Authors: Graham Masterton
Michael looked up in astonishment. Every nerve in his body thrilled with pride and recognition. It was Jason, his son, fiery and bright – the force of innocence – the force of sinlessness. He had come to do what his fattier was unable to do.
Sleep,
he said, and smiled at Michael with flawless affection.
Sleep, all of you, sleep.
One by one, the lily-white boys closed their blood-eyes, and slept. As they did so, they collapsed to their knees, and then to the floor. Dust billowed up, and filled the room, the dust of centuries, mummy-dust, the dust of things that had lived for far too long. Suits were emptied, jackets dropped to the floor, trouser legs flattened.
It took no more than a few minutes; but in those few minutes, Michael had sensed the passing of centuries. He had seen pyramids and Sphinxes, ziggurats and ancient tombs. He had seen red suns rising and red suns sinking. Now there was nothing but discarded clothing, and sinking dust, and some shrivelled-up things that looked like vegetables.
They were back in the library, at Goat’s Cape, and the lily-white boys had slept and crumbled.
Jason was sitting in ‘Mr Hillary’s’ chair, his hair electric, his eyes wide.
Michael walked over and held his hand, and he felt his fingers crackle with static.
‘You did it,’ he said. ‘
You
did it.’
Jason looked at him, his eyes wide, boyishly triumphant.
Michael limped around and touched one of the dried-up things with his foot. It broke open, and collapsed into ochre dust.
He went over and held Megan’s hand.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and kissed her. She reached up and put her arm around his neck, to prolong his kiss.
It was then that Thomas walked in.
Outside, in the ambulance, Patsy was waiting for them. She had been treated by the paramedics for lacerations and shock, and she was making a statement to Sergeant Jahnke. Jason accepted a Coca-Cola, and stood by the ambulance drinking it, looking tired and extremely grown-up.
David Jahnke climbed out of the ambulance as Michael approached and gave him a one-fingered salute and a funny look.
‘That was some pursuit you pulled off there. You’re going to have to teach me how to do that.’
‘I will,’ said Michael. ‘Anybody can do it, if they try.’
‘You ready to leave now?’ Michael asked Patsy. ‘It’s all over. You won’t be seeing those men again, ever.’
Matthew Monyatta came up and clapped Michael on the back. ‘That was something fine and magical we did there, wasn’t it? You and me, and Mrs Boyle, and that son of yours.’
Michael grasped his hand, and nodded. There was nothing he needed to say. Once two men have shared each other’s minds, their closeness is complete, no matter what age they are, no matter what race they are.
As the paramedics helped Patsy out of the ambulance, somebody else approached – Jacqueline, with a police topcoat over her shoulders. A policewoman hovered nearby.
‘Goodbye,’ she said, kissing Michael on the cheek. ‘I hope that you can forgive me.’
Michael wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. ‘I don’t think it’s up to me to forgive you. Besides, I don’t think I could. Not yet, anyway.’
‘I’ve left something for you,’ she said. ‘Something you’re going to need.’
‘Oh, yes? And what’s that?’
‘Go back to the library. I pushed it down the back of “Mr Hillary’s” chair.’
The policewoman took hold of Jacqueline’s arm, and led her away. She turned and smiled at Michael over her shoulder, and called out, ‘Don’t forget! It’s something you’re going to need!’
‘What was all that about?’ asked Matthew.
‘Search me,’ said Michael. But he tossed his car keys to Jason and said, ‘Open the car for your mom, will you, Jason? I’ve left something behind.’
He walked back to the lighthouse and up the steps. In the library, Thomas was standing over the dusty remains of the lily-white boys, while a police photographer was taking pictures. He glanced at Michael and said, ‘Hallo, Mikey,’ but there was very little warmth in his voice.
Michael went over to ‘Mr Hillary’s’ chair and when Thomas had his back turned he pushed his hand down the back. At first he couldn’t feel anything at all, but then he suddenly encountered cold, sharp steel, and almost cut his fingers off.
Very cautiously, he lifted the object out of the crack in the back of the upholstery. It was Jacqueline’s boning-knife, the same knife that she had used to slice Victor open.
He glanced around to make sure that Thomas wasn’t looking, and slid the knife up into his sleeve. He didn’t know why. He didn’t even want to think why.
As he walked out, Thomas called, ‘Take care now.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You too.’
‘You’re staying at Plymouth Insurance?’ Thomas asked him.
‘I don’t know. I think I might start looking for something a little less exciting.’
Michael had the feeling that Thomas wanted to say something more, but in the end he didn’t: he simply turned his back, took out a cigarette, and lit it.
Michael limped off down the steps and went to rejoin Patsy and Jason. In the distance, two small children were flying a kite. It ducked and weaved in the sea breeze as if it were trying to climb the side of an invisible mountain.
Nineteen
Michael and Patsy and Jason went back to New Seabury, and after a week Michael wrote a letter of resignation to Edgar Bedford, and told him that he didn’t want to work in insurance investigation any longer.
He started work on a fibre-optic device to create holographic images of bait which would appear on the end of anglers’ lines, and attract whichever kind of fish they wanted. Unlike real flies, they would move and change colour and cost less than $10 each.
Most of the time, he seemed happy enough. He no longer had nightmares about Rocky Woods, or about ‘Mr Hillary’.
But every now and then, he would come out of his study and watch Patsy at work, and his heart would silently, silently break.
Matthew Monyatta returned to his counselling, although he added a new picture to his office walls: a huge silhouette of a goat, standing against a red desert sky. He never explained to anybody what it meant.
Thomas Boyle quit smoking. Megan Boyle published a paperback called
Challenged Cooking,
a recipe book for disabled men and women.
Detective John Minatello resigned from the Boston police, vacated his apartment on Parkman Street, and went to live in St Cloud, Florida, a small community east of Orlando.
He never opened a bank account. Whenever he needed money, all he had to do was open the sports bag on top of his wardrobe and take out some of the money that Jambo DuFreyne had dropped when he was ambushed on Seaver Street, and John Minatello had later picked up.
The riots on Seaver Street gradually burned themselves out. Patrice Latomba was arrested, but then released for lack of coherent evidence. When he was advised that the risk of further violence was ‘minimal’, the President arranged to fly in from Washington for a two-hour visit to Seaver Street and Blue Hill Avenue as a show of ‘social, racial and emotional fence-mending’.
The day before the President was due to arrive in Boston, Michael reached in the back of his desk-drawer, just to make sure that Jacqueline’s knife was still there.
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