Blood Ties

by A. J. Quinnell

  The ship had anchored in the roadsteads and a launch had taken them to the long pier where they cleared Customs. On the way Cady had casually asked the helmsman if the yacht Jaloud was in port. He had nodded and pointed to the twin black masts showing over the Yacht Club breakwater. They said goodbye to the Savys, promising to try their best to visit them on Bird Island. Stevens phoned the Northolme Hotel to book them in and, despite their protestations, had driven them there along the winding coast road and introduced them to the owner, a widowed Mrs White who ran the place with the help of her twelve-year-old daughter and a handful of local staff. He had left them with a firm invitation for dinner once he had cleared a date with his wife.

  The hotel was an old converted plantation house with vast flower-filled gardens and wooden floors that creaked, and old furniture and panoramic ocean views. It was charming and Mrs White, a big, robust woman, gave them a warm welcome. It was largely lost on Kirsty, who was almost vibrating with impatience to confront Lascelles. She asked Mrs White to phone for a taxi and quickly unpacked her suitcase.

  On the way to the Yacht Club both she and Cady had been silent and preoccupied. The taxi driver was loquacious, pointing out places of interest, but he soon caught their mood and also lapsed into silence.

  Apart from a drowsy bartender, the Yacht Club was empty. It was the middle of the afternoon when most people take a siesta. They had walked through on to the balcony and for several minutes stood watching the black hulled yacht. The deck was tidy and deserted. Kirsty tried to imagine Garret on it. Tried to picture a stormy night so many weeks before. Her son working on deck, losing his footing and falling over the side. She noted the high stanchions surrounding the deck and the two tight rows of wire between them. It was a wide, flush decked boat with the outside steering position behind a low deck house.

  Just as she wondered if Lascelles was below deck Cady turned and called to the bartender.

  “Is Lascelles on board J aloud?”

  The bartender roused himself and shook his head. “It’s Friday. They’ll be at the poker game up at the Trianon.”

  “Where’s that?”

  The bartender gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. “Up the hill on the road to Beau Vallon. It’s a bar with a pointed green roof.”

  They took the taxi and paid him off in the carpark for it was only a short walk down the hill to Victoria.

  The bar was dirty and dim and as Kirsty’s eyes adjusted to the gloom she felt a stab of frustration. Apart from a mulatto girl in a dirty dress sitting at the bar, and an old man behind it polishing glasses, the place was empty.

  From behind her Cady asked “Lascelles?”

  The girl pointed a red-tipped finger at a far corner. It was empty but then Kirsty noticed the brown door knob and the faint outline of a door painted dark green like the walls. With determination and Cady behind her she strode over and pulled it open to find herself facing a wooden staircase.

  At the top was another door and she could hear the murmur of voices behind it.

  At her shoulder Cady asked softly, “Shall I go up first?”

  Firmly she shook her head and moved up the steps. At the top she paused, took a deep breath, opened the door and walked through.

  It was a large, windowless attic. Light was provided by a single unshaded bulb which illuminated the wooden table and the five men sitting round it. The table was littered with bottles, glasses, overflowing ashtrays and piles of money. The room stank of beer and sweat and greed. The biggest pile of money was in front of the man facing her. His shape was that of a tall cardboard box. His face had the look of someone constantly on the edge of a tantrum. His eyes were widespread and narrow and his jutting beard gave him a dominating, thrusting appearance. His right hand lay across a deck of cards. There were heavy gold rings on the fingers and another on his left hand which gripped a glass of whisky. On that wrist a gold watch glinted in the light and Kirsty knew that finally she was face to face with Danny Lascelles.

  All the men were looking at her and the blond giant at her shoulder. The one on Lascelles’ right, almost as big and even swarthier, grinned and asked in a heavy accent, “Hi, honey — come to join the game?”

  She ignored him. Her gaze was locked on Lascelles’ face. It had a look of expectation, or was it a kind of recognition?

  “You are Danny Lascelles,” she said.

  “That’s right, Lady. So?”

  “I’m Kirsty Haywood.”

