Being For The Benefit Of Mr Kite! (7 page)

He looked at me, his face contorted, his eyes imploring. He couldn't speak. I think he tried to, but the voice was just a horrendous wail, a desperate, tortured grimace in scream form. I wanted nothing to do with him, but I couldn't stop myself. Some innate compassion took hold of me and I stepped forward.

'Leave him or join him,' said the voice behind me.

I turned quickly. My guard was staring straight ahead at the door to my cell, as he had been doing every time I'd looked at his face.

Leave him or join him
. That's what he'd said. If it was him. The sound certainly hadn't come from further along the corridor.

My back was now turned to the abject bloody misery on the floor. The thing, that barely seemed to be a man anymore, wailed more loudly. I did not look back. Brin would not thank me if I chose the wailing man over coming home safely. I returned to my cell and closed the door.

I moved over to the far corner of the room and sat down, huddled up, arms wrapped around my knees.

*

S
everal hours later I found myself desperate for the toilet. Unsure of the procedure when I wasn't actually offered the choice, I approached the mirror and said that I needed to use the bathroom. Shortly afterwards the door opened and the female agent beckoned for me to come. I walked out and followed her along the corridor.

The scene where the haunted man had fallen was completely clean. There was no sign of him, or of his bloody and splattered kneecap.

––––––––

H
appy place. Happy place. Happy place. Huddled up into as much of a foetal position as I could get, my legs squeezed tightly together, I tried desperately to think of our happy place, the place that Baggins had suggested, the place where we took our summer holidays. Sitting on Nairn beach, a calm sea, a nice drink, a warm summer's day.

The plane juddered continuously, battered by the storm. I kept thinking, how big is this storm? Hadn't they seen it coming? Why couldn't they fly around or over it? Isn't that what planes are supposed to do with storms?

And every time I thought that, I had to haul my head back to the happy place. I had to focus on the sea. Focus on the smells and the sounds and the tastes. The sound of the gentle waves washing up on the sand. The cold drinks. The smell of summer. The cry of the gulls. The mournful cry.

Why are they mourning? Because the plane is going to crash!

I thought of the Air France flight from Brazil, over the Atlantic, the pilot making the bold move to fly through the storm. Everyone dead in under ten minutes. How long had it been? How long had we been flying through the storm?

Stop! Happy place. Happy place. Happy place. The smell of the sea. Breathe it in, imagine it, feel it, sense it. Be there. Listen to the waves. LISTEN TO THEM!

We were descending, sharply, desperately. You could feel it. I dared not look out the window, although there would have been nothing to see anyway. Nothing but clouds and rain and lightning. We'd been descending for a while, I just hadn't wanted to think about it, to acknowledge it.

Were they going to try to land in this? Could they possibly touch down safely, buffeted as they were by this storm? Perhaps the descent was uncontrolled. A freefall to certain death.

I gripped my head. The plane rocked and shuddered and jerked and tugged as if the gods were pulling it in many different directions at once.

STOP IT! Happy place. Happy place. Happy place!

We were eating lunch on the beach. Sandwiches and a pork pie, fresh orange juice, and that Guatemalan coffee we always drink. A wonderful taste; subtle spice flavour, with a dry, nutty finish. Super-smooth. That's what we're drinking. Me and Brin, sitting in a comfortable silence, watching a boat emerge from the Cromarty firth, Baggins playing at the water's edge.

'Ladies and gentlemen, we're making an emergency landing... to sit out the storm... we'll try to make it as smooth as possible...'

And that was all he managed to say. Even the words sounded like they were being tossed around. If I'd been thinking clearly, I'd have preferred that he was concentrating on landing the plane than keeping the passengers up to date, so his brevity would have been appreciated.

I wasn't really thinking, however. At least, I was trying not to. I was trying to be somewhere else.

I wanted to look out the window, but couldn't bring myself to do it. I might have seen how far off the ground we still were. I didn't want to know. I needed to lose myself by the sea, I needed to lose myself in the sights and sounds and tastes of somewhere far away, with the two people I loved.

Two of the three people I loved...

'I'm a bit cold, Daddy,' said Baggins, walking up the beach. 'Can I have some coffee?'

'You don't like coffee.'

