The Gardener

by Tony Masero

  “Who me?” All innocence. “Not on your life. Sharpest thing I ever saw was a pencil.” Here he is, lying again. So much for the moral high ground.

  Laughing, Clem says, “Don’t ask Chayne questions like that, Robert. It’s not polite.”

  “I just wondered, him being a soldier.”

  “I ran over a cat once. Does that count?”

  The kid actually smiles. “No. Don’t be silly. I mean terrorists, insurgents. Something like that.”

  Close call here. “Sorry to disappoint you. I only saw the inside of offices and storerooms.”

  “I have this great computer game you should see. Desert Storm Commander. It’s terrific! Just like the real thing.”

  The real thing? “Sounds interesting,” Chayne obliges vaguely, watching the benign gaze of both parents.

  “Loves his computer.” Smiles McBraith.

  “Time for bed, little man.” Clem ushers him complaining off to the bathroom.

  Chayne sees McBraith eying him steadily; the candle flames flickering in the draught as mother and son open and closes the door.

  “I think there’s more to it than you let on, Chayne. I’ve been around army guys long enough to know.” The mellowness has dropped out of his voice now. He has a harder tone. The arms dealer is talking.

  Chayne starts to rise. McBraith waves him down. “It’s okay, don’t be offended. I don’t want to know a single thing about it. In fact, I’m more than content to see that you can handle yourself. I’d sooner have someone up here who knows what he’s doing rather than some New Age tree lover.”

  Chayne shrugs, meeting his gaze evenly. “Well, Stores and Supplies can be pretty exciting you know.”

  “Whatever,” concludes McBraith. “Just so long as you know that I know. Wouldn’t want you taking me for a stupid asshole now, would we?”

  Chapter Three

  Quiet.

  Chayne drops the black holdall on the floor. It’s heavy. It makes a solid thud on the hardwood. Not much to bring out of twenty years. But then, he didn’t go in with much either. It’s all that’s left and he kicks it into a corner.

  They’re gone and he has moved in. Time to get organized.

  He does the necessary things. Arranges the living room how he wants it. Makes the bed up. Toiletries in the bathroom. Clothes in the cupboard. Spends an hour struggling with a recalcitrant generator until he can kick some life into it. Takes a shower. Raids the McBraith larder and cooks himself a bite.

  That’s when he hears the whining.

  Animal noise. Cottage door. He checks the window. Through the panes, he sees a shape flit backward and forward. Black and white…. black and white. It’s almost lost in the gloom. He teases the front door open slowly.

  The dog circles out of reach. Back and forth. Thin as a rake. A collie. Starving.

  He fetches some leftover strips of bacon and tosses them in the dog’s direction. The animal leaps back with a yelp. Scared stiff. But hunger gets the better of it and it dives in, snatching at the meat in hurried mouthfuls.

  “Come on then,” Chayne calls softly. “How did you get here? You lost, boy?”

  The dog growls and fades back away at the sound of his voice. Watching from the shadows. It looks a sorry picture of dog. Hair matted and dirty. Loping low to the ground. A feral beast.

  Chayne fetches water in a bowl and some tea biscuits. Leaves them by the doorstep. “Bedtime snack when you’re ready, lost boy.”

  The dog paces at the extremity of vision and Chayne leaves him to it. Instead, he watches the sun setting quickly behind the pines, their pattern of cast shadows falling like a venetian blind across the grass.

  It’s a clear cloud-free sky. A lone buzzard wheels high above, sweeping the still air with high-pitched calls.

  He breathes deeply, feeling his chest expand and relax. It’s an odd sensation, not having to watch the skyline, set up warnings and sleep with one eye open. Can he ever manage it again? Living in peace.

  “’Night, lost boy.”

  Chapter Four

  Next morning. Biscuits are gone. But the dog is still there. It sits out of reach. Watching.

  “So. You’re ready for more, huh?” Tin of ravioli. Doesn’t last long. Sardines. Corned beef. Tuna fish. Chipolatas. “That’s enough,” Chayne complains. “You’ll eat me out of house and home. Man, you are one hungry dog.”

