Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1)

by A. J. Quinnell

  Paul and Joey saw it one evening as they sat on the outside patio after dinner, drinking coffee and brandy and looking out over the dark sea to the bulk of Comino and the lights of Malta beyond.

  The lights reminded Creasy of his arrival in Naples, so many months before, and of the changes that had affected him. The growing friendship with Pinta, and those few last weeks, when he had been truly happy.

  His mind went to the last day and then to Guido telling him in the hospital about her death.

  Paul turned to say something, but when he saw Creasy’s face, the words dried in his throat. He saw hatred rising from the man like mist from a cold sea.

  Abruptly Creasy stood up and bade them good night and went to bed.

  Joey looked at his father, his normally cheerful face troubled and somber.

  “He’s burning up inside. There’s a fire in there. I’ve never seen anyone look so sad and so angry at the same time.”

  Paul nodded in agreement. “He’s got it under control, but it’s there. Someone will be burned by it.”

  Joey shook off the mood and grinned and stood up. “I’ve got a fire in me too, but for something else. I’m going to Barbarella’s. Friday night, and the tourist girls will be lonely and grateful.”

  His father shook his head good-naturedly.

  “Don’t be too late or you’ll be useless tomorrow, and there’s still three fields of onions to pick.”

  The boy walked through the inner courtyard, avoiding his mother, who would lecture him about the morals of foreign girls. From the open window of Creasy’s bedroom he could hear soft music and he stopped and listened. He recognized the song, it had been popular a couple of years before — “Blue Bayou.” He was a little surprised. It added another dimension to the strange American. He climbed onto his Suzuki and kicked the starter and the music was drowned briefly as he gunned the motorbike up the track towards Xaghra.

  On Saturday Nadia came home. She was sitting at the kitchen table when the three men came in for lunch.

  “Creasy, you remember Nadia,” Laura said, with a gesture at the girl.

  “Only just,” he replied, and to the girl, “You were in pigtails then.”

  She smiled, softening the severe lines of her attractive face, and then she got up and kissed him on the cheek.

  She was tall and slim and she moved with a curious walk. Long legs, almost stiff — not unattractive, but different — her hips turning more than normal.

  Over lunch he studied her covertly. She brought more conversation to the group, teasing Joey about his hangover and then supporting him when his mother scolded him for coming home at two a.m. and having to be dragged out of bed to go to work at dawn.

  She had an intelligent face. Too severe for great beauty, but high cheekbones and a full mouth gave it interest. She had also a distinct eroticism — an aura. She looked up at Creasy and caught his eyes on her.

  “How’s Guido?” she asked. Her voice was deep, matching her looks. It had a resonance — a vibration.

  “He’s fine, and sends his love.”

  “Did he say when he’s coming?”

  Creasy shook his head and wondered if there was anything between Guido and this girl. She was very like Julia, a bit taller and slimmer, but the same grave eyes contradicted by a quick smile. It would have been natural for Guido to be attracted and it was five years since Julia’s death. But then he remembered — she had been back in Malta less than a year, and anyway Guido would have told him. It was that kind of a situation.

  After lunch, when the men had all gone to their rooms for a siesta, she stayed in the kitchen helping her mother wash the dishes.

  They worked silently for a while and then she said suddenly. “I’d forgotten . . . I mean the way he is — sort of intimidating.”

  Laura said, “Yes. He’s a hard case. Doesn’t say much, but he’s settled in and he’s a big help to your father.” She thought for a moment, then added: “I like him. I know what he is, and your father thinks he’s getting fit for a special reason and will go off and commit a lot of violence. He’s a violent man — but we all like him.”

  Nadia dried the dishes in silence, then asked, “How old is he?”

  Laura thought about it. “He must be near fifty. He’s a few years older than Guido. He’s lucky to be alive. The scars on him are terrible.”

  Nadia stacked the dishes and put them into a cupboard.

