Restoration

by Guy Adams

  He headed upstairs, his eyes drooping before he had even cleared the door of his room. The fact that his body knew a solid night's sleep on an actual bed lay ahead made it impatient. He was fast asleep the minute he lay down.

  The next morning he washed – oh to have had a hot shower, just to finish off the holy trinity of an evening meal and a night's rest – and put on his usual clothes. He was tempted to leave the overcoat behind, it's not as if the weather demanded it, but he had no idea how to inconspicuously carry his gun without it. Better to sweat than be shot at and not be able to shoot back. But then that was also a problem that needed solving: he was out of ammunition. First order of the day would be to find some shells.

  He asked at the hotel owner where you could buy hunting supplies and the fat man had grinned at him, showing teeth that alternated between black and white as often as a crossword. The man had given him a name and a street number and Ashe had headed out. There was something to be said for staying in suspect accommodation, he thought, you asked the concierge at the Waldorf where to buy weaponry and they took a dim view of you. Here it made you fit in.

  The house he had been directed to was nondescript, just another open doorway in a terrace of townhouses. Music called through the bead curtain that hung across the front door, letting in the cool but keeping out prying eyes. Crackly swing tunes, Glen Miller, Ashe thought, or maybe Benny Goodman, one of those old guys. Not so old right now, he reminded himself.

  "Hola?" he called, peering through the gaps in the beads to see if he could spy movement in the darkness beyond them. Having lived in Florida he had a fair bit of Spanish, it was a useful middle ground language between the Cubans and the Mexicans. He'd found it easy enough to pick up. Perhaps you already knew it… that annoying voice in his head said, hollow man! "I was told this was the place to come to if you wanted to buy…" he had no intention of shouting out his requirements, not without so much as a pair of eyes to look into, "specialist items."

  "I am nothing if not a specialist, senor," a voice replied, dark, nicotine-stained fingers parting the beads to reveal a craggy face crowned with an unruly mop of black hair.

  "Jimenez?" Ashe asked.

  "Nobody else here," the Spaniard replied, waving Ashe inside.

  It took a few moments for Ashe's eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the dark of Jimenez's house. Not that there was much to see, a couple of easy chairs, a large dining table. There was no ornamentation or pictures. The only decoration being the smell of cigarette smoke and old wine.

  "Sit down my friend," the Spaniard said, pointing to one of the easy chairs, "and tell me what 'specialist items' you have need of."

  Ashe considered remaining standing – certainly he had no urge to make himself comfortable here – but didn't want to irritate the man by refusing his hospitality.

  "I have most things," Jimenez continued, sitting down in the other chair, "I am a man who believes in free trade. Women? Drugs perhaps?"

  Ashe ignored the fact that Jimenez thought him the sort of man who would want either. He took his revolver out, careful to hold it in a suitably non-threatening manner. "Ammunition for this," he said.

  "Ah!" Jimenez smiled, "you are in the market for violence."

  "Protection," Ashe insisted.

  Jimenez shrugged. "The two are the same, it all comes down to timing, no?"

  Ashe chose not to answer that.

  Jimenez nodded anyway, as if Ashe had told him something extremely wise. "May I?" he reached for the gun and Ashe, with a moment's pause, gave it to him.

  Jimenez cracked it open as if it were no more unusual an act than breathing. "I do not recognise it," he said, handing the revolver back.

  "It's American." Ashe explained, hoping that was enough.

  "So are most of the weapons I sell," Jimenez replied. "You people make many guns."

  Ashe couldn't deny that.

  "I have what you need," Jimenez said, getting up and leaving the room.

  Ashe sat in silence, glancing toward the bead curtain every now and then, nervous of being caught in the act of buying illegal munitions. The music switched from an upbeat number to something slow and romantic, the kind of tune you swayed to in the arms of a woman you loved. It seemed hideously inappropriate in the circumstances, like an Irish jig at a funeral.

  Jimenez returned with a couple of boxes of shells. He handed them to Ashe. "You looked like a man who might want quantity," he said.

  Ashe couldn't deny that either. "How much?" he asked, opening both boxes to check they were full then loading his gun.

  Jimenez shrugged as if the matter hadn't occurred to him. "I like to do favours for new customers," he said, "it encourages them to come back."

  He named his price and if it constituted a special offer, Ashe was shocked to think what the regular price might be. He handed over some of his dwindling dollars and made to leave.

  "I will be here if you need me," Jimenez said as Ashe parted the beads. "In case you run out!"

  Ashe didn't reply, leaving the man to the sleepy croon of the big band on his record player.

  3.

  He made his way down to the port, wanting to find the boy, Pablo. Stood back, he realised what an impossible task that would be. The port was massive, a small city of its own. There was the yacht marina on one side – all flickering sails and gleaming white paint – and the industrial port to the other. The latter was chaos. Chains of men ferried produce of all kinds along the dock. Great trains of boxed fruit, gleaming fish, spools of fabric, motor parts… The air was thick with smoke, burned oil and raised voices. The Spanish were a loud nation, their sailors doubly so. Jokes and orders bounced from one side of the port to the other. Laughter mixed with fury, a dash of obscenity (and a large dash at that) to top it off. It made Ashe's head spin just to look at it.

