Through Every Human Heart (15 page)

Charles let the car window down a fraction. It looked as if it was going to be a bright morning, from what he could see of the sky through the branches, though the air was cold. Condensation on the windows. He shivered. He was thirsty and hungry, but there was nothing to be done about that right away. He glanced in the mirror. Huddled in the back seat, Irene was still sleeping beneath her blanket, which struck him as little short of astonishing. Unless she'd died of shock. He listened very carefully, and was relieved to hear slight snoring sounds.

‘You look wonderful,' he'd told her, when she came back from her prettifying session. ‘God, how do you do it?' he'd added, after a suitable pause. ‘You're still gorgeous, after all I've put you through.'

It worked every time. The eyes softened, the head went just a fraction to one side, the hand went briefly to the hair. It was hilarious. She didn't object to the cancellation of their walk along the shoreline, and they were several minutes on the road before it dawned on her that they were going north, not south. He'd thought for a moment or two, and when no plausible explanation came to mind, he'd decided to stop being a secret agent. It had been fun, but he was tired of it. She'd not been best pleased, but the first little flurries of disbelief, indignation, and anger had melted like snow in summer after a few hard slaps. Her collapse was so easy, it took him by surprise. No need for the knife. He'd taken the emerald ring off her finger without a cheep of protest. Who'd have thought?

He got out to relieve himself, and when he turned round, she was awake. The inrush of cold air or the noise of the car door opening, he supposed. She wasn't quite so lovely now. To be fair, he recalled, he'd had to slap her about quite a bit before she saw sense.

‘Sleep ok?' he said, opening the passenger door.

No answer. What was wrong with her? Where had the feistiness gone? If she stayed as submissive as this to the bitter end, it would be a bit of a let-down.

‘You brought this on yourself, Irene,' he reminded her. ‘I trusted you, but you didn't trust me. Now see where it's got you.'

‘Please . . .'

‘Please what, my love? Please don't hurt you? I'm not going to hurt you. I had to hurt you a little last night because you were being silly. But you're not being silly anymore, are you?'

She gave a tiny shake of the head.

‘Good girl. You see, I like to keep things simple. Life is meant to be simple, don't you think? I wanted your nice stuff, but people kept getting in the way, and making everything confused, which just isn't right. Even your stupid cat got under my feet. This is better, isn't it? I wanted the ring, you gave me the ring. That makes me happy. And when Dina called last night, you had a little chat and she was happy too. And today we're going to meet her and the foreign guy, and everybody's going to be very happy. Well, not for very long, but some happiness in this life is better than none at all. God, I'm hungry. Are you hungry?'

Her eyes told him nothing at all.

‘Well, that's good. That's a simple thing,' he looked at his watch. ‘We'll get out of this forest and find something to eat.'

He had no idea what would happen next, but in his heart he knew it would be fine. The police might be around sooner or later, thanks to her foolish phone call at the hotel, which might make things merry. Once they were on the main road he'd rehearse some options. He'd always liked lists, and Mind Maps even more, where you could colour in circles and join them with curly or straight lines. He'd had a gold felt tip pen once, and a silver one, just for drawing lines. Where had they gone? Making lists was fun, but sometimes it was even more fun just to take what life gave you. Like Irene making her phone call and that fat dimwit of a receptionist dropping the message in his lap.

Essentially, life was very much like driving. If you looked too far ahead all the time, you'd lose sight of the car in front, when it was that one that caused the danger. In just the same way, if you thought too much about the future, things got so complex you couldn't live today. Of course you had to keep half an eye on the car behind, particularly if it was a police car, but not too much. Just half an eye. He never held grudges. He could still remember that prefect, Trevor, who'd reported him for stealing way back in his short trouser days. A word or two in his ear, and he'd been eager to retract his accusation. They'd got on well after that, with a constant supply of chocolate biscuits, Trevor's father being the manager of a biscuit factory. Happy days.

He reversed the car carefully down the track. It was narrow and the ruts were deep and the pine branches threatened to scratch the paintwork. ‘Put your seat belt on, my love,' he reminded her. Money did grow on trees, no matter what anyone said. He didn't want to take it from people, but it was just so easy. He glanced at her in the mirror. Possibly her collapse wasn't so surprising. She lived in a bubble of vanity. One prick and she deflated. Nobody loved her anymore. He tried to imagine what that might feel like.

Feliks woke soon after dawn. There were no curtains in the attic bedroom. The window, set into the sloping roof, allowed no view of his surroundings, but the sky was clear. And the room was warm. She had switched on the heating the night before and turned it on full. He pulled the covers over his head and tried unsuccessfully to get back to sleep.

He had slept naked. His underpants, socks and trousers on the radiator had thankfully dried enough to be wearable. He found his shirt and jacket next to the radiator in the bathroom on a wooden frame, very like the one from his childhood. He was reminded of how his mother had hung clothes over it in front of the stove, on winter mornings warming them item by item before he put them on. The shirt was ok but the jacket was still completely sodden. He turned it outside in and draped it back over the rail. His shoes beneath were still wet too.

