I KILL

by Lex Lander

  ‘Do you mind if we come up?’ the man said, with a hint of apology. His English was accented, maybe Germanic.

  ‘Be my guest.’ I indicated the steps that wound up to the terrace in an elongated S. The pair ascended hand-in-hand. Honeymooners? Neither of them would see thirty again, but maybe it was second time around.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ the man said again as they mounted the terrace, addressing Lizzy. And Lizzy, exuding goodwill to all God’s creatures, smiled broadly, a splash of white in a bronzed setting.

  ‘G’day,’ she said. ‘Are you lost?’

  The woman answered. ‘No, no, nothing like that.’

  The man laughed, a shade too heartily. ‘No, no,’ he echoed, as if the idea were ludicrous.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr … er … ?’ I enquired civilly.

  ‘Grahvermarker is my name.’ He stuck out a small, slender hand; the palm was sweaty. ‘It is spelled g-r-a-v-e-m-a-k-e-r.’ A giggle, embarrassed. ‘In English, it means gravedigger.’

  ‘Hello,’ I said neutrally.

  ‘This is my wife.’ He indicated the woman, his hand extended, palm upward.

  ‘Mrs Gravemaker.’ I raked up a stiff smile.

  ‘Are you on holiday?’ Lizzy asked.

  Gravemaker regarded her in open appreciation, as any heterosexual male might be expected to do. ‘Yes. We are staying in Encamp. We come every year.’

  ‘Yes,’ his wife trilled. ‘It is such a beautiful place.’

  ‘Do you live here, Mr, er … ?’ Gravemaker went on, his turn to play the name game. I confined my reply to a curt affirmative. My identities, real and bogus, were jealously guarded.

  ‘How can I help you?’ I said then, an edge to my voice.

  ‘Well, you see …’ Gravemaker dragged a peeling forearm across a peeling brow. He looked hot. Perspiration darkened the armpits of his shirt. ‘We are looking for a property to buy. We were on our way to meet an immobilier in Andorra-la-Vella, when we saw this house. It’s so …’

  ‘Magnificent,’ Mrs G supplied.

  Gravemaker’s mouth twisted, as if he found his wife an irritant. Then he shrugged. ‘Ja, magnificent. We wondered if perhaps you wish to sell.’

  ‘No,’ I said shortly.

  ‘Ah.’ He didn’t seem unduly deflated.

  ‘Are you from Holland?’ Lizzy asked Mrs G.

  She confirmed it with a duck of the head.

  ‘From a village near Groningen, in the very north of Holland.’

  ‘I went to Holland once.’ Lizzy’s face screwed up with the effort of recall. ‘I was only little and I don’t remember much about it except the windmills and the canals. We went on a boat with a glass roof and rows of seats like a bus.’

  ‘Amsterdam,’ Mrs G said.

  Gravemaker studied Lizzy again, with a trace of slyness I didn’t care for. It was as if he were sizing her up, perhaps pondering her relationship with me. The natural assumption would be father and daughter. Unless he had reason to think otherwise.

  He was scratching under a damp armpit, his gaze now transferred to the house. It stood well on its elevated site: the L-shaped layout, the timbered gables and second floor balcony compensated for its modern styling. It had been built by a Spaniard from Granada, but the only Andalucian influence was in the archways enclosing the dining room. The blend of natural colours – beige stucco walls, dark woodwork, chocolate coloured roof tiles – complemented the backdrop of green hillsides and steel-grey peaks.

  ‘It really isn’t for sale,’ I said, and flung out an arm to take in the amphitheatre of the valley. ‘There are plenty of other properties on the market.’

  Gravemaker made a non-committal sound. His wife just simpered. They showed no inclination to move on.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ Lizzy asked them. ‘You look so hot.’

  I willed them to decline.

  ‘Er … thank you.’ Mrs G, bemused, glanced at her husband. ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘Yes, very kind.’ Gravemaker had no reservations about accepting. ‘Thank you, Miss …?’

  He was at it again, fishing for names.

  ‘I’m Lizzy. He’s Alan.’ Introductions made, she ran into the house calling for Señora Sist. A moment later she was back, with the good señora in tow.

  Drinks implied seats. I erected the big parasol over the table and various soft drinks were ordered from Señora Sist, who doted on surprise callers.

