Read The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit Online
Authors: Richard House
‘Eric? Eric, it’s your mother. I’m in Rome. I’ve just arrived. I’ll try you later this evening.’
Her voice, her tone, she knew, gave away her mind.
3.11
Heida caught her reflection as she came out of the bathroom, and thought to her alarm that she looked uncomfortably like Grüner’s wife.
Troubled by the likeness she returned to the mirror. It wasn’t one specific detail, more a combination of parts and effect. The colour of her hair, the fact that it appeared so unkempt, and these clothes, admittedly not her favourite (a short skirt, a striped long-sleeve top), made her look exhausted. No, it was something in her stance, some aspect locked in her body that made this comparison true. She turned sideways, and there it was. A soggy downward curve, a stroke of disappointment describing her shoulders, her breasts, her mouth, as if this curve had imposed itself on her overnight.
‘Christ.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Look what you’ve done to me.’
Used to not understanding her, Grüner gave a smile intended to show understanding. Heida read this dumb expression as culpable awareness. He knew exactly what he was doing to her. Men always do.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not pregnant.’
The plan was simple: having contacted the Turkish official who was to help with their visas into Iraq they were to travel, one to Ankara, and one to Istanbul, to be certain to catch the man, as he was, at best, elusive. This slippery subject, always in transit from one city to another, would be caught by one or the other.
‘We should have kept the car,’ she said, one more point against him.
Heida ran her hand over her stomach. Even when she stood upright, this curve, this gravity, imposed itself on her.
3.12
Eric came into the room as Ford was packing. His decision to leave came to him as a sudden and necessary fact – with the pension being watched he was taking too great a risk. Martin’s project placed him square in the eyes of the police, and if the police made any enquiries they would easily discover that the name he had given Mehmet, the name used by Nathalie, Martin and Eric, was different to the name in his passport. If they enquired into this small discrepancy he couldn’t be sure what else they might discover. The dog tags, for example, how would he explain those? He needed to make the transfer. He needed to get to Istanbul.
Eric stood over the cot, hands at his side, visibly stung. ‘What are you doing?’
‘It’s time to move on. I’ll take the bus to Ankara then try for the Black Sea. If I go now I might catch up with my friend.’
‘Friend?’
‘Yes.’ Ford stood upright, laundry bunched in his hand. ‘Amy.’
Amy
? He wasn’t good with names. Not off the cuff.
‘Amy?’
‘The woman I was travelling with.’
‘You said she’s with someone else now?’
Bothered that he had to explain himself Ford returned to packing. ‘It’s complicated. I should make the effort.’
Eric nodded slowly, as if he didn’t follow, as if other people’s situations were always slightly out of his understanding.
Ford checked the small pocket inside his pack, and took off the dog tags and tucked them inside, because the tags, the weight of them, like everything else, was beginning to bother him.
*
Eric accompanied Ford into town. As they came out of the pension the man in the car looked up but didn’t move. The sun cut across a clean-shaved chin, a thin mouth, a fat moustache. He remained in the car as they turned off the street to the main road.
Ford gripped the straps of his backpack, ready to sprint if he needed to, but the car did not follow them, and Eric, preoccupied himself, did not appear to notice his anxiety. If the man approached them now at least Ford could run. At the Maison du Rève he would have been trapped.
With regular coaches to Ankara throughout the day he found he had a choice: one at midday, one at three, and the last at eleven at night; each connecting with a coach to Istanbul. Ford decided on the midday bus, why wait, only to find the service fully booked. Three o’clock? No trouble. Depart later, arrive early in the morning. He’d wait in one of the tea houses in the market square. Eric stayed with him, and they sat under canvas and faced the market.
Eric sought advice.
‘I knew what it would be like. No one will work with him.’
‘So why did you?’