  He checks the gun rack. Cracks open the engraved silver-plated twelve bore. There are two of them. One not so pretty as the other. Toys. But they need a clean. He does the job methodically. Easily. Shoves some shells in his pocket and walks out across the sunlit field towards the wood. The less-than-attractive gun lays broken open over his forearm. He doesn’t feel much like a gamekeeper, though.

  “I hear you.” He spins around. The dog stops. “So you’re coming for a walk too?”

  Chayne tracks down to the lake. He cannot help but fall into a patrol pattern. Keeping to the shade where he can. His feet automatically checking where they tread. Moving softly. Eyes rotating. The water lies flat and calm. A ripple. A splash. A fish leaps for a fly. Big strong beast, silver and heavy, it clears the surface of the water, leaving a rainbow in the spray. Deer and rabbit tracks pattern the muddy banks. The wood is alive with an occasional birdcall. It is a little paradise.

  At the far end, there is a small dock and shed. An old wooden rowing boat sits tied to the dock. He walks along the edge of the lake and out onto the boat deck. The timbers are old and warped, some rotten through. The boat lies in the rushes. Its sides are steeped in mold, but the wood itself looks intact. A little worse for wear, but preservable.

  The dog watches him pensively from a distance. It sits, waiting.

  “Are you going to tag along wherever I go? Seems like you are. You dumb dog.” He laughs aloud. “Who’s the dumb one? Listen to me. Now I’m talking to an animal. Is this the first symptom of an isolation syndrome setting in?”

  The shed door is unlocked. Inside. Not much. A bare earth floor. Cobwebs and a dank smell. Couple of oars. Some old tins of paint. Rope. Debris. And a cigarette butt.

  Fresh. Recent.

  Chayne picks it up and sniffs. Checks the filter brand name. Marlborough Light. No lipstick. Could be McBraith, of course, or the kid sneaking out for a secret puff. But that doesn’t feel right. It’s somebody else. He quarters the earth floor looking for sign. Nothing. Just a dead cigarette.

  Food for thought.

  The next fortnight is spent discovering the surrounding countryside, painting the cottage and restoring the boat and dock. Lost Boy. For this is now the dog’s confirmed name, grows friendlier with each passing meal. Chayne finds he likes the company. Albeit only a silent dog sitting at a distance. He reckons he is a shepherd’s puppy that has run off when little and never found its way back home. Forced to live wild and fend for itself. He places it at six months to a year old.

  He patrols the forests and hillsides. Hiking as far as the distant mountain foothills. But never meets another soul. It is empty countryside, except for the wildlife and the wind. It is freedom.

  Try as he might, though, he cannot relax. He watches the dog for signs of something beyond his hearing. Each time it turns its head suddenly. He brings up the pair of binoculars he carries and searches the horizon. Trouble is there in so much cover. Rolling hills. Trees in every direction. He sees nothing. And it leaves him restless. Someone or something is out there. Watching. He is convinced of it. It crawls in his skin and keeps him awake at night.

  Or maybe it is just the dreams that keep him awake. Old dreams. They hadn’t raised their ugly heads in years. He is living a calmer life now. Less activity. More space for dreams to fill. Old blood in old dreams. Dead men in dead dreams.

  Clem phones late Thursday afternoon.

  “Robert and I are heading up for a long weekend. Can you open up the place and put the outside lights on for us, we won’t get in ’til late?”

  “Will do. Anything else you’d like done?”


  “Well, if it’s chilly, perhaps you could get a fire going to warm the place up.”

  “No problem.”

  “Thanks, Chayne, see you soon.”

  She sounded harried. Polite, but brisk. Distracted.

  The weather starts to change. Large gray clouds come scurrying across from the northeast. A cold wind blowing them in. It smells like rain.

  Chayne is there to meet them when they arrive. Clem smiles when she sees him. Her face is tight, though. White under the eyes.

  “Any problems?” she asks as he helps her unload the car.

  “Uh, uh.” He shakes his head.

  “What’s that?” asks Robert as he clambers out clutching his laptop.

