Infinite Ground

by Martin MacInnes

  Pérez had frightened him more than anyone he had ever met.

  He pictured a box in the room upstairs. A cage, the man kept in metal. It all reminded him of a film he’d seen once, the name long forgotten. And something there: an identity switch?

  He waited a moment more, then introduced himself at reception.

  ‘They’ll be expecting me,’ he said.

  He sat at the long bar, ordered a whisky to settle his nerves. His ears were ringing. His hands shook. He again reminded himself that there was no forensic evidence of a contagion in Carlos’s office. He was simply tired, getting over the food poisoning. Too old to be taking cases like this.

  He heard deep, thick laughter from further down the bar, followed by detailed descriptions of anatomy and intercourse. The barmaid kept her head down, mouth closed, alternating purposefully between wiping the glasses and the bar counter. To his left two handsome, well-dressed young men raised their shot glasses and smiled. He found himself nodding back. He ordered another whisky.

  One thing that irritated him was the mysterious ability, as it seemed, of everyone else to remain composed. The interview subjects at the corporation, Vasquez, Dias and Kandinski, for instance, especially Dias – they never seemed to register the heat, whereas he always appeared flustered wherever he arrived. This sometimes aided him, lending an impression of a lack of care. He often seemed to be struggling to catch up with something, and this could give an opponent an unmerited sense of control.

  But still, he would have liked it if at least one of the employees had shown the faintest sign of physical unease.

  He downed his drink.

  ‘Mengano,’ the younger man said, offering his hand.

  ‘Beltrano,’ went the other, appearing irritated.

  ‘Caballero,’ the inspector offered, playing along.

  ‘We thought you weren’t coming,’ Mengano said.

  The inspector took his coat from his stool.

  ‘He’s here, don’t worry. There’s no rush, is there? We can sit. It’s better we wait a moment. Have you prepared yourself, inspector? Perhaps you should order another drink?’

  ‘Who exactly—?’ the inspector began, before Beltrano, still refusing to make eye contact, raised his hand to silence him.

  A young woman, dressed in a black gown, walked past the bar and disappeared into the adjoining room.

  ‘Isabella?’ the inspector called, stunned. ‘Isabella!’

  ‘Let’s go, we need to hurry,’ the other one said, contradicting Mengano.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Come on. Finish your drink. We don’t have much time.’

  Mengano led them on, past the elevator to the stairs. ‘He’s up there.’

  ‘Did you know, Inspector,’ Beltrano said, as they began briskly ascending the first steps, ‘that every single person has an appointed killer, someone who, upon seeing them, suddenly recognizing who they are, has no option other than to do it, usually with their bare hands?’

  ‘What joke is this?’ the inspector asked, struggling to match the pace of the two younger men. ‘No option? Are you Pérez’s lawyers? I was under the impression…’

  ‘You’ve got us wrong! We’re on your side, Inspector. But humour us, won’t you? Can’t you think of examples from your experience in the force? Motiveless murders. Haven’t you ever wondered?’

  ‘I should explain,’ Beltrano continued, ‘the meeting, the recognition – whatever you want to call it – it hardly every happens. World’s a big place. People die other ways.’

  ‘I like to dress darkly, discreetly, just in case.’

  They suddenly branched off the staircase, turning sharply down a corridor of identical doors, then another, and another. They were moving so fast now that the inspector almost had to run to keep up.

  ‘When it does happen,’ Beltrano pressed on, without breaking his stride, ‘when the killer meets the appointed target – remember he or she knows nothing about it. They’re not bad people, necessarily. They don’t – that is to say – choose to kill this person. It’s just the way things are—’

  ‘Where is this room?’ the inspector cut in. ‘Haven’t we made a full circuit of the third floor?’

  ‘Third floor? What are we doing on the third floor?’

  ‘Isn’t it on the fourth floor? Isn’t that where he’s held?’

  ‘That’s where we’re supposed to be.’

  ‘Mengano? Okay. But first I should come clean. The reason I know about this is… I’ve actually seen it happen. I’ve witnessed a real case. And it was quite something.’