  He nodded with mock gravity, a half smile on his thin lips. He raised his glass and tilted it at her. Kirsty leaned forward slightly. “Garret Haywood’s mother.”

  For a moment Lascelles did not connect, then with comprehension the smile faded. He slowly lowered the glass. There was a silence, then, “Aah. The kid who drowned . . .”

  “No Lascelles. He did not drown. Garret is alive.”

  She was intently watching his eyes and in a brief, almost subliminal moment she saw what she had given everything up for and travelled thousands of miles to see. Not shock or surprise, but an unmistakable instance of animal panic.

  Lascelles was a poker player and his eyes were now blank, but Kirsty was flooded with certainty and relief. She had seen it.

  “Alive?” he muttered and glanced at the man next to him, who was looking at Kirsty with a curious expression.

  “What do you mean, he’s alive?” Lascelles asked. “How could . . . where is he?”

  Kirsty pointed a finger at him. Her voice rose a notch. “You know where he is. You tell me.”

  Lascelles leaned back in his chair, which creaked with his bulk. He looked thoughtful.

  “How do you know?” he asked. “How do you know he’s alive?”

  “I just know.”

  “How?” He said it aggressively, and when she failed to answer he nodded as if in confirmation and glanced again at the man next to him. “Intuition,” he said. “Or a mother’s instinct. It’s not unusual. Sorry Mrs Haywood, your kid’s dead.” He gestured to his right. “Carlo here was with me. It was a bad storm. One of those bloody accidents that shouldn’t happen but does. We searched three days. Right Carlo?”

  The Portuguese nodded sombrely. “Sure. Rough as hell. Sorry Lady, he was a good kid. These things happen.”

  Both men were nodding in unison. Lascelles had composed his features into a caricature of condolence.

  Again Kirsty pointed a finger. This time at Lascelles’ left wrist. “Where did you get that watch?”

  Slowly Lascelles’ eyes moved to the watch. Then to the deck of cards in front of him. He tapped it with a nicotine stained finger.

  “Poker. I won it playing poker.”

  “It’s Garret’s,” she rapped out.

  He nodded. “Right. I won it playing poker.”

  Kirsty shook her head emphatically. “He would never play poker for that. It was his father’s. He treasured it like nothing else.”

  Lascelles shrugged. “Well, he got deep in a game and tapped out. A man has to pay his poker debts.”

  “You’re a liar!”

  Lascelles’ face changed in an eye blink. The black jaw thrust out, the mouth twisted in anger. “Give thanks you’re a woman,” he snarled. “If a man says that I break his head!”

  Then Cady joined the conversation. He moved alongside Kirsty and drawled, “Lascelles, I’m callin’ you a liar. An’ in case you hadn’t noticed, I ain’t no woman.”

  Abruptly Kirsty was out of it and virtually ignored. She remembered later how the preliminary stages were almost a ritual. A kind of tribal war dance. The looks and movements and conversation followed a prescribed pattern. Cady looking at the four other men and asking casually, “They in or out?”

  Lascelles said contemptuously, “They’re out – no one fights for me —or needs to.”

  They trooped downstairs through the bar and out into the sunlight with Kirsty consumed with anxiety. In the carpark she grabbed Cady’s arm and said urgently “Forget it Cady. Let’s go.”

  He
brushed her aside, his face rigid. He was walking in a curious stiff-legged way, and so was Lascelles.

  They stopped in the centre of the carpark and the others formed a circle around them. Carlo was close to Kirsty, his eyes animated.

  They stood about two yards apart. Lascelles had a half smile on his lips. He cocked an eve at Cady and said, “Shirts off?”

  Cady nodded and pointed to Lascelles’ fingers. “Rings too.”

  “Sure.”

  As Cady looked down and began undoing his shirt buttons Lascelles started to twist one of the rings off. He called out, “Hey Carlo, hold these for me,” and casually moved forward.

  Cady looked up sharply, but too late. Lascelles’ right fist with ringed knuckles was already hooking in to his jaw.

