Tango

by Alan Judd

  ‘Contact arrangements,’ Box announced. He went through them. They involved as little telephoning as possible, sensible use of the tango club and, in emergency, calls on the palace in the guise of interpreters for the prisoners.

  Carlos nodded. ‘Okay, but what do we do?’

  ‘That’s point five. It’s what we have to decide.’

  ‘But we only have a minute. I can’t stay longer, or they’ll think I’m necrophiliac as well.’ Carlos was pleased with his remark and translated for Theresa.

  ‘Any ideas, William?’ asked Box.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Carlos.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Box. ‘Theresa?’

  ‘She won’t know,’ said Carlos. ‘She doesn’t know anything about this sort of thing.’

  ‘Ask her anyway.’ Box’s tone was light but insistent. Carlos stared at him. Box stared back. Carlos offhandedly asked Theresa if she had any ideas.

  She stood up and moved away from Carlos. She seemed to have followed what had been said. ‘Se llama, no?’ she said cautiously, looking at William. ‘Is that what it’s called?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ William translated for Box. ‘Honey-trap.’

  Box looked pleased. ‘Honey-trap, yes, it is called that. Go on, Theresa.’

  ‘Bring Herrera and Paulotti and Quinto to Maria’s. Ines and the girls will look after them – compromise them, do you say? – and then you can arrest them. They are the leaders and that is the only place where they will all be together without their guards. If you lock them up, no one else will know what to do and everyone will obey the president.’

  Carlos’s irritation was replaced by pride. He held up both arms for her to come to him, smiling hugely. When she was near enough, he pulled her on to his lap and kissed her.

  William translated for Box.

  ‘Brilliant.’ Box stared at the back of Theresa’s head. ‘Like all great ideas, very simple. I knew it would be worth asking her.’

  ‘It may not be easy to arrange.’

  Box waved one arm. ‘Details to follow. We’ll work it out.’

  It was not until they were back in the hearse, flanked by the soldiers and heading for the gate, that William noticed the time.

  ‘All right?’ asked Box, seeing him stare.

  ‘I didn’t realise it was so late.’

  ‘Missus expecting you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Queen and country. She’ll understand.’

  They passed an arc-lit area in which a vehicle was being dismantled by soldiers in overalls.

  ‘That’s my car,’ said William. ‘They’re searching it for bombs.’

  Box stared. ‘Not any more, they’re not. You don’t need to break it into that many pieces. Cannibalising, that’s what they’re doing. Your car’s going to be distributed amongst a dozen others by breakfast. Don’t worry, the company will be pleased to get you another if we pull this job off. Also, given the fact that they’ve pinched it, they’re hardly likely to get the police to trace the owner and make enquiries. All things considered, therefore, probably just as well.’

  William watched a door being carried away. ‘What if we don’t pull it off?’

  Box barked his brief discordant laugh. ‘Then your not having a car will be the least of our problems.’

  At the gate they had to stop because of an army lorry coming in. The guards were paying it a good deal of attention, two of them talking to the driver and several standing staring at the back. They were embarrassed by the arrival of the hearse, though, and waved the lorry on almost before the tall colonel had begun to shout. As the lorry pulled past the gate, they could see two rows of huddled blindfolded figures in the back.

  The colonel put his face in the open window by William, smiling past him at Theresa. ‘More live ones come in, señora. You will come again to take them away when they are finished with?’

  Theresa uttered a short expletive unknown to William. The colonel looked surprised, his features stiffened and he disappeared.

  ‘What did you say?’ William asked.

  ‘A bad word.’ It seemed she wouldn’t continue but then she smiled at her hands folded in her lap. ‘He would be used to hearing it only from his peasant soldiers, not from – not from . . .’

  ‘From a lady.’

  She nodded, still looking down at her hands.

  Chapter 9

  The cemetery gates were closed. Box was incredulous. ‘Locked. How can they be?’

  ‘It’s night,’ said William.

