‘Nothing. But he’s a rat and I’m not.’
‘What’s “something”, Mikey?’
‘I’ll start with that smarmy lawyer.’
She told him that would be enough. She reached for her knitting, not that they had much call for woollens on the sunshine coast but it kept her occupied . . . and Mikey Fanning wondered what he might learn from the lawyer.
The next day was the start of the cheap rate on the Costa del Sol. From the following evening there would be a last chance for the resorts of Estepona, Puerto Banus, Fuengirola, Benalmadena and Torremolinos to recoup what the higher seasons’ rates had not funnelled into the banks. There would be an invasion of the elderly from Britain, Germany, Switzerland, Sweden and Austria, and prices would be at the bone. The pensioners of northern Europe would expect to eat their own country’s fish and chips, schnitzels and pasta, and would promenade by the sea, watch football in bars relaying games from home, buy souvenirs, also marked down, and stay in blessed ignorance. They would wander past signs advertising apartments for sale or to let, and shuttered businesses, but wouldn’t understand, or care to learn.
Few would read the English-language editions of local newspapers where local life was represented. A major British drugs smuggler, also wanted for murder, had been arrested. A Briton had been shot dead on his doorstep; police stated he was the victim of mistaken identity. A paedophile from Germany was believed to have fled to the Costa. An elderly couple had been kidnapped and beaten; their family had paid a ransom of a hundred thousand euro for their freedom, and had not dared to inform the police. A man was found, shot three times, in the burned-out shell of his car; police reckoned a turf war was the reason for his targeting.
The weather forecast was poor. Rain was expected, blowing in from the west.
Jonno said, ‘You’re not part of them. You don’t have to be with them.’
Posie said, ‘I’ll spend my day where I want to.’
There was a single shot.
Jonno said, ‘You don’t have to eat with them. You’re not their friend.’
Posie said, ‘I’ll eat where I want to with whoever I like.’
After the echo of the shot died, they heard a shout. Jonno thought it had sounded like the shout of a man when he’d scored a goal on the village recreation ground near his parents’ home. He didn’t know whether Posie had come down to cook, make a drink or use the bathroom, but it was clear that they were beyond reconciliation.
It had been a shout of triumph.
He pushed it: ‘You don’t have to sleep in there, alone.’
‘I’ll sleep where I want to.’
‘The sooner we’re out of here and on the plane, the better.’
It was the bathroom first, then the kitchen. When she filled the kettle he followed her. Didn’t know why. He noticed that, in the bathroom, she had applied lipstick, a touch of eye-shadow and a dash of perfume – Jonno wouldn’t have known whether it was Dior, Givenchy or Gucci.
‘I’m going to deal with it tomorrow.’
‘Good. It’ll give you something to do.’
He tried, knew it would be the last time – and cursed himself for being feeble. ‘We could do something together tomorrow.’
‘It’s a bit late for that, Jonno.’
She made instant coffee, four mugs. A cat cried out.
She was carrying the tray into the hall and her hands shook. The mugs slopped on the tray.
The cry was a howl for help, and came from far down in an animal’s throat. He thought Posie would drop the tray. If he hadn’t taken it and she had dropped it, the coffee would have gone over the wall, spoiled the paper and the rug at the bottom of the stairs.
The shot had been fired from the back of the Villa del Aguila. The animal’s agony was from the garden of Villa Paraiso, like a cat had come hurt to Paradise.
The kitchen door was open.
Jonno went up the stairs. Posie was behind him, whimpering. He went up the stairs with the tray, used his foot to open the door and dumped the tray on the table where Snapper had his gear. Snapper had the camera up to his eye, and was back from the window, doing focal adjusts. Sparky was at the back wall, beyond the spare bed and close to the door. His arms were folded, his face expressionless. Snapper seemed irritated that the tray was on his table. Jonno followed the line of the lens.
Marko had the rifle, held it up, one hand, an index finger resting on the trigger guard. His movements seemed aimless, like the job was done and another hadn’t yet offered itself. What was different about Marko was that he wore a black leather jacket and dark glasses. The evening was coming, the light dropping. It wasn’t cold and there was no wind.