  Chayne sees the flash of black and white out of the corner of his eye. “That’s Lost Boy. A stray that’s wandered in.”

  “Wow! A dog. Mum, can we keep him?”

  “We’ll see.” Clem has her mind on other things, her arms full of shopping. She relaxes a little when she sees the glowing fire Chayne had built in the living room.

  “Thanks.” Standing in front of the flames, hands outstretched before the warmth. “Boy, I needed this.” It’s the comfort, though, more than the warmth.

  “Why don’t you settle in?” says Chayne. “I’ll bring the rest of the stuff from the car.”

  “Getting colder,” she observes.

  “Winter’s coming.”

  Later, he sees her through the window as he makes his way back to the cottage. No lights, just the firelight. A lonely figure. Scrunched up on the settee, knees under her chin. Staring into the flames, a glass of wine in her hand.

  Chapter Five

  Chayne is up early. There is a mist. A cold, damp mist. He throws the dog some chicken leftovers. Smells the taint of cigarette smoke. Soft as a ghost, he slips through the fog. Tracking the scent of tobacco. It is coming from the direction of the house. Leaden like the air around him, it lays a trail. A sluggish, heavy pathway drawing him in. Concerned, he moves forward rapidly. Breaking from the mist, he sees her. Huddled in a heavy overcoat. Arm across her middle, couching the other, holding a long cigarette that is drifting smoke. She is leaning against the doorjamb of the kitchen, staring vacantly at the wall of mist before her. She starts as he bursts through. Eyes wide with sudden fear.

  “Oh, Chayne! You scared me.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t know you were about yet.”

  “Didn’t sleep too well. Busy brain. Long drive will do it every time.”

  He stands there listening. His head rotating slowly, senses still on fire. She watches him bemused. “You okay?” she asks, frowning.

  “Yes, yes. I didn’t know you smoked. Smelt the tobacco and I thought it might be someone, a stranger wandering about.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I don’t normally. But it’s been a trying time lately. I don’t like Robert to see me indulging, so I sneak out here.” She flicks the stub into the mist. “Would you like some coffee?”

  In the kitchen, she pours him a mug. “Sugar?”

  He shakes his head. No.

  “You really don’t need much, do you, Chayne? I envy you that.” She muses over her mug.

  “Can’t miss what you don’t have. But you can dream about what you want.”

  “Really?” she says, surprised. “And what would you dream about?”

  He shrugs. “A family, for one.”

  “There’s no one?”

  Shakes his head again. No. Not any more. Clem sighs. “Yes. A family. A blessing and a curse sometimes.”

  Chayne watches her withdraw into her thoughts again.

  “I’ve fixed up the rowboat,” he says. “If the mist clears, maybe you and Robert would enjoy a trip around the lake.”

  Her eyes swivel to meet his. Hazel locks on blue. She scoffs a laugh. “You’ve fixed that old boat. Is it safe?”

  “Sure it is. I tried it myself only yesterday. There’s a damned big fish in there I want to catch one of these days.”

  “Charles has a rod around here somewhere.”

  “Oooh, no! I’ll go after this one my own way. I watched a tribesman fishing with a spear once in Borneo and I’ve always wanted to see if I could nab one that way.”

  “Sounds fun, you’ll have to show me.”

  “Well,” he says rising. “If it clears, give me a call and I’ll get the boat ready.”

  She nods. Already drifting again.

  He checks the ground. He marked the place. Finds the discarded cigarette end. Dorchester Thins. She doesn’t smoke Marlborough Light.

  Chapter Six

  The self-styled warlord sits brooding regally at the far end of the long boardroom table.

  He is a large black man. His pockmarked cheeks sliced by tribal scarring. An impressively big man, dressed in a beautifully cut gray suit that ripples in the overhead strip lighting. Gold rings. Gold cufflinks. Gold Rolex. To each side sit his wife and daughter, equally large, in colorful headdresses and swathes of bright material.

  Somehow, even in his placid silence, Omaluli Mtubu dominates the room. His entourage of young men is gathered on each side of the long table, consuming great quantities of bottled spring water and remaining ever watchful. Ready to move at his slightest whim. To defend him with their lives if necessary. White eyes rotate in black faces, like observers at a tennis match.