  ‘What’s the point of locking them at night? People might want to come here.’

  ‘Surely not.’

  ‘I bet they do.’ Box kept the headlights on them, focused like his own insistent stare. ‘It would be the one time I haven’t got my lock-picking kit.’

  William asked Theresa about the gates. ‘They’re shut because too many people wish to go here at night,’ she said. ‘Homeless people and vagrants. They sleep in the tombs.’

  ‘I’ve never seen any homeless people in the city,’ said William. ‘Well, one, but he’s not really homeless. He has a home of his own on the beach.’

  ‘There used to be many but not now, not since the new government.’

  ‘It’s done something good, then.’

  ‘They disappear.’

  ‘We can’t sit here like this until the gates open,’ said Box.

  ‘Try them,’ said Theresa.

  Wiliam got out and pushed at the gates. They opened.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ Box said as he and William closed them behind the hearse. ‘She must have some sort of sixth sense.’

  ‘She has a friend buried here. She knows it quite well.’

  At night the cemetery was even more like a small town than during the day. The slowly traversing headlights picked out dozens of pairs of furtive green eyes.

  ‘You’re sure there are no guards?’ asked William.

  ‘Yes, I checked. There’s nowhere for them unless they live in the tombs. And now we’re in, we can’t be seen from outside. The high walls prevent that. But if we are caught we have to pretend to be tomb-robbers. Lesson there.’ He looked across at William. ‘If you’re ever caught with your trousers down and there’s no hope of innocent justification, always try to hide the greater crime behind the lesser, like adultery or something. Once they find one unsavoury explanation people tend to be so pleased they don’t look any farther.’

  ‘But is tomb-robbing a lesser crime?’

  ‘I should think so. Ask.’

  Theresa shook her head. ‘It’s much more serious. No one minds about spying, especially if it’s the British.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ said Box.

  They found the right stretch of wall and then door number 1066. Its black wood was dull in the light of Box’s torch. The beams seemed unable to penetrate the gloom behind the small iron grille.

  ‘Is it unlocked?’ asked William.

  ‘Yes, yes. I checked.’ Box bent and opened the door. It creaked but not very much. His torch illuminated six coffins of the family Bustillo, piled four and two. The fourth and highest was on a level with the door. ‘If we move that on to the others, they’ll be even and we can just slide ours on top.’

  ‘Move it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Box climbed in, stepping carefully on the lower coffin. ‘Plenty of room in here.’ His voice echoed. ‘If you get in and take it from your end, I’ll manage this.’

  William glanced at Theresa, who had stayed in the hearse. ‘You’re sure we’ll be able to move your coffin? It took all those soldiers and they found it heavy.’

  ‘No problem. We’ll unload some of it. Come on.’

  ‘What . . . what if the surviving family Bustillo come to visit the grave and find a new coffin? I mean, are you sure this is a good idea?’

  ‘The door hasn’t been opened for years. And the most recent coffin in here is 1937. Come on, we haven’t got all night.’

  William eased
his way through the door, feeling with his feet for the lower coffin. He thought the lid bent beneath his weight and said so.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Box.

  ‘They might be cheap ones. Feels like plywood.’

  ‘Stop worrying about it.’ Box had to put his torch in his pocket in order to grapple with the coffin. ‘If we each take a handle and edge it towards us, then get an arm underneath and step back on to the ground as we lower it, we should be okay.’

  William thought of Box’s short legs. ‘It’s a big step down, two coffins’ height.’

  ‘Manageable. On the count of three?’

  It was very heavy and at first difficult even to slide. The lowering was more a barely-controlled fall. William’s feet found the floor much closer than he thought.

  ‘Perfectly manageable,’ Box said, panting. ‘Must have been a chap about your build, though, this Bustillo. Big uncle Bustillo.’

  There was a sudden splintering and William experienced an abrupt descent.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Box.

  ‘The floor’s given way beneath me.’

