by Peter Hey
‘What do you mean, old tricks?’
‘As I said, you don’t want to know. Look, he was useful to us. And now he’s dead and you’re carrying his baby, an American baby. This was supposed to be simple. Get to you before they did and put you on a boat to Jamaica. Then you become a problem for the Limeys. It just went wrong.’
Pat shook her head. ‘I met Che once. I could have spoken to him. He’d have helped me. He’s a good man, very close to Fidel.’
‘Guevara?’ The American laughed. ‘Or Dr Ernie Lynch as we like to call him. He was in charge of revolutionary justice at La Cabaña prison. He likes a firing squad, does the good doctor. And in the mountains, he used to do his executions personally. Gun to the head. Bang.’
‘That’s not true. You’re lying!’
The American slammed the side of his fist into the metal wall. ‘I’m a liar now!’ he shouted, his face flushing with rage. ‘God, what am I doing here? We should have let your commie ass rot!’
‘Yes, you’re a liar! All this rubbish about Soviet nuclear bombers. Castro wants to be left alone. He wants peace. But free from you, free from the imperialism of... the Colossus of the North!’
‘The Colossus of…? Wow, sugar. You’ve really bought what they’re selling. Castro wants world communism. They all do. That’s the ultimate goal. You think it’s about equality. It’s about power. The reality is a totalitarian, police state. Some of us prefer freedom.’
‘What, freedom to die young? Freedom to be illiterate? Freedom for the poor to be downtrodden by the rich?’
‘Sugar, you’d better pray we win. Pray we send Castro and his goons packing. These guys like to get even. I’ve met operatives who’ve come back from Eastern Europe. People vanish all the time. Say the wrong thing, have the wrong friends…’
‘Castro’s not like that. He’s a man of honesty and integrity. Have you ever listened to one of his speeches?’
‘What? One of the five-hour ones? Look, suppose you’re right. Say Castro himself is a really nice guy, who just wants to make the world a better place. His sort of regime depends on control, control of everything. Dissent has to be stamped out. The guys beneath him do the dirty work. That’s how they get and stay where they are. Castro says the revolution is going to be wonderful for the people of Cuba, so anyone who opposes it has to be... discouraged. Because revolutions are fragile things and maybe the alternative is Batista coming back. And you don’t want that, do you?’
Pat answered with sullen silence and the American continued his argument.
‘Whole machines grow up to keep people in line. The men within them enjoy their jobs. Being feared is good for the ego. And they don’t like to think someone's got one over them. Who does? So they have long memories and they’re prepared to come after you.’
‘What are you trying to say?’ asked Pat impatiently.
The American shrugged. ‘I’ll be fine back home in the States. Mind you, I’ve always got a loaded gun in the house. Plus, of course, they might not be able to link me with the death of those two cops, or whatever they were.’
Pat read the implication. ‘But I didn’t kill them,’ she pleaded.
‘They came for you. Because of the man you chose to marry. Look, I hear there are lots of commie sympathisers in England. Word might get around. Maybe the Soviets will do some tidying up as a favour for their new friends in Cuba. Just to show how you play ball in the big leagues.’
‘Are you serious?’ said Pat, frowning in disbelief. ‘Or are you just trying to scare me?’
The American shrugged again. ‘It happens. More than you know, trust me. People have accidents. My advice is to keep your head down and your mouth shut. And that peashooter you waved at me earlier… I’d keep it under your pillow. It might help you sleep at night.’
Gloucester Docks
One of England’s ancient county towns, the city of Gloucester was founded by the Romans in the 1st century at an important crossing of the Severn, Britain’s longest and arguably greatest river. Later invaders, the Saxons and the Normans, protected the settlement with their own fortifications and the great cathedral was established as far back as 678 AD. In the 20th century the aerospace industry became prominent in the area, with the local aircraft manufacturer renaming itself Gloster to simplify the spelling and pronunciation for its foreign customers.
