Alyzon Whitestarr

by Isobelle Carmody

  “Did you hear what she said?” I demanded shakily. “There was a fire and someone was killed.”

  “She said maybe a fire and maybe a boiler accident and maybe a bomb. And maybe someone or a whole lot of some-ones were maybe killed or injured,” Harrison said.

  “Harrison, you don’t understand. When she said there had been a fire, I … I remembered. That day I told Harlen that Gilly’s house had burned down, he asked who did it.”

  “So?” Harrison asked, looking baffled.

  “Don’t you get it?” I cried. “That was the first thing he said. But I didn’t say anyone had burned it down. Why would he jump to the conclusion that it wasn’t an accident? It’s proof that he was involved in the fire.”

  “If you’re right, it’s also proof that this sickness can provoke people tae pretty extreme actions.” He glanced around and said we had better get on. We could talk more later about the fire.

  Three “no answers” and then, at the fourth house, an elderly man with a foreign accent came to the door. His scent was nice and friendly, and there was none of the impatience that I had smelled in the cleaning woman. Harrison explained about the survey, then he asked about the school.

  “There was a school that burned down. I had not emigrated then, but my sister wrote of it to me,” the old man said. “She did not say it was a private school, but that difficult children went there. What is the word you see in the newspapers all the time? Delinquents. Yes, it was a school for delinquent boys. But it was a school where the parents are very rich, and so the school was very fine with many facilities.”

  I exchanged a glance with Harrison. “Do you know how the school was destroyed?” he asked the man.

  “My sister said that it was an accident. Some kind of boiler explosion and then a fire.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” I asked.

  “Yes! You have reminded me. It was a terrible thing. An inspired music teacher died, my sister said. An accomplished violinist. She called him the heart of the school. A wonderful man who had given his life to helping difficult young men and boys,” the old man said.

  “Your sister seems tae have known a lot about the school,” Harrison observed.

  He smiled. “My sister is the sort of woman who makes it her business to know a lot about everything. Besides, I think there were occasions when the school invited the neighbors to performances and concerts. To assure them that they were not at risk, I suppose.”

  “Was there … was there any suggestion of the explosion being deliberate?” Harrison asked.

  The old man frowned a little at the question. “My sister would certainly know if there was such a suggestion. And she would have told me. What makes you ask such a question?”

  “I was just … curious,” Harrison said lamely. “We heard there used tae be a gang of kids at the school that caused a lot of trouble.”

  This was a straight-out lie, and I felt myself blush, but Harrison held the old man’s gaze as he considered it. At length he shook his head. “I doubt gangs would have been encouraged or indeed permitted at such a school. The authorities would be trying to prevent such things, I should imagine.” He shrugged. “I do not know who would have spoken of gangs. Perhaps they were thinking of the gang that set fire to the bakery a few weeks ago.”

  Harrison shot me a look and then said, “A gang set fire to a bakery?”

  The old man shifted from one slipper-clad foot to the other and I smelled the faint mustiness of his fatigue. “It was madness. There was no money to be stolen, and the woman who ran the place is not the sort of person to have alienated anyone. Indeed, she is a wonderful woman and gave work to young people whom no one else would employ.” He sighed.

  Harrison held out his hand and thanked the man for his time. The door closed as we walked down the street and Harrison said, “What do you make of all that?”

  “I don’t see how a gang that vandalizes a bakery would have anything to do with the rest of this.”

  “Unless the vandalism is some sort of initiation rite. ‘Proof of commitment,’” he added with emphasis.

  I didn’t say anything. I was thinking of a woman who had employed difficult young people, whose bakery had been burned; and a musician whose work had inspired delinquent boys, killed in a fire. Almost as if they had been harmed for their goodness.

  We tried several other houses, but the occupants either did not want to speak with us, were not at home, or had moved to the street since the school had closed down. The sky had gradually darkened, and now Harrison eyed the clouds looming overhead and said we might as well give up and go see Rose Cobb.

