They Do the Same Things Different There (29 page)

“My client wants you to understand that this will be a one-time offer. The agreement we come to will be reached here and now, or not at all. And no mention of this conversation shall ever be made again once our business is concluded.” Marklew nodded at that, that was all the better.

“My client further wants to state that the skull has no intrinsic worth, to him or to anyone else. But it interests him nonetheless, and accordingly he is prepared to offer you a generous sum as a gesture of good faith. In return, you will give up all rights to the skull in perpetuity, and all prospects for the future acquisition of the skull will transfer to him.”

“Yes, yes,” said Marklew. “And what is this sum?”

“Ten pounds.”

“Ten pounds?”

“As a gesture of good faith.”

Marklew laughed. “I paid fifty thousand for it.”

“Indeed.”

“I don’t think you’ve quite worked out how these negotiations are supposed to work.”

“May I have your answer?” asked the solicitor.

Marklew stopped laughing.

The solicitor went on, “My client is not a sentimental man. But he would have the skull. The boy, you see, is one of ours.”

Marklew did not pretend to understand that. He licked his lips. “If your client would be prepared to reimburse me the fifty thousand pounds I have already spent,” he said, “and offer me some little extra for the sake of honour. Then. Then, I think, we would have something to talk about.”

The solicitor stared at him. His face did not even flicker with a reaction. Then he said, “You are rejecting my client’s offer?”

“Wait, now. Look here. Even just a small token. Even just ten pounds.”

“You are rejecting my client’s offer.”

“Or even. Damn it. You bid how much at auction? Three thousand, I think? Then offer me that three thousand. Forget the fifty, you just offer me the three.”

“No.”

And Marklew said, “Why not?” And he sounded like a little boy, and he was ashamed of himself for that.

“My client’s offer is, as I say, to be accepted, or not at all. If you do not give my client the skull now, we will not be prepared to take it from you later. It will belong to you forever. You will never be able to be rid of it. You will never be able to sell it, never able even to give it away. This is your final chance. We need offer you nothing. Instead, we offer you ten pounds.”

“As a gesture of good faith,” said Marklew, feebly.

The man didn’t even bother to agree.

The bed seemed cold to Marklew now. The sheets were rough. The bedside lamp was too bright, the glare seemed to sear into his head, it made him feel nauseous. “Not for ten pounds,” said Marklew. “You must understand. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then the man got to his feet. If he were disappointed, he didn’t reveal it. And Marklew wondered whether even now it was too late, whether he could change his mind, accept the insulting offer, or at least reopen negotiations—but any little animation the solicitor’s face had shown had faded away, there was nothing there now but the cool and the stiff.

And then, an afterthought. The solicitor turned back to Marklew.

“A question, Mr. Marklew? Why do you do it? Why do you surround yourself with the trappings of the dead?”

Richard Marklew said nothing.

“My client instructs me to say he takes no interest in the matter himself. I ask merely to satisfy my personal curiosity.”

“Get out,” said Marklew quietly. Then, shouting now, “Out! Out!” And stupidly, childishly, he threw his pillow at the solicitor. It bounced off him. The solicitor didn’t seem to mind.

“Goodbye, Mr. Marklew,” said the solicitor. And he was gone.

Marklew had to get out of bed to retrieve his pillow. There was a draft in the room; he shivered in his pyjamas.

He flew home to London the next day. The day following, he took receipt of two guillotine blades and a coffin lacquered with bone. Of the skull, of course, there was as yet no sign.

The next year the convention was in Marrakech. It was a better convention. One of the senior members had died, everyone was delighted. At auction Marklew won a collection of shrunken heads, and a mummified body from the Chimu people of fourteenth century Peru. The mummy looked like it was made of faded newspaper, and when Marklew got close to it he thought it smelled sweet like toffee. He looked for the solicitor, but he was not in attendance.

The year after that, the convention was in Leningrad. It was a reasonable convention. At auction Marklew bought an authenticated tooth from the head of Tsar Nicholas. He asked if anyone had seen the solicitor, but no one had; no one admitted even to knowing whom he was talking about.

The year after that, the convention was in Tehran.

Later that year, his eldest son died. Most of the time Marklew forgot he had any sons at all. They had gone away years ago to live with his wife in Italy. Some of the time Marklew forgot he had a wife either. She had a lover there, and they shared a house on the banks of Lake Como. Marklew’s wife let him keep the house in Richmond, and granted him an annual pension.

He flew to Italy to attend his son’s funeral. He couldn’t remember when he had last seen his wife; she had always been petite, but now she had put on weight as if she wanted to look like a plump Italian mama. Husband and wife stood by the side of the grave, threw in clumps of earth that sounded too faint against the coffin. It turned out that the son had died fighting some war. Marklew hadn’t known his son had been a soldier. He hadn’t actually known there was a war on, wasn’t that all over by now? “There’s always a war going on somewhere,” said his wife. She asked him how he was, and he said he was doing well. She reintroduced him to their younger son, who wore his hair foppishly long and looked to Marklew like a homosexual. He stayed the night with his wife and his wife’s lover at their house in Bellagio. The décor was charming, but he thought the room was too cold.

When he returned to London there was a parcel waiting for him. It looked like a hatbox, although he knew he hadn’t purchased a hat; he picked the box up, and with a cold thrill he knew what it must be. He took it into his study and opened it immediately.

