Authors: Declan Burke
Ray
Ray woke up to find Doyle standing beside his bed with some chubby girl had the contours, to Ray's mind, of a punctured beach-ball. Doyle wearing a short-sleeved 'FCUK FASHION' pink tee and short denim skirt, the chubby girl in a leopard-print bikini-top and sarong combo. He drank down most of a glass of water from the bedside locker and said, 'Y'know, Stephanie, in one way I'm kinda hoping you're not a hallucination.'
'The word you're looking for is vision. This is Sparks, by the way.'
'Hi, Ray.'
'Hey.' The ward a four-bed, Ray the only patient. Windows open, so he could hear seagulls, mopeds, someone somewhere playing The Stones,
Paint It Black
, the driving percussion, that snaky sitar. 'So, Stephanie --'
'Where's the money, Ray?'
'I don't have it.'
'I know, I checked.' Doyle held up the black hold-all that had held, the last Ray'd heard, thirty grand in bills. 'So where's the money?'
'Last I saw it,' he conceded with a shrug, 'Karen's bag, when she got off on Corfu.'
'Try again. We know she's on Ios.'
'Karen's
here
?'
'Ray? Sparks saw you on the dock, before you fainted.'
'Blacked out.'
'Whatever. Where is she now?'
'How would I know? I've been in a coma.'
'If you want, we can just sit here and wait 'til she comes back.'
'Okay by me. Will you read me a story? I mean, in case you get bored sitting there all week.' Ray waggled the empty glass. '
War and Peace
if you can get it.'
Doyle poured him some water, saying, 'Why should I believe she isn't coming back?'
''Cos me and Karen, we're done. And anyway, Stephanie, if you're here on business you're out of your jurisdiction. If it's pleasure, you should relax.'
'How about I tell the local cops, as a professional courtesy, they're harbouring a wanted criminal, a snatch artist. What would that be, business or pleasure?'
'That'd be spite.'
'So you're saying, pleasure.'
'Pity I'm not hooked up to something. You could pull the plug or stand on my air-pipe. Cut out the middle-man.'
'Help me and you help yourself. Otherwise, I wash my hands.'
'You came a long way,' Ray said, 'just to wash your hands.'
Karen
Pyle warned Karen to stay abreast once they left the asphalt road or one of them'd be eating grit for a week. Pyle happy enough renting a scooter, a silver Vespa with red piping. Karen on a royal-blue Kawasaki scrambler, no way she was riding any toy bikes. Anna a little groggy from the pills but doing okay, loping awkwardly alongside.
They dipped first into a wide, shallow valley dotted with lemon trees, then turned off the asphalt road onto a rutted dust track angling up towards some mountain peaks. Karen waving Pyle down every ten minutes, stopping to give Anna water.
The third time, in the bend of a long U scored into the cliff face, Pyle cut his engine and took off his helmet, pointed back the way they'd come. Olive groves in the foreground, the village perched on the hill above the valley, a milky-blue haze to the horizon.
They smoked a cigarette between them, Anna prone and panting hard, tongue lolling. Cicadas zizz-zizzing from the scrub, the heat strong and dry. 'I can see why you might want to paint that,' Karen said. 'I mean, to catch all that in one frame, that'd be really something.'
'With landscapes it's not what you put in, it's what you leave out.' Pyle dragged hard on the Marlboro, handed it across. 'See,' he pointed from one end of the horizon to the other, 'there's enough there but not too much. Any less, or any more, it wouldn't work. What you have to do is decide how much it needs to make it work.'
'You're saying, leave out a mountain. Or the village.'
'Not exactly.' Pyle chewed the inside of his lip. 'I read this thing once, it blew me away.' He closed his eyes, concentrating, then opened them again. 'Okay, I can't remember the exact line. But, basically? If the universe'd been bigger or smaller by one part in a thousand billion the split-second after it started? It wouldn't have started.'
Karen tried to fit it all in but couldn't make it click. Then a fly buzzed her nose and Karen, brushing it away, saw it up close against the vast backdrop. 'Jesus,' she said, shivering despite the heat.
'Bearing in mind,' Pyle said, 'we're dealing with infinity here, that's a hell of a lot of shit to come out of a microscopic piece of whatever the fuck it was.'
'And you're looking to find this "it". When you paint.'
'Maybe not it, exactly. But yeah, something that gives the impression.'
'You don't make it easy on yourself, do you?'
'With the painting, no. Otherwise?' He grinned. 'I cut a lot of slack all round. What do you think, is Anna good to go yet?'
Ten minutes later they topped a ridge. The sign pointing to the right said 'Homer's Tomb' but Pyle waved Karen on through the left fork into a high-sided canyon that sloped down and away. The canyon gouged out of an orangey-red rock flecked with gold, the sides ridged like a grated cheese. When they made it through the canyon and out onto an escarpment, he pulled over. Karen took her helmet off and said, 'Oh, wow.'
Pouring water into her palm for Anna to lap at, she said, 'Jesus.'
Wondering how she was going to manage a sneaky pee, she said, 'How fucking glorious is that?'
Pyle nodded, criss-crossing the road trying to get a signal on his phone so he could let the hippy artist commune types know he was coming in. The escarpment dropped away sharply, opening out into a wide plain that looked to Karen like the end of the world. She'd never seen so much blue in her entire life, Karen trying to drink it all in but drowning in the perfect blend of sea and sky, the sun up there in the corner blazing away like a spoilt child trying to get her attention.