Jane had visited once before when they had taken Dave’s niece, Sophie, on a tour of the cathedral. The ten-year-old showed only a polite interest in Jane’s attempts to explain the contrasting Norman and Gothic architecture, but was enraptured by the cloisters, the square of covered walkway where mediaeval monks had once exercised and meditated. Sophie was Harry Potter mad and recognised the intricate mediaeval fan-vaulted ceilings as belonging at Hogwarts, various scenes having been filmed beneath them. She was also impressed that a one-time king of England was buried beneath a life-size stone effigy so far from London. His father had hammered the Scots and made his son prince of a conquered Wales, but the reign of the second Edward was destined for failure. Humiliated by Robert the Bruce at Bannockburn, his addiction to favourites alienated his barons and the country eventually descended into civil war. His French queen turned against him and allied with his enemies, becoming the lover of one of the Marcher lords. Edward was forced to relinquish his crown in favour of his 14-year-old son and died, probably murdered, in a castle a short ride from Gloucester. Jane chose not to tell Sophie the gruesome rumour of how the king was put to death using a red-hot poker inserted into his fundament so as not to leave an external wound.
On that trip, Jane had concluded that Gloucester was a city with two faces. There was the towering central magnificence of the cathedral and the various historic buildings in its vicinity. But also apparent was a great deal of deprivation and poverty. The bleak 1960s bus station had seemed particularly run down. The people hanging around it, drinking from tins or simply staring into space, looked soulless and lost. As she drove past now, she was pleased to see it had been redeveloped. It had also been renamed a ‘transport hub’, perhaps in an attempt to purge all association with what had gone before.
There had also been considerable investment in the old Victorian docks. Jane had not seen them previously, but could easily imagine them as their industrial traffic declined and the wharves became abandoned. Gloucester had been an inland port, and a ship canal, once the broadest and deepest in the world, had been cut to bypass the meanders of the Severn and provide a more direct route to its estuary. The canal terminated in a wide basin with smaller cuts and docks running off it. The area was now given over to apartments, museums, retail outlets, bars and restaurants. The original six and seven-storey warehouse blocks were interspersed with sympathetic modern building. There were pleasure boats moored alongside a collection of more historic vessels that acted as a reminder of what had gone before. A tall, three-masted barque lay in dry dock, having navigated from the Bristol Channel through a succession of swing bridges.
Jane left the Mazda in an open car park by one of the larger areas of water and walked the short distance to where they had agreed to meet. The Italian café faced onto an inlet once reserved for barges and which still held an assortment of old working boats in various states of repair. One lay at a decided tilt and looked destined for the bottom unless she was patched up soon.
The sun was shining but there was a cold wind, and the outside tables were empty bar from a couple of hardened smokers. Jane had suggested to Cyn that they should aim to get there a few minutes early so they could chat a little before Alan arrived. Jane pushed open the wide glass door and scanning around the half-full café assumed she was the first there until a largish, older lady with a deep tan and contrasting permed grey hair began waving from by the window. Jane stared briefly and tried to strip away the years. And then she saw the youthful Cyn within, the girl from a photograph taken half a century before. Jane smiled warmly and waved back whilst walking towards her.
‘Sorry, I didn’t see you at
first,’ said Jane, holding out her hand.
‘Well, I couldn’t miss you,’ beamed Cyn. ‘You said you’d be wearing green. I like a bright colour. Cheers everything up.’
Jane slipped off her coat and draped it on the back of the chair. ‘Have you been here long?’ she asked as she sat down.
‘I got an earlier train. Had a walk around the shops and then came to look at the boats. When my husband wasn’t so well, we’d drive here and he’d happily sit in the car and watch the world go by. This place always makes me think of him.’
‘How long were you married?’
‘Well, we got to celebrate our golden wedding.’ Cyn’s eyes twinkled naughtily. ‘I was a child bride, of course.’
‘And a very beautiful one. All the men I’ve shown your photograph to have gone weak at the knees.’
Cyn pretended to pull a sad face. ‘Oh to be young and thin again like you.’ A broad grin immediately reappeared. ‘Or maybe not. I’m healthy and have had a wonderful life. I wouldn’t want to go back to all that kerfuffle with the opposite sex, being pestered all the time. I’m sure you know what it’s like.’