'It's not that cold,' said Brin.

'You just think that because you've got coffee,' said Baggins. 'It's freezing.'

Brin and I looked at each other. We knew what was coming.

'Can I have ice cream?' asked Baggins.

'I thought you were cold?'

'Ice cream's good for cold. Because you usually only eat ice cream when it's hot, it makes your brain think that it is hot, and so you feel warmer.'

'Nice try, kid,' said Brin.

'It's true, it was on
Brainiac
,' said Baggins earnestly. 'And crisps,' she added. 'Can I have crisps?'

Brin made a face, but nevertheless dug some money out of her pocket and handed it to her.

'If you go and get the ice cream yourself.'

Baggins took the money, her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth.

'Watch out for cars,' I said, even though she didn't need to cross the road.

'And no crisps,' said Brin, 'just ice cream.'

'Thanks, Mummy,' she said, and she was off.

We watched her for a moment, then we took a sip of coffee at the same time, as if we were competing in some synchronised beverage drinking event, and looked back out over the sea.

The most wonderful afternoon. Pale blue sky, very light, hazy cloud taking the edge off the sun, a slight sea breeze. Perfect temperature.

'It's gorgeous,' said Brin.

'Brace! Brace! Brace!'

No! No! No! I didn't want to hear that! I didn't want the voice intruding. Go away! Happy place. Happy place. Happy place...

I could hear the seagulls. The mournful seagulls, crying against the warmth of the day, the sharp sound etched against the stillness of a perfect summer.

Happy place. Happy place. Happy place.

'Brace!'

*

'Y
ou need to tell us about the Jigsaw Man,' said the female agent. Agent Crosskill was sitting next to her. He looked rough. Either working late, or out drinking perhaps. I couldn't smell anything from him.

If he looked rough for not sleeping, how bad did I look? How many days had I been here? I had no idea. No sense of time. Trapped in this insane environment. Trapped after a fashion, if not exactly locked in.

My head was buzzing. Some hormone or other had kicked in. They had eventually brought me some food and a bottle of water. Perhaps there'd been something in the food. I'd had to eat it, even though it had occurred to me that it might have been infused with a truth serum. Wouldn't that be what they'd do in a movie? Movies were the only frame of reference I had for this situation.

Did it matter if they filled me with truth serum? The truth that I knew didn't implicate me in anything, didn't make me look particularly bad. It was just incredible. Unbelievable. I don't think they would consider me insane, however, they'd just assume I was lying.

The water was still on the desk, half full. The bottle was plastic, however, so there probably wasn't going to be a lot of use in picking it up and taking it to Crosskill's head.

'You said I wasn't going to get anything to eat, then someone brought me food,' I said. 'Was there something in the food?'

'Food?' she asked. She looked at Agent Crosskill. 'I only authorised water. Did you say he could get food?'

Agent Crosskill did a peculiar thing with his lips and shook his head.

'I hope you enjoyed it,' she said. 'Maybe that'll be your last supper.'

I'd hardly noticed the taste. It had been one of those bowls of food that was halfway between soup and stew, and I hadn't even been able to tell if there'd been meat in it.

'The Jigsaw Man,' she said. 'Tell us about the Jigsaw Man.'

Why was it that I didn't want to tell them about the actual Jigsaw Man, the guy who sat at a table in a café doing puzzles and dispensing wisdom? It sounded, somehow, like I was turning him in. I'd feel like a traitor. But why? What was there that I could tell them?

Here I was, consumed by how I'd got off the plane, consumed by how I'd lived for the last six months, kicking myself over the stupidity of how easily I'd walked into their hands, and consumed by how long ago that was, worrying about Brin and how she must be feeling. All the while, the two American agents seemed to be concerned about the Jigsaw Man.

'He was just a guy in a café,' I said suddenly.

I don't think I'd even made the definite decision to say anything. It just happened, like breathing or walking. I was sitting in silence, then suddenly the words were out there, hanging somewhere in space.

'Which café?' asked Agent Crosskill. So he hadn't lost his voice, although it sounded rough.

'In Glasgow,' I said.

'The Stand Alone?' she asked.