  ‘Are you staying long in Andorra?’ Lizzy said. Small talk came naturally to her.

  ‘A few days, a week if necessary.’ Whenever she spoke, Mrs G darted a worried glance in my direction. Maybe I was making my displeasure too obvious. I pasted a meaningless smile on my face to put her more at ease.

  The drinks arrived on a tray and Lizzy distributed them. An awkward silence descended, broken only by the clink of ice cubes as thirsts were slaked. Gravemaker drank in short, sharp bursts, sluicing the lemonade around in his mouth like a wine taster.

  ‘Is your wife away?’ he said to me.

  ‘No.’ I didn’t expand. What business was it of his?

  ‘Alan’s not married,’ Lizzy said, and my heart contracted. She was so guileless it was painful. Now conclusions were sure to be drawn about our being shacked up together.

  ‘Oh.’ Gravemaker gulped lemonade; his cheeks bulged.

  I stuck sunglasses on my nose and pretended I was invisible.

  Two girl cyclists in short shorts were wheeling their boneshakers past the drive entrance, chattering non-stop. A dusty old pick-up, careering downhill, honked them appreciatively, earning shouts of derision and an unladylike double salute. The pick-up honked a retort and rattled on, streaming dust.

  ‘We must go,’ Gravemaker announced at last, his smile taut.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ his wife said, and in rising treated me to an old-fashioned stare.

  Lizzy was alone in her insouciance. ‘You’re welcome to come again, whenever you like.’

  I gnashed my teeth behind tight lips.

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, and thank you again.’

  We waved them back to their car and off the premises. The exhaust vomited billows of blue smoke, hinting at impending mechanical disaster. Lizzy linked her arm through mine. ‘They were nice.’

  Nice. Everybody was so goddamned nice.

  ‘If you say so.’ My head was pounding. A real drink was the only cure, but having jumped off that particular merry-go-round for Lizzy’s sake, I meant to stay off. ‘To be candid, I didn’t greatly care for them.’

  ‘Misanthropist. They’re just a couple of Tulips from Amsterdam.’

  ‘Groningen,’ I corrected absently, returning to the sun lounger. High up in the aching blue a hovering bird of prey caught my eye. As I watched it went into a stoop, tumbling earthwards like a stalling aircraft, a plunge that spelled death for some unwary denizen of the hillside.

  Lizzy went back to her painting and I went back to my book. All very domestic, all very tranquil.

  The tranquillity lasted less than twenty-four hours.

  Lizzy cycled into the village for her music lesson in the morning, now a twice-weekly routine. I always offered to drive her, she always declined. The independent streak coursed fiercely through her veins.

  In her absence I did a stint in the kitchen, experimenting with a recipe for salmon pâté. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and aside from the ever-present shadow of Clair’s disappearance, the world wasn’t too bad a place right then.

  When Lizzy returned, bringing her own special sunshine to add to the natural kind, I was popping the pâté in the fridge, well pleased with the result of my labours.

  ‘Hey, Alan, guess what?’ she said breathlessly, as she came over and pecked my cheek.

  ‘I can’t. What?’

  ‘I saw that Dutchman in the village just now.’

  I started to clear up the debris from my culinary toils. ‘The gravedigger guy? So what?’

  ‘No, not
him!’ She was seriously agitated, fists clenched, almost bouncing with impatience. ‘The one with the English name. Or if it wasn’t him, he’s got a twin brother.’

  ‘English name?’ I said with only half an ear, as I swept debris into the trash can.

  ‘You know, Brown. That man who was always hovering around Mummy.’

  It belatedly permeated my grey cells.

  ‘Brown? You mean de Bruin? From Tangier?’ I gripped her arms so tightly she squeaked with pain and surprise. ‘You’ve seen de Bruin? Here, in Andorra?’

  My apprehension rubbed off on her. Her eyes grew wide, fear dilated her nostrils.

  ‘In the village. He was just driving along the road. He didn’t stop or anything.’ She wriggled to break free. ‘Alan, you’re hurting.’

  ‘What?’ I released her as if she were white hot. Thumb-shaped bruises bloomed on the soft flesh inside her upper arms.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to hurt you, honey.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ She massaged both places ruefully. ‘Cave man. Look, maybe it’s a coincidence. No need to get snaky. Don’t worry, he didn’t offer me sweets to get in his car.’