  As much as he despaired of finding the boy he didn't have it in him not to try so walked from one end of the docks to the other. Every few steps he had to jump to one side to avoid packing chests or sailors. Chains and ropes swung – apparently mindlessly – through the air around him. It was an obstacle course as well as a wild goose chase and, once he had walked from one end to the other he gave up on a return journey. The idea of finding anyone was a nonsense. He had spent all of his time watching where he was going, not scrutinising the crews he passed. Maybe it would be quieter later on in the day. He knew nothing about the business of commercial shipping. To hell with it, he'd take the risk and come back later, there had to be more constructive things to do with his morning than avoid death beneath a crate of bananas.

  As he left the dock he stopped to look at a young girl curled in a spool of rope, fast asleep. She made him think of Sophie. There was no similarity between them but he thought of her nonetheless. He often did. It was no life, he thought, looking down at her… no life at all.

  He headed back into the city – a trek in itself but one that had much to recommend it, not least the lack of death traps and shouting sailors. He stopped for a coffee, feeling the need of the energy. That was the thing about a good night's sleep after so long without: it clung to you like molasses for hours. He sipped at his coffee, as thick as milkshake and with a kick that made him shiver. Once finished he could put off the next stage of his plan no longer: time to go and take a look at Garcia's house.

  It was just as he imagined, a building designed to show off. Surrounded by white walls that offered glimpses of a luxuriant garden and a large blue dome inside. The cathedral, only a few metres away, began to toll its bell and Ashe squinted against the noise, each peal like a hammer blow that made the nerves in his temples twitch.

  Garcia was a man with connections. Crooked ones at that: the sort that wouldn't mind handling the guns Garcia sold. Ashe couldn't simply storm in there and demand the box, he would be shot within seconds. His escape route from Valencia was some time off – he had allowed a stay of three days – ample time he had hoped. Given his initial glance at the docks he feared it would take him t
hat long just to try and find Pablo.

  First things first: the box. He looked up at Garcia's house and felt a chill settle over him despite the overwhelming heat. He guessed there was only one option: he was going to have to steal it.

  He walked around the house a number of times, getting a feel for the size and scope of it. Then he took a seat in a cafe and sketched a plan. Laying out the front gates and outside wall was easy enough and he was confident he could map the external wall of the house within that using the view of the roof. None of which helped him figure out where Garcia may keep the box of course. In fact, it didn't help him much at all.

  He sighed, snapping his notebook closed and looking up into the busy Valencian street. There was little point planning this, he realised. He would just have to watch the house, wait until it was empty then force his way inside. Sometimes the best plans were as simple as that.

  His eyes were caught by an unusually refined figure weaving his way through the Spanish locals. A man in a white linen suit, panama hat bobbing through the crowd as he made his way in Ashe's direction. He was moving quickly, clearly irritated at the people in his way. Hot too, constantly dabbing at his face with a large paisley handkerchief. Once he was only a few feet away that sweating face nearly made Ashe drop his coffee cup. It was Chester.

  4.

  Ashe paid for his coffee and made after his younger self. That hat made him easy to track, even in the bustling crowds. What's he doing here? Ashe wondered. The answer to that was easy enough once he thought about it. Same as you, old man, he's hunting for the box.

  Having lost the box in New York due to Penelope dropping it in the drainage gully he had somehow traced it here to Valencia and presumably Garcia. But how? Ashe wondered, I have the advantage of history I knew it would end up here and could trace backwards, how in hell does he know where to look?

  After a while, it became clear that Chester was aiming for the port. Ashe had to go some to keep up with him. He never just walks, he thought, I was wound so tight I had to march everywhere. Forever dabbing the sweat from his forehead or the back of his neck where his hair curled in wet ringlets.

  In Ashe's pockets the heavy boxes of shells bashed against his thighs. You could imagine they were excited, jiggling together in glee at the sight of someone who loved them.

  Once at the port, Chester veered towards the marina. He has a boat, Ashe thought, I kissed goodbye to a fortune when I stepped out of his life and into my own. That's not all you said goodbye to, another voice piped up, don't forget that.

  The boat was a wedding cake of white wood and chrome trim. As Chester walked along the jetty and hopped aboard, another man appeared at the wheelhouse above him. Ashe didn't recognise him but given his considerable size and the fact that he had the head and expression of a perverted bowling ball, guessed he must have been Henryk, Chester's driver, the man who had raped Penelope's friend Dolores.

  Ashe walked past the boat. He kept his head down and walked as nonchalantly as he could. He didn't feel nonchalant though, he felt terrified. Of all the experiences he'd thus far endured coming face to face with his younger self had hit him with a force that he could scarcely deal with. Once he had reached the far end of the marina he took off his coat and sat down on a wall. How could he be here? That was the question he kept coming back to. Just how the hell could Chester be here?

  5.