  It took twenty minutes to reach the detention center, and the wind was buffeting us by the time it came in sight. I noticed a small group of protesters, set up on the lawn beside the entrance, hurriedly pulling plastic bags over their placards and loading them into a dark green van. As we drew level, they got into the van and drove away.

  “Which house?” Harrison cried, as thunder rumbled.

  “This way,” I called. Lightning flashed overhead, and as if it were a signal, it began to pour. We broke into a run. In moments we were standing on Rose’s front porch, rain lashing at our backs.

  “Hope she’s home and doesnae mind letting in a couple of drowned rats,” Harrison said ruefully.

  I knocked at the blistered green door with a sudden stab of doubt. I had only met Rose Cobb once, however well we had got along. What if I had misunderstood her invitation? What if she had forgotten me? Before I could voice my apprehensions, the door opened and Rose stared out at me blankly. But at once, to my great relief, her face folded into the warm, kind smile I remembered.

  “Alyzon! My dear girl, how lovely to see you! Come in, you and your friend. This house faces right into the teeth of the wind, so the veranda is all but useless as any kind of shelter.” She stood back and the wind seemed to push us through the door and into her little hallway. Harrison caught hold of the door and wrestled it closed, and we all laughed.

  Rose made us take off our coats and, after I introduced Harrison, told us to go in and sit by the fire while she made some tea. Harrison grinned at me, and I grinned back. With his damp and wildly tousled hair and half-fogged glasses, he looked cheerful but slightly demented. It wasn’t until we got into the living room that I realized Rose had another visitor. It was the same young man who had been with her before: Davey

  He rose and stared at us both. I was startled to see his hands were stained black to the wrists.

  “Uh, Davey?” I said awkwardly. “This is my friend Harrison, and I’m—”

  “I know who you are,” Davey said, not even glancing at Harrison. “But you shouldn’t say your name because the air remembers it and some people can read the air. Sniff the names out of it like dogs sniff up each other’s pee words,” Davey said earnestly.

  Rose Cobb bustled into the startled silence with a tray, and Harrison sprang up to help her set the table. “What awful weather it is, but that’s winter for you,” she said. It was only after we each had tea and a scone with jam that she asked what we were doing in Shaletown.

  “We had some stuff to do,” I said vaguely. “I actually thought you might be across the road. Silly, when it’s raining.”

  “We try not to let rain stop us,” Rose said. “But today there were some of the other protesters there and … well, sometimes things get rough when they’re there, so I don’t go over on those days.”

  “Other protesters?” I asked curiously.

  “Oh, there are all kinds of protesters, not that I would have known that once upon a time. There are the ones like Gwenny and her friends, who are peaceful protesters, and then there are those who are determined to make a point no matter what it takes. Angry protesters,” she added, looking to see if I remembered our last conversation. I nodded. “The ones over there today seem to be what I call political protesters. I like that sort least, because what they want never seems to have much to do with helping people.”

  “They
are bad,” Davey said.

  Rose took his hand. “No, Davey, they are only a bit exclusive.” She looked back at Harrison and me and added, “I’m afraid they were rather rude to me when I went to offer them some tea and scones, and it upset Davey.” She patted his hand.

  “Simon says they are bad,” he told her, patting her hand back in exactly the same consoling way and leaving no mark despite the stains on his hands. “Simon says Davey needs to go home soon.”

  “But it’s still raining, dear,” Rose objected.

  “Davey will not get wet,” Davey said serenely.

  “You know what, we have a friend with a car, and we were supposed tae call him tae pick us up,” Harrison said. “We can give Davey a lift home.”

  “What a good idea. What do you think, Davey?” Rose asked.

  “Davey must go in the car and show the driver where to go,” Davey said complacently, as if repeating instructions.

  Harrison called Raoul while Rose told me with some pleasure that one of her daughters had sent a lovely long letter. “But tell me now, what other errand did you have in Shale-town?” she asked with sudden curiosity.