  Only then did I remember that Lizzy was ignorant of de Bruin’s complicity in her mother’s abduction. She had no cause to see him as a threat.

  ‘You’re right.’ I turned to the counter, made a show of dumping utensils in the sink.

  ‘I don’t suppose you liked him on account of him always hanging around Mummy,’ she said.

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’ I took a grip on myself. My heartbeat wound down. ‘Not only that though, he was …’ I needed to justify my over-reaction. ‘I found out afterwards he’s a criminal of some sort, possibly mixed up in the slave trade. So you’ll see why I’m not anxious to have him hanging around you. You don’t want to end up in a sheik’s harem, do you?’

  She considered this. ‘Funny you should say that. While we were in Dubai …’

  ‘Clair told me about the Arab prince,’ I said curtly. ‘You may not know this, but thousands of young people of both sexes go missing every year and are never seen again. God knows where they end up.’

  A toss of the head.

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  I didn’t dispute it, but I couldn’t help thinking about the Dutch girls, Bea and Margot, de Bruin’s playthings. Forced, induced, bribed, or whatever to appear in a lesbian porno-movie. Bea, if anything, had been even younger than Lizzy.

  ‘Did de Bruin see you?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She opened the fridge and foraged inside. ‘Jesus, Alan, if I’d realised you were going to make such a bloody stink I’d have kept quiet about it.’

  Thank God she hadn’t.

  De Bruin in Andorra. Add to that, an impromptu visit by two Hollanders. House-hunting tourists? Or spies carrying out a reconnaissance? And was there a link between Gravemaker and Lizzy’s night-time prowlers? It couldn’t be ruled out.

  Lizzy poured Orangina down her throat, straight from the bottle. Her worried frown told me she suspected I was keeping stuff from her. She could read me too well.

  Hit or run were the options. De Bruin didn’t scare me. I would welcome a one-to-one confrontation. If he could deliver Clair alive (taking for granted that he instigated her abduction), I might kill him quickly and cleanly afterwards. Then again I might do it slowly and messily.

  Only my private pledge to Lizzy made me hesitate. The prowlers’ visit had proved she was already in danger, either on her own account or through her association with me. The amount of protection I could provide while simultaneously hunting down the Dutchman was limited. His resources manifestly exceeded mine, and his troop train was already rolling while mine was stuck in the sidings, waiting to get up steam.

  I made the decision. To run.

  ‘You’ve only two weeks left before you start school,’ I reminded her. She pouted. School was very much a sore point. ‘What do you say to a short cruise on Seaspray?’

  ‘I’d say … beaut-ee!’ She flung her arms about my neck and we whirled around the kitchen like ballroom dancers, her gaiety as always infecting me, temporarily snuffing out doubts and inhibitions.

  It was the soft option. Remove us both from circulation until Lizzy was due to start at her swank school (I hoped), thereafter leaving me unencumbered to deal with de Bruin for once and for all. As a plan, it was sound. My intentions were good.

  Meanwhile, I needed information about de Bruin, so that evening I telephoned Giorgy. He had never returned my call from Tangier, but this time I struck lucky. He answered the call in person.

  ‘I have no work for you right now, André,’ he said a little tersely, before I had a chance to explain. In the background I could hear voices so perhaps my timing was bad. ‘Next month, probably.’

  ‘Forget that. I just want to pick your brains. Have you heard of a Dutchman called Rik de Bruin?’

  Several seconds passed before he responded.

  ‘Possibly.’ Now the tone was guarded. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Possibly meant certainly. But it would be all too easy for him to fob me off over the phone. We had to meet.

  ‘What I have to say is not for an open line, Giorgy. Could we meet up at the weekend?’

  It turned out, after some grumbling and flicking through the pages of his diary, that he could but didn’t see why he should. He was more exasperated than suspicious.

  ‘You must convince me why I should inconvenience myself merely to satisfy your desire for information.’

  ‘If I could tell you more, I would. How about I buy you lunch?’

  He surrendered in the end, as I was sure he would. Unhappy, but resigned. Too curious to refuse. The venue agreed on was Cap d’Agde, the French Mediterranean vacation resort, approximately equidistant from Andorra and Giorgy’s Antibes base. I only hoped I wasn’t digging my own last resting place.