I paused before answering, although only because of my surprise. If they already knew that the Jigsaw Man sat in the Stand Alone, quite possibly they already knew as much as I did. And then, suddenly, I realised that they knew a lot more than I did, and they were just looking for anything that might flesh out their knowledge.

'Yes,' I said.

'What was the Jigsaw Man's real name?' she asked.

I'd never known. I shook my head.

'Were you the Jigsaw Man?' asked Agent Crosskill, his voice harsh.

'No.'

'You won't tell us about the Jigsaw Man,' he said. 'You won't tell us why you didn't get on the plane. You're not telling us anything. So, think about your answer. Are you sure you're not the Jigsaw Man?'

Was I the Jigsaw Man? Because I'd sat twice at the Jigsaw Man's table? Did that make me the Jigsaw Man? Was I also to be held accountable for his crimes?

Crimes? Where had that come from?

I wanted to lie down in a warm bed under a thick duvet. It might take me a while to get to sleep, but I'd be able to pull the duvet over my head and shut it all out. Shut them all out.

'Are you the Jigsaw Man?' demanded the woman, her voice suddenly severe.

'No!' I said.

Was I?

'You've been identified as the Jigsaw Man,' said Agent Crosskill. His words came out cold and brutal.

'What?... What?'

'Someone, somewhere, thinks you're the Jigsaw Man,' she said. 'And the Jigsaw Man is wanted in the US on terrorism charges. If found guilty, and there is little doubt that he will be, he will face the death penalty.'

She paused, let those words sink in, then she said, 'Now maybe you might just want to start talking about the Jigsaw Man.'

'The Jigsaw Man's not a terrorist,' I said. I was aware that my voice sounded weak again. Confused. It would have been nice to try to stay on top of the situation, but staying on top of things was not one of my strong points, even when I wasn't sleep-deprived.

'Persuade us otherwise,' said Agent Crosskill.

What
were
my strong points?

'I don't know what to say,' I said. I felt stupid saying it.

'That's fine. Then we're going to think you're the Jigsaw Man, and we can begin proceedings to get you executed. You ever hear about those people who live on Death Row for over twenty years? You won't be one of them. Death can come very quickly on Death Row when the accused is considered a danger to the state.'

'I'm not the Jigsaw Man,' I said.

'Who's the Jigsaw Man?' snapped Agent Crosskill. 'Tell us about the Jigsaw Man.'

'He did jigsaws,' I said, the words suddenly tripping out. They sounded panicky and stupid. 'He owned the café. He just used to sit there, days on end, every time you went in... every time you went in, he was sitting at the table, doing a jigsaw.'

'He never went to the bathroom?'

I was so confused that I wasn't even sure which one of them said it. I just heard the words.

'No. I don't know. He must have, but I never saw him. He must have.'

'And? What else?'

'I don't know. Nothing else.'

'Did he ever talk?

'Sometimes. He usually said hello. Sometimes he'd give you advice.'

'Why did you ask for advice?'

'I don't know, I just... we just said hello to him. He had a knack for knowing what your problems were.'

'He knew about you? How did he know about you? He spearheaded some intelligence network? He had access to surveillance?'

'No!'

'What then?'

'I don't know... I don't know...'

They paused. I suddenly became aware that I'd been leaning forward with my head in my hands and my eyes shut. I sat back quickly and looked at them. They were both still there. Agent Crosskill. His No Name colleague.

'When was the last time you saw the Jigsaw Man?' asked Agent Crosskill.

I stared at him across the table. When was the last time I saw the Jigsaw Man? Was I supposed to know the date? I didn't know the date.

'Years ago. Before I was married. Eighteen years, maybe. No, longer. Twenty. Twenty years. He told me about his wives. That was the last time I saw him. He told me about his wives.'

'What about them?' asked the woman.

'Just... about them. That he'd had wives. That he'd been married four times.'

The two of them stared across the desk. This was the part of the interrogation that was conducted in silence in order to intimidate me. It was working.

'What?' I asked.

'The Jigsaw Man has never been married,' she said.

'He was. He told me.'

'He lied,' said Agent Crosskill.

Once again I felt lost. I didn't know what to say to them. It's a common metaphor to equate one's circumstances to drowning. The sensation of floundering around, unable to breathe, unable to get hold of anything, helpless.