‘A paid holiday. Experience. Extra credit.’ He frowned. All of this was well and good, but Martin was a fully subscribed asshole who had managed to isolate himself from his students, fellow academics, from the art establishment. Even so, inexplicably, the project was gaining attention. ‘People want to show the work. Museums. Curators. We’re going to screen the first section at the Gare du Nord in Paris. Six projections cycling through forty-seven hours of material. Six screens.’ He swept out his hands. ‘Massive.’ Each testimony prefaced with a landscape, each talking head presented in their original language, their own words. Speakers fixed to inverted plastic domes would direct the sound upon the travellers, creating zones where their voices could be heard without interfering with the station’s activity – an immense undertaking. There was talk about showing the entire cycle, all five sections, in Grenoble, at Magazin.
Eric continued talking. Ford kept his eye on the market, the stalls, and the three streets that fed into the enclosed square. Police, men in military drab ambled without intent among the traders and shoppers, a muddle of activity. He looked back into the café at the dusty red walls, at the barber shop beside it, the door to the hammam closed – everything so ordinary that he began to relax. Beside their table sat a bulky unlit stove, and the air was busy with the fats of cooking meat, of coffee, of dust. In three hours he would be on his way to Istanbul. The decision to leave felt right and wise.
‘You don’t get the opportunity to work on material like this. It just doesn’t happen.’
Ford only caught snippets:
And when someone is that creative . . . difficult . . . work through it . . . We have history, Martin and me. Anyone on the outside wouldn’t . . .
At some point Eric paused as if waiting for an answer, waiting for Ford to disagree or approve.
‘Do whatever you think is best.’
The
cay
came to the table in tulip-shaped glasses. Three soldiers took up a table close by, closer than he would have liked. Eric, a little discouraged, continued talking and asked a second time for his advice. Ford, tired of listening, admitted that he’d drifted off.
‘I was talking about Malta. You could come. It would be private.’
‘Private?’
‘She has it booked for two weeks, but there’s no one there after those two weeks. I’m thinking of staying for the rest of the break. I don’t have to return for another month. It’s private, remote.’
‘Why would I go to Malta?’
Eric leaned forward and squinted. Pushed off course a second time he appeared hurt.
Ford looked at the boy and began to realize that this wasn’t a simple matter. The boy’s expression showed him to be wounded, not by some small slight, but by some deeper hurt, something Ford had or had not done.
‘You’re right. It’s not that interesting.’ Eric held his breath, as if considering whether or not to speak, ideas collapsing behind that expression, a notion of something solid turning to vapour, and Ford realized that he hadn’t been talking about Martin but something else. ‘OK. Look, I’m going to go.’ He abruptly stood up and said goodbye.
Ford watched Eric walk away, head hung as if heartsick, wounded. What, he asked himself, was that about? On the back of the chair folded over itself, forgotten, lay the boy’s sweater.
He paid for the tea, checked his pocket for his ticket, kept his eye on the soldiers, and found himself irritated. Why should he listen, why should he waste his time? Why would this boy expect anything from him? As he stepped out of the café he found Eric at the table, stiff, leaning forward, decisive.
‘Who are you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Who are you? You’re not Tom and you’re not Michael, I know, and I’m pretty sure there isn’t an Amy.’
Ford could not reply.
‘You don’t answer when someone calls your name. I just called your name. I just shouted. I was right there.’
‘I didn’t hear you.’
‘I was right there. You never answer to Tom. Even Nathalie’s noticed, you don’t respond. You didn’t hear a word, did you? I
know
. I know who you are.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I know who you are. I know.’ In one swift movement Eric reached for Ford’s hand.
Ford veered back, repulsed. Horrified at his action the boy fell into the crowd.
Ford stopped at the café and watched the small road that curved up to the promontory. The sun passed over the market square, but the afternoon remained hot. Eric’s sweater lay on the ground, sleeves pointing to the market, and Ford considered how ordinary this was: the market, the café, the afternoon – and so the boy knew who he was? He tried to guess what Eric would do. He wouldn’t directly approach the police. This was doubtful. But once he returned to the Maison du Rève he would talk with Nathalie and Nathalie would automatically talk with Martin. Once loose the idea would prove itself in the history of what he’d said or not said, deeds done or un-done, untranslated facts would slip into place. Everything would suddenly make sense – and if they needed proof it would only take one article, one mention in a newspaper, one news report, one seed. The consequences racked up, one event leading to another. He couldn’t judge what their actions would be, that next step. Nathalie with her focused sense of justice would deliberate. She would need facts. She would agonize. Even so, she couldn’t be counted on, and she would probably call the authorities. Martin, already paranoid, could not be predicted. Once uncontained the information would spark immediate trouble.