  Twenty-One

  Seaspray toppled off the edge of the world. Swooping like a big dipper, down, down, into a trough so deep that the wave crests on either side rose to half the height of her masthead. The shudder of the hull as it nosed into the translucent green travelled up through my feet, and through the wheel to my hands. Then we were climbing again, sluggishly, staggering under the water’s weight, up the side of the next thundering wall of green.

  Lizzy and Alfredo stood at the front of the cockpit, clinging to the coaming on the cabin roof, each secured, like me, with a brace of safety lines. As we slithered over the escarpment of water, Alfredo turned to make a circle of finger and thumb, denoting approval, delight, and all those other passions that wild seas and a bucking deck inspire in lovers of sailing.

  This was no storm. Just water sculpted by high winds into spires of foam and froth that caught the sunlight and scattered it like liquid gold dust. And I loved it for the same reason that the explorers of yesteryear took to their cockleshells of boats and crossed limitless oceans. Because to pit myself and my boat against the might of the sea and to win was to temporarily conquer the last unconquerable element on earth. Its hazards were narcotic and the greater the danger the more mind-blowing the high.

  We were some thirty hours out of Sitges and crossing the Golfe du Lion, notorious for its volatility. My troubles were behind me, healed by wind and spray and ozone. We were running close-hauled, the north wind butting at our port bow. Cap d’Agde away to the north-east, was still over the horizon.

  ‘All right?’ I bellowed at Lizzy, as we rocketed out of another trough.

  She could only bob her head vigorously.

  By all the rules of seamanship I should have put in a reef. We were down to just the mainsail but even that was too much canvas for the conditions, and we rocked and rolled more than was comfortable. Yet we were never in any danger. Alfredo and I were immune to high seas but Lizzy surprised me, lapping up Seaspray’s contortions like an old salt. We completed the final leg of our run across the gulf unreefed, and suffered no worse than a soaking.


  In Cap d’Agde harbour we picked up a spare buoy easily enough, and set about making Seaspray shipshape, aglow with the thrill and satisfaction of having taken all the sea could throw at us and gone the distance.

  ‘Enjoy it?’ I asked Lizzy, as she helped me to stow the staysail.

  ‘Enjoy it?’ she breathed, unclipping the halyard and snapping it onto the pulpit; she was learning fast. ‘I loved it.’

  ‘I never had kids of my own to share it with.’ I peeled off my lifejacket. ‘You’re like a being from another planet to me.’

  ‘Green skin and pointed ears?’ She wiped damp, hair from her salt-glistening cheeks. ‘Is that how you see me then – as the daughter you never had?’

  If only it were that straightforward.

  ‘Er … well, no, I can’t say I do exactly. I’m not qualified for fatherhood, and I don’t feel old enough. I’ve led too solitary an existence for too long.’ I fell back on a tired old cliché. ‘We’re just good friends really, I suppose.’

  ‘Just good friends?’ She fixed me with a searching look. ‘We’re more than that, aren’t we? We must be more than that. I don’t see you as a friend or a father.’ Her grey eyes were searching. ‘You’re extra-special. Unique.’

  Inside my skull an alarm bell was jangling faintly, as it always did whenever we got onto the tricky subject of her and me and how we fit together.

  ‘Maybe you should pop me in a jar of preservative,’ I joked, straining to keep the dialogue light.

  Rejecting my levity, she looked directly at me and through the window of her eyes laid her inner self bare. I knew what she was leading up to and it scared me.

  ‘It’s no good, sweetheart,’ I murmured, forestalling her next utterance. ‘You and me … it’s impossible.’ The words just slipped out. Words of regret for a love I couldn’t contemplate. Daren’t contemplate.

  She didn’t flare up, though she might easily have taken my regret for condescension. Instead she turned away, her back stiff with my rejection as she saw it.

  Alfredo saved me from further gaffes by emerging from the saloon armed with steaming metal mugs.

  ‘Señor André, señorita …’ We took the proffered vessels, with relief on my part. Lizzy and I had brushed fenders, but the damage was superficial. For now. Maybe one day, maybe soon, would come the head-on collision.