Needles

by William Deverell

  There was pain. And with the pain, a joyous flooding of release: a rush, a blast, an orgasmic, atomic, screaming kick, as Cobb awoke from his long withdrawal sleep, driven awake by pain and by the terrors of the subconscious.

  The wetness was his tears and sweat.

  It was dark. A lamp glowed. The largo, the final movement of the guitar sonata, was slow and moving.

  Jennifer Tann’s slender arms enfolded him. Her face was touching his, her mouth upon his tears, upon his eyes, his lips. She whispered words of love and peace.

  After a while they made love, hard, driving to the slow beat of the surf.

  Good Friday, the Twenty-fourth Day of March,

  at Half-past Eight O’Clock in the Morning

  There were cheerful shouts of children in the yard outside. But Santorini’s living room was filled with the sombre sounds of Tosca, an opera of brooding torture and treachery. At one point he felt the edge of nausea, and he suddenly jumped to his feet and glared morosely out the window of his living room over the vista of English Bay and Vancouver and the Fraser delta beyond. Glints of hard sunshine sparkled off the waters of the bay and caused his eyes to water.

  For the rest of the morning he would remain near his telephone, waiting for a call he feared. The call should come around noon.

  Santorini might have been happy today. He had much reason to rejoice. Yesterday he had received another, important call, from Ottawa, a call that would shape his future. It meant that in a few weeks, barring some untoward event, he would be known to the world as Mr. Justice Edward Antonio Santorini (a fair and equable man on the bench, respected by all). The call had confirmed that investigators from the justice ministry had completed their search into his past and had given him passing grades.

  There was no scandal in the background of Eddie Santorini.

  Now his house was silent, except for the playful cries of his children in the yard outside. He sat by the telephone, waiting.

  His palms were sweating. His eyes were raw.

  Jin Feng had brought only a small satchel, and he sat immobile in the passenger seat of Cudlipp’s Buick. He was dressed in a black turtleneck and trousers, and was ascetic in appearance, and sinewy. His eyes, like Au’s, had the quality of metal — a trait of the family. Ma Wo-chien selected for higher duty only those who had inherited that quality of the eyes.

  Beside him, at the wheel, raw-faced and cheerless, Cudlipp cursed and seethed as he piloted his car along a gravel logging road which led to Glenda Bay, an outpost of humanity on the wild west coast of Vancouver Island.

  Despite nearly a day of sunshine, the road was muddy, and Cudlipp’s windshield was coated with a thick brown film which his windshield wipers had fanned dry. The washer had clogged. Cudlipp was furious at his Buick, and even more furious at the pick-up truck in front of him, which obstinately kept to the centre of the road, denying passing room.

  The terrain through which he was driving had once been beautiful, a virginal wood. But the forests of Vancouver Island had been cut back and down, victims of the giant scythe of the logging companies: strong reapers, poor sowers. The road wound through twists and hairpins among the slash and wreckage left by the loggers, descending at times to blue lakes — pretty once, but now filled with a tangle of limbs and bodies of dead trees.

  Cudlipp’s face was etched with lines of anger. His features seemed to implode toward the centre of his face — eyes, nose, and mouth coming together in rigidly set formation, with lines of strain radiating outward. He cursed everyone connected with his plight: Cobb, Au, Santorini, Harrison, his lawyers. And Flaherty. His dreams shattered, he sought revenge.

  There was no conversation in the car. In fact, the only words spoken by Jin Feng — on the car ferry from the mainland — were an inquiry as to whether Cudlipp was armed.

  “You bet I am,” Cudlipp had said. He was carrying a police .38.

  “I would like you to give it to me,” Feng had said.

  “The hell I’ll give you my gun.”

  Feng had shrugged.

  They were late. The meeting was set for nine, and Au and friends would have waited for an hour by the time they got there. Well, Cudlipp did not give a shit. He was no lackey to the Surgeon. When they got together, there would be the usual slow coquettish dance of distrustful men. But Cudlipp would prove his worth and loyalty, and he would join them, if not in friendship, at least by means of the mortar of hard currency.

  Soon, Australia. Finally.