Alex followed him out – he had the dog on a leash. He also wore a leather jacket, heavy and wrong for the weather, with sunglasses. It was like they had changed to a new dress code. Jonno thought them intimidating. If he leaned forward, pushed against the dormer wall, he had a view of their garden.
It was a cry for help, and of pain.
The cat was the one they had been charged to look after, why he and Posie had been offered the Villa Paraiso.
It would have been a small thing for Alex and Marko to shoot a cat that had crossed their territory and interfered with the beams for their alarms. It might not have been a big thing for them to carry the man to the chipper and push him into it feet first, with the engine at full power. The cat had slept on Jonno’s bed. It wanted help – a high-velocity round had, Jonno saw, hit it in the haunches and gone through the stomach. It must have made a supreme effort to scale the wall and come through the undergrowth to the long grass where it had collapsed.
Snapper said, ‘It’s like they’ve chucked off the pretence and gone back to what they are – scumbags. They’ve put on gangster gear – a bloody pantomime kit.’
Loy said, ‘I can’t take the cat’s noise.’
Posie was sobbing, not loudly.
The noise the cat made filled the room.
Jonno asked, ‘What do we do?’
None of them looked at him. Snapper was hardly going to down his camera, march out into the garden, wring the neck of a wounded cat and show out. Loy couldn’t. Not Posie. Jonno turned to Sparky: no response.
‘So, I’ll do it.’
No one called him back. The sound of the cat’s agony hammered into him. He could remember two animal deaths at home. A dog had been left with them when he was a child – the owners were abroad in the services. It had contracted distemper and died. It had been buried in the back garden and no one in his family had laughed for a week. A fox had been hit in the road by a car that hadn’t stopped. It had been on the verge, screwed up in pain, beyond help. His father wouldn’t do it. His mother rang the RSPCA, who said they’d send someone. They’d waited, and the animal had writhed in death throes. Two hours before the RSPCA had pitched up, a man had come down the road, dog-walking, a rough-looking sort. He had knelt beside it – his dog had sat obediently – and wrung the fox’s neck. Jonno had thought his father was ashamed.
He went down the stairs.
His tongue smeared his lips and he went out of the kitchen door. The poor damn thing had exhausted itself coming over the wall, then crying. It snarled as he approached. He saw the teeth and the front claws. He knelt, as the man had done outside their home.
Jonno reached forward and the cat clawed his hands, making tramlines in his skin. He spoke to it soothingly and it went limp. He sucked in a deep breath and took its head – no more fight in it. He twisted. He had never hurt man or animal before.
There was a spade in the shed. The ground was hard, difficult to dig.
He did it properly, went deep. It was an ugly cat, but he gave it a good grave. All changed, changed utterly; A terrible beauty is born . . . He’d learned that at school. He didn’t think that anything beautiful walked this corner of Paradise, but accepted he was now a changed man. He beat down the earth with the flat of the spade, then scraped old leaves and small fallen branches over it. He thou
ght of a man who had been kicked to death, a hand hacked off, and wondered if he’d enjoyed a better funeral. He felt hardened.
13
It was not as if he could have refused. It was not in Jonno’s nature to go out into the garden, sit in the sunshine, near where he had killed the cat and buried it, and know that Sparky couldn’t follow him.
He saw the bottom step of the staircase as a shrink’s couch. Jonno would have supposed that listening was the major part of a shrink’s job, and he reckoned he did it well. He didn’t interrupt or show boredom. Instead he was drawn into Sparky’s world . . .
‘We came back and went to the garrison, the married quarters – they were rubbish, a disgrace. I’d done the paperwork so that Patsy could move in. I’m not saying we talked about marriage, but there was an understanding between us – there had been before I went to Helmand. Patsy’s brother and his girl were quite close to us. Jed and Tracey. Jed had come through well. He was going for sergeant, and our Sunray thought well of him. I was on sick leave, stuck on the sofa at home, looking at the damp patch behind the TV and listening to next door rowing. Symptoms are “morose” and “introverted”. One morning Jed came in – Patsy must have called him. He was in uniform and he stood over me and said I was “pathetic”. It was like all I’d done, out in Helmand, stuck with Bent on hillsides, in sangars, was forgotten. I thought he was pulling rank on me. I should “get a grip”, he said, pull myself together. His parting words were, “Why don’t you get off your arse, mate, and do something about it?” Before it came personal, I’d have said that a soldier acting like me was a whinger, likely in a compensation queue. I’m supposed to be a paratrooper, a hero, and I used to think of the guys I zapped as vermin. Now I see their faces, every last one of them, and each one’s frozen, as it was while I squeezed the trigger.’