In the end Pyle sent a text. He lit a smoke and sat on a rock beside Karen's and said, 'You mind if I say something personal?'
'Depends what it is.'
'Leaving the guy behind like that? That was cold.'
'Who, Ray?' Karen sniffed. 'Ray's the kind that makes out.'
'Looks like it. Facing down this guy, what d'you call him, Rossi? The guy holding a rod on him?'
'He hadn't run out on us,' Karen said, tugging on Anna's ear, 'he wouldn't have had to face anyone down, rods or no rods.'
Karen, being honest, hating herself for it, was more worried about Rossi. Ray, okay, he'd been half-delirious in the port. Drunk, too. But Karen didn't like the sound of that Rossi-in-a-box crap he'd pulled. And then, what was frustrating, collapsing before she could quiz him on the details. Karen had to admit she didn't know Ray so well she could say for sure how he'd react in any and all situations, especially a one-on-one with the guy who'd put a bullet in him.
What she did know, realising it outside the ESY, smoking and looking across at the scooter rental place wondering if they had any proper bikes, was if she stayed to watch over Ray, made sure he recovered, then Ray would always have the whip hand, would know Karen'd come through no matter how many times he walked away, ran out.
'One strike and you're gone,' she said.
'This is what I'm saying. Cold.'
'Most people don't even get one, Pyle.' She felt a sharp twinge in her bowels. 'Listen, how much further?'
Pyle pointed down at a ranch-style jumble of white-washed buildings on the plain half a mile from the sea, rows of blue boxes radiating out in semi-circles. 'Bout three clicks.'
'Think we could crack on?'
'You don't want to sneak up on these guys. They like their, uh, privacy. It's one of the rules, what they call commandments, no one turns up unannounced.'
'Sure, solitude, I get it. But Pyle, I kinda need a little privacy myself. Seriously.'
Pyle's phone beep-beeped. He checked the message. 'Okay, we're set.'
Karen winced straddling the Kawasaki. Bit down hard on her lower lip, kicked the bike to life. Then realised it was too late and jumped off again, stiff-legged it in behind a boulder.
Doyle
Doyle sat on the low stone wall across the way from the one-storey health clinic, the ESY, in the shade of a scrubby beach oak, the wall separating the road from the umbrella-dotted beach, the bodies glistening like new toffee. Doyle could see the Katina the other side of the horseshoe bay, shimmering now in the haze, a mirage promising sleep.
'How come,' Sparks said, prone on a sun lounger, the lounger angled so she faced Doyle, 'you didn't ask him about the big girl got off the ferry with him?'
Her toes aimed either side of Doyle, so Doyle couldn't help but notice Sparks had been in for a wax.
'Because this way,' Doyle said, 'he thinks we don't know about her.'
'What does that achieve?'
'Not one damn thing.'
'So why didn't you ask him?'
'Why didn't
you
ask him? You were there.'
'I thought you had a cunning plan.'
All Doyle'd had was an overwhelming urge to crawl between the crisp sheets of one of the ESY's spare beds. 'Next time,' she said, 'and until you hear otherwise, presume different.'
'That doctor wasn't much help,' Sparks observed.
'Someone came in to visit a patient of mine,' Doyle said, 'saying they were his friends, and then asked to see his passport? I'd be wondering why too.'
Sparks sat up, dipped her shades. 'You alright?'
'Just tired, Sparks. Hungover. I haven't slept right since Tuesday night.'
'And there was me thinking it was the shock of Ray saying he and Karen were done.'
'I'm going to bed,' Doyle said, standing up.
Sparks lay back on the lounger. 'I think I'll stake out the clinic for a while. See if Karen comes back. Or the big girl.'
'What I like best about you,' Doyle said, 'is how you're always volunteering for the dirty missions.'
'I wouldn't ask anyone to do anything,' Sparks said, sipping some banana daiquiri through a straw, 'I wouldn't do myself.'
Sleeps
Sleeps had watched Melody and Ray disembark, Mel lugging the Louis Vuitton, Ray with the busted arm in no shape to help out. Ray with a spazzy shuffle going on, like he was afraid to lift his feet, the world might fall away if he did.
Sleeps knew that feeling.
He tucked Johnny's parcel under his arm and clanged all the way up the metal steps to the top deck, along the gangway to where it narrowed running past the funnel belching sparks, the breeze whipping through. Not the smartest place in the world to snort coke, Sleeps conceded, although only if you were worried about some drifting away. Sleeps, planning a face-first into Johnny Priest's snow, Al in
Scarface
, wasn't too worried about what came after that.
So he got himself comfortable on a white-washed slatted bench containing life-jackets, Johnny's parcel on his lap, noticing, contrary to what he would've believed were the safety regulations, that the lid of the box was tied down at its front corners by what appeared to be sneaker laces. This was when he felt his ass being kicked faintly, through the slatted bars of the bench.
Sleeps had a moment when he considered walking away, finding another bench. Except there came another kick, a muffled squawk.
He knelt down and peered through the slats and met a wildly staring eye, bloodshot. Beyond that, half-shadowed, Sleeps could make out the side of Rossi's head, a sticky mess of black-looking blood where the wolf-savaged ear used to be.
He said, 'Ray, right?'
'Dead man walking,' Rossi snarled.