There were a few pairs of black rubber boots in the porch at the rear of the house, but none big enough for him. He took off the socks. Easier to go barefoot.

He knew already that the front of the small house was separated from the road by a low stone wall, with no garden to speak of. At the back was a steep garden accessed by a flight of five stone steps. He liked that. It made the house seem to sit comfortably in its space as one might sit in an armchair. There were beds edged with stones, growing nothing but weeds, the paths between a mixture of bare earth, moss and broken tarred surfacing. He climbed over a low fence into a steeper grassy field. The grass was wet, misted with dew. Sheep marked with blue dye on their heavy fleeces stopped feeding to stare at him and bolted as he came closer. He stepped carefully to avoid their droppings. How fat and healthy-looking these animals were. Life was easy when you were too dumb to know there was a future, grew your own clothes and could chew your bed the whole day long.

He scanned the long sweep of the bay. No shops at all. She'd said there was nothing to eat in her house, so they'd paused the previous evening at a supermarket, a large one, right beside the water. She'd gone to pay for the ticket. The car park was busy. Vans, a tour bus. A surprising number of small children running about freely with no parents around. Houses behind tall bushes on the other side of the road. Lots of traffic. He heard foreign voices. Hungarian he thought. He knew some Hungarian. The man was on his mobile, telling someone – a son or daughter – what time to come back, asking what they would eat, and what they wouldn't. His wife was checking a map.

When he hung up, Feliks got out of the car.

‘Excuse me, are you from Hungary?' he asked in Hungarian.

Smiles of pleasure. Where was he from? What was he doing here?

‘I'm working,' he said, ‘It's good money. You're on holiday? The weather's not so good for a holiday. Look, it's cheek of me to ask, but could I make a quick call from your phone? I'll pay you for it. It's just a local call. Mine's dead. Here's my girlfriend coming. It's for her, in fact. She needs to make a call. You can see how miserable she is.'

They didn't need to look twice to see he was telling the truth. And of course he could make a call. No question of payment. No, don't be ridiculous.

They passed the phone to Dina.

‘Call Irene,' he told her.

She dialled the number.

So, had he been in the country long? What did he think of it? They were camping, with their son and daughter. The people were friendly but the English food was terrible.

Absolutely, he agreed. He missed goulash and proper chicken soup. And Hortobagyi pancakes. There was a place in Budapest in a back street near the castle, he said, where they did wonderful pancakes, and the best peach palinka. Ah, yes, they thought they knew it. (Interesting, since he'd just made it up.) The place with the violinist who always played just slightly out of tune? Yes, he remembered that one. Just as well the tourists hadn't found it yet or the prices would shoot through the roof.

‘Irene? Where are you? Are you all right?' Dina's voice interrupted the exchange of happy memories.

Feliks couldn't hear what Irene was saying. ‘Yes, on the island,' Dina said. There was much more from Irene, to which Dina said, ‘Yes, of course.' Then, ‘Park anywhere in the town square. It's not far. That's right. You're sure he's gone?'

She handed the phone back to the woman, who talked to her in Hungarian.

‘She won't understand you. She's Scottish,' he told them. ‘She lives here.'

‘Lucky man,' the husband said, laughing. ‘Does she have a job too?'

‘Of course. Rich and beautiful. What more does a man need?'

‘Teenage children,' the woman offered. Laughter and smiles all round. Perhaps we'll see you again. Have a great holiday. Thank you so much. Yes, and take care on the roads. They don't give you much space here. So, just like home really.

‘Well? Tell me,' he said, when they'd gone.

‘It was Irene. She says she's all right. She says she got rid of him.'

‘Really?'

‘She said she told him one of the tyres felt soft, and he got out and she drove away without him. She wants to meet us tomorrow. You, I mean. She wants to meet you. I suggested a place.'

‘Did she sound like herself?'

‘She sounded tired, but she said she's completely ok. She's going to find a hotel and meet us tomorrow.'

He let her believe it, though he didn't. There were too many pieces missing, and he was certain a man like that wouldn't be duped so easily. To persuade Dina otherwise right now seemed too cruel, like crushing a butterfly. She would work it out herself, given time. If they had time.

‘Why will she not come to your house?'

She sighed. ‘That would have been better. I'll phone her again when we get there. I've got tins, but as I said, there's no fresh food. What would you like?' she said. ‘Are you allowed to drink wine? Being a priest, I mean.'

She had cooked pasta with a meat sauce. It was ready-made, and quick to heat. Then chocolate pastries, eclairs she called them. Cheese and biscuits, and a large bunch of red grapes, to have something healthy, she said. The pastries were good, but the grapes were very small and not particularly sweet. The wine was Italian. It went to his head very quickly which was intriguing considering how much alcohol he'd once been able to down without much effect.