‘I wish,’ said Jane.
A waitress came over and they ordered coffees. Cyn asked for a slice of her favourite cake, and Jane decided to join her. They talked about Cyn’s life, her four children, her comfortably successful husband and, in retirement, their passion for travel. She was loquaciously bubbly and fun, and Jane decided she was just as attractive as she could ever have been. In Jane’s experience, some women were spoiled by beauty. It made them vain and arrogant, gave them a feeling of superiority and entitlement. But others were the complete opposite. Since their earliest years, people had invariably warmed to them because of how they looked, and they responded in kind. They felt no jealousies or resentments and their characters grew to mirror their faces. Cyn was clearly in this latter category, and it had protected her from the insecurities of ageing and decline. Her figure had been surrendered to childbirth and too much fine dining on 5-star cruises, her heavily lined face to too many hours spent lounging on sun-drenched decks. But inside she was still the lithe, fresh-skinned girl whom everyone loved and wanted to be with. Jane felt a twinge of jealousy.
Cyn spoke at length about Alan’s mother, Pat. The stories came back with a clarity reserved for those buried long and deep. Pat was a good friend, a wise and experienced counsellor, but prone to single-mindedness and inflexibility. She was convinced in her politics and distrustful of men, especially those who didn’t share her certainties. She admitted guilt at leaving her young son with her parents during the week, but argued a man would do it at the drop of a hat. Times were changing and women were no longer to be chained to the home. She was determined to build a career and play her part in creating a fairer world, for what she saw as the oppressed lower orders and for her own sex.
‘Her feelings towards her mother were confused,’ confided Cyn. ‘There was a coldness there. I could never really relate to it. But I was lucky. I was so close to my mum. And my dad.’
‘You said you met Pat’s mother. When she brought Alan on a visit to London?’
‘That’s right. I didn’t take to her, I must admit. She and Pat were… distant with each other. And poor little Alan… He was a gorgeous boy, but so clingy. He was all over Pat. I guess that’s understandable, but I know he did have some problems.’
‘Problems?’
‘You know, difficulties at school. With the other children. Had to be moved. With an odd upbringing like his – no father, mother only around at weekends – it’s maybe no surprise.’
Jane put down her coffee cup. ‘Talking of his father, when you rang you suggested that Pat was a bit mysterious about her time in Cuba, but said she could never go back?’
Cyn nodded. ‘Castro was her absolute hero. And then Che, of course, but everyone was in love with him at the time. You know, that image on posters and t-shirts. Believe it or not, she had a photo of herself actually with Che Guevara.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen it. Alan’s got it on his mantelpiece.’
‘Well, she didn’t show it to many people back then. I wasn’t even allowed to talk about it.’
Jane leant forward. ‘Did she say why?’
‘As I said on the phone, something happened in Cuba. It made her very cautious. She used to say that the revolution was more important than any individual and it had to protect itself. Castro couldn’t know or control everything. He was too busy sorting out the economy, education, health, a thousand other things. All the time trying to dodge CIA assassination attempts. And she had to keep her head down too.’
‘She was scared of the CIA?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Though she was always slagging them off. And America in general.’ Cyn furrowed her brow as she scoured the past, but then her face relaxed. ‘Sorry, Jane. Truth is, I never really understood. It was a long time ago, and Pat would say so much and then clam—’
Cyn stopped mid-sentence as she became aware of a tall man outside, just on the opposite side of the glass and peering in at them. He was bald, smartly dressed in a suit and tie, and carrying a bunch of flowers. He focused on Cyn herself and then his gaze turned questioningly at Jane. There was no smile of acknowledgement and he started making his way towards the door.
‘That’s Alan,’ said Jane, turning to watch him enter.
Cyn sat up in her chair. ‘He’s still quite handsome, isn’t he?’ She stroked her hair nervously.
