‘I understand.’
‘Wi’ that in mind I’m going to start us off a little bit old school. Just until we come up with a better idea.’ She talked him through the plan. Patrick rubbed at his eyes with his free hand and tried to concentrate, but McCluskey’s accent seemed to be thickening by the minute. He wondered whether this was deliberate; either way he wasn’t sure he’d fully understood what she was telling him.
‘Did you say you’re going to try and fax me through some of these documents?’
‘Aye.’
Patrick stifled a laugh. ‘It’s 2014, Mc—’ He stopped himself. ‘It’s 2014, no one’s got a fax machine any more.’
‘I have son. More importantly, so has the Headland Hotel, I checked. So how’s about you go and find out where they keep it, switch it on and make sure you’ve got plenty of paper tae hand. Stand across it and dinnae let anyone else take a look at what I’m sending you. Naebody, d’you understand me?’
‘I understand.’
‘Fab.’ The phone went dead.
‘You’re welcome.’ Patrick heaved a sigh and fell back on to his bed. ‘Careful what you wish for.’ It was exactly like working for William Carver again, just a female version with an impenetrable Glaswegian accent.
20 The Devil’s Work
BROCHU, CHILE, SOUTH AMERICA
Even when Soledad did not love her mother, she loved her hair. Ink black and heavy with natural curls, it fell in calligraphic swirls from the cheap scrunchie she used to keep it out of the way. In the past, she had loved to kneel behind her mother on the double bed and brush out her hair. Francesca would hum or sometimes sing a few words of old Chilean folk songs as Soledad ran the antique silver-backed brush through her mother’s hair again and again. It had been a long time since they had done this together.
‘Augusto says you were seen with an American man in the American restaurant, so I suppose you have decided to become a prostitute now?’ This was her mother’s invitation to embark on the latest of their loud and bitter fights. Soledad held her tongue.
‘You have just buried your husband.’
‘Yes.’ Francesca’s hand went to the Catholic cross, glittering on her neck. ‘And you see how that woman – his whore – she could not even find the time to attend the funeral?’ Soledad nodded. The other woman was stupid enough to have got involved with her father, but not so dumb as to turn up at the funeral. If she had, Soledad was pretty sure her mother would have killed her with her bare hands. This too, she left unsaid, staring instead at the flowered wallpaper next to her mother’s bed, sample sheets each with different flowers, in different colours, stapled together and stuck to one wall. Francesca saw her looking. ‘God loves the empty more than the full, Soledad.’ Her daughter smiled.
‘In that case Mother, he must really, really love us.’ She paused. ‘Father used to work for this American. He ran errands for him. That was why he was there, that was why he wanted to talk to me.’
Francesca’s eyes brightened.
‘He has a job for one of the boys? For Augusto?’
‘I thought you wanted Augusto to be a priest?’ This was a cheap shot, but one that Soledad could not resist. Her eldest brother was constantly getting into trouble these days. Augusto was more likely to end up in prison than the priesthood the way things were going and both women had expended considerable energy and called in many favours trying to delay the inevitable.
‘The American doesn’t want to offer one of the boys a job. He wants to offer you a job. And me.’
‘A job for me?’ Francesca checked her daughter’s face for signs that this might be some kind of cruel joke. Soledad was more than capable. ‘What kind of job?’
Francesca had been tempted to simply accept the American’s offer on the spot, but her pride and a commitment to the proper way of doing things dictated otherwise. Instead Jags had been invited to visit to discuss the proposal properly, formally.
‘What do we have to give this man to eat, Soledad?’
Her daughter shook her head.
‘He won’t have time to eat.’ It had been difficult enough persuading the American to come and meet with her mother at all. There was no way he was going to sit down for dinner.
‘We must give him something.’ She dug around in her purse and handed Soledad a folded note. ‘Tell Augusto to run and get some empanadas and a bottle of beer.’ Soledad did as she was told, although she was quite sure that once she gave Augusto this money, they would not see him again until tomorrow or the day after. Her mother had her silver mirror in one hand and a lipstick in the other. She caught her daughter’s eye in the mirror.