  I glanced at Harrison, who had put the phone away. He said, “We’ve been trying tae find out about a private school that used tae be here in Shaletown.”

  “The Boys Academy at Carmine Street?” Rose asked.

  We both stared at her, and I realized what a fool I was not to think she would know about the school. Shaletown was relatively small, after all, and she had lived here for a long time.

  “I remember when it opened. It was called Shaletown Institute, and a grim place it was back then, with very serious ideas about discipline. It closed down for a time, and then it was opened up as the Shaletown Boys Academy and set out to target wealthy families with problem sons. It was run along very military lines to start with, but then the management changed and the school seemed to go through a sort of renaissance. Instead of fierce exhausting sports, the boys were introduced to the arts. Music in particular. There were a great many concerts in those days, and it was a real pleasure to attend them. In the end the place became rather a model school.”

  “But it burned down,” Harrison said.

  Rose sighed. “Yes. I remember thinking at the time what a pity it was.”

  “Why didnae they rebuild if it was so successful?” Harrison asked. “There must have been insurance.”

  “There was a great deal of damage to the school buildings, but I think it was more that there seemed no heart to rebuild. You see, one of the music teachers—actually the man who had really been responsible for the school’s renaissance—died in the fire. A terrible tragedy.” She sighed.

  Suddenly there was the sound of a horn from outside. I explained quickly about Raoul so Rose would not think him rude. We pulled on our damp outer clothes in the tiny entrance hall, Davey’s size making it even more cramped.

  “Davey, you can show them the way,” Rose said. “He knows it very well,” she added reassuringly to me. Then she gave me a hug and said, “You come and visit again with your young man here.” I blushed and didn’t dare to look at Harrison, which caused Rose’s sharp eyes to narrow speculatively so that I was quite glad to get out into the rain and wind again.

  But when we were all squashed in the car, I saw that Harrison looked unperturbed and realized that her teasing would probably mean no more to him than kissing me had meant. I felt rather aggrieved that I had made so little impression on him, then wondered at my own contrariness. I ought to be glad that his kiss and my reaction to it hadn’t marred our friendship!

  Raoul greeted Davey, who only said, “Davey came so he could show you the way.” Then he proceeded to point out the way to the industrial park where he said he had his trailer. The area lay beyond the straggling residential edge of the town, over a stretch of barren hill paddocks. The road brought us around the hill and past a group of enormous warehouses rising above the shabby clutter of little shacks and sheds that made up the rest of the industrial park. Most of them looked to be closed up and derelict.

  Then Davey cried out that Raoul should turn into a driveway leading to a small gray-timber shack with a dribble of smoke coming from its chimney. It was surrounded by a herd of half-rusted and disassembled relics that might once have been cars, and there was a sign on a post that said “Dolen Spare Parts.” Under it, so faded that it was barely discernible, was “Scrap Metal Supplies.” I wondered if Davey operated the business. His blackened hands seemed to suggest it, but how could he make a living from this run-down shack when it looked as if all the other businesses around it had failed? Then I realized Davey was probably on some sort of disability payment.

  “Davey lives in the trailer in back,” Davey said cheerfully. “You park here.” Raoul pulled up in front of the shack as he had been directed, and Harrison and I got out to let Davey out. It was still raining, but not as heavily as before. Davey went round to say “thank you” to Raoul and shake his hand.

  “I’m sorry, Davey, I can’t get out because …,” Raoul began.

  “Davey knows. Legs no good. Davey once had a cat with legs that didn’t work. They shot that cat, and Davey cried.”

  “I guess he was a good cat,” Raoul said gently, as if there was no hurry, though the rain saturated his shoulder and wet his cheeks.

  “Davey loved that cat,” Davey said sadly. Then, seeming to cheer up, he said, “Simon says go that way now.” He was pointing in the direction of the warehouses.

  “Thank you, Davey,” Raoul said. “Maybe we’ll see you again sometime.”