She had tried calling Irene again, but without success. Still believing that Irene was safe, she was cheerful, more so as the evening, and the wine, went on. Of course, she was in her own safe place. And of course, many momentous things were not mentioned. It seemed her mind had compartments. The burglars, the fall from the tower, whether Lazslo was alive or dead, what had become of Frank, and the imminent possibility of being arrested had all apparently been assigned separate drawers in her memory, with the drawers pushed shut. And the kiss that so easily surfaced in his mind, had that disappeared from hers? They had sat in separate chairs on either side of the fire. The fire, he guessed, was for emotional comfort. The central heating had warmed the place up very quickly but the fire kept her occupied; watching the logs, moving and adjusting them. Her face relaxed, and she was pleased with herself when she had the wood burning just as she wanted.

Her talk was mostly of her childhood and her grandparents, to whom the small house had belonged. About her parents she said less. Her father was dead, he learned, and her mother lived with a man in the south of Spain, but whether that had happened before or after the father's death, he was not sure. He let her do most of the talking, in part because it was in fact interesting, but more because unlike her he couldn't compartmentalise his mind. He wasn't sure how much he could say about anything without slipping up and destroying her present happiness. When it was quite late she showed him the spare bed and went to her own.

He'd gone back down to the sitting room, sitting there till the last embers turned black. Then he'd stepped out into the narrow front garden and the salted air. The night had become windy and he turned up his collar. But it was not cold, he thought, not yet. The winters here might be bad, so close to the ocean. But the house was made of stone, well-made, to withstand bad winters. He wondered how old it was. The wooden gate was rough beneath his fingers. It needed sanding and its hinges oiled.

There were no street lights. Nor was there any sand on the shore beneath his feet, only shingle, then seaweed in waxy clumps, like strips of black rubber. There were no sounds except the rush and fall of the water, and the warm coursing wind. He stopped short of the water's edge, took Frank's gun from his pocket and flung it as far as he could into the waves.

Death is not an accident, but God's doing
. He could hear Father Konstantin's voice.
We know that we will die, though we pretend that we will not.

The last time he'd tried to die he'd been drunk.

Now here he was, not drunk but not quite sober either.

He looked back at the small house. No lights. He hoped she was sleeping peacefully. He himself was entirely unconvinced that the Arbanisi woman had managed to free herself from the suited man. It was far too neat.

There wasn't much of a moon. It curved like a backward c, which meant a waxing moon. The clouds had cleared, whirled away by the night wind and the sky was cluttered with a billion useless stars. What reason was there to feel angry if Lazslo was dead, to feel ashamed of his own incompetence, or guilty over his attack on Frank? If men were all mere collections of atoms, it was completely irrational. Anger, shame, hope – they were all without meaning.

The waves were loud. The weight of water sucked back, poured forward, sucked and fell, over and over. The salt air filled his lungs. He'd never been this close to the sea, to any sea. The rivers they'd fished in at home were cold in winter, but not bottomless like this. In hot weather, even the smallest boys would swing over the pools and jump in for fun. This water would never be warm.

Not that he'd ever jumped in much. Boris had tried every method known to man to make him into a swimmer, and every emotion, from reassurance to red-faced rage, but Feliks had never trusted water, not shallow, clear, flowing rivers, not even the most tranquil of ponds, because he'd already learned from his illustrated Creatures of the World about flesh-eating fish, and guessed there were things other than tench, zander and carp dwelling deep in the water, alien creatures biding their time, hiding in the mud and mayfly larvae, looking, he imagined, a bit like lampreys but with tiny vicious teeth ready to fasten onto any pale intruding foot. In other words, he'd been a coward.

Three-legged chicken dog.

A house with a banana tree.

Death is God's doing.

He walked forward, over a final thin strip of sand. The water began to seep into his shoes. The beach sloped a little more steeply. Another couple of steps and he was in. He zipped up his jacket, reflecting as he did so how ridiculous, how pointless this was. And now he was in up to his knees. The water was in fact far colder than he'd anticipated. His trousers clung most unpleasantly to his legs, but after a few moments he could barely feel them. The outgoing rush sucked him almost off his feet. He managed to right himself. The next incoming wave hit him across the waist. His legs were now completely without sensation . . .

Someone screamed. He tried to turn, struggled to stay upright. There was a commotion in the water behind him. On heavy feet, legs that refused to move, he lurched towards the screaming, splashing shape, caught at it with freezing hands, lost her, caught her, pulled her close. Braced together against the sea, they'd stood upright, then swaying, staggering, they'd stumbled towards the shore.

 

He didn't smell good. Even out here on the hillside with the morning breeze blowing over him, he was pretty rank, especially around the folds. Salt water and stale sweat. A bad combination. There hadn't been enough hot water the night before for two baths, and he'd insisted on her having one. As soon as there was any hot water this morning, he would need to bathe. Fortunately there was no one here to sniff at him. Not a soul in sight. He wanted to stop time. He wanted to stay here forever.