by Jack Rylance
Because the boy had all the makings of a laughing stock, Pete was obliged to try and correct this weakness through his own interventions. In this, he had persevered for the last decade. It had not been worth the effort but he told himself he’d had no choice; not if he wanted to do the right thing.
Pete could still remember the closing argument between himself and John’s mother, staged in the hallway of her house as he left it for the final time.
“You think I don’t know what you’ve done to our John? You wouldn’t fucking rest until you’d got him to idolise you. Now he’s all hopped up: ‘When’s Pete coming round?’ ‘Where’s Pete?’ Pete this, Pete that, Pete the other. You’d think you were Father Christmas and Superman rolled into one. So now that you’ve got yourself a little follower, what are you going to do with him?”
“The kid’s important to me, Jeanette.”
“And why is that, Pete?”
“What do you mean ‘Why?’ I’m fond of him.”
“You did this out of vanity. You couldn’t stand the thought that anybody could resist your charms. Even a child. It’s actually pathetic.”
“Fuck off with your vanity, Jeanette. Like I said, I’m very fond of John. That’s all.”
“Well that’s just great, Pete, because for his part, he happens to loves you now. You couldn’t draw the line at me, could you? You had to woo the boy as well.”
She was right. John was smitten. And for this reason it would have been a cruelty had Pete sought to disappear from his life, and therefore he did no such thing. Afterwards, he was better than an uncle, becoming a godfather in all but name, honour-bound to intervene at critical junctures. He held on to the boy’s trust and made a point of continuing to earn it, despite the growing cost.
Chapter Fourteen
An hour after returning home from Cabral, as the afternoon drew to a close, Pete heard a knock at the door. He walked over to it and put his eye to the tiny lens and inspected his callers – the last two men he wanted to see. The surprise of it lasted one instant and then vanished completely. This could not be more real.
He opened the door to them. Vincent was still in top shape, Totsy had run a little to fat, but he was still broad, explicitly alert, unmistakeably dangerous. Their smiles had changed least of all. They remained impervious, provocative, a matching pair. These were the badges of their humour, and this sense of humour was truly terrible. It went to the heart of how they saw the world, the ways in which they seized upon it.
“Surprise,” said Vincent.
“Alright, Pete. We happened to be in the neighbourhood and thought we’d look you up,” said Totsy.
“Totsy, Vincent.”
“Calm as you like. Anyone would think we’d been expected,” said Vincent in reply.
“You look like shit,” said Totsy. “Another heavy night was it, lad? Christ, you must be shovelling some gear up your nose out here. I’m surprised your septum isn’t fucked like that bird from Eastenders.”
“I guess I’m lucky that way.”
“You are lucky, Pete, that’s for sure. It’s the only explanation,” said Vincent.
“I see you’re living in the arse-end of town,” said Totsy.
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Well it’s hardly salubrious, is it? You should see mine and Vincent’s digs in Ipanema. Very classy indeed.”
“Yeh, well…”
“So what are you doing for money, Pete? Making a little go a long way? Funny that, you’ve never struck me as the most frugal individual.”
“We could probably put a little work your way, you know,” Totsy said.
“Cheers, but I’m fine.”
“Got yourself a bird, Pete?”
“Nah.”
“Now I don’t believe that. Do you, Totsy?”
“Nope.”
Pete said nothing. They smiled again, glad to see him. These moments alone were worth the price of their trip.
“So did you hear about that lad we met in town?” Totsy asked.
“I heard that he was dead,” Pete answered.
“Yeh. Died last month. About fucking time.”
Pete had read it online via the local newspaper. The girlfriend had been persuaded to say nothing and so there was no case to answer. They were no doubt confident it would stay that way.
“So who are you knocking round with over here, Pete? Whose your new mates?” Vincent inquired.
“Probably a gang of six foot trannies,” said Totsy.
Pete knew from long experience that their conversation was rarely to the point. Their intention was to keep you guessing, worrying, concerned. They liked to circle you at length. Their menace was extravagant. He had worked with them both for many years. In all that time they had pushed him only so far, until the end when they had finally gone all the way and shoved his face in the shitty truth.
“So I hear you’ve got a guest staying with you,” Totsy said.
“Do you want to come in?” Pete asked. “You’re more than welcome.”
“I take it he’s not here?”
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“Out.”
“And when will he be back?”
“I don’t know.”
“And the money?”
“He had the brilliant idea of leaving it in his suitcase on the way over here. Someone else had the even better idea of taking it out. That money is long gone.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed further. His tongue went round the inside of his mouth as if trying to root out a morsel of food. “That’s your story then?”
“That’s the truth.”
“Let’s say that is the truth, Peter,” said Totsy. “Are you going to co-operate, regarding this other thing.”
“I don’t see that I have any choice.”
Totsy shook his head. “Now that’s not true.”
“So what is it you want me to do?”