At Jonno’s office they had a coffee break in the mornings, and slipped out at lunchtime for a sandwich. In the evenings he did the pub with friends and Posie. Anywhere he went, they all jabbered, but never about the mental trauma of the military. Why would they?
‘Her brother was one thing, but Patsy was another. She mothered me, fussed over me . . . I’d hear her on the landing or by the main door and she’d be talking about me. They were suggesting she was a saint to put up with me. And then she brought the padre round and I told him to eff off, there was nothing wrong with me. I just used to sit there and stare at the wall. She did the caring bit and the loyal bit and she had a folder full of notes – ACE and PIES. It came to be Patsy’s mission. ACE was ‘‘Ask your soldier about suicide thoughts. Care for your soldier. Escort your soldier to find help.’’ PIES was about fast intervention after the symptoms showed up – “Proximity, Immediacy, Expectancy, Simplicity”. She was nagging the family officer for action. She made out I was a victim and no one cared except her. She knew I had post-traumatic stress disorder and . . . I snapped with her.’
He tried to think how his mother would have been – probably brusque. It was beyond Jonno’s knowledge. He and his mates would be up in the West End on a weekend evening, and there would be dossers in office doorways or on the edge of Theatre Land. They’d walk round them. Able-bodied guy, looks fit enough: why isn’t he working? They’d never related them to Helmand, which was someone else’s difficulty.
‘I was drinking. Last of a six-pack, strong stuff. She was talking, as much to herself as to me, about what she was reading. I snatched the file from her and started ripping paper. She tried to stop me and I hit her across the face. She ran to her brother. He didn’t do what he might have done – beaten the shite out of me. He brought in the Red Caps. Handcuffs, Military Police escort. I signed the resignation letter. Went into a civilian hostel. By the time I appeared before the magistrate for the hearing, Patsy’s face was bright bruise colours.’
Jonno was drawn in, captured by it.
‘Patsy was in court, and her brother. They weren’t there to speak up for me – no one was, except a legal-aid brief who told me to plead guilty. The magistrate was a turn-up – ex-military. He understood. He asked me specific questions: where had I served, what was my skill? I told him I was a marksman. He asked me about atmospheric conditions in Helmand, how much the heat or the cold messed with aimed shots. At his age, he could have been in Aden or early Belfast. I think he’d have liked to take me down the pub and do a proper quizzing on sniping today. He was a great bloke. Gave me a chance. He sat up there, straightened his tie, and said, very quiet, that what I probably needed was a dog. If I couldn’t have a dog, I should find a garden. Then he spoke to Patsy. He told her there was no winner if I was banged up, and he hoped she’d get on with her life. Last, he wrote a phone number on a slip of paper and passed it me. He said I was to call it and give my name. I think he did it because I was a sniper, and he knew about it.’
He felt a better man for having sat there with Sparky.
‘I couldn’t have a dog but he found me a garden. Thanks for listening.’
Sparky pushed himself up and slapped Jonno’s shoulder, then went back up the stairs. Jonno pondered how it would be to look at a man through a magnified aperture, make the adjustments for the way the wind was blowing, then shoot him.
He went to get the sheets from the washing-machine to hang them outside. He prayed that no more shots were fired, and that the chipper engine didn’t start up.
‘What has happened to your nephew, Señor Fanning, I do not know.’
‘He said, Rafael – may I call you that? – he was going to see you with a view to a meeting with—’
‘Many people say they are in my diary, but they are not. Look.’
The lawyer pushed the open diary across his desk, then tilted it so that Mikey Fanning could see his nephew’s name was not on any of the pages that were flicked over. It was closed. The lawyer clasped his hands and lifted his eyebrows.