  That blow decided the fight. Cady’s eyes glazed over. He tried to grapple but Lascelles slammed a left and a right low into his belly, forcing the wind out of him; then, with the half smile back on his lips he picked his spots, chopping at Cady’s face and body like a punch bag, until he was dropped like a tree and the kicking could start.

  Chapter 12

  “I finished building up the sprocket,” Nelson said with satisfaction, took a deep pull of beer and set the mug back on the table.

  Ramesh and Lani murmured words of appreciation. They were also sitting on the bar terrace of the Northolme Hotel, although at the other end from Kirsty. Half a dozen other people, all locals, were drinking at the bar.

  “It must be very hard work,” Lani said and gave Nelson one of her smiles. He was already captivated. He was the sort of man who blossomed in the presence of beauty, his normally sedentary attitude being replaced by bonhomie and wit. He nodded sagely.

  “It is lass. It’s a bit like taking an old and creaky lady and turning her into . . . well something like you.”

  Lani grinned. “Good. So when I’m old and creaky I’ll come back to see you.”

  For a moment Nelson’s face clouded, but then quickly cleared. “You do that lass. I’ll replace your sprocket and chain and retime your valves.”

  “I just wish I could help,” Ramesh interjected. “I feel so helpless just watching.”

  “Don’t worry,” Nelson said soothingly. “Some people are more mechanically minded than others. In the Navy you’d’ve been a deck officer. Anyway at least you’re learning how the thing works.”

  “Indeed yes,” Ramesh nodded enthusiastically. “I have learned so much . . . what was black magic is becoming true medicine.”

  Nelson signalled the bartender for more drinks and settled back comfortably in the cane chair. He was obviously enjoying himself. Once in a while he glanced at the woman sitting alone across the terrace.

  “Another week or so,” he said, “and we’ll be able to push the tit and see if she starts. After that I’m going to dismantle your bilge pump and check it . . . and the sea toilet and anything else mechanical. Then you can go.”

  Ramesh started to murmur his thanks when a large woman deposited a glass in front of the empty chair and sat down.

  “Hello Jack,” she said. “I’m going to join you for ten minutes while Fiona does her fish feeding act and then I’m in the kitchen.”

  Nelson introduced her as Joan White, the owner, gave her a brief resume of their odyssey and then asked, “So what’s new Joan? How’s business?”

  She shrugged. “Quiet as usual this time of the year. I only got two off the Haryana and one of those is now in hospital.”

  “What happened?”

  “God knows. A woman and a younger man. They unpacked, caught a taxi into Victoria and apparently ended up at that dump the Tiranon. Lascelles was there and beat the man up.”

  Nelson swore under his breath. “That Lascelles. He’s got a fuse shorter than a bitten thumb nail.” He pointed with his chin. “Is that the woman?”

  Joan nodded. “She’s American. He’s Canadian. Good-looking hunk of a man. Apparently they met on the ship.”

  Ramesh and Lani turned to look.

  “She appears extremely sad,” Ramesh commented.

  “She is,” Joan agreed. “I don’t know if they’re lovers . . . they booked separate rooms. Jack, would you ask her to join your table at dinner?” She winked. “With your renowned charm maybe you’ll cheer her up.”

  Nelson looked dubious but Lani said “Oh yes! Go on Jack . . . you’ll make her laugh.”

  Just then a plump young girl walked past carrying a dish.

  “Come on,” Jack said, standing up. “This is a nightly ritual and you shouldn’t miss it.”

  They walked over to the edge of the terrace together with the others from the bar. The little bay lay about thirty feet below. A light set in the rocks below the water had been switched on and the water and sandy bottom were vividly illuminated. A score or so of the brightly coloured fish were swimming around expectantly, some only a few inches long, others two feet or more. The plump girl appeared on the beach. She was barefoot and wearing a red sarong which was hitched up around her hips. She waded in past her knees then took something from the dish and held it under water. Immediately one of the bigger fish nosed in and delicately took it from her fingers. Lani laughed in delight and clapped her hands. The girl fed the fish for ten minutes, making sure they all got a morsel, even shooing some of the bigger ones away to give the tiddlers a chance.

  Nelson was standing next to the American woman and heard her exclaim “They’re so tame!”

