SS Glasgow Castle 47 Chapter Forty Seven

It quoted a Captain Kross, advisor to the armed forces of Zaire: 'We're just instructors, but we do keep the boys so busy they don't have time to scheme'. It was a very long article - the quote appeared on page three of nine - and I read on, hoping to find more wisdom from Kross.

I found much more than that. I found a picture that was worth a hundred quotes and proverbs. It was a photograph - one of maybe a dozen ill.u.s.trating the article - that featured Mireille. She was standing by a group of ragged, thin African children; one of these was clutching her hand, and a building burned in the background. She was looking at something past the camera with hollowed eyes; her cheek glistened with what might have been a tear.

Kross was bending over her, a protective hand on her shoulder; his grim face was half turned towards the camera and he was raising his other hand, machine pistol attached, to block the view. The photo caption was tinged with the magazine's trademark irony: 'The knight and the damsel: a white mercenary comforts a survivor of the Shaba ma.s.sacres.'

I got up and went to the kitchen and put my head under the tap prior to fixing another coffee and scotch. Was that how she'd lost her husband - hacked to death with machetes? Burned alive? And was she raped?

I read that issue of the Economist from cover to cover. I found out that Shaba, formerly Katanga, was a rich province that understandably desired to become independent. All attempts to secede from Congo and later Zaire had failed, with lots of people dying in the process. That reminded me that my new wealth had involved people dying, too.

I took a shower and began hitting Peterborough bars. My automatic pilot must have been in top nick, for I woke up in the middle of the night on the front room sofa. I had a dim memory of actually talking to people while in one of the bars. I was terrified that I might have blurted out something self-incriminating in a rush of alcoholic honesty, and I spent the long hours until dawn s.h.i.+vering with paranoia.

I spent most of the new day at the computer too, sticking to coffee. I managed to find the site of the Ghana News Agency. The day after I'd clung to a tree trunk, hiding from a helicopter, they ran a short story about a gun battle between an army patrol and poachers in the Northwest Region. Three soldiers were killed; the poachers escaped.

It could have been real poachers, concurrently operating in the neighbourhood of Kross's battlefield. But somehow I didn't think so. It felt like a cover story invented to explain the casualties, and it made me an accomplice to murder. I was seriously considering turning myself over to the police when something happened.

What happened was that the telephone rang, and when I answered it I found that I was speaking to someone called Samantha. Someone called Samantha said we'd become friends the previous night and that I insisted on getting together the next day.

So instead of going to the police station I went to see Samantha, although I dreaded it almost as much. I didn't even remember what she'd looked like; hopefully, she remembered me. I wanted to find out what I'd told her the previous evening.

Samantha turned out to be good-looking and generally nice, and it turned out I'd said very little apart from making an impa.s.sioned speech about taking up painting again. She liked the fact that I'd listened to her talking about herself instead of the other way around. Also, she'd found my outburst interesting. I think she was disappointed when I said goodbye without asking to see her again.

I spent the next few weeks practically in hiding. I ventured out after nightfall to buy sundry items, and greatly boosted the business of a nearby Chinese takeaway and a pizza parlour. This went on until the arrival of another FedEx envelope from Sanis jolted me into action. It made me realize I'd made up my mind to hang onto the money, try and get away with it.

I decided to sever my last feeble connection with Kross: I decided to pay a last visit to the meat merchant's mansion. I'd collect any mail, say goodbye to Mr Natarajan, and never show my face there again.

I made the trip on a March day that couldn't decide whether it belonged to spring or winter. I hit a snow blizzard soon after I set out, but kept driving and was rewarded by an explosion of near-tropical suns.h.i.+ne an hour later. I parked the Oldsmobile on my old street around three in the afternoon.

It turned out Mr Natarajan wasn't in. A tenant let me enter, so at least I waited indoors. Mr Natarajan appeared after an extremely long half an hour. Right away he informed me with great excitement that my wife had shown up to drop off books I'd left behind. There also was some mail waiting for me.