Vincent went to his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “You need to bring him up in a cab to this address and then drop him off. Tonight. There’s a mobile number on the back, if you need to call.”
Pete took hold of the paper and read it. “Why there?”
“Someone put us in touch with some lads from up in the hills. They offer the full service, all for five grand; now you can’t say fairer than that.”
“You’re being overcharged.”
Vincent smiled again. “Maybe, but then again, you don’t know exactly what we’ve asked them to do.”
“I’ll bring him up tomorrow,” Pete said.
“And why’s that then?”
“Because I want the chance to say goodbye.”
“Bless.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
“Fair enough,” Vincent replied.
“You know,” said Totsy, turning to his partner. “Even now I’d put serious money on him fucking this up.”
Vincent appeared to consider this possibility. He nodded slightly after a time. “Either way, it’s always good to stretch the legs, get some sea air, see old friends.” He allowed himself one last close examination of his former colleague. It was not complimentary. Then he turned and followed after Totsy who was already walking away.
The straightforward choice, Pete realised, was escalation or safety. He was quite certain they would let him live if he allowed John to die. They would want him to carry that knowledge around, and reflect on it at length, just like before. There was no way Pete could permit this to happen, not without giving up on the very last of his dignity. A sense of dignity which had been in precious short supply these last couple of years.
It was these same two men who had seriously depleted it.
Vincent and Totsy had always been full of hatred, but somehow neither man was ever consumed by this emotion. They made sure it coincided with their interests. It was something which rarely got in the way. What had always disturbed Pete was the idea that this hatred had inspired them both. It explained how the
y had reached these heights. Without it they’d have been nothing, which was why they’d served it so faithfully and would not allow anything to obstruct it. Not mercy, not decency, nor any other blessed human failing. They saw their hatred as informative, instructive. It had told them to mete out death to a complete innocent and insist that Pete be a witness to this act.
Pete’s horror at this remained. He never dreamt of the lad outright, but there were a great many other violent deaths which figured in his sleep. It was as if the actual crime had been scattered to the winds and he found himself chasing after it, trying to hunt it down. What he found instead was a series of grotesque imitations, a number of murderous clues. What he felt was a profound sense of guilt. It was as if a river of blood with a mighty current was sweeping him all the way back.
Because the man had remained barely alive for eighteen months, comatose in a Liverpool hospital, Pete hit upon the disturbing idea that he was somehow generating these same dreams from his sickbed: that all the man’s remaining strength and vitality were being used to signal his distress, attribute blame, posting it some ten thousand miles. And yet Pete was sure that these broadcasts would never reach Vincent or Totsy and trouble their own sleep. No doubt their skulls were impenetrable.
At times Pete had considered going home and making a statement to the police, telling them exactly what happened. He would have done so if he thought that it might have led to justice being served. Instead Pete envisaged a travesty: Vincent and Totsy would see justice off with a carrot and stick, savagery and bribes. They would find a way to spoil it using all of their power. Nothing would have been more sickening than for Pete to come forward and fail to take them down. They would have both perceived it as the cherry on top, and for this reason he hadn’t bothered.
Last time around they had made Pete watch a stranger perish. Now they wanted him to improve on this action and hand over somebody he cared for to a certain fate.
They had visited Pete to renew these claims.
Their evil was a form of perfectionism.
Chapter Fifteen
Pete insisted on their meeting in person. He refused to explain why over the phone.
“I don’t have long,” she said. “I’ve got to go out.”
“You won’t need long,” Pete answered. “I don’t have much time either.”
He did not tell Ester that he had something to give her – five grand in sterling which he’d withdrawn from the stolen sports bag and had changed into twenty thousand reais.
It was not clear what Ester might do with this money. It was certainly not enough to start a new life. It was intended, rather, as something for her to remember Pete by. He did not want to vanish altogether from her life. He liked the idea of persisting in her memory, triggered by the purchases that she would make. There should be at least one item of precious metal. A necklace, another ring.
He’d always thought Ester had it in her power to become one of those great female asset-strippers, steering mens’ financial portfolios into uncharted waters, away from sound returns, reliable dividends, and towards salacious indemnity. He thought she could prey on men who were saving for a rainy day and blind them with her instant sunshine until they showered her with gifts: the nemesis of sons and daughters, dining out on their birthrights and turning up in their fathers’ wills at the midnight hour, somewhere near the top. At the same time Pete doubted that Ester would achieve these things. He didn’t know if it was ruthlessness that she lacked, he just had the feeling that she was too easily distracted.
Perhaps the best thing that could happen to Ester was a handsome marriage to a wealthy man, although even if she succeeded in this, he envisaged problems. Maybe one of her current benefactors would tie the knot – if they weren’t all married to begin with – although Pete imagined them to be quite content enjoying the prime of Ester’s life, paying her rent, her airfares, for clothes and gifts, and going no further no that. This prime of hers was incredibly precious and she needed to use it wisely. It was the time to secure her future. Pete knew that Ester had recorded losses by spending time with him. If he hadn’t endangered her livelihood then he’d still hit her up for any number of dollars in his indirect way by taking advantage of her profligate heart.