  A few grey shacks announced the entry into the village of Glenda Bay, a community of fishing people, a town of weathered cedar where residents travelled back and forth over ocean channels by rowboats and outboards. Cudlipp parked and found a boy with a boat and gave him three dollars to take them to the restaurant. Feng waited outside; Cudlipp strode in. He first saw a young waitress, working there alone; and at a table near the wall were her only customers: Easy Snider (whom Cudlipp knew from old dealings) and Ng Soon, a young Ch’ao-chou gunman who had been chosen for this job because he could handle boats.

  Cudlipp sat down across from Snider. “Wipe your nose,” he told him. “No wonder they call you Sleazy.”

  “They call me Easy, man. And you can call me Easy too, if you don’t mind.”

  “Wipe your fucking nose, Sleazy,” Cudlipp said. He was used to talking that way to addicts. He regarded them as beneath contempt and felt insulted now to be allied with one.

  “Took your time,” Snider said.

  Cudlipp did not explain or apologize. “Who’s this bright light?” he asked, arching his head in the direction of Ng Soon. “He do the brain work for you guys now that Charlie Ming got himself retired?” Ng Soon looked blankly at Cudlipp.

  “He doesn’t speak English,” Snider said. “Actually, he don’t speak at all, far as I ever heard. He got an M16 rifle does all his talking, corporal.”

  “Where does the Surgeon get these pukes from?” he said.

  “You’re lucky he don’t understand you,” Snider said. “Dr. Au snaps his fingers, you get your ass blown off before you say you’re sorry.”

  Cudlipp hollered to the waitress: “Bacon and eggs. Easy over. Extra toast, and jam. Got any beer?”

  “Man, we got to be going,” Snider said.

  “I’m buying you a beer, Sleazy.” he turned back to the waitress. “Old Style, Blue, Lucky — whatever’s cold.” He glanced at Ng Soon. “Does the dummy drink?” he asked.

  “Don’t call me Sleazy, corporal. Maybe was a time you could do that.”

  “Hey,” Cudlipp said to Ng Soon, almost shouting. “You drink? Beer? Drink?” He made a motion as if tipping a bottle to his lips. Ng Soon shook his head.

  “Jesus,” said Cudlipp, “they forgot to wind him up today.”

  Easy Snider waited sourly while Cudlipp finished his breakfast. Then he said: “Let’s go.”

  Cudlipp gave the waitress a wink and a dollar tip, and followed Easy Snider and Ng Soon out the front door, where they joined Feng. They walked down a broad sidewalk along the docks. It was obvious which was Au’s boat — the only yacht there — a diesel-powered sixty-foot cabin cruiser. “What do you think of her?” Snider asked, waving his arm at the boat. “Five hundred bucks a day. Does fifty knots easy, flat out.”

  “Where’s Dr. Au?” Cudlipp asked.

  Snider smiled. “He’s being careful. Wanted to make sure you weren’t being followed.” The engine started, rumbled, then purred. The boat backed slowly into the channel, turned about, and headed toward open water.

  After a few minutes they reached a deserted stretch of beach where the sandstone shelf was cut by a narrow channel through which a river flowed into the ocean. Ng Soon put the controls into neutral, and they waited.

  After a few minutes, a small outboard emerged from the channel. Cudlipp could see a lone figure in it: Dr. Au, huddled in a cape. The boat came closer, an
d Cudlipp saw that Au’s eyes seemed glazed, tranced. After Snider helped him aboard the cruiser, the small boat was winched out of the water, onto its place at the stern. Au did not seem to notice Cudlipp, but walked past him gloomily, nodding to Jin Feng, who followed him into the cabin. “Your satchel is heavy,” Au said, taking it from Feng.

  “Books. Toilet articles.” Feng watched as Au rummaged through his bag with his hands. Finding nothing, Au looked up sharply at his cousin.

  “Is it on your person?”

  “I am sorry, Au P’ang Wei, I do not know —”

  “The weapon! You have come with a firearm! You are here with orders from Ma Wo-chien!” Au shrieked the words.

  “My orders are to replace you here, Au P’ang Wei. I am not armed.” He calmly extended his arms and allowed Au to search him.