‘When we are both working, maybe we could buy another goat.’
‘A nanny this time.’ The two women smiled at a shared memory from several years ago. The nanny goat that Pablo bought and brought home that turned out to be male not female. After his horns had grown in, the billy goat made life miserable for Soledad and her brothers, bullying and butting them without provocation. The day they killed and ate the animal was a happy day as far as she was concerned.
Soledad left her mother to get dressed for their visitor and went to take a look inside the fridge. She saw a bottle of water and two opened tin cans, one half full of tuna and the other of beans. It wasn’t much to work with, but she could fry it up into a something that the American could dip potato chips in if he wanted to. It would have to do, there was no way that Augusto was coming back with empanadas, beer or anything else. She had just finished preparing this food when there was a loud rap on the door. Soledad opened it to find an impatient-looking Jags standing outside.
‘This had better be quick Soledad, I’ve got a plane to catch, where’s your mother?’ A door at the end of the hall opened with a creak and Francesca appeared, wearing a cornflower blue-coloured dress that Soledad hadn’t seen in … how long? It was a dress from a happier time and she wasn’t even sure where her mother could have been keeping it. Not on the clothes rail next to the damp wall, that was for sure, because the dress both looked and smelt fresh. Her mother arrived at her side and extended her hand in a way that suggested she was nervous to give it to the American.
‘Ma’am.’
Francesca instructed her daughter to go and fetch the food while she encouraged their guest to take a seat at the small family table. Soledad disappeared briefly behind the screen that separated dining room and kitchen and returned with a patterned tray. Jags hesitated a beat too long before taking a chip and dipping it in whatever the fuck that sauce was. Francesca noticed this.
‘I am sorry, this is not very much. Usually I would offer you chicken and watermelon …’ Soledad glanced at her mother; she couldn’t recall them ever eating a meal like that. ‘… But we had so little time.’ Jags shook his head and smiled.
‘Nope, this is great, just what I wanted Mrs Mistral. So do you want me to tell you a little more about this proposal? I’m sure Soledad has talked you through it but maybe you have questions?’
She had many questions. She wanted to know when the nursery would open, how many children it would have, what ages, what facilities …? Jags talked a lot of bullshit, made some stuff up until eventually the woman seemed satisfied.
‘Soledad told me that you used to work with my husband?’
‘That’s right ma’am.’
‘He was a good worker.’
It was a statement not a question, but Jags knew it required something from him.
‘He was. A very good worker. And a good man as well.’ Jags could feel Soledad’s eyes on him. ‘He spoke about you all the time.’ He pointed a friendly finger at Francesca ‘You mainly. but the children too of course.’
She nodded slowly. Of course, yes.
‘When did you last see him Mr Jags? How long before the accident I mean.’
The accident. Cute. Jags gave his cheek a thoughtful scratch. It was a passable impression of a man attempting to remember something that was difficult to remember.
‘F
ar as I recall, it was ten days or maybe a fortnight before the accident Mrs Mistral.’
‘I see. And how did Pablo seem to you? People say he had depression.’
Jags noticed she used the Spanish word el abatimiento, which was closer to melancholy than depression.
‘I can’t say that I saw that in him ma’am. He was … tired I guess.’ She nodded. ‘But he had a good family and a steady job, it was a shock to me, what happened. A complete tragedy.’ Jags watched the woman’s eyes fill with tears. He tried not to think of the last time he’d actually seen her husband – hanging from a thick wooden beam, his neck stretched, legs twitching, a look of absolute terror in his eyes. Soledad passed her mother a handkerchief and she blew her nose loudly.
‘Soledad says that you plan to come and visit next All Souls’ Night?’
‘I certainly hope to ma’am.’
‘For the ceremony?’
‘That’s right.’
She smiled.
‘I am proud of my daughter, of course, but I wish that you were able to have been there when I fulfilled the role. Soledad speaks the words well …’ she looked over at her daughter. ‘But you have to feel the words, you have to believe them.’