  He sat and watched the marina, trying to think of a way he could get closer to Chester, maybe figure out what his plans were. Obviously his younger self wanted to retrieve the box for himself. He would have to succeed too, one day anyway, to make his own contribution to the timeline of the House.

  Perhaps Ashe would be best served acting as a shadow to his younger self, keeping track of him, letting him do all the hard work and then step in at the end, snatch the box from him. Maybe even force him to use it before he found the boy. There was a neatness to that which appealed.

  As the day wore on, Ashe began to wonder if he was wasting valuable time. Chester didn't show his face all afternoon. Henryk – if indeed that's who it was – appeared every now and then, stood at the wheelhouse and gazing out to the ocean but that was all. As the sun began to set Ashe was convinced that he had wasted the hours entirely. He was no further forward in his plans and a whole day had gone. He was just about to leave when he saw both Chester and Henryk step off the boat and stroll towards the city.

  Ashe followed at some distance, aware that he didn't exactly blend in, most especially now the marina had become quiet. Chester and Henryk were in a world of their own, walking silently through the streets. Neither of them had reason to suspect they might be followed.

  Ashe was reminded of how Madras had transformed itself at nighttime, Valencia going through much the same process. The streets were lit, the bars filled and what had been a bustling, functional city now turned into a vibrant, musical feast. Guitars strummed flamenco, violins swooped into folk riffs, hands clapped and leather soles stomped. The streets shook with sound, laughter and shouting, cheers and jeering. Nothing ever happened quietly, the simple delivery of a bottle of wine to a table was something conducted in roars of pleasure.

  Chester and Henryk made their way towards the cathedral and for a few minutes, Ashe had wondered if they planned on visiting Garcia. But they stopped at a small restaurant nearby, ordering themselves plates of shellfish and a bottle of rioja. Ashe kept his distance for a while but then, emboldened by his lack of time and the fact that watching them from afar was still getting him nowhere, he walked into the restaurant and took a table just behind them. Chester would have no reason to suspect him as anything other than another visitor. One hardly checked old faces in a crowd in case one of them might be your own. The sheer implausibility of it was as good a disguise as any. He positioned his chair so that he had his back to them but was close enough to pick out parts of their conversation. Hearing his young voice was deeply unsettling, familiar and yet alien. In the way that listening to a recording of yourself can be.

  "You sure you don't want me to come with you?" Henryk asked.

  "No," Chester replied, "I can manage perfectly well on my own." There was silence to that but Ashe had to imagine that Henryk had pulled a disbelieving face as Chester's tone was childishly defensive when he continued. "Don't think a jumped up little crook like Jimenez worries me," he said, "he is a tradesmen like any other."

  Ashe didn't catch Henryk's reply, the man was speaking too quietly but his thoughts were occupied with the mention of Jimenez's name. Could it be the same man he had met earlier? Yet another coincidence. Was this the House's influence once more? Was he somehow being pushed around on these expeditions like a chess piece?

  "You are capable of many things, Henryk," Chester said, that high tone of his carrying much better over the noise of the other diners, "don't forget I've witnessed a fair few of them, but you are not a housebreaker, I have no wish to bail you out of the local jail come the morning." Henryk obviously attempted to quiet his employer as Chester scoffed. "None of them speaks a word of English, look at them, bunch of peasants."

  I really was an asshole, Ashe thought.

  "If you're not back by twelve I will come looking for you," said Henryk, loud enough to be heard this time, his voice raised in an attempt to placate his employer, Ashe assumed. "That gives you an hour to talk and then make your way back to the boat. Now please…" what followed was too quiet for Ashe to hear but he imagined it was something along the lines of "shut your flapping mouth, boss, before we get ourselves in trouble". Too late for that. Chester's appointment was at eleven. His bravery had paid off.

  When the waiter came he ordered some fish – keeping his Spanish accent as thick as possible to hide the fact that he was as American as the gentleman behind him – and decided to add a bottle of wine, he felt he was allowed a small celebration.

  6.

  If Chester and Henryk talked further, Ashe didn't hear them. He wasn't particularly concerned, he had his plans for the day ahead
and his initial disgust at finding Chester here could turn out to be misplaced. If all went well, his younger self could handle all the difficult stuff.

  Halfway through his meal, the sound of chairs scraping back announced Chester and Henryk's departure. They made their way back to the marina and Ashe relaxed into his wine. He still had to find Pablo – a problem he couldn't envisage an easy solution to – but once he had the box in his hands he would at least be some way towards achieving his goal. If he managed to force Chester into the House tomorrow then he had only one journey left: New York, to meet Tom and Elise. While the thought of that journey saddened him – much as trapping his friends on the Intrepid had – he did at least know that it was quick and simple. A few hours would do it, from the strip club to the bar where they would vanish. Then he could return to the House, see if the future he had felt hang over him ever since he had arrived there might yet be diverted. The thought of that took away his enthusiasm for the wine, however much he tried to push it away. He left a third of the bottle, paid up and returned to his hotel hoping that he might be able to secure at least one more night of decent sleep.