by Peter Temple
‘You’re musical,’ she said.
Anselm turned around. ‘Playing “Night and Day” doesn’t make you musical.’
‘It makes you more musical than I am.’
He took a glass from her. ‘Thank you. Interesting furniture.’
‘The chairs?’
‘A passage lined with chairs. About twenty chairs in this room. Yes, the chairs.’
‘Kai’s obsession. My ex-husband. Did I say his name? He likes things people sit on. Very much. He seeks out chairs.’
‘Would you say he craved chairs?’
She tilted her head. ‘Chairs he doesn’t have, yes. There is an element of craving.’
‘He must miss them.’
‘I don’t think he cares about them after he’s got them. It’s the thrill of getting them. He wants them but I don’t think he cares about them.’
‘Napoleon was like that,’ Anselm said. ‘So were the Romans, I suppose. Whole nations they didn’t care about and wouldn’t part with. Did this chair thing bother you?’
‘Very much. It kept me awake. And then again, not at all. Are you sure you’ve eaten?’
‘Is this going to be taxing? Do I need to be in shape?’
‘Let’s sit down.’
They sat, a narrow coffee table of dark wood between them, a modern piece. On it was a tape recorder, a sleek device.
‘May I record this?’
‘My instinct is to say no,’ said Anselm. ‘But why not?’
‘Thank you.’ She touched a square button. ‘To begin,’ she said. She wet her lips with wine. ‘Can I ask you about your memory of the events? Is it clear?’
‘It’s fine. It’s earlier and after that’s the problem.’
‘After your injury?’
‘Yes. I don’t remember anything for about a month.’
‘And earlier?’
‘There are holes. Missing bits. But I don’t always know what’s missing. There are things you don’t think about.’
‘Yes. So, the beginning. Your experience in trouble spots, that would have prepared you to some extent?’
‘Well, by ’93 Beirut wasn’t really a trouble spot. Southern Lebanon, yes. Anyway, I thought we were dealing with GPs.’
‘GPs?’
‘Gun pricks. Paul Kaskis coined the term. Long before. A prick with a gun.’
‘Ah. You would fear them surely? Gun pricks.’
Gun pricks. She said the words with a certain relish.
‘There’s a survival rule,’ said Anselm. ‘Paul invented that too. DPGP. Don’t Provoke Gun Pricks. He didn’t but they killed him anyway.’
‘So you were scared?’
‘I was scared. I thought you were interested in personal history?’
‘I am. But I need to know about the specific circumstances too. Does it bother you to talk about them?’
He had come in trepidation and had been right to. He didn’t want to talk about Beirut, it was stupid to have agreed to. She wasn’t that interesting, appealing, she wasn’t going to be the answer, an academic, they bled most of them of personality before they gave them the PhD. But he wanted to behave well, he had a bad history with her, he didn’t want her to think he was disturbed.
‘Well,’ said Anselm, ‘you should always be scared around GPs. The first few minutes, there’s usually a lot of shouting, all kinds of crap, you just hope it dawns on them killing you might not be smart. Or that someone more intelligent or less drugged will come along, tell them to back off.’
‘So you thought it would soon end?’
‘I hoped. It’s new every time. You hope. You pray. Even the godless pray. You shut up. Keep still, try to breathe deeply.’
‘When did it change?’
Now was the moment to go. He felt the pulse beating in his throat, he knew that pulse, that sign, the blood drum.
She said, ‘Your glass is empty. Can I?’
He nodded, relieved. She went out and came back in seconds with the bottle, filled his glass.
She’d known, she’d felt his pulse.
Anselm drank, lowered the level by an inch. ‘They taped us,’ he said. Then, quickly, ‘Wrists and ankles, across the eyes, put hoods on, I couldn’t breathe.’
He had said it. I couldn’t breathe.
‘And that scared you even more?’ she asked, voice soft.
There was no turning back. ‘Yes.’
Silence. He didn’t look at her, wanted a cigarette badly. There was an ashtray on a side table. After a while, he looked at her and said, ‘What did Riccardi tell you?’