The more he considered it, the worse his situation appeared.
He couldn’t gather the connections, couldn’t see what had given him away. Alongside this he had insulted the boy, although he didn’t know how. Ford understood that his freedom depended on righting this insult, on correcting and persuading him that this idea was fanciful at best, something Martin would create.
Ford waited for Eric to return but the road from the fort remained clear. With three hours to pass he decided to find Eric and see exactly what he knew. He folded Eric’s sweater into the top of his backpack, then, with no idea how he would explain himself, he began to walk slowly to the fort.
He did not find Eric at the fort. He stood at the fence at the rough cliff and looked down upon the road, the heat pulsed about him. Crows scattered as he clambered over the fallen barrier. Standing at the edge he traced the track past the workshops and into the market. The thin clatter of a workman’s hammer rose in the wind enriched with a faint dry scent of sage. He was certain that Eric had taken the track to the promontory. This was his only exit, but he had not seen him return. He could not have passed without his knowing. Ford looked back over his shoulder at the bald, slick rock and found no one at the fort.
3.13
Eric stumbled as he walked up the path, sore with Tom, sore at himself, knocked back, burning with humiliation.
Even at this moment a part of him remained detached, aware that while he felt low (had he ever felt so miserable?) this whole business was utterly predictable and completely avoidable. Tom was typical of the men he was attracted to (unavailable, remote, almost completely unknowable); he should have seen this coming. Even so, wasn’t there something about this that was just plain unfair?
At the top of the promontory he realized that he’d walked himself into a dead end. He’d have to stay and wait until Tom got on his coach as he wasn’t about to walk back through the market and face him again.
Seriously, why had he gone back in the first place?
What for? And what was that utter horse-crap he’d come out with, sounding just like Martin? Christ, had he seriously said those things? All that shit about his name? And what was he
thinking
going up to the man and
touching
him like that, right out in public? Seriously? Exactly what did he expect to happen? Wasn’t he, come on, seriously, wasn’t he the very definition of an idiot?
He switched his satchel from his left to his right shoulder. He’d have to wait for the coach to go, though he wasn’t sure of the time, it could be hours, Tom had a choice of coaches, an utter agony to wait up, but at least he would be able to see the coach as it came into the square. He’d probably also see Tom.
Eric turned his back to the town. He didn’t want to see him. In fact, if he’d
known
that Tom was leaving, had a little prior warning, he could have prepared himself. He wouldn’t have made such an ass of himself.
He saw the man come up the track, and saw with a donkey-kick of recognition that the approaching figure was Tom. No doubt about it.
As Tom clambered over the fence, inching round, Eric sought cover. He followed the edge of the promontory and looked into the cracks to find one in which to lower himself, one with some kind of foothold, one the right width so he could squat at a straddle, brace against the sides and wait it out.
Eric slung his bag behind him and lowered himself into the crevice as Tom rounded the corner, pushed his feet flat to the rock on one side and his shoulders on the other.
His memory of the fall was not of falling or sliding, or of rolling sideways into the cleft, but of being struck by a series of blows so rapid, and of such startling force that the pain came in one obliterating shock, white and sheer, and overwhelming. He’d struck his head, struck it hard, and found himself pinched between the stone walls by his hips and by his chest. While he knew himself to be suspended between two acute planes, he guessed, from the difference in pressure, that he was suspended slightly out of vertical. While he could move his arms, sweep them either side up and down, the cleft proved too narrow for him to bend his elbows and exact enough force to push himself upright. The range of motion for his head was similarly limited, so he could only face left, or look up. His bag, where was his bag with his passport and tickets?