Mikey Fanning persisted: ‘Sorry and all that, but he said he was coming here for you to set up a meeting with Mr Ivanov.’
‘As he did not come here, I know nothing of any proposed meeting.’
‘To talk about an investment’s collapse – know what I mean?’
‘I cannot help you.’
‘And he promised, after the meeting, he would call me.’
‘May I be very frank with you, Señor Fanning? Many years ago you and I met, we did a little business. Because of that I was prepared to provide a loose introduction for your nephew. What happened after that, between your nephew and Señor Ivanov, I do not know. I made no arrangement for your nephew to visit the Villa del Aguila. Perhaps he has run away. Did you say his circumstances were difficult? I heard a rumour that he was running for his life – an involvement with Irish felons. They say that Costa Rica is a favoured destination for fugitives.’
‘And you have nothing else to say to me?’
‘Believe me, Señor Fanning, if I could help I would. My regards to Señora Fanning. Can I offer a little advice? Leave this matter. Do not chase it. Forget it. Perhaps he ran to find new challenges.’
The lawyer stood. It was like Mikey had been told to get up and head for the door. There would be a loose handshake and a smile that meant less than nothing. Mikey Fanning was always tired, often forgetful, but he could recognise a lie when it was oiled at his face. He knew where his nephew, Tommy King, had been.
‘I think he’s crazy.’
He had Marko sweeping the patio round the pool for ash and butts, and he had Alex on his hands and knees, scrubbing at the alcohol stains. He manoeuvred the long pole with the net – used for taking leaves and drowned moths out of the water – and fished for the bottles and cans they had thrown there.
‘He will expect to find peasants here, but he’ll show us respect or leave. He can shout all he likes that he has the ear of the siloviki and a supreme roof, but without respect, he goes back out of the door.’
He thought the men who came would be thugs, but that he was stronger now. He had been hardened by ordering a man into the chipper. He caught t
he last can.
‘He lives as a rat does,’ the Major said. He was speaking of a man he had never met, who – in a few hours – would play host to him. It took his mind off the sheer cliff that dropped away from the road, the absence of a steel barrier to prevent them plummeting a hundred metres – and the loss of the Gecko. Early that morning they had been shown farms on a plateau that produced saffron, and told that an army of peasants was available to harvest the deep orange stigmas. The street price was in excess of 5,000 euro for a kilo. The Gecko would have been able to tell him where the best markets were, the best chemical substitutes to mix with the pure powders, and the principal laboratories that attempted to ensure purity. He had been good to the Gecko, thoughtful.
‘I think he’s frightened of his own shadow.’
The sea was far away on the horizon. The next day they would cross it. He would meet Ivanov and dominate him.
‘Frightened. Hiding. He will show us respect because we still live while he’s in hiding.’
She was about to leave her office when the yellow phone rang. The answerphone kicked in. It rang so rarely that Caro Watson halted in her tracks. She had her coat on, a pair of heavy leather boots and a wool hat. Her bag was slung on her shoulder. She stopped by her cubicle door.
The voice said, ‘You there, Caro? Be a good girl, don’t faff about with me. It’s Jimmy and I’m calling you from Dakar. Come on, Caro.’
She picked it up. Agents were given that number. It was the one Natan had loaded. Brisk: ‘Yes?’
‘Great! Contact at last. Good to hear you. Want an update?’
‘Shoot.’
‘Your boy did a tombstone. He went out of a plane. There was a herdsman on the ground, minding his sheep. The aircraft came in low and he was bombed by your boy. A phone came down with him. The herdsman brought him back – trekked all the way to an airfield, hitched a ride south, and delivered the body to Police Headquarters in Nouakchott in the hope of a reward for his efforts. The boy was a mess but the phone was good. I took it back to Dakar and chucked it at our communications people in the embassy. They opened it and the only number listed was this one. The boy’s in the icebox at the Grand National Hospital. They want to know if I’m shipping him out or burying him. Not coming out of my budget. You want to cough up, Caro? Or is it the corporation rubbish tip?’
The Outsiders Page 27
