost all of it never once imagining that I would meet a girl. I really have no experience.’
‘Believe me it ain’t that hard. All you have to do is love her, take care of her, hug her, buy her a dress once in a while, tell her she looks nice in it, trust her and forgive, especially for the mistake of being human.’
‘She … she had a child. Before she met me. With an American soldier. She got into trouble, if you see what I mean.’
‘I hear it’s quite popular, getting into trouble. Did you ever think about that word “trouble”? That’s what you get when you do something wrong at school, or later you get it with the cops, especially if you are poor. At the same time it’s the most natural act there is, without it none of us would be here. You had a mother, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, yes, I did, and rather a plucky one.’
‘Everyone did. And all mothers did it. There wouldn’t be anyone here otherwise. Calling it trouble marks your cards against you. It’s like beating a dog for licking a bone. I’ve seen enough of this world to know it’s not the people who get into trouble who cause all the pain, it’s the ones who judge them.’
There was something deeply reassuring about Miss Connemara’s words. We are so often taught that kindness is a form of weakness or self-indulgence, but these words coming from a film star in the twilight of her life, who had seen and suffered so much, carried a conviction that could not be doubted.
‘Where’s the guy now?’
‘He fell in Normandy.’
‘Oh. And the child?’
‘She lost it.’
Solveig refilled our glasses with an unsteady hand. ‘At least you still have her, and she has you. I had no one. Went to a fancy clinic to get rid of my child, even though it was all I ever wanted. Paid for by the studio. Doctors removed my heart by mistake. If I’d had a man to stand by me, who knows? Stepped out of that clinic and there was a bouquet of roses waiting for me. From Sam Flamenco. Can you believe that? What did he think I’d just been doing? Having a toenail removed? So I did what any decent girl in a situation like that would do, went to the liquor store.
‘Still to this day I don’t know what I did during that month. I was never sober. I was even drunk in my dreams. Spent some time in jail, no idea what for. After the third time, when they let me out, I had ten dollars left in all the world and a letter from the studio who’d cancelled the movie, saying they were suing me for breach of contract. So I jumped off Brooklyn Bridge. I don’t recommend it, you just get wet and even more miserable than you were before you jumped. After that it was ten years in the funny farm, getting zapped with electric shocks every month. And one day they said I was cured and could leave. Where do you go after being in a place like that? The street. That’s where I spent the next three years. Once a man approached me and told me they were shooting a movie about Solveig Connemara and I should audition because I looked just like her. I went but failed the audition, so I guess you could say it really was the story of my life.’
She stood up. ‘Come with me, I want to show you something.’
I followed her. She walked out onto the lawn and down to the river. The night was hot and damp, and the black depths of the river gave off a palpable scent. Light glittered across the water, and ahead of us, too, in the darkness, the Empire Flying Boat glimmered like an animal glimpsed in the forest at night.
‘You said, if you’d had a man to stand by you,’ I said. ‘Did the father of your child abandon you?’
‘He never knew. I didn’t tell him.’
‘Pardon me, but I thought … I was told, the father was Johnny Sorrento.’
‘Everybody thought so, including old Johnny, but it wasn’t him. It was the boy from next door. He wasn’t good enough fo
r me, you see. Or so I thought. I was a star, what was he? Just a boy from the Bronx I’d grown up with. He wasn’t ever going to be anybody, not like me. I was going places. I got that all wrong too, it was me who wasn’t good enough for him.’
‘Do you ever wonder what became of him?’
‘Nope. It’s too late, wherever he is now he will be as old and broken as me. I don’t want ever to know.’
‘The policeman said I should take Jenny away and forget all about Curtis.’
‘Cops don’t often offer good advice in my experience, but that sounds good. I wish you could see what I see. I wish you didn’t have to grow old and broken in order to see so plainly. You and Jenny are the two luckiest people in this lousy hotel, do you know why? Because you don’t need to take that goddam plane. Here we all are, one big dungheap of losers, flying off to find something you never find by searching somewhere else, you only ever find it in your back garden because you either carry it in your heart or nowhere.’
‘If Sam Flamenco made you get rid of your child, why are you with him now?’
For a long time she did not answer and then said, simply: ‘He’s not the man he used to be.’ She paused and emptied her glass in one gulp, and then left. I watched her go and then let my gaze drop. My eyes came to rest on one of the cranes. It had a pattern of printed words. One word stood out. ‘Fun’. I picked up the crane and looked more closely. ‘Fune’. I unfolded the paper bird. ‘Funeral’. It had been folded from a scrap of torn-up screenplay.
EXT. MILLIE TOOKEY’S FUNERAL. DAY
On the same promontory where MILLIE first drew the thorn from the monster’s paw, CAPTAIN SQUIDEYE stands in oilskins and sou’wester at the side of a grave. HE sings from a hymn book. Torrents of rain sweep in, and the drops trace the words, engraved on the headstone, MILLIE TOOKEY.
The monster CHOMGHUÜRGHA stands by, weeping.
SQUIDEYE
(Singing)
There is a place where hands which held ours tightly
Now are released beyond all hurt and fear
Healed by that love which also feels our sorrow
Tear after tear.
The Corpse in the Garden of Perfect Brightness Page 21