Inside there was a rock. Presumably it had been put in there to weigh the box down. He lifted the rock, and he supposed that yes, it was about the same basic shape as a young boy’s skull. Underneath the rock there was a sealed envelope. Inside, a simple, typed message:

“Not Dead Yet. But Coming Soon.”

The following year the convention was in Johannesburg. It was a disappointing convention. At auction Marklew bought some bones, some skeletal fragments, a jar of pickled skin. In the bar on the Sunday night he asked whether anyone had seen the solicitor. He did so, evidently, with increasing volume. It was eventually requested that he retire quietly to his room.

Some months later his wife died. It had either been murder or a suicide pact, it was hard to be sure. Whatever the details, both she and her Italian lover were dead, shot in the head at point blank range, and maybe it didn’t really matter which one had pulled the trigger. Marklew was not invited to the funeral. On the day his wife’s body was laid to rest, he received another hatbox at his house. Once again it weighed like a skull. Once again there was no skull inside, just a rock. The rock was wet to the touch, and Marklew fancied it was covered with bubbles of solid spit. The bubbles wouldn’t burst when he pressed down on them. The message inside the envelope, too, was the same. Maybe it was the type size, or maybe the font, but it seemed a sadder message this time: “Not Dead Yet,” it apologized ruefully. And then, brighter, a cheery promise: “But Coming Soon!”

Marklew by rights inherited his wife’s estate, but there was some little legal difficulty about it: her Italian family were claiming a substantial share. Marklew knew that the matter would resolve itself in his favour eventually, but in the meantime was obliged to let several of his staff go.

He still liked to hold dinner parties before going to a convention. He didn’t attract as many guests as he once had, and the ladies seemed much more reluctant to fuck him. Still, he would show them his favourite skull, he’d talk to them of ritual sacrifice, and he’d invite them all to put their fingers between the cracks. The night before he flew to Buenos Aires he gave a dinner party and no one wanted to touch his cracks at all. And he was telling them some anecdote or another that seemed to be heading toward no discernible ending, when his one remaining maid interrupted him to say there was a young man at the front door to see him.

“I am not expecting any more guests,” said Marklew.

“He says he is your son.”

Marklew asked that he be shown into the drawing room.

His son was pale and shivering, but Marklew was pleased to see he had at least availed himself of a haircut. Marklew asked what he wanted. The boy helped himself to a brandy without even asking; his hand was shaking as he poured it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who else to turn to.”

Marklew told him at least to sit down.

“Oh God,” the boy said. “Do you ever feel that someone is watching you? I mean, all the time. It’s there in the shadows, waiting for me. Oh, not just in the shadows, oh God. It’s there when I wake up, I wake up so frightened I think I’ll have a heart attack. Do you feel this? Does anyone else feel this? Is it just me?”

Marklew asked his son if he were taking any drugs. The son said he was, a bit. Marklew suggested he should stop.

And suddenly angry, getting to his feet: “What is all this bloody stuff? Why do you want this bloody stuff?” And he was at the shelves now, he’d picked up one of the skulls, he was grimacing at it as if the very touch appalled him. “What do you want with all this
death
?” And he raised it high, he raised it so he could smash it down upon the floor.

“Put that down,” said Marklew. “Put that down, very, very gently.”

His son froze, and he was like a little boy again, and Marklew suddenly had a memory of him, of them playing together, or having a picnic, how old would his son have been, six or seven? “I’m sorry,” said the boy. “Really.” And he put the skull back on the shelf. And he burst into tears.

“If it can take me whenever it likes,” he sobbed, “what’s it waiting for?”

Marklew wanted to get back to his guests. He told his son he was flying to Argentina the next morning, and he had no time to deal with this right now. The boy asked if he could stay in the house whilst his father was away. Marklew pretended to consider, but he knew he couldn’t have his son there, he couldn’t trust him around all his fragile things. Did he have any money? He could give him some money for a hotel. The boy said he didn’t want money, he already had money. “Here, take some money,” said Marklew, and his son did.

“Well,” said Marklew.

“Well,” said Marklew’s son.

“You’ll be all right,” said Marklew.

“Can I see you once you’re back home?” asked his son.

“Yes,” said Marklew. “Maybe. In time. Once you’ve straightened yourself out.”

“I’ll do that then,” said his son. “I’ll straighten myself out.”

The convention in Buenos Aires was dreadful. At auction Marklew didn’t buy anything at all.

On his return he found his maid had left the hatbox in the study. The rock inside was wet again, and perhaps just a little sticky. The note was very enthusiastic. “Not Dead Yet. But Coming Soon!!!!!!!”

There was also a message from the police, asking him to get in contact immediately. They had tried to reach him abroad, but the maid had given them a hotel name that was untraceable. Marklew’s son had committed suicide, and had hanged himself with such force that he’d been virtually decapitated. The police expressed sympathy for his loss, and Marklew thanked them, but told them that he hadn’t known his son well.

The following year Marklew didn’t receive an invitation to the convention. It would usually come in the autumn; this year the leaves turned brown and fell from the trees, and then there was the cold; and then, snow.

Richard Marklew rented a four-room flat in Lambeth. A bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom, and one room left to do with whatever he pleased! Some days he even quite liked the flat. His landlady was called Mrs. Gascoyne. She never smiled much, or said anything very nice, but she had a heart of gold. Mrs. Gascoyne didn’t like him moving in with all his dead things, she said it was unnatural. But she agreed to turn a blind eye if she upped Marklew’s rent, and refused ever to do any of the cleaning. Marklew agreed, and a happy bargain had been made.