  “But he’s a man,” she mused, almost to herself, and then smiled at her mother’s look of curiosity — curiosity tinged with sadness. “At least he’s a man,” she repeated. “There can’t be any doubt about that.”

  It was not a strange comment for Nadia to make. She looked at all men in a special way — an instant first appraisal, informed by hard experience.

  Her husband had been handsome, with a fine wit and intelligence. She had entered into marriage with joy and expectation. A fairy-tale, romantic courtship. Dances and parties and the excitement of going overseas and wide horizons, and then, slowly, the realisation that something was wrong and having to face a crushed dream.

  He had homosexual tendencies — long suppressed. The marriage, for him, had been part of that suppression. He knew his inclinations and fought against them — had done so since puberty. But it had to be a losing war, and the last battle was his marriage to Nadia. That battle was lost in a series of delaying actions, self-accusations, and miserable and degrading lurches into a world that finally he couldn’t deny.

  They had talked it over — tried to fight it together. It was hard for her. She couldn’t understand, felt her womanhood insulted. She might have been able to rationalize a threat from another woman; at least she would have the weapons of her own sex. But against such an enemy she felt helpless.

  The end had come suddenly and sickeningly. A party at the naval base in Portsmouth. Everyone drinking too much. Not seeing him, and looking, and then finding him drunk and naked with a young midshipman, not caring anymore — accepting what he was.

  She had left the next day and flown back to Malta.

  It had been a terrible homecoming, but she had told Paul and Laura everything, and they had been mercifully strong and understanding. Sad both for her and for themselves — one daughter dead, the other with an emotional scar burned deep into her.

  She had applied for an annulment, but such matters took forever. “The Cowboy” had married them, and he forwarded the papers to the Vatican and in his rough, blunt way tried to comfort her and explain why it all took so long, the many difficulties. Witnesses would be needed, depositions taken, and then anonymous, faceless judges would decide, and perhaps take years doing it. Why? Marriage is sacred. Do they not see the pain, and the people? “The Cowboy” saw and had a great sadness when she came to the confessional and asked forgiveness for the sins she had committed, the men she had slept with. First the young fisherman from Mgarr. “He is a man, Father, and I needed to know a man.” And later, occasionally, the tourists whom she would meet at the hotel where she worked. In their way also faceless, like her judges. Staying for two weeks, acquiring a suntan and the rarity of a local girl.

  She had not come to terms with it. She knew people talked, pitied her even, and she hated that. She wanted a normal life. She had been brought up in that way — a family, children, respect. Even if the judges in the Vatican gave her an annulment, decided that in the eyes of God her marriage had never taken place — what then? She was twenty-six years old. Would a local man marry her? After all the talk, in such a small community? So, to go abroad? The prospect didn’t appeal. She needed her family — their steadiness and support. The house in which she had been born and grown up. The land itself. It didn’t lie, or change, or dress itself in false clothing. That was the reason she had come home, even from Malta. Whatever she did, it would be done in this house where she felt secure.

  In the late afternoon she took her swimsuit and walked down the path to the cove. She saw clothes lying on the flat, overhanging rock, and out in the
channel Creasy swimming. She sat and watched as he swam out about two hundred metres and then turned and came back.

  “I thought you were crossing to Comino,” she said as he pulled himself out of the water.

  “I will, next week when I’m fitter,” he answered, sitting down beside her, and panting from the exertion.

  She looked at the recent scars on his stomach and side, pink and lighter than the rest of his angry sunburn.

  “Are you going to swim?” he asked.

  “Yes, turn your back while I change.”

  A minute later, clad in a black, one-piece swimsuit, she plunged into the water in a neat dive.

  She was a good swimmer and churned out of the little cove into the channel. She wondered if he really would swim over to Comino. The current could be strong. She could feel it even now, close to shore. She had been going to mention it, but stopped herself. He was the kind of man who might resent advice from a woman.