  Au dropped his voice. “No. I will stay here, and you will work with me at my direction. You will assist in the Cobb matter today, and after that I will run over the routines with you, and the financial records.” His voice became lower still, almost a mumble. “Cobb is not alone. . . . There are others. . . .” He opened his needle case and with a clean cloth began to polish the needles and a scalpel that were in it. After a while he looked up at Feng. “Send Corporal Cudlipp in and leave us.”

  Feng, who had remained expressionless throughout, left the cabin and nodded to Cudlipp to go in.

  “You have kept us waiting,” Au said, not looking at him, still polishing. Cudlipp said nothing at first. He watched Au, fascinated. The man looked skeletal and drawn.

  “You have kept us waiting!” It was a shout, high-pitched, vibrant.

  “I’m sorry,” Cudlipp said. “The road was bad.”

  After a while Au turned his eyes to the policeman, and they seemed to slowly focus on him, and suddenly they began to sharpen and glisten coldly. It was as if Au had returned from a place far away. Then he stood up, before Cudlipp could react, and reached into Cudlipp’s bulging jacket pocket, pulling out his revolver.

  “Corporal Cudlipp,” Au said, “trust is best maintained if the serpent’s tooth is blunted. That does not suggest that I regard you as unfaithful to my cause.” He smiled weakly. “I apologize. I am being hot-tongued and most inhospitable. We will have a warm cognac and relive more pleasant days.”

  Au drew a bottle of Remy Martin from a cabinet above the bar and poured from it into two snifters. He set each glass in turn upon a brandy warmer, which he lit, twirling the glasses slowly.

  “Let us drink,” he said, “to ultimate victory. To Cobb, whose spirit will join mine in brotherhood.” As he raised his glass, he turned his eyes toward Cudlipp. They had become hollow again. He touched his glass to Cudlipp’s. “He haunts me. . . Do you feel his power, too?”

  “Well, I guess so, yeah.”

  “You will be rewarded. Oh, yes you above all will be rewarded. It would have been ungenerous of me to refuse your terms. They will be respected, and you will be given a place . . . of honor.” He laughed. “Oh, it will be an excellent entertainment for you!” Au held up his glass again for Cudlipp, who again touched it with his. They both drank.

  “I have always shown integrity in dealings with you, corporal, have I not? This will seal our trust.” He reached inside his cape, into a pocket, and withdrew an envelope. “It is merely a token, Mr. Cudlipp, a token in payment for praiseworthy service, for the delivery of merchandise that is beyond value.” Again he smiled, passing the envelope to Cudlipp, who opened it, riffled through the bills without counting them, and pocketed it. “The life of this prosecutor might seem to many unnecessarily dear, but luxuries are dear, Mr. Cudlipp, and that man is priceless to me.”

  Au finished his cognac, and Cudlipp gulped back his. “The matter about the gun, I regret,” Au said. He squeezed Cudlipp’s arm with such intensity that he almost cried out. “You are trusted, my friend, but we have found such disloyalty . . .” His voice trailed off, and he looked at Cudlipp through eyes now masked again by film. “Yes? You, as well?” The fingers of Dr. Au dug deep into Cudlipp’s biceps. “You, as well? Are we not brothers in suffering? Are we not brothers of vengeance?”

  Cudlipp felt a cold cloud settle upon him and a shiver wiggle up his spine.

  “Please take us to him.” Au released his hand from Cudlipp’s arm, leaving welts.

  “Foster, wake up.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, God, I thought you were having another nightmare.”

  “No.”

  “You were groaning and moaning.”

  “Yes. I do that a lot.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m sorry I woke you up.”

  “You didn’t. I wasn’t sleeping. I haven’t slept.”

  “Does it still hurt?”

  “Only when I laugh.”

  There was a pause.

  “Foster.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you still awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “You are talking to me.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “No.” Squirming and gritting his teeth, Cobb lay in his own rancid sweat, studying the undulating wall patterns created by the notched cedar logs. It was morning, and hazy rays of sun filtered between the trees outside, entered through the windows, and dappled the walls.