Had she ever totted up this cost?
Ester was not one of the sensible few who would go back to where she’d come from and buy a nice house, maybe open up a shop. This wasn’t written in her stars. She was like Pete himself in this respect: her spirit had rejected tranquillity; she was tied to the night and he suspected that she would continue to brazen it out, come what may, for longer than was wise. It was a problematic ambition. He dearly hoped he was wrong. He thought about the small handful of women in their forties who still braved HELP and how they stood out amongst the youthful competition, stranded by their age. They were not altogether pitiful, but he knew them to be the butt of jokes, the subject of awful wagers, and he hated the idea that Ester would follow suit.
He remembered once when they were lying in bed watching television. The presenter of a show was being given a guided tour of a beautiful country estate and waxing lyrical over its breathtaking views.
“Would you like to live there?” Ester asked.
“Yes, of course.”
She had shook her head emphatically. “Too quiet.”
*
There was a knock at the door. Pete walked over to it and saw that it was Ester and waved her in.
“What’s going on?” She asked immediately. They had never met before in the afternoon. It almost went against their principles.
Pete pointed to the kitchen table and the bag on top if it. “I’ve got you something.”
“A bag?”
“Open the bag up.”
She eyed him suspiciously and made her way over to it. Ester pulled back the zipper, stared inside, then looked over at Pete and examined him closely. “What does this mean?”
“What?”
“What does this money mean?”
“It means you can go shopping.”
“Be serious.”
In all seriousness, it made Pete sick with fear to hand this money over. Maybe Ester saw this in his face. It was another ratification. He was trying to cement his will, leave himself no way back. It was also an offering, and not only to her.
In Rio de Janeiro, Pete had ceded ground to the unfathomable. He accepted that there were strange forces active in this city. He had seen enough of them to believe they enjoyed some kind of authority. He allowed for portents and indicators. The longer he had lived here, the more Pete’s guilt had stretched his sense of credulity and left him open to all manner of interference and otherworldly things.
One morning, six weeks earlier, a strange figure had visited Pete at the kiosk as dawn broke. He sat down at Pete’s table unannounced, wearing the costume of a sambista – the man’s tight ebony skin offset by a bright white suit and white shoes, a white hat with green trim. He looked ancient, at least a hundred years of age, less a real person and more like a living embodiment in his striking attire and with his incredible seniority. This impression was enhanced by the man’s faraway manner. Pete tried to engage with him but he had the conversational range of a Ouija board, answering with a yes or no or else the shortest of statements. The only concrete answer Pete received was the name of the samba school he belonged to. Mangueira.
The old man scrutinised Pete all the while. He was calm, methodical, unsurprised. He treated Pete like a guest who had remained longer than expected but who had not outstayed his welcome.
Pete offered him a hit of cocaine. The old man nodded his head at this suggestion and they retired behind the kiosk, divided the drug up, disposed of it as usual. This action did not trouble the sambista in the slightest. He was beyond all harm. It was as if, rather than cheating death, the man had reached an understanding with it, and now he could withstand anything as a result.
The two of them sat down together on the stone floor with their backs to Copac
abana, feet dangling over the sand, looking out to sea. Pete felt perfectly at ease, glad of the man’s company, obscurely honoured by it. As a visitation, this was all the more outrageous because of the hour. It was eight in the morning and the sun was beating down on them, the day gathering strength.
Pete considered it an extraordinary encounter, but then this was exactly what he was looking for in Copacabana; more importantly it was what he welcomed, and maybe for this reason it was no surprise that the old man had turned up. From the beginning Pete had become involved in a wager with this district, the terms of which were not altogether clear.
And so this was another reason why he was giving the money to Ester: to alert the powers that be that he was on the move, ready for action, in dire need of luck. He was throwing his money around to grab their attention, so that they might admire his plan, entitle him to succeed. Gods, spirits, call them what you will. Pete was no longer above such appeals.
“Are you in trouble, Pete?” Ester asked.
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Look, just take the money, Ester. Those shoes you wanted – go buy yourself twenty pairs.” Pete was now full of petulance. He was starting to envisage a total defeat. He saw himself enjoying the briefest of posterities before being crowded out of her mind. Ester’s life was packed full of incident and opportunity, and Copacabana was built on rapid turnovers. It was only a wonder that he had lasted this long.
Now Ester gave him that look. The one which always provoked Pete. He took it to mean that she had love for him in her heart, but that it was a love which remained under lock and key. She would never release it. This love of hers was governable. She would only go so far, even now. Life had taught Ester this and Copacabana had confirmed it for her: there were limits. All the evidence was overwhelming. Love never stood a chance. It was little more than a stalling tactic.