Alan came in and weaved through the tables until he stood next to the two women. His face was stony and the flowers were now dangled loosely at his side, their heads brushing against his knee.
Jane sensed something was wrong, but tried to make an introduction. ‘Alan, you found the place. Let me—'
‘Is this some kind of joke, Jane?’ His voice was quiet and steady.
‘Alan, I don’t know what you mean.’
‘This… this woman. Please tell me she’s not supposed to be Cyn.’
‘Alan!’
‘I’m not a fool, Jane. I can see there’s a passing resemblance. But, what’s going on? You knew this was important to me. You knew. But you wanted your money, didn’t you?. Strung me along.’
‘I don’t underst—’
‘It makes sense now.’ A tremor was creeping into his voice as its volume rose. ‘That supposed neighbour in Kemble. Awkward old cow. She was in on it too. And then you try to pass this… this one off as Cyn. I wasn’t born yesterday.’
‘Alan, please calm down. You’re sounding paranoid.’
He shook his head vigorously. ‘I don’t know who she is, but she isn’t Cyn. Cyn’s only a few years older than me.’ He was speaking faster now. ‘She’s got bone structure, beautiful bone structure. It doesn’t age. And Cyn looks after herself. She goes to the gym. Every day. She eats well. Never, ever smoked. Hardly drinks. Just to be sociable. She’s wonderful company.’ He paused. ‘She’s not a fat, hideous, saggy-necked old woman!’
‘Alan, stop this!’ Jane had raised her own voice to match his. ‘It’s disgraceful. You’re being offensive and you’re making a fool of yourself.’
The whole café was now watching the scene with concerned faces. A businessman in his fifties was half out of his seat, as if deciding whether to intervene.
‘I know she had a husband.’ Slow, pleading desperation was replacing the gabbled anger in Alan’s words. ‘Someone who looks like her couldn’t be single. But he died. She’s over it now, ready for a fresh start. Though Cyn was very, very loyal to him. Not like that bitch I married.’ Alan’s head rocked up and down in confirmation. ‘That was my mistake, marrying a younger woman. She was pretty enough, but callous, untrustworthy. Always on the lookout for other men. My mother warned me and I didn’t listen.’ He glared at Jane. ‘When I was in Bangkok this last time... They were all like my wife, on the make. I need Cyn. Why couldn’t you find me Cyn?’
Alan lifted the bunch of flowers and smashed it against the table edge, sending
petals, leaves and broken stems scattering across the surface. His head dropped and he began to sob.
Jane reached over and stroked Cyn’s shoulder. She was shocked to silence and clearly hurt.
‘Let’s go,’ said Jane. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She looked up at Alan. ’I knew he had a few hang-ups, but I’d no idea.’
The two women stood, gathered their things and went to the counter to pay. Jane winced apologetically to the waitress as she tapped her credit card against the reader. She led Cyn to the door and turned back towards Alan, whose reddened eyes had been tracking them.
‘Get help, Alan,’ said Jane gently. ‘Please. You’re really not well. Go home, and when you’ve calmed down tomorrow, call your doctor. You’ll get yourself in serious trouble if you carry on like this.’
Another window, another day
He had been watching the front door for nearly 50 minutes. When he arrived, he had decided she must be at home because her car was parked outside. And that was a car you couldn’t mistake or miss.
His mug was empty. It had been refilled once, but he’d had enough tea now. He wasn’t inclined to buy another just for the sake of appearances. The owner, a middle-aged East European, had walked past and given him a questioning look, but so what? Maybe he was taking up a prime seat in the window, but the little backstreet café wasn’t exactly busy. There were plenty of tables for other customers. And he wasn’t the sort of man anyone was going to ask to move.
But what if she’d gone out without the car? The question had occurred to him quite early on, and he had reasoned that would mean a short journey, a trip to the local shops, a walk in the park. Maybe she had a dog to exercise; he really didn’t know. But surely she’d be back by now? Or was it possible she’d gone into town for the day? Maybe it was easier to take the bus or tram and avoid the congestion and cost of parking. Maybe he was sitting there for nothing.