  ‘Can’t have. You all right?’

  ‘Think so.’ The descent had jarred William, but he remained in otherwise exactly the same position. His legs felt normal and whatever was now beneath his feet felt solid.

  ‘Can’t have given way.’ Box pulled his torch from his pocket and shone it down. They had both been standing on an older and lower coffin, but William was now standing in it. The coffin rested on the grave floor and its top, except the broken part around William’s legs, was as dirty as the floor. ‘Good lord,’ said Box.

  William was standing in the broad end, roughly where the chest and throat would be. His calves tingled in anticipation of the touch of unmentionable slime. He waited for the stench but there was only a cold damp smell.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ said Box. ‘I thought it was the floor. Maybe you were right about the plywood, just goes to show. You never know in this business.’

  They climbed out of the tomb. William did not like to look at his feet in case something was clinging to them. Box set about unpacking their coffin but first insisted William get into the back of the hearse with him so that he could see once more how the kit worked. It was stowed neatly below the mattress and it was even possible, Box demonstrated, to lie in the coffin and operate both transmitter and receiver.

  ‘All this up to the pelvis is the batteries. Trunk is transmitter and receiver, head and neck the controls, as you can see. They’re just as they were in the hotel room when I showed you before, only closer. Power switch here, look, and that gives you enough light to see by even when the lid’s down.’

  ‘Who designed it?’

  ‘I did. Made good use of coffins in my time. Very adaptable articles. I’ve never known that before, though, someone going through the top. They must be cheap ones here. In West Africa they’re even cheaper – just cardboard painted as cars and aeroplanes and things. Also, bodies go off so quickly there that no one hangs around for very long. We got one mixed up once. Awful muddle. Thousands of pounds’ worth of sensitive kit buried in a Cadillac coffin in Kumasi and a decomposing mother of ten landed in a Mercedes coffin at RAF Brize Norton. Frightful legal complications, coroner and all that. Press nearly got on to it. I was sent to the training department for a while as a sort of punishment posting.’ His thin lips parted. ‘Spent my time there designing new coffins. That’s where this one comes from.’

  The batteries were the heaviest part. They unloaded them separately and reloaded them once the coffin was in the tomb. Box demonstrated how the aerial should be attached to the grille and in which direction it should point.

  ‘Reception here shouldn’t be too difficult, depending on climatic conditions. Now – the next problem is her.’

  William didn’t like to hear Theresa referred to as ‘her’. She had remained in the hearse throughout, the collar of her fur coat turned up, her hands in her pockets, her long hair pushed forward by the collar. She stared straight ahead at the opposite wall. Perhaps she was thinking of the banker. William felt more jealous of the dead banker than of Carlos.

  ‘What problem?’ he asked.

  ‘Security. She knows what we’re up to with Carlos and she knows our hideout, but can we trust her?’

  ‘Of course we can. She’s in it as much as we are. Anyway, she’s that sort of person.’

  ‘All the same, I’d rather pay her something.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To buy her loyalty.’

  ‘Can you buy loyalty?’

  ‘Yes, temporarily.’

  ‘You couldn’t buy hers.’

  ‘She needs money, doesn’t she? She must have taken it from Carlos. That’s what she was there for. I wonder how much.’

  There were moments when William disliked Box. ‘She doesn’t take it from just anyone.’

  ‘Depends how much she needs it. Family, that sort of thing. They don’t live well, these people.’ Box shrugged. ‘You know her better, of course, but there’s plenty of it if she wants it.’

  William didn’t want Theresa to be further degraded, as he saw it, by the offer of money. On the other hand, he didn’t want to deny it her. Also, if Box paid her well she might not need to go to Carlos again.

  ‘I’ll sound her out,’ he said.

  They drove away from the cemetery as a glimmer of light spread far out to sea. William’s watch had stopped at twenty past three. ‘It can’t be that late,’ he said. ‘How can it be that late?’