  They stopped by the staircase. The inspector wiped his head, relieved at the break.

  ‘Some water?’ Beltrano said, smiling and taking a bottle from his briefcase. ‘Apologies, I was sure there was something in it.’

  The men were smiling, watching him. He wanted to say to them, ‘Listen, can’t we just stop this? I don’t want to hear this shit,’ but he hadn’t caught his breath.

  Beltrano corrected his waxed side-parting in the mirror-wall.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  They let the inspector start back up the staircase before them, as if he knew where to go, and they followed. He went along with it. He just wanted it over with, wanted to get there. They climbed another flight, two steps at a time, and started a loop of the fourth floor. It was a straightforward enough task, simply walking past every door. They didn’t see a single person. Mengano continued. The inspector heard him from behind like an insistent voice in his head.

  ‘Last year, September, late at night. Amazing. Raining hard. I couldn’t believe he was able to make an identification. Wouldn’t have thought he’d even be able to see clearly. I heard this voice: “Where are you going?” Not too loudly. Again. Then he reached out and grabbed the neck and wrenched – and it was amazing, because up until that point he had just been a pedestrian. He hadn’t been the kind of person who could do something like that. Thing is the guy under his hand somehow got away. Ran. Like I say, amazing!

  ‘He ran all through the city. People were afraid of him.’

  ‘How did you—?’

  ‘They thought that he was dangerous, because of the way he was running; he was desperate, he wasn’t going to move out of the way to avoid hitting someone. They couldn’t see that he was running from someone. He must have been going twenty, thirty minutes…’

  ‘Inspector, I don’t mean to be rude, only you’re going to have to walk faster. Otherwise, well, we’re just going to walk right through you. You do want to get there, don’t you?’

  ‘If they were running,’ he managed, ‘then you were too – you chased this poor man.’

  ‘I had to find out what happened, didn’t I?’

  He heard Beltrano quietly behind him. ‘Just this door here, any one, very soon now. It’s around the corner, I’m sure of it.’

  He was beginning to feel nauseous. He had drunk too much at the bar. His stomach curdled. When had he been sick in his apartment? One day ago? Two? A week? He had lost track, and now he was charging along a corridor with two strangers. He realized he hadn’t yet established who exactly these men were, which body they represented. The official on the phone had led him to believe he would be met by police. But were they the lawyers, part of a team acting on Pérez’s behalf? Were they more directly involved with the corporation?

  Additionally, he wanted to ask for clarification on the illogical details in their story – was he supposed to believe Mengano had been present for the whole duration of the chase, running through the city at night in the rain? The way it was told it seemed Mengano had overtaken the pursuer, that he had, in fact, become him. If he was running, which must have been the case if the story were to have any credence, then the victim, the man being chased for no reason, would have seen him, leading to a confrontation when they both stopped, surely? And it became
Mengano he feared.

  ‘Can you imagine what he’s thinking, waiting at the bus stop?’

  ‘Almost there, Inspector.’

  It was unpleasant hearing the words coming from behind, their footsteps, the quickness increasing, threatening to meet him, go through him. His instinct was to turn around now, but if he did, he knew he would vomit – that’s all it would take. In any case, they wouldn’t stop for him. He was positive that if he turned around there would be a collision, head-on. By this stage he had lost all hope of seeing Pérez. He doubted Pérez had ever been there.

  ‘There were a few people at the scene – someone in uniform having just finished a late shift; a young couple who’d been drinking for hours – and they didn’t like the look of the guy who’d just shown up. There was something not right about him. His pupils, nostrils – the whole face wild. He was leaning against the shelter, doubled over, retching, wheezing. Just like you, in fact, Inspector. He was wild and exhilarated. Terrified, but exhilar­ated – that’s the thing, that’s what I remember. He’d got away. He knew how lucky he was. He was living at his greatest capacity. And then he closed his eyes.