‘I would’ve liked to have seen you do that, Mrs Mistral. I have heard how good you were from other people in town.’ He had heard no such thing. Jags glanced at his watch. ‘I’m really sorry but I have to get going. Will you have a think about my offer? Your daughter can let me know what you decide tomorrow.’
Soledad walked him to the car.
‘Where do you go now? America?’
‘I’m going to London.’
‘England? The Queen? The Houses of Parliament?’
‘Yeah, that one.’ He could feel his stomach starting to churn, and got to his feet. Jags had a strong stomach but that godawful dip was too much even for his gut. If he left now he could drive out of town a mile then stop and stick his fingers down his throat. ‘I’m gonna arrange a meeting between you and the local union guys over at the mine.’
‘My mother hasn’t said yes yet. I think we—’
‘She will Soledad. We both know she will. She needs this job and so I want you to start thinking about your job. I’ll arrange the meeting, for now all those idiots know is that you’re going to be playing a role. So go meet them and try to be nice.’ Soledad nodded.
‘What if it turns out that I am not the right person? What if this arrangement does not work?’
They were at the Chevy. He pulled open the driver’s side door and climbed in, rolled down the window.
‘We go our separate ways. No big deal.’
Jags was pleased with this answer and Soledad seemed satisfied too. She nodded. It was reassuring. And obviously convincing enough, at least for now. He waved a brief goodbye and put the car in reverse. The only problem with Jags’ answer was that it bore absolutely no relation to the truth. He swung the car round, kicking up a fair amount of dust as he did so. The truth was that if this arrangement didn’t work out, if Lizzie Curepipe’s plan wouldn’t fly, then it would be back to Plan A. Under that plan, Soledad, and possibly her whole family, would wind up dead at the bottom of the Brochu dam – fish food for whatever fucked-up kind of fish still managed to survive in that water.
Soledad walked back into the little house and back into her mother’s bedroom. She stood behind her and helped unzip her best dress. Francesca turned and put her hand on her daughter’s hand.
‘You have to be careful, Soledad. I smell the devil on that man.’
‘I know Mother, I smell it too.’
PART TWO
It often happens that, if a lie be believed only for an hour, it has done its work, and there is no further occasion for it.
Jonathan Swift
21 Sammy
HARCOURT ROAD, HONG KONG
A thunderstorm burst over central Hong Kong. Eric Fung stood shivering, drenched to his bones but, nevertheless, grateful for the rain. A downpour like this helped lessen the effect of the tear gas, washing the billowing clouds away and flushing the noxious-smelling gas down the storm drains. The police still had the canisters of pepper spray, of course, and Eric watched from a distance as his fellow protestors pressed again against the police lines, shielding themselves against the eye-blinding spray with a combination of plastic umbrellas and cling film. It worked, but not particularly well. He pushed the thick glasses back up his nose – he guessed the same could be said about much of what he and his comrades had managed to achieve in the last few days. On the face of it, their achievements were many and obvious: Harcourt Road, a major freeway running east to west across the Admiralty area of Hong Kong, was now Harcourt Village – a sea of brightly coloured tents and basic wood and tarpaulin structures that ran the entire length of the occupied road. There were stalls serving fish balls, rice and stinky tofu. A group of green-fingered protestors had turned a grass verge into a vegetable garden. True to their name, the Scholastic volunteers were setting up home-working zones and students were encouraged to take time away from the front line, to learn. The standard school subjects were taught, as well as an eclectic mix of craft skills – weaving, wood and leather working and origami.
From this vantage point, standing on a plank of wood balanced between two sets of stepladders, Eric could see half a dozen junior school-age children folding powder-blue airmail paper into origami umbrellas. The food stalls, shops and makeshift school rooms were all powered by portable generators and the thrum of these had temporarily replaced the din of Hong Kong traffic. Still Eric felt nervous; the police were holding their line, biding their time rather than pushing back and Eric remembered what the BBC radio man had told him about what he saw happen in Turkey. The authorities would wait until the novelty of these protests wore off, until some among their number got tired of living in tents or standing in the rain or being tear-gassed. Most importantly they would wait until the world’s media got bored with this story and moved on.
