by Colin Dunne
'Land of the Midnight Fun?'
'And then some. But I'll tell you something, your man
Murphy wouldn't have got past first base in those days.'
'How do you mean?'
'They actually had an official deal with the US Government. They weren't too keen on those of a darkish hue.'
'Those of what? I do wish you'd speak English, Jack.'
'Blacks, my boy. They wouldn't let any blacks near the place.'
'You mean Oscar Murphy is a black?'
'Yes.' He sounded quite blank. 'Of course he is .. .'
I stood holding the receiver and not listening. Pennies, dimes and kronur began to drop. There'd always been one man too many, right from the start. The one in the kitchen at Solrun's, who'd knocked me cold with the pan. The one who'd set up camp in the spare bedroom at Palli's. The one who'd almost certainly have damaged hands from beating up Kirillina. He was the little Mr Nobody who did everything but was never seen.
He was half-mad, stoked up with jealousy and anger, and he was out there running around with a Colt .45.
Then it struck me. The chances were that he wouldn't take too kindly to people taking his name in vain. The man l'd just met- the white man who claimed to be Oscar Murphy- had
been publicly identified. That made him a target.
I put the phone down without saying goodbye. There wasn't time.
So far as I'm aware, no one has yet done comparative studies on the time it takes to bash a sodding great Vauxhall estate out of the way when you're in a rush. For those who care about these things, the answer is about three minutes if you're in a Daihatsu jeep.
But you have to be very bad-tempered.
Whoever had parked the Vauxhall two millimetres from my rear bumper would come back to find it three feet further north, and with its front several inches nearer the back.
It's always the same when you're rushing. As soon as I'd got out of that, I somehow took a couple of wrong turns and got myself stuck in the town centre. They were all there: house wives who hadn't been told about indicators, blind tradesmen in their vans, tourist coaches pausing to photograph every lamp-post.
Teeth gritted, hand on horn, I hopped from brake to accelerator as I fought my way through. Minutes clicked by. I had to get on the road out to the base. And all the time I was thinking how much quicker you'd do it on a Triumph Trophy. When they’d break free of the town, it was one of those days that demanded admiration. The sun sparkled on the apartment block windows in the suburbs and threw cheap glitter over the sea. You could almost reach out and touch the mountains. But it was all wasted on me. I had a nasty feeling that I was too late. The tick-drum noise of the diesel engine didn't seem anything like enough, and I found myself rocking in the driving seat like a kid as I tried to will more speed out of it. If only I'd gone for a bonnet full of cylinders instead of four-wheel drive. When the road narrowed to a straight two-car strip, I could see that I was the only man on the move. I was out in lava country again. On either side the wastelands of stones stretched out. I was the only man on the moon, me and my moon buggy. By the time I saw the car I was almost past it. It was about twenty yards off the road to the left, in a gulley nearly, but not quite, deep enough to hide it. It had plunged downwards and rammed its nose under a rust-coloured boulder the size of a small house.
I stopped, reversed, pulled in, and walked over.
I didn't run. The time for running was over.
I walked across to it, picking my way across the bomb-site left by nature's civil wars. All around the air was sweet and pure and silent, and the first thing I noticed about Dempsie was the way the sun lit up the brilliant jewels in his mop of black hair.
You might have thought he was running for Queen of the May if it wasn't for his face. It looked like an uncooked beef burger. As the Ford came bucketing over the rocks, he'd been flung through the windscreen and he'd ploughed up the screen with his face. That was how I found him. The smashed windscreen had provided him with the tiara.
But he was alive and, as far as I could see, the rest of him was undamaged.
I looked in the car, under the car, and around the car. Nowhere was there any sign of his passenger. There was no sign of a motor-bike either.
A minute later I waved down two US sailors and sent them on their way to raise help. As I waited with Dempsie, the blood bubbled on his lips as he tried to talk.
I leaned close to him. 'Who was it?' His lips moved without making a sound. I asked him again.
This time I bent right down to hear his reply. There was no doubt about what he said.