‘He was…a little emotional.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘He said you were silent in the beginning.’
‘I had tape over my mouth.’
‘After that, in the first place they kept you.’
‘Riccardi is a vocal person. It’s like having the radio on. I’m surprised he noticed.’
‘He says he talked because you were both silent.’
‘Riccardi doesn’t need an excuse to talk. He talks in all circumstances. He’d talk over the sermon on the mount, the Gettysburg address. What else did he say?’
‘He says he never thought it was political.’
‘Everything’s political. Anyway, you wouldn’t want to make Riccardi your judge of what’s political. He’s a photographer. Born to take snaps. I was with him in Sri Lanka for a month and in the plane on the way back he said, “So what was all that about, anyway?”.’
‘He says it was never clear to him what you and Paul Kaskis were doing in the Lebanon.’
‘Kaskis wanted to talk to someone. He asked me to go with him, I had nothing better to do.’
‘Talk to someone? About what?’
‘I don’t know. Paul never told you anything. How does this line of inquiry further post-trauma research?’
She frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just curious. You have to be in my work.’
‘Riccardi might have asked me before he opened his heart to you.’
As he said the words, Anselm heard the whine in them. He sounded like a betrayed lover
‘He didn’t think he was doing any harm,’ Alex said. ‘He’s your friend. He admires you very much. And he finds relief in talking about a painful experience. Most people do. Is it that you don’t?’
‘Can I smoke?’
‘Of course, I should have said. This place was full of smoke when Kai was here. Pipe smoke. I rather liked it. It reminded me of my father.’
He fetched the ashtray and lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the distant ceiling. ‘I was more than scared when they put the tape over my mouth, the hood,’ he said quickly. ‘I panicked. I lost control of myself.’
‘Your body?’
‘Yes.’
There was relief. Why had the thought of that moment of helpless indignity been so clenched in him? He knew. Because, at that moment, John Anselm reporter, John Anselm detached observer, was no more. He had become a victim. He wasn’t the storyteller any more. He was in the story. He had joined it. He was a foul-smelling minor figure in an ancient story, no different from any civilian casualty of war, from any red-eyed, black-garbed crone pushing a barrow of sad possessions down a rutted road on the way from precious little to much, much less.
He remembered too that, in the aftermath of that moment, it had come to him with complete certainty that there would be no return to safety and a shower, to drinks and a meal, more drinks, reminiscences, laughter, to a long sleep in a bed with sheets.
‘I think I have to go,’ said Anselm. ‘I think I’ve changed my mind about talking. I’m sorry.’
Alex shook her head. ‘It’s not to be sorry about. This is painful for you, I understand that. We can talk about something else.’
‘I have to go.’
At her front door, he turned, awkward. ‘Goodbye. I’ve wasted your time.’
She put out a hand, seemed to hesitate, then she touched his arm, just above the elbow. ‘No. Not at all. Can I ask you o
ne more thing? A personal thing.’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you like to see me again? Not professionally?’
35
…HAMBURG…
Tilders looked tired. His eyes half closed, he talked more than usual. Anselm listened but his mind was elsewhere, on Alex Koenig.
‘This is the end,’ says Tilders. ‘We had to put it inside his raincoat sleeve. We had no choice. It’s a bad place, desperation. Dangerous. You will hear. He kept pulling at his cuff, he crosses his arms.’
‘Yes,’ said Anselm. ‘Let’s hear it.’
Serrano: …didn’t get excited. He’s very reasonable.
Kael: That’s a bad sign. They’re looking for this…
Serrano: He says they’ve called in a few favours…Shawn had been…the British possibly.
Kael: Well, the prick…anything for…
Serrano: …ever mentioned the film.
Kael: Did he?
Serrano: I can’t recall. I used to turn off…say…when he was like that, on drugs, drinking. He said…Bill Casey when he was…the CIA, that kind of thing. Knew everyone. North. Sharon…when he was a soldier. Fucking Gadaffi even…
Kael: What else does Richler say?