"Ex-wife," I said, which made his day. He chortled and led me to a large carton which had once contained choice grade McIntosh apples from Mount Gay Farms. It was half-full of books and magazines.

I spotted a few envelopes scattered among the reading matter, and there was also a large flat package wrapped in brown paper that had gotten wet. I had the thought Donna had put together an alb.u.m of photographs from our life together, meant to make me feel guilty. Natarajan reacted to my frowning silence by explaining humbly that he'd dropped the package in the snow on the way back from the post office – he'd went to collect it personally, took a slip and nearly injured himself. He shot me a reproachful look there.

I disappointed him. I was snappy when I asked if there was any other mail, if anyone had been asking about me again, and - had he seen Kross, heard from him? Was he around? Natarajan repeatedly denied everything; he became hurt and suspicious. I left quickly.

I didn't get back home until ten that night. I was tired and thought I'd deal with the carton the next day. But I found myself thinking about its contents - I had a feeling one of the envelopes contained a letter from Donna, and preferred reading it right away to wondering about what it said. So I got up again, brought the carton into the kitchen, poured myself a gla.s.s of vitamin-rich orange juice, and got down to work.

I was wriggling my hand under the big flat package to retrieve an obstinate envelope when it struck me that the hand-printed address hadn't been put there by Donna - it wasn't her hand. I took the package out and examined it, but everything was hopelessly smeared. I could hardly make out my own name on the envelope. I armed myself with the kitchen knife, slit the taped paper and opened the envelope to reveal an old newspaper: Vancouver Sun. It was wrapped around a book which was quite heavy. I unwrapped it and put it down on the table.

My heart began to bang the moment I saw the cover. It was old, stained leather, furred where someone had roughly sc.r.a.ped off the mold. I opened the cover and stared at the front page. It featured the handwritten t.i.tle and author in slanted, embellished script, the ink purple with age: 'The Life Well Led. A Collection of Thoughts and Esseys. Horatio Greenbottle, Vicar of Rye, Sussx'.

I opened the book at random, and immediately saw that it wasn't random. There was a bookmark attached to the spine, a twisted leather thong, and someone had placed it there - about two thirds of the way through the ma.n.u.script. It would require fort.i.tude to read that far; the big stiff pages were full of Greenbottle's slanting, cramped script - there were no margins, and approximately a hundred lines per page. His 's' resembled 'f' and he capitalized nouns, verbs and adjectives whenever he thought it appropriate.

I got my mother's magnifying gla.s.s from the kitchen drawer; she used it to read the purposely tiny type on food packaging. When I bent over the book again an X penciled on the page jumped out at me, magnified six times. It marked the beginning of a sentence, and I slowly slid the gla.s.s over these letters:

'For G.o.d is Infinitly Mercifull; yet he who Lives by Falsehood will even Lie to Him, and seek to Caress His Mercie with False Gifts. As His Humble Servant I had many a Time Prepared a Sinner to Meet His Maker, and recieved many Pledges of Property and Monneys from the Deathbed. Had They All been Earnest, my Humble Vicrage would Possess more Wealth than the Vatican, for these Empty Promisses included viz. a Gold Mine in Brasil, one Isle in the West Indies and another in the Greek Seas (tho' the Benefactor knew these Seas remain under Infidel Rule), and a magnificent Mansion whos Dying Master was plea.s.s'd to call his Glasgow Castle. But of all the Wretched Souls seeking to Appeaz G.o.ds Rightful Wrath, none were more Elaborate and Cunning than a certain James Avery, by his own admittance a very Sad Dog indeed, who Claimed to Know of Treasure Hidden Well out of Reach viz. on the Coast of Guinney, buried under Stones he called the Weeping Sisters, and whos Compleat Story I shall now Recount for My Readers' Edification.'
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I put the magnifying gla.s.s aside, sat down, and began to read.

THE END