Eric had watched Harcourt Village grow and grow in just a few days, but he knew that the authorities could sweep it all away just as quickly unless he and his fellow protestors remained vigilant. Already there were worrying signs; the previous night a group of well-organised thugs had set upon a bunch of students in Mong Kok and beaten the living daylights out of them. Three of his comrades were in hospital, one with serious head injuries, but they’d urged him to come back here to tell anyone who would listen what had happened to them. The consensus was that the gang were triad members, doing someone a favour – the Hong Kong authorities or the Chinese State being the most obvious suspects. The degree of violence used was a wake-up call, but what really worried Eric was how the gang of thugs had found out when and where the students were going to be. It was a pop-up demo, the details of which were known only to him and one trusted comrade. This young man had met the twenty plus students at one train station and escorted them on a magical mystery tour via several others before arriving at the Chinese-owned travel agency they planned to disrupt. The gang of thugs had been waiting for them, armed with baseball bats and knuckle dusters. Eric knew that there were bound to be infiltrators among the protestors, that was inevitable, but that could not explain this. He had complete trust in the boy he’d put in charge of shepherding the students last night. And even if he hadn’t trusted him then, he had to trust him now. The boy was currently lying in a hospital bed with two broken knees and a fractured skull.
Eric took the brick-like black phone from his pocket and gave it an accusatory stare. He would have to change phones again, the third time this week. He’d begun to wonder whether the only way to organise and coordinate securely might be by using no technology whatsoever. He’d read how protestors had rallied and organised in the old days: posters and flyers and word of mouth. It seemed impossible to imagine. The rain had eased and from behind police lines he heard a familiar popping sound – more tear gas. He climbed a step higher up one of the two ladders and looked around for a competent volunte
er. His gaze settled on a skinny kid in a black tracksuit, a green surgical mask covering half his face. He was holding an old-fashioned wooden tennis racquet. Eric recognised him; he’d been hassling him and others for a couple of days now, begging to be given a job to do. Some real responsibility. Eric watched as the boy ran through the crowd, picked up a spinning tear gas canister with a gloved hand, dropped it onto his racquet and deftly lobbed it right back into the middle of police lines. The cops scattered. Eric climbed down from the ladder and went to talk to him.
The sunken-cheeked hotel receptionist had politely but firmly denied that the Headland had anything as outdated as a fax machine. He suggested the computers, printers and scanners in the business suite as an alternative and Patrick was wondering whether to try up there when the top-hatted doorman waved him over.
‘There is a fax machine in the room at the back of the hotel gift shop.’
‘Great, thanks. I didn’t think anyone had them any more.’
‘Sometimes it’s useful.’
A female shop assistant wearing a suit in the same light grey as the doorman, and with short, bleached-blond hair, was dusting unsold souvenirs. The gift shop at the Headland didn’t get a lot of action and she seemed excited to have a customer, especially one with such an unconventional request. The boxy beige fax machine was right at the back of the storeroom, switched off at the plug but otherwise, she assured him, fully functioning. She was studying for a business qualification at a college over in Kowloon and was keen to show off her English. This involved telling Patrick quite a lot that she possibly shouldn’t. She explained that some of the staff used the fax to place bets with a friendly bookkeeper up at the Happy Valley racecourse. She switched the fax on and they waited for it to warm up. Off-course betting was illegal, but this guy doctored the faxes he received to look like regular betting slips and told anyone who asked that they’d been laid in person. As he listened to her make a full confession on behalf of her colleagues, Patrick saw the fax machine’s green eye blinking into life. There was a grinding of plastic cogs then a smoother whirring sound as the fax sucked in and printed out one page of A4. Patrick picked it up and read McCluskey’s scribbled capitals.
A Cursed Place Page 12