Serrano: The worrying thing, he says he hopes fucking Shawn did a good clear out…this special office, the Sud-Afs, they’re looking for assets…target now.
Kael: Shit. Still, he could be lying. Second nature to them.
Serrano: Also fucking Bruynzeel, he says that’s a priority. They want to know what we have.
Kael: He can wait.
Serrano: I was thinking last…
Kael: Glad to hear there is thinking.
Serrano: I’m getting really annoyed…
Kael: Thinking what?
Serrano: He talked about buying property, a house in England I think, other places…there might be something there.
Bumping and scratching noises.
‘We thought the thing had fallen out,’ said Tilders.
The sounds went on for at least fifteen seconds. Then Serrano was heard.
Serrano: Possibly.
Kael: This is your business, you understand. I’m too old to have to deal with shit… Serrano: My business? Excuse me, Werner, excuse me, who benefited most from this? I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you… Kael: …down. We’re expendable, do you fully understand that?
Serrano: What about your friends? Your friends won’t… Kael: The world changes. Your friends get old, they forget, they die.
Anselm made the gesture, Tilders touched the button. Anselm gave him the slip of paper. ‘Put it in his hands. I’ll ring him now.’
Tilders rose, gathered up his possessions.
‘You’re tired,’ said Anselm. ‘How many jobs do you have?’
Tilders smiled, a wan thing without humour or pleasure. ‘Only as many as it takes,’ he said.
36
…LONDON…
Caroline Wishart knew what to do. Charcoal-suited Dennis McClatchie had taught her, sixty-five years old, pinstriped cotton shirts with frayed collars, full head of slicked-back hair, breath of whisky and cigarette smoke and antacid tablets. She should have thought more about Dennis before going to Colley.
Early on, someone told her McClatchie had been a famous reporter, sacked from every Fleet Street paper.
‘What happened, Dennis?’ she asked him one day, shivering in the cold, shabby office, grey northern light coming through the bird-crapped window panes.
‘Bad habits, darling. For one, the horses, bless ’em, blameless creatures, innocent, with these ruthless, terrible blood-sucking humans around them.’
He drew on his cigarette, pulled in his cheeks, let the smoke dragon out of his nostrils. ‘Punching editors, that was of little career assistance. But. No regrets there. Well, perhaps. One or two I should have nailed more thoroughly. Just laziness really. And I didn’t like hurting my hands. I had nice hands once.’
He’d lit a new cigarette from his stub, stifled a cough.
‘Married a lot too,’ he said. ‘Can’t recall some of ’em. Women I hope. Damn lawyers sent me demands from people I’d never heard of. Had to get a death certificate forged in the end.’ He looked at her, turned the head, the skull, she thought she heard his spine creak. ‘All of it drink-related, I should say in my defence,’ he said. ‘All my crimes have been drink-related. All my life has for that matter. I’ll call my autobiography A Drink-Related Offence.
’ One day in her first week, she felt the eyes of Dennis on her when she was sitting frozen with anxiety. She had been expelled from school, sacked from Sothebys, asked to leave Leith’s cooking school, told lies to get this job. Now the slovenly Carmody, class-hate written all over him, had given her an assignment, spat a few words from the side of his mottled mouth.
‘What’s the cheerless cretin want, darling?’ said McClatchie.
‘A story on community services. I’m not quite sure where to start.’
McClatchie looked at her, looked at his hands for a while, the nails, the palms. A plain cigarette burned between two long fingers the colour of old bananas. She knew that he knew that she’d lied about her experience.
‘I always start with a proposition,’ he said. ‘A headline. Gets you going. Pope Hid Nazi War Criminals. Moon Landing Fake.’
She hadn’t grasped the point. Her eyes showed it.
‘Community Leaders Slam Burnley Services,’ said McClatchie.
‘Do they?’
‘No idea. Probably. There’s no gratitude in the world. Get on the blower and ask ’em.’