'Oscar Murphy,' he said. 'The bastard.'
I waited. The sentence that kept coming back to me was the one Dempsie himself had quoted from someone else- I couldn't even remember who: 'The greatest threat to the American presence in the North Atlantic is the interface between the American male and the Icelandic female.'
Dempsie screwed up his eyes and shook his battered head in some wild dream. 'Oscar Murphy,' he whispered again. 'The bastard.'
33
Kids are the urban vultures. Wherever they cluster, you'll find the action - even if it's only a comical drunk or a domestic punch-up. This time they were gathering for a kill.
At Breidholt, the uniformed cop in the entrance to Palli's block of fiats whispered urgent threats and curses and even took a swipe at them, but it didn't make any difference. On bikes and on foot, they circled the doorway, yelping and giggling and firing their finger-guns at each other. Don't ask me how they knew. Don't ask me how everyone knew. Outside the square was too empty and the windows all around were too full of faces.
Petursson exchanged words with the cop, who then started talking to his crackling radio.
'Palli's in,' Petursson said to me. 'With one or two friends, according to neighbours.'
Neither of us mentioned the name. We were both thinking he had to be up there- Oscar Murphy. On Palli's floor, we waited a few minutes until two more uniformed policemen arrived. They whispered and one of them handed Petursson a gun. It looked like a .38 police special. He checked it like a man who knew his way around guns.
'One thing,' I said, also whispering. 'I didn't notice- was the bike outside?'
He spoke to the uniformed men, then turned back to me. 'No. It hasn't been there all day. Why do you ask?'
I shrugged. I wasn't absolutely sure myself. Even so, I would've been happier if it had been there.
'Very well, gentlemen,' he said, more loudly. He dropped the gun into his pocket. 'I do not suppose we shall be needing that, not for one moment. Shall we go?'
The uniformed men ran into prearranged -positions. One beyond the fiat door, one almost opposite, and one at
Petursson's shoulder just in front of me. Palli's door was open. At a nod from the fulltrui, I called out: 'Hello Palli, are you
there? It's Sam. Sam Craven.'
We listened to the restrained rasp of our own breathing.
'Can I come in, Palli?' I shouted this time. Then, at another nod from Petursson: 'I'm coming in now.'
But it was Petursson who slipped in front of me and began to move down the narrow dark corridor into the familiar warm scent of soiled bodies. When he was one step from the open room, Palli's voice bellowed: 'See ya, you sonofabitch!'
I dropped to the floor. Petursson tried to flatten his bulk against the wall and I saw the .38 in his hand and heard the oiled click of the safety. Maybe he wasn't going to need it but he wasn't taking too many chances.
Then I heard Palli's laugh, bright with glee and malice:
'Come on in, Sam, and bring your spooky pals with you. We're having a friendly game of cards, is all.'
So they were. On the floor around an upturned cardboard box sat Palli and two younger men. He held his hand of cards up as proof. 'I just said I'd see these guys and, you know what, they'd only got a lousy pair between them.'
Chuckling, he began to scoop up the few notes from the box.
I had to give it to Petu
rsson. No officer of the law above the rank of ink monitor likes being mocked, and he'd just been made to look foolish by a bunch of street-corner comedians. But he wasn't your average cop: he kept cool and his big face stayed as expressionless as a paving stone.
He split the three of them up between the rooms in the flat, the corridor and a police Volvo outside. The other two were only a pair of trainee vandals. In no time at all their triumphant sneers had turned to shrill protests.
Wisely, he didn't try to pressure Palli at all. No cops had anything that would frighten him. He'd been places and seen things that put him a long way out of reach.
We stayed in the living-room. The baby clothes were back on the radiators again, so that a fine skin of moisture put a sheen on the furniture. Again, it was hothouse damp.
It was all very matter of fact. The girl-mother came out of the bedroom and dumped the baby in a plastic chair. It slumped forward asleep, and she slumped beside it in one of the mutilated chairs, watching us through half-closed eyes.