  “His Excellency Mtubu has agreed to the recommended list we discussed at our last meeting.” The daughter speaks. Mid-thirties, McBraith guesses. She has a high, squeaky voice and a pretty, girlish face. The warlord’s official mouthpiece. “But we feel the price is a little excessive. Considering the sum in question, might we come to some accommodation on this?” Perfect English, with only a trace of accent. University educated.

  McBraith opens the leather folder and spreads the list before him.

  “I’m afraid that is impossible,” he says. “We are covering the shipping costs as it is. His Excellency must understand that a shipment of this size has to be collected from depots worldwide. These days it is impossible to hold storage in one location safely. Therefore, our transportation overheads on this transaction are extensive.”

  “His Excellency understands this. But surely these are the problem of the supplier and not the buyer.”

  “If his Excellency, Omaluli Mtubu will allow, I shall give a breakdown of the costs. It may help to clarify the situation.”

  A rumble rises from the large belly of the warlord. He belches softly. There is a pregnant silence. Then daughter continues.

  “His Excellency is not really interested in your overheads. He is concerned with the bottom line.” She smiles broadly, a gleam of shining teeth behind full lips. Pleased with her command of the language. “Our gallant forces have acquired many reserves in our struggle for emancipation but these reserves are not limitless, you will understand.”

  McBraith moves his hand slowly, carefully laying the sheaf of paper to one side. “Our prices represent a standard scale accepted by most nations worldwide. If the price is too high, then perhaps we might adjust the requirements somewhat. I see you a very high listing in respect of FN P90s, including installed accessories. Would it be helpful to reduce the quantity of ammunition for these?”

  There is a jabber of voices from the entourage. All heads turn to the warlord in expectation. A barely perceptible shake of the solemn head. “I am afraid that is a consideration we cannot contemplate.”

  “Then perhaps we might look at the armored vehicles...”

  McBraith is used to this process and waits patiently for the group to argue the matter out among themselves. His research has been thorough and he knows exactly what the warlord is worth, and that his accounts in Geneva hold enough to foot the bill more than three times over. By nationalizing the ore mining, refining and agricultural systems set up by generations of Europeans, and by milking them to extinction, he has amassed a substantial fortune. A common story. The market trading taking place now is a cultural necessity for this emerging nation, and one must
follow the protocol.

  The warlord is equipping an army. Neighboring countries are becoming restless. He needs everything that is listed. The only fear that McBraith has is that purely on a whim, or over some imagined slight, Mtubu might take his business elsewhere. The one major difficulty in dealing with the overblown ego of dictatorship.

  McBraith is also aware that whilst the dictator may appear to hold an awesome power over his countrymen, he still operates within a tribal system. His Foreign Minister, Kamami Utu, who sits demurely below the great man, is, in fact, the real motivator. An apparently insignificant civil servant, he is a high-ranking witch doctor within the clan system. Capable of an esoteric leadership outside the realms of western negotiation and comprehension. It is he who will have the final say. And whilst the entourage debate, Utu watches McBraith with a keen eye, judging his determination.

  So, with practiced patience, McBraith talks quietly with his assistant, Tom Carlisle. His secretary Anne, meanwhile, sits this one out in her office elsewhere in the building. For all the apparent desire to expand into equal opportunities, Africa remains predominately a male dominated continent.

  McBraith considers the moment is right. “May I suggest something? Perhaps we can make a compromise on the quantity of anti-personnel mines. As we are all only too aware of the present worldwide aversion for these weapons, might it be a tactful political gesture on the part of His Excellency to reduce the number of PMD and TM-46s. This will reduce the overall bill by some hundred thousand dollars.” A drop in the ocean to McBraith, but a face-saver for Mtubu.

  A small hand movement by Utu seals the deal. The warlord nods his head and there is instant silence. His voice-piece settles the arrangement. “His Excellency accepts the solution in the spirit of international friendship and peace, and as a gesture of his magnanimity. We will now like to discuss the delivery details.”