  The other two looked at their watches. The dull thin gleam spread along the horizon. ‘Eleven minutes past five,’ said Box. ‘Never mind, a shave and a shower will see you right. Good night’s work. London will be delighted: a real coup. All we have to do is work out the detail.’ He regretted that daylight made it impossible for him to take them to their respective homes. He didn’t want them seen in the hearse.

  ‘Just drop us both near the beach,’ said William. Theresa was going back to Maria’s rather than home and he was so late that another hour or so would make no difference. He didn’t want to leave her yet.

  ‘Shall we walk by the sea?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  Box dropped them by the golf course. The sun was still not visible but its rays reddened the undersides of the clouds. The sea was leaden and a damp wind scythed off it. William led the way to the beach, thinking there was enough light to see where to tread, but he slipped on a bit of driftwood. His glasses didn’t help in poor light. Theresa put her arm in his and they walked by the sullen waves, staring at the brightening horizon. Her face was wet with what he at first thought was spray. When the sun rose, partially concealed by cloud, it reddened the sea. The colour was reflected faintly in her features. She kept her eyes on the horizon.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want to go back?’

  ‘No. Keep walking. It’s beautiful.’

  It became light enough for him to see properly. The sand and shingle beach was littered with driftwood, tins and bits of plastic. A long line of breaking surf curved around the bend by Señor Finn’s hut. Her hand on his arm made him feel that all his nerves were concentrated on that point. He kept noticing, then forgetting, then again noticing the beauty of her face.

  They walked in silence. She wept continuously, without sound, without grimacing, the tears dripping unhindered from her chin. The fur of her collar was wet where the wind flapped it against her face.

  ‘You know I would marry you,’ he said. ‘I meant it.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Even after Carlos and everything. It makes no difference. It’s you.’

  ‘You cannot marry me. You are married.’

  ‘I can get divorced.’

  ‘You cannot.’

  ‘Why not? I’m not a Catholic. Neither is Sally.’

  ‘It is wrong to leave your wife.’

  ‘I’ll do it nonetheless.’ He spoke more con
fidently than he felt.

  ‘I could not like you if you did.’

  The outline of Señor Finn’s hut looked unfamiliar. William supposed it was because he was approaching from an unusual angle but as they got closer he saw that the corrugated roof was hanging down and that one whole side, which had been made of a door and assorted driftwood, was missing. The sagging roof creaked in the wind and the surrounding grass and rushes had been trampled. For a few moments he nearly convinced himself that there had been gales in the night but he recalled Manuel Herrera’s black Mercedes reversing towards the hut, and the doors opening. He recalled also Señor Finn’s red-faced chuckles at having told Manuel that William was a beggar. He remembered giving Señor Finn money.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘This is where my friend lives.’

  She stared at the litter of trampled grass and scattered wood. ‘Your friend?’

  There was a hole in the upturned boat, the pots and pans lay amidst the ashes of the fire, the earth was churned, the table was on its side and the chair on its back. Inside the hut a mattress and blankets were strewn in confusion. The wind had fastened a sheet of newspaper against the splintered prow of the boat.

  ‘You have a friend who lives here?’

  ‘Lived.’

  What looked at first like a crumpled rag turned out to be the terrier. It had a dark hole in the side of its head and its lips were drawn back over its teeth.

  She put her hand through his arm again. ‘Who was he?’

  ‘I didn’t know his name. He just lived here, that’s all.’

  ‘He was a vagrant?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘It is against the new law. They will have taken him to a home.’

  ‘This was his home.’

  He began to feel as if he were no longer the centre of his own world. All his concerns, his future, his marriage, his desires, were peripheral not the main thing. There was something else. It was like realising that throughout his life there had been another person in the house, for years unnoticed but now, once seen, forever present, in every room, at every meal. Unawareness was no longer possible. Henceforward, he would be living for something or against it, no longer floating but swimming. A gust of wind tore the newspaper from the boat and sent it fluttering out of sight.