Looking pleased with himself, Palli sat cross-legged on the floor playing Chinese patience now that his poker school had broken up. He whistled between his teeth, breaking off to swear cheerfully when he pulled the wrong card, and swigging Polar beer from the neck. He offered me a drink from the same bottle, and winked when I declined. I knew why he did it: to show the friendship between us was still there.
After looking at the choice of resting places, Petursson put his hat on his knees and kept it there. And he sat upright to keep contact with the Olafsson home- if it was his- to a minimum.
'Your bike was stolen this morning, was it, Palli?'
'Now that's what I call a fine bit of detective work,' Palli replied to him. He whistled his admiration as he faked amazement. 'How about that, Sam? Only had the bike stolen this morning and here's Mr Petursson knows all about it. Don't suppose you happen to know where it is, do you?'
Without lifting her sleepy head, the girl said: 'He has been
here all day. I will tell you. Those two men, they will also tell ...'
Petursson silenced her with a movement of his hand. He'd been outside talking to the other two. He knew what they were all going to say. Nothing.
'They're telling the truth?' I asked.
. 'Yes. No doubt. Those others cannot lie for long. They are what Palli's countrymen call chicken-shit.'
'Beer?' Palli held the bottle up.
'No, thank you.'
'Now that's a shame. Makes me feel I ain't offering you real Icelandic hospitality. Hey, good news. Red nine on black ten, here comes the eight, dammit.'
'Where is Oscar Murphy?' Petursson kept his voice level and emotionless. He wasn't allowing himself to be drawn by Palli's minor dramatics.
Once again, he mimed wide-eyed surprise. 'My old buddy Oscar? He's back home in the States. You security people know all about that.'
'Why did he come back?' I took that one. It was less painful for me to look a fool than it was for Petursson.
'Has that old rascal come back here and not told me? Well, I'll be damned. You tell him, you hear, you tell him to come and see his old pal. There's the eight, knew it was hiding in there somewhere.' He glanced up grinning. 'Just like old Oscar.'
'When did he move his stuff?' I pointed over to the bedroom where I'd found his camp.
'What stuff?'
'Clothes, money, booze, cigarettes.' He went on playing cards.
'Colt .45.'
He flicked through the next few cards. 'That's cheating, but I know you two won't tell,' he said. Then, looking down at the cards again: 'I don't recall Sam here going in that room on his previous visit- his only visit, do you, sugar?'
'No.' The girl's lips moved in a patient smile.
'So you're just guessing.'
He went on turning the cards.
I tried again. I don't know why. 'Who told you about the other Oscar Murphy? Someone from the Soviet Embassy?'
'Now we've got two Oscar Murphy’s. Are you sure you fellers aren't getting just a little confused here?'
We were getting nowhere. Petursson pulled himself to his feet and I could see where the weight of the gun creased his well-pressed jacket. He moved towards the door.
'That will be all for now, Palli.'
He looked up from beneath his colourless brows. 'Hope I've been some help to you guys.'
'We will, of course, find Murphy and when we have spoken to him we shall be back to see you. Then you will have to talk.'
'Why, I'd be glad to.' Palli was milking it for every ounce of pleasure he could get.
'The only thing that surprised me was the old lady,' Pete went on, in the same quiet tone.
'An old lady now, would you believe. Was she called Oscar
Murphy, too?'
'I didn't think you would do that. Torture her by pulling out
her hair, then letting her die. No, I didn't think .. .'
Palli went quite still and his eyes closed. 'Don't try and tie my name to that.'
'I was surprised, but I don't know why. It was the crime of a vicious animal, wasn't it? Are you coming, Sam?'
The girl had opened her eyes and was staring at Palli. 'An old lady?'
'Shut up, dummie.' He took another slug from the bottle of
beer. 'You tell him that ain't true, Sam.'
'How do I know what's true?'
He got up and jabbed a finger at Petursson. 'You wanna know about that you go ask those bums on the Russian trawler down in the harbour, okay? Just don't tie my name on it.'