  Later, back on the flat rock, they lay side by side in the late sun. She asked him about Guido and the pensione. She didn’t mention the kidnapping and the shooting. She had read about it in the Italian newspapers. She would like to know more — but she would wait.

  Chapter 11

  Creasy drove the battered Land Rover fast down the winding road to Cirkewwa. He could see the Melitaland loading the last cars. If he missed it, he would have to spend the night in Malta. As he reached the approach road, the warps were being cast off and the ramp raised. He palmed the horn rapidly and was relieved to see Victor peer over the ramp and wave. The ramp was lowered and he drove gratefully on.

  “You made it by one pubic hair,” Victor said with a wide grin.

  Creasy smiled back. “They told me you were always late.” He looked at his watch. “In fact, you’re two minutes early.”

  “Today’s special,” Victor answered. “There’s a party tonight, and I want to get a few drinks in first. Sort of get in the mood.”

  Creasy knew that “a few drinks” meant a two-hour session in Gleneagles. Well, today he would join them. He felt he’d earned it. He was into his third week and the hardest part was over. His muscles had finally decided that the long holiday had ended, and they had begun to respond. He was still far from fit but it was only a matter of time; his toughness was returning. His coordination was good and would improve further.

  He had also spent a satisfying afternoon at St. Elmo, the huge old fort guarding the entrance to Grand Harbour. This had come about because of a newspaper article Joey had been reading a couple of evenings before. It told of an aircraft hijack attempt in West Germany and described how a special antiterrorist squad had intervened. Paul had remarked that Malta had such a squad. His nephew, George Zammit, an inspector of police, was its commander.

  This set Creasy thinking, and the next day he asked Paul if his nephew might allow him to train with the squad. Paul had made a phone call and it had been easily arranged.

  It had been a useful afternoon. The squad used weapons donated by the departed British Army: Sterling submachine guns and a variety of handguns. They had a good animated range in the bowels of the fort, and Creasy had enjoyed getting the feel of weapons again. He was rusty and, by his own standards, clumsy; but that would improve over the coming weeks. After the firing range, the squad of fifteen plus Creasy had gone to the gym and worked out and practised unarmed combat. They were a good squad, recently formed; as yet inexperienced, but enthusiastic and hardworking. George Zammit, a big, friendly policeman, had been cordial, and then very thoughtful as he watched Creasy handle the weapons.

  Now, as the Melitaland chugged across the channel to Gozo, George called his uncle on the phone.

  “Paul, do you know what kind of man you have as a houseguest?”

  “He’s a friend of Guido’s,” Paul answered. “He didn’t cause any trouble, did he?”

  “Not at all. But Paul, he’s a professional — an expert. Exactly what is he doing in Malta?”

  Paul explained about the kidnapping and wounding, and how Creasy had come merely to get fit.

  “He’s not planning to work here, is he?” George asked.

  “Definitely not. Of course, I know he’s a mercenary.”

  “So was Guido. What kind of work would a man like that do here?”

  George laughed.

  “You’re not planning a coup d’etat, then.”

  The laugh was returned. “Seems I have the man to do it. Is he that good?”

  There was a pause and then George said, “The best I’ve seen, and I’ve been on training courses in England and Italy. He handled our weapons as though he’d carried them from his mother’s womb — very, very practised.”

  There was another pause, and then George asked: “Invite me to dinner, will you, Paul? I didn’t like to ask him any questions at this first meeting, it would have seemed rude. But I’d like to learn more about him. We’re short of instructors, and maybe I could use him — very unofficially, of course.”

  Paul invited him to dinner for the coming Saturday and hung up, well pleased.

  Creasy was the last off the ferry, and Victor climbed into the passenger seat for the short ride to Gleneagles. The bar was busy and noisy and the crowd opened to let them through. “Shreik” was getting a round in and passed a pint of beer to Creasy. It was the heavy drinking hour, work done for the day. Joey waved from across the room, and Creasy spotted Nadia sitting at one of the few tables with Victor’s wife. She smiled at him and raised her glass, and he felt uncomfortable. There was a fatalistic ambience growing between them.