  ‘So now he’s on the bus, single deck, half-full, sitting at the back. He’s still terrified, paranoid, thinking stupid things. He’s even looking out the window at the back of the bus – that must’ve been why he chose the seat. But the bus pulls away. I’m thinking the guy must be imagining another scenario, say the bus suddenly stopping, a rapping on the door, a new passenger coming on – the same man, the hunter, walking the aisle towards the back of the bus. I mean, what would the guy do?’

  His head spun. He didn’t have control of himself. He was acting absurdly, moving up and down the corridor at the behest of these strangers, these sinister young men with false names. He knew how stupid he looked. He hated them. He heard himself snorting, panting. He felt sweat on his back and forehead, sensed the red spreading across his face. He heard them right behind him – not just the sound of their expensive shoes, but the swish of their shirts and jackets, the metronomic rhythm of their breath, the assurance of their ease and absolute control. How long would they keep going like this, chasing him, he wondered?

  ‘Would he shout – for the other passengers, for the driver? What would he say? And what if the man, the attacker – and it’s not his fault, remember, none of it is – what if he doesn’t go all the way to the back of the bus? What if he simply takes a seat near the front, waiting, presumably, for the victim to get up and leave? What is he supposed to say to the driver then? Because this other man – the hunter – is only sitting in his seat, quietly; he hasn’t done anything wrong as far as anyone can tell. The victim can’t stay on the bus for ever. At some point he has to get up, walk down to the front, past him. And he has to do it sooner rather than later; he doesn’t want it to be just the two of them left as the bus comes into the terminus. But he also knows that, if he does get up to leave, he’ll be followed. You see? That’s what’s so funny about it! It’s impossible! It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a game and there’s no way out.

  ‘The guy sitting at the back, he’s feeling all right now. His adrenalin’s seeping away. His heart rate’s returning to normal. He’s starting to wonder if maybe he imagined some of it. It’s so strange, surely it’s not real. And this is the point when he opens his eyes.’

  The inspector knew neither for how much longer he could continue like this nor why he was even trying. He wanted to confront Mengano: ‘Are you saying you are a murderer? Are you saying you have killed someone, is that it?’ That must have been the reason he was still with them – he needed to ask. But he had his hand clasped to his chest, his lungs struggling for air.

  It wasn’t particularly rare, this kind of bravado. People, especially young people, liked to try that around police, mocking them, hinting at crimes, while remaining careful not to state anything that might count as an admission of guilt.

  ‘Are you ready, Inspector?’ One of them put a hand on his shoulder. They’d stopped.

  ‘This is it. We’re here. This is the room. Everything you need to know is on the other side.’

  He leaned on the corridor wall, put his other hand out, wheezed.

  ‘Perfectly all right, Inspector. Gives me time to tell the part of the story I forgot. The beginning.’

  ‘The most important part,’ Beltrano continued. ‘It could even come in useful, who knows?’

  ‘True. What I meant to say, right at the start, Inspector, is that no meeting happens that is not preceded by a sign. An error. Something gone wrong – a single white flower placed on an other­wise clear path; an old woman walking backwards through a crowded street; a clock suddenly leaping several hours.’

  ‘Gather yourself, Inspector. You don’t want to be humiliated in front of your peers, do you? This is a big opportunity. Come on.’

  Beltrano opened the door and the inspector pushed himself in. He hit a rush of air and was immediately refreshed. He breathed in deeply. He couldn’t hear them behind him any longer. He wanted to go out further into wherever that air came from. It was completely dark in the room. He couldn’t see anyone. Some game, some experiment, he thought. He wanted to enjoy the oxygen, but as he walked out into the room he felt a different surface under his feet – a thin mesh metal floor. A cage. The noise echoed out against something. A light turned on, ­dazzling him a moment before illuminating the space – it was the rear of the hotel, the refuse stored and ­collected below. Beyond that, the roaring wide river and a flash of forest.

  He turned around, stepped back into the corridor. The men were out of view.