He followed us down the corridor. 'Another thing, Sam.' He
was back to his chuckling triumph again. 'You got your nationality as mixed up as me. There I was thinking you were a true Brit and the guy down the corridor here reckons you're a German.'
His voice echoed after us down the corridor. 'Auf Wiedersehen, buddy. AufWiedersehen.'
34
Solo females celebrate their status. They gather in wine bars on Saturday lunch-times and swap notes on how to change plugs and what's new in rape alarms, and laugh scornfully about their enslaved sisters who have to wash shirts.
Solo males don't. It's widely assumed that they weep in dingy basements with only a budgie for company and pine for those little female touches, like a pile of smelly tights on the bathroom floor.
For some reason, it's an achievement for women, but a failure for men. Actually it isn't like that at all. The reason we keep so quiet about it is that we're having a lovely time: we're just nervous that pitying women will burst in and rip the shirts off our backs to wash them.
By use of a secret international code, Petursson and I had established that we were both solo males. It's not all that secret - you simply never use the word 'We'.
He lived in a cramped flat above a shop in Laugavegur, a long shopping street which runs right through the centre of the town. Some stretches look like a branch office of Bond Street, others more like an Arizona trading-post a century ago, and it's the only street I've so far come across where you can get an Icelandic-Vietnamese meal. The flat probably wasn't cramped before he moved in. But by the time he'd packed in huge chunks of dark gleaming furniture, presumably salvaged from some earlier existence in higher and wider premises, a library that lined almost every wall, a baby-grand that was more grand than baby, plus a high-security wardrobe to keep his hat in, and then slid his own considerable bulk through the door, it was cramped. Each of the three main rooms had a central clearing in which it was possible to sleep, eat, or sit.
Once you'd seen him at home you no longer wondered where he got such nimble footwork.
'Are you interested in food?' he asked. I'd found him in the kitchen, apparently unaware of the fact that he was wearing a full-length plastic apron cut and decorated in the shape of a half-naked hula-hula girl.
'I am, actually,' I said.
That was another tricky one. You had to be careful where you made that admission. Solo men who like food have the same problem as male hairdress
ers - people are apt to make snappy and inaccurate judgements.
'Then perhaps you can do these.' He handed me some
peppercorns between two sheets of kitchen paper and a rolling pin. 'Ah, an expert,' he said, when I set about crushing them. He was peeling broccoli stems which he then placed upright in a pan. 'So,' he said, obviously pleased to be able to show off a little. 'The steam cooks the heads while the water does the stems. It is quicker this way.' He took two quarter-pound steaks out of a dish of red wine where they'd been wallowing and dipped them in the crushed peppers.
'A point?' He slid them under the grill.
That was an expression you didn't hear a lot outside France which was where he'd picked it up. When he lived in London he did a lot of Channel-hopping.
He knew what he was about, too. When I sliced into mine I saw the thin line of raw meat in the middle. It was a point all right. And I wasn't sorry to see that he'd removed his pinafore before he sat down. Hula-hula dancers' breasts may well stimulate appetites but not when they're slung beneath an elderly copper's face.
We tried some burgundy, then some more burgundy on top of that burgundy and they got along fine. When the brandy went down to join them, it did no harm at all, so we sent off some more, with dashes of coffee in between. Two table-lamps spread light as thick and yellow as custard.
He told me he wanted me to visit Dempsie in hospital the next day. The American PR man hadn't got any serious injuries. They'd kept him in case of concussion and his face had been badly chewed up. When I asked why he wanted me to go, he repeated again his idea that I was there for a purpose. Had he some contact with Batty? Or even with Christopher Bell? I didn't know and he wasn't going to tell me.
'Do you really believe that Palli did that to Sol run's mother?'
I was interested in his answer. If he did, he was a good deal dimmer than I'd taken him for. To my relief, he shook his head.
'I tried to use it as a lever. It worked a little. At least he told us what he thought.'
'The Russian trawler. I thought you'd inspected that and found nothing but fish.'