  He turned and said, “Joan forbids fishing of any kind down there.” He pointed to the girl. “Fiona, her daughter, has been feeding them since she was a toddler. Some come and some go but she has names for them all. If you go swimming they sometimes nibble at your skin, apparently for the salt.”

  She was entranced by the spectacle, for the moment her misery forgotten. As the girl turned and waded ashore Jack said,

  “Sorry to hear about your friend. Is he badly hurt?”

  Immediately her face fell. “Quite bad, but the doctor says he’ll be all right.”

  “Which doctor?” “O’Reilly.”

  “He’s good,” Nelson said reassuringly. “Drinks a bit, but then who doesn’t?” He paused a moment. “Look, if you’re by yourself why don’t you join our table for dinner? My friends are an interesting pair . . . might take your mind off things.”

  Jack Nelson was neither attractive nor smoothly charming but he did have a sort of bluff sincerity. He saw the woman hesitate and then nod.

  “Thank you.”

  “Good. I’m Jack Nelson.”

  “Kirsty Haywood.”

  Five minutes later they were all seated on the dining terrace. Sensing that she would like to forget the afternoon’s incident Jack steered the conversation to the journey of Ramesh and Lani. Kirsty listened politely but it was obvious that she was preoccupied. Ramesh was very aware of it. He was sitting opposite, covertly studying her face. She raised her eyes to his and he looked away, embarrassed. But a few minutes later he was again watching her, unable to comprehend what drew his eyes back. He knew it was an attraction but at first did not understand it. She was not talking, so what was the interest? Then abruptly and embarrassingly he knew. It was physical. The woman was warming him — physically! He was bemused. Certainly he appreciated beauty but in a controlled or esoteric way. This woman cut straight through to his senses. Why? How? Was it just looks? He appraised her face. Full mouth. High cheekbones. Gentle curve of her chin. Yes, beautiful, but it had to be more than that. Lani was beautiful in a different way. Perhaps more conventionally beautiful. There had to be something else. He was looking at her and thinking so hard that it was some time before he noticed that she was also looking at him. He coughed and turned his head in confusion. But he knew what it was. He had seen something in her eyes; as though he had seen her naked. This woman had roused him physically, not by her face or body but by something in her mind. Was that possible? Could a woman attract and stir a man with her mind alone? He was intrigued and disquieted and a little embarrassed.
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  The meal was a buffet of a large variety of local fish cooked in the Creole style and while they all ate and Jack held centre stage the atmosphere was relaxed.

  It was afterwards when he had petered out that the silences became oppressive and Kirsty’s face grew even more melancholy. Both Ramesh and Lani tried to fill in, but without much success. Finally, in desperation, Ramesh steered the conversation to Jack’s Navy days and for a while, with clever prompting from Lani, he reminisced about his war days.

  After several stories Lani asked impishly, “Jack, didn’t you ever do anything wrong . . .? Make even one mistake?”

  She was smiling, her head cocked to one side.

  Jack studied her lovely oval face for a moment, then nodded, his face turning sombre. He told them the story. The first time he had ever told it, and he did not understand what made him tell it now. Maybe it was the melancholy of the woman sitting next to him or the knowledge that his life did not have long to run, or his new-found ability to look at himself from a different angle.

  It involved the time early in the war when he served on a minesweeper. They had been based at Scapa Flow in Scotland. After a particularly drunken run ashore Jack had spent several hours working on the ship’s engines. He was hung over and with a blinding headache and he did the work sloppily. During the night the ship was suddenly called out during a force seven. They were to sweep an area off the eastern coast of the Orkneys. It was miserable and dangerous work close in to a lee shore, and just before dawn the previous day’s shoddy work had its consequences. He had not tightened up the oil filters properly and one after the other the engines seized up.

  They were driven ashore under the cliffs of Stronsay and four of the crew were drowned. It was a very old minesweeper and its engine type notorious for unreliability and no blame was attached to Jack, but inside he knew that it was his fault.

  The others listened with sympathy as he told them that from that day on he had driven himself mercilessly so to be sure that no one else would die because of his work.