  “Oh yes, you will, Simon says,” Davey told him. He tapped the hood of the car with his black finger. “You got something in there needs replacing. That’ll be a good reason to come back. Davey will get a new one for when it breaks.”

  He pumped Raoul’s hand again with his huge black hand, then Harrison’s, but when he came to me, his smile faded. He looked at me with his guileless blue eyes, his sweet scent filling the air. “You gotta be careful here, Alyzon Whitestarr. This is one of their places, and they’re stronger in their own places.” Then he turned and trotted over to the hut, waving before he entered.

  Harrison had got into the car and I followed, trying to shake the unease that Davey’s nonsense had made me feel.

  “Did he just tell you that you should be careful?” Harrison asked me.

  I shrugged. “It’s probably what people tell him all the time, and he thinks that’s just how you say goodbye.”

  Raoul started up the engine and drove back onto the road, the headlights picking up little more than the rain slanting down. He headed the way Davey had indicated, but a few minutes later we came to a dead end: a cul-de-sac with the enormous metal warehouses on all sides.

  Raoul began to turn the car around, but there was not much space so he had to go back and forth a few times. I was wondering how trucks managed when Harrison let out a cry that startled Raoul so much he stalled. We both followed Harrison’s gaze to a warehouse door with a security light angled toward it. It looked no different from any of the other warehouses around us, and I looked at Harrison in puzzlement.

  “Look at the name above the door,” Harrison said. “It’s the name of the guy you said was married tae Dita Rayc—her first husband.”

  “Second,” Raoul corrected. “And you’re right. Makiaros Inc. This must be one of the properties he left her.”

  “It’s on the other warehouses, too,” I said, squinting back through the rain. In fact, it turned out to be on all of the warehouses; Harrison insisted on getting out and looking.

  “What an odd coincidence that we should just come upon them like that,” Harrison said as we were driving back along the road.

  On the way home, Harrison asked Raoul about his visit to Aaron Rayc’s office. It was still raining steadily, and the wipers were on high.

  “Dita was definitely a wealthy woman before she married Aaron Rayc,” Raoul said. “The office building turns out to be the highest b
uilding in Shaletown, with gold-tinted glass windows and a foyer that wouldn’t be out of place in New York. I know from my research that Makiaros practically made a religion of keeping business in one’s own backyard, but the building seemed overdone. I commented on it to the woman who spoke with me. I was told that the man who built it—she meant Makiaros, I’m sure—believed that Shaletown had the potential to be a major industrial city. I suppose that is why he had so many warehouses built. Other than the showiness of the office, the only thing I noticed was the amount of electronic security in the building, but it was very inconspicuous. I doubt I would have noticed if I hadn’t been looking.”

  “Why would a charitable organization want so much security? They must be hiding something,” Harrison said.

  “For all I know, half of it may not have been operating. Or it might just have been more grandiose planning on Makiaros’s part,” Raoul said.

  “Did the woman say anything about what Rayc Inc. does?” I asked curiously.

  “Not specifically. Apparently neither Rayc Inc. nor its international associate, ORBA, operate in the same areas as such organizations as Oxfam, World Vision, or Community Aid Abroad. Their interest is in trying to change society so that the sorts of problems these other groups deal with would cease to exist. I said that I thought this was admirable though ambitious, but that I was definitely interested if I could be convinced that a donation of mine would effect some specific and concrete change for good in the world. The woman who spoke with me suggested I meet with someone more senior who could explain some of their projects to me. I said I was a busy man, and we left it at that, but I don’t have any doubt they will contact me. But now it’s your turn. Tell me what you learned about Harlen Sanderson’s old school.”

  I left it to Harrison, and let myself be lulled by the sound of the rain and the rhythmic slap slap of the wipers. Raoul listened, then finally shook his head. “So we don’t have any real proof that the explosion was the work of a gang, or even that this bakery fire was the work of a gang. In fact, there’s no true indication that a gang even exists.”