  XII

  Comparisons to burial and grave memorials in other societies are inevitable. The six-foot depth cut into earth is a similar practice, scaled-up. There is the same belief, often, that the vanished person may return. In cutting six feet in, the approximate height of the figure is inscribed, the length cut also. The born person has been cut out of the earth, made of its materials; preparing burial re-enacts the life-giving, as if in bringing up turf, topsoil, rock, animal, the others are collecting substances with which to make the deceased living again, or to make another of him.

  TRIBES OF THE SOUTHERN INTERIOR, p. 117

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Isabella? I’m sorry to be calling. Is it late? Of course it is, yes. It’s just that I was wondering. I know it’s been a while, but could we maybe go over one or two things? I mean, I wanted to run something by you. Is that okay?’

  ‘Inspector?’

  He thought he heard something on the line, an object being moved, perhaps a door being closed. Laughter, hushing, another voice.

  ‘Yes, well actually – but no, now’s fine, we can talk, of course. How are you?’

  ‘Well, you know, one or two things… I thought I was on to something for a while, the case – I really did. But I must have been mistaken. Things got confusing. I don’t know. I think it’s this heat. I can never really see clearly, outside. Anyway. Not to worry.’ He paused. ‘How are you? You know, didn’t I see you the other week at the hotel, I…’

  ‘A hotel? Me? No, no, you’re mistaken. But I’ve been meaning to call you.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Regarding Carlos. He’d been reporting to a physician for several months – you did know that? I don’t have the records, but access shouldn’t be a problem. Naturally, I’ll be curious to see them myself.’

  ‘That’s really helpful. That’s interesting. May I take the name, the details? I’ll share what’s inside just as soon as I have the file.’

  ‘Already sent. Well? You wanted to ask something?’

  ‘Yes, well, I’ve been playing everything over, so to speak, the theories, what happened to Carlos. Honestly, I think I may have to start questioning my judgement. Some of the ideas… I mean, there was a time when I was genuinely considering the possibility that Carlos broke apart, that something
happened to him, molecularly, so to speak. Beginning in the office, I mean. The form finally giving way that night in the restaurant. It’s absurd. But did we really discuss that? I mean, I can see now you were being figurative, it’s just I haven’t been feeling so well myself recently, there have been certain worries…’

  ‘Worries?’

  ‘Obsessive trains of thought, the same thing again and again, and it really isn’t like me. And then, just the other week, a bout of mild poisoning, something I ate, resulting in some flux, sweating, vomiting. Nothing unusual, I shouldn’t think.’

  ‘Inspector, see a doctor. As a precaution.’

  ‘Really? I will. But I would like to ask… what I would like to ask regards the outbreak of illness. In Indonesia – the parasite—’

  ‘E. endilicitin.’

  ‘Yes. The article you gave me.’

  ‘Listen, clearly that was a mistake. I want to be quite firm about this: there was no trace of a parasite anywhere in Carlos’s office. The microbial disturbances uncovered there are of a different order, a different scale entirely.’

  ‘Okay. Of course. I was just thinking, I haven’t perhaps been quite myself recently. I mean, I wasn’t well and then I got really sick. Not that I really believed it, but… But I wasn’t myself for a time. Could I have been exposed to something in the office? Some strain, some transmission aided by the heat? And I wondered if you weren’t suggesting a parasite, actually, in bringing the article to my attention.’

  ‘Firstly, you’re doing too much. And I’m concerned. You’re working this, as far as I can tell, completely on your own. Are you even seeing any other people? You’re putting too much pressure on yourself. It can’t be helping. I’m going to insist you see a doctor, for the food poisoning. It can’t do any harm. And the article, Indonesia? I thought you’d be interested, after the reports, the sequencing. You seemed interested, but I’ll admit my enthusiasm can sometimes get out of control. Did you know that other kinds of bacteria – green algae, for instance – have eyespots? That they can discern light and move towards it? So you can understand if I get carried away. Anyway, I thought you might have an academic interest in the article, that you might be curious. If I implied a direct link to the case, then I’m sorry, that wasn’t my intention. I hope I haven’t wasted any of your time.’