  Tann said nothing for a while. Then: “I had an incredible flash. I was just lying here asleep, and something hit me, and I awoke and you were groaning. Are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t care.”

  Cobb took his red-rimmed eyes from the wall, wrenched his body into a half-sitting position, and peered at Tann. She was lying on her back, looking at the ceiling. She flicked a glance at him, then fixed again upon the ceiling.

  “You don’t care,” she repeated.

  “My whole being is inflamed with an irresistible urge to hear all about your incredible flash.”

  “Well, that’s just it. You don’t really care, do you? Who needs your patronizing attitude?”

  Cobb sighed and lay back again.

  She continued. “You’re going to think I’m dumb, of course. You think I’m pretty naive anyway. Don’t you? You think I’m silly and naive, right? Why don’t you answer? I know you’re listening. Are you all right?” This time she half-raised her body, leaning on her elbows and looking down at Cobb, whose face muscles were painfully taut. “Are you all right, Foster? Are you getting better? Maybe you’re not ready for this.”

  Cobb looked into her eyes, which were liquid and dark. He worked mightily to assemble a grimace that he hoped would pass for a smile. She shook her head sadly, leaned down, and put her lips softly to his. Then she put her head on his shoulder, slipped her hand beneath the sheets, and stroked him with sensitive fingers that read his body.

  “Do you want to hear this, Foster?” she said. “Maybe you’re going to hate me.” She paused again. “Do you think people should always tell the truth about what they feel?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I think so. Here it comes. Are you ready?”

  “Jennifer, I am dying here. The only thing that is keeping me alive is a profound curiosity about what in God’s name you are talking about.”

  “You don’t want to hear. You’re scared of it. Here comes Jennifer Tann with another heavy load of worry. Another monkey for him to carry. Does he need it? No way. I’ll just shut up.”

  Cobb turned his head to look at her. Her lips were pursed, little lines of effort radiating from them. Despite everything, he began to laugh.

  Her face melted. He kissed her eyes, which were wet.

  “I think I’m falling in love,” she whispered. “I can’t help it. That’s the flash.”

  Cobb stopped laughing. He closed his eyes and drew her tight to him. She bit her lip and clung to him, sticking to his sw
eat, warming her naked body in it. She waited for a long while. Cobb said nothing. She waited, eyes squeezed shut, heart exposed. She waited for a response. Anything. A snort of derision, some false words of comfort, some patent easy lie, some caustic Cobbian dagger. Anything. She felt her heart pounding, through her chest, her skin, into him, deeply into him.

  After five minutes — or was it ten? or an hour? — Cobb spoke.

  “I take it,” he said, “that this piece of wreckage beside you is the object of your regard?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Generally speaking, I am complimented —”

  She cut him off, and found herself babbling wildly. “Shut up. You are going to be sarcastic. You are going to make fun of me. You think I’m weak. Don’t you? Well, it’s okay, I can handle it. I can handle rejection. Just be honest. Don’t play games. Don’t try to let me down easy. God!” She almost screamed. “Why am I such a rattlemouth around you? You give me a bad case of nervous tongue.” For a while, neither spoke. “You don’t want to deal with this, do you?” she said finally. “I told you: I can handle rejection.” There was another pause. Then she whispered: “Just say you like me. That will do. Nothing heavy. You can pretend. You don’t have to mean it.”

  She raised her head again and dared look at his eyes. “Lie to me,” she said. “I’ll believe anything.”

  “Jennifer . . .” he began.

  She clapped her hands to her ears. “No, don’t say it, don’t. Change the subject. Talk about the weather. Hey, it’s sunny outside. What a nice day! Let’s have fun, go for walks, gather clams, have a boat ride.”

  “Hey, Jennifer,” he called. She pressed the flats of her hands more tightly, shutting out all sound.

  “Don’t talk,” she said. “Don’t even think about it. Forget I said anything.”

  As Cobb opened his mouth to call to her, she brought her mouth down over his, and did not withdraw her hands from her ears until he could no longer speak, his lips and mouth caught up in the heat of her kiss. Her tongue was a wild dancer; her lips swirled hungrily over his. Her long fingers curled about his cock and testicles and pumped him full with a driving passion.