‘Who?’
‘Start with that Tory prat. He’d like to cull the poor but he’ll give you the compassionate bullshit. Tell him you’re hearing a lot of complaints about services. Baby clinic, that sort of thing?’
‘Is there one?’
‘Not the foggiest. The phone book, darling. Peek at that. Under Council. Something sexy like that.’
Start with a proposition. She sat in her cubicle office far away from Birmingham, McClatchie mouldering in the wet ground now, thought about what she’d seen and what Mackie had said in their first conversation.
‘A massacre in Africa.’
‘A lot of that goes on.’
‘Soldiers killing civilians.’
‘What, the Congo? Burundi?’
‘No. White soldiers. Americans.’
‘American soldiers killing civilians in Africa? Somalia?’
‘No. This is…it’s like an execution.’
So, the proposition, the headline:
US troops in Africa massacre.
That would do to go on with. It would help explain why Mackie thought the film was worth twenty grand and why other people thought it was worth killing him. She knew that for a fact. Just looked odd. Then I saw his hand up to the chest, blood comin out between the fingers.
She thought about Colley, how she was tricked. She wanted to kill him.
Colley’s time would come, that wasn’t important for now.
Africa. Where in Africa?
Southern Africa? Mackie was South African.
American troops in Southern Africa?
Had there ever been? Where? When?
She logged on, put the words US troops southern africa into the search engine. Hundreds of references came up, fifty at a time. She rejected, read, printed, the morning went by, she ate a sandwich, the afternoon advanced, her eyes hurt.
The phone. Halligan.
‘Marcia’s upset. She’s got some right to know what you’re working on. In her new position.’
Caroline tried to compose the right response. She was tired.
‘I’m sorry she’s upset. Such a nice person. I simply explained to her the terms of my contract.’
‘Yes. Entered into under the gun. Leaving fucking Marcia aside, what the hell are you doing? You report to me, remember? So please report. ASAP.’
Caroline took her career in her hands. ‘Bigger than Brechan,’ she said. ‘Just an
estimate, mark you.’
She thought she heard Halligan swallowing, his throat’s slimy clutch. Just imagination.
‘I’ll calm the woman down,’ he said. Decisive. ‘Report to me soonest.’ Pause. ‘When would that be?’
‘Soonest.’
Silence. She heard the silent sound of his chagrin and his regret.
‘Yes, well,’ he said. ‘Posted. Keep me.’
‘Of course. Geoff.’
She went back to the screen. She now knew more about American involvement in Africa since the 1950s than anyone needed to know. And she knew very little of any use to her in understanding Mackie’s film.
What would McClatchie do? She saw McClatchie in the eye of her mind. She saw his burial, the half dozen of them around the pit, the soil that had come out of it under pegged plastic, half a dozen people standing in the drizzle at the edge of the flat, wet necropolis. Get on the blower and ask ’em.
Who?
She went back to the screen.
37
…LONDON…
‘What’s he say?’
‘He says congratulations on the good work, love you. What do you think? He says find him or die. We’re going to carry this like nail holes in our fucking palms, you know that? Ten to the woman, twenty to the fink, six hundred in the bag. Plus we have to pay these idiots. And for what? Caddyshack. We get an ex-rental video starring Chevy fucking Chase. I hate the cunt. Is he still alive?’
‘He’s alive. It’s his hair that’s dead. The biker, I don’t understand. That doesn’t make sense.’
‘Now this boy knows he’s dealing with incompetents. Be comforting, wouldn’t it? To know you’re dealing with pricks? Two of them run out after him and they don’t get the bike number. I still cannot believe that.’
‘Hire for a week, next day you park in a garage, your intention is not to come back, you’re going to be picked up by a bike. No.’
‘The hospitals?’
‘Nothing local. They’re going wider. On a bike, could have gone anywhere.’
‘He won’t stick around. If he’s alive, he’s running. Just make sure these fucking Germans don’t miss some fucking ferry, charter flight to Ibiza, balloon, something.’