  They swam together almost every day. She didn’t intrude, was usually quiet — absorbed with her thoughts. But she was a presence, always on the periphery of his mind.

  He had come to accept the fact that he was changed. Had been made more aware of people and their individuality — and she attracted him physically, with her stiff legged walk and long waist and serious face.

  He glanced at her again and saw her watching him with a speculative look. He had grown used to that look. She seemed to be weighing him.

  He turned away and signalled Tony to fill the glasses at the bar. “And have one yourself.”

  “Thanks, Creasy, but it’s too early.”

  Creasy put money on the bar and waited patiently. Conversation swirled around him, and he had almost given up when Tony’s big smile came.

  “Why not!”

  Just after dawn on Saturday morning Creasy set off to swim to Comino. He paced himself carefully, aiming for a point in front of the blue and white hotel. There was a slight breeze, barely ruffling the water, but it blew from the west down the channel and gave an added impetus to the current. Creasy had not checked the tide table, didn’t think it necessary; but as he neared the midpoint between the islands, he could see more of the hotel and realized he was drifting to the east. He adjusted his angle of attack and quickened his stroke, but it soon became obvious that the current was winning. He thought he might make the second bay to the east of the hotel, but again that started to drift by and he silently cursed his stupidity. Beyond that bay, the shoreline rose in high, inhospitable cliffs, and so he turned back toward Gozo. He had begun to tire now and it was clear that he was going to be swept beyond both islands.

  He stopped fighting the current, trying to conserve his strength for what would be a critical effort after he was in deep water and out of the grip of the tidal race. The southeast shore of Gozo opened up, and he could see the red sand of Ramla Beach. But it was a long way off; well over a mile. He started swimming again, slowly and tiring fast.

  He was exhausted and treading water when he heard the chugging of the diesel engine and looked up to see the brightly coloured Luzzu fishing boat. He could make out two figures in the bows, scanning the water — Nadia and Joey. He tried to shout, and he waved an arm and sank under the water, sputtering for breath. Then they saw him and turned and came quickly alongside. He was too weak to pull himself up, and Joey dived in and put a shoulder under him and
the two fishermen took an arm each and hauled him in.

  He lay in the scuppers, gasping for breath, and then vomited out pints of seawater.

  As they motored back to Mgarr, he sat silently in the stern, breathing deeply. Nadia covertly watched his angry face. She had stood at her bedroom window and seen him swim out into the channel in the early light, and guessed that he was trying for Comino. She had seen the current take him and his failed effort to get back to Gozo and had screamed for Joey. They had raced down to Mgarr in the Land Rover. Most of the fishermen were already far out to sea, but one boat was just getting ready. Fortunately the fishermen, two brothers called Mizzi, had drunk late the night before in Gleneagles, and hangovers had slowed them down. Nadia and Joey had leapt into the boat with urgent explanations.

  “You were lucky, Creasy,” she said. “We could have easily missed you.”

  “I know,” he granted. “Damned stupid. I should have checked the tides.”

  She saw him look at Comino and then across to Gozo — his face malevolent. He hated that strip of water. She guessed he would try again, and soon.

  Back in the harbour, Creasy asked Joey for five pounds and tried to press it on the fishermen. It was too late for them to go out now. They shook their heads, laughing.

  “You’re the biggest thing we’ve caught all summer,” one brother said.

  The other agreed. “I’m trying to decide whether to have you grilled or fried.”

  They all went in to Gleneagles and Creasy bought the drinks, standing at the bar in his swim suit.

  It was an occasion, adding spice to routine. Tony prepared his patent remedy for near-drownings — a huge mug of hot, sweet tea laced with a great slug of brandy and a tot of rum for good measure. He was so proud of it he made one for himself. Then Victor and Michele came in from the first ferry run and, hearing the story, decided they would try it too.