Borneo Pulp

by John Francis Kinsella

The pleasure of deep relaxed sleep hung heavily on him, as he luxuriated in the comfort and warmth of the king sized bed in his room at the Conrad hotel in Dublin. He was in no hurry, it was four days before Christmas, he had another two days before returning to Paris. He looked at luminous dial of his watch and saw that it was just before eight in the morning. He fumbled for the light switch and then for the remote control of the TV, catching the news on BBC television, the morning talk program overflowed with holly and mistletoe.

  In contrast to the biting outside temperature the warmth and comfort of the hotel gave him a feeling of childlike satisfaction, with a sense of security, especially at that time of year with an air of goodwill and well being.

  He felt a deep sense of relief, the previous days had been unreal, a nightmare, the ever-present anxiety that accompanied him was receding, and he was beginning to feel normal again. He had begun to accept in his mind that Axelmann’s death had been natural; there was nothing that he could have done. The distance that now separated him from the lonely spot on the beach was great. If the body had been found, it would have had to have been quick, but probably it would never be found, he rationalised. He repeated to himself that putrefaction started almost instantly in the tropics, especially in the rainy season, the insects and animals, not to speak of stray dogs, would take care of any evidence that could identify him. Just another body for the understaffed local police.

  He pushed those thoughts from his mind, as he hesitated between ordering breakfast from room service or going down to the coffee shop. He went to his room door to pick up his morning copy of the Times of London that had been slipped under the door. From the headlines Ennis saw that more trouble was brewing in the Middle East, he flipped over the pages to the financial columns and checked out the exchange rates, the FTSE index was down 12 points. He picked up the phone and ordered tea, it was better to wait in the room for the call that he was expecting around 9.30, then he would go down to breakfast.

  As he showered, he made a few mental calculations based on the day’s dollar rates and then thought over his program for the next couple of days. After breakfast, he would stroll over to the bank.

  Maybe he should checkout his reservations with Aer Lingus, but on second thoughts he realised it was not necessary. He had a first class booking and there was no reason that anything would change, apart from the usual Christmas delays or perhaps Dublin fog.

  He drank his tea with one eye on the TV and the other in the newspaper. It was still dark outside, it appeared damp and misty under the yellow streetlights, the traffic was building up and the lights in the offices opposite were coming on as the early birds arrived.

  The TV announcer came on with the South East London traffic news, a bit useless in Dublin; he announced that it was 8.53 with precision. He would soon get his call. He checked through his papers and slipped them into a large envelope, he was allergic to brief cases of all kinds.

  The previous day he had taken the precaution of buying some winter clothing, just the minimum, under vests, a cashmere pullover, an Irish tweed hat and a Burberry raincoat, that was sufficient and necessary.

  As he slipped his new cashmere over his head the telephone rang, it was 9.12 on his watch, a bit early for the bank especially in Dublin. He picked up the phone and fumbled with the remote control of the TV to mute the sound.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, is that Mr Axelmann?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good morning, this is Tom O’Brien of the Allied Irish, it’s perhaps a wee bit early, but I thought I would catch you, maybe you were planning to go out.’

  ‘Oh that’s no problem.’

  ‘Well if you have time this morning you can drop by and I can see to things personally, we have the papers from Mr Stamm, everything seems to be in order.’

  ‘Good, I’ll drop by at 10.30, I have one other two other matters to attend to first.’

  ‘Fine Mr Axelmann, I’ll be waiting for you. Bye for now.’

  He put the phone down and with that in order; he decided he would go down to breakfast in the coffee shop. He had not expected any problems from Walter Stamm, Ennis had faxed him all instructions on the Tuesday afternoon from his apartment in Paris, with the appropriate codes, confirmed by a very laconic phone call.

  The coffee shop of the Conrad was relatively quiet, but by precaution, he took a corner table so that he could see all the comings and goings. He ordered a full breakfast with bacon, eggs, sausages, black pudding and Irish home made bread with tea. He then started to examine seriously his copy of the Times. The waitress was a typical rosy cheeked Irish lass, it was obvious that she was a beginner, so he would give her the benefit of the Christmas spirit, there was no reason for him to play Scrooge.

  He made a few more calculations on exchange rates, Swiss Francs to dollars, not that it made much difference, he was more concerned about the quality of the breakfast, it would probably be a long time before would be tasting a real Irish breakfast again.

  It was walking distance to the Allied Irish, just across the square, down Grafton Street, almost opposite Trinity College. He decided to walk; he was well wrapped up in his newly acquired winter clothes that would keep out the cold. Dublin was a truly provincial city in the nicest way, that innocent friendly manner of Dubliners made it agreeable, there was no real rush and there was always time.

  Tom O’Brien gave him his best professional bankers smile, asking him into one of those smallish customer meeting rooms, which they seem to prefer in banks.

  ‘And how are you today Mr Axelmann?’

  Ennis smiled blankly, for a moment it did not occur to him that O’Brien words were directed at him.

  ‘Oh! Fine, fine,’ he said quickly after the hesitation.

  ‘Is Dublin treating you well?’

  ‘Yes, everything is just perfect,’ he replied.

  ‘It’s your first time I think you said.’

  ‘No I’ve had the pleasure to make one or two visits before.’

  ‘I wish I could speak French like you speak English Mr Axelmann.’

  Ennis smiled as modestly as he could, quickly changing the subject.

  ‘Ah yes, if you would excuse me, I have one or two papers for you to fill in.’

  Ennis walked back to his hotel feeling decidedly pleased with himself, everything was in order, the money was safely deposited in an offshore account, permitted under the Irish banking regulations, in a couple of weeks he would return it to Switzerland to a new account.

  Now, he thought, I’m going to relax and enjoy Christmas, putting out of his mind the misfortunes of others, there was nothing he could for poor Brodzski and Axelmann.

  ‘Fuck their luck!’ he thought, suddenly realising that he had won. He slipped a ten-pound note into the hand of a cold looking beggar, who looking at the note could not believe his eyes.

  ‘God bless ye Sir!’ the beggar gasped, wishing that there were more such American gentlemen in the world. Only an American could be that rich and foolish, he thought, stuffing the note into his pocket as he headed around the corner to a scruffy pub.

  A SORRY STATE OF AFFAIRS