A Song for the Brokenhearted Page 32

  And that smell. Not strong, but unpleasant.

  He recognised it suddenly The smell of the butcher’s shop. The scent of uncooked meat. Of flesh. Of blood.

  He tried to scream, but couldn’t. The noise died in his throat. He passed out again.

  He opened his eyes with a start

  She was there, opposite him, naked, bound to a chair, disfigured and mutilated. Her hanging breasts were crusted with blood and her belly had been criss-crossed by a blade, like pork before roasting. The cuts were so deep that beyond the skin he could see the pale fat.

  Not Hibou, who he had been searching for, but Eloisa Fletchet.

  With horror, he realised that he too was tied to a chair. And naked as well.

  Her eyes were shut. Was she dead?

  But her chest rose and fell very slightly, very slowly. She must be unconscious.

  There was a tarpaulin on the floor beneath both of their chairs. Under Eloisa Fletchet it was thick with blood that had run down her chest, her belly, her groin and her legs onto the floor.

  Breen vomited.

  Awake again.

  Someone was cleaning the sick off his legs, his belly. Off his penis.

  He opened his eyes.

  A man with long hair, brown, but with a little grey in it. His head was lower than Breen’s and the man’s face was entirely hidden by the curtain of long hair that dangled downwards, swishing gently from side to side as he dabbed the sponge backwards and forwards, pressing it into the folds of skin at Breen’s groin.

  The tramp; Nicholas Doyle. He had cleaned himself, shaved off his beard, but it was the same man.

  Breen tried to talk to him, but as he did so realised again that he could not speak. His mouth was now gagged. Instead he found himself making odd, animalish noises.

  He must have passed out and been found on the shore. He had been dragged here, stripped of his wet clothes and tied to the chair opposite Mrs Fletchet. It was too fantastical a scene to comprehend. Pure horror.

  He had almost drowned in water that would have been only a few degrees above freezing. He had been saved. He would have died out there on the beach. Perhaps that would have been better.

  He would be suffering from hypothermia, he realised dimly. He knew it slowed your body and brain. It made understanding hard.

  The man in front of him paused in his work. He too appeared at first to be naked, though when he stood, Breen saw he wore a pair of dirty khaki shorts that had a little blood on them. And a knife, sheathed in his belt. The strange man was bronzed, even in winter, and wiry, the outline of his ribs showing on his chest. He unclipped the knife and held it in front of Breen.

  Breen’s eyes widened; his head flinched backwards. Knives always terrified him. More than guns or bombs.

  The man nodded and said, ‘Shh.’ Then he reached the knife around the back of Breen’s head and cut through the gag. It fell onto Breen’s naked lap.

  ‘Where is Hibou?’ Breen said, but his voice was unintelligible. His jaw felt like iron, his lips like cardboard.

  ‘You are Nicholas Doyle,’ Breen tried again. A croak, devoid of consonants. His lungs were weak, he realised. He had been exhausted by his time in the water.

  The man said nothing, just kept sponging the vomit from Breen’s body. The water was warm and trickled between his legs, but the man continued cleaning him. He was doing it carefully, respectfully.

  ‘So you’re not dead, after all,’ said Breen, as loudly as he could manage.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, exactly,’ said Doyle. He spoke in a soft, soothing cockney.

  ‘What’s happening?’ said Breen.

  ‘Tell me how you found me.’

  Breen tried to remember.

  ‘Tell me. I will hurt you if you don’t tell me.’

  ‘You tortured her,’ said Breen. ‘Why?’

  ‘No questions,’ said Doyle.

  ‘What about Hibou?’

  ‘Shh,’ said Doyle. ‘Everything will be OK soon. You are Helen’s friend, aren’t you?’

  Breen nodded.

  ‘I’ve watched you,’ said Doyle.

  He squeezed the sponge into a basin and stood back. ‘You’re clean now,’ he said. ‘Tell me how you found me?’

  ‘What about her?’ said Breen, nodding his head towards Eloisa Fletchet.

  ‘She’s close,’ said Doyle.

  ‘Close to what?’

  Doyle didn’t answer. He left the room with the basin of dirty water.

  For the first time, Breen looked around.

  They were in a shack of some kind. It was a decrepit affair, smelling of seaweed and woodsmoke. To one side, driftwood was stacked in a pile next to a small iron stove. The room was lit by a single paraffin lamp hanging from a hook in the wooden ceiling. There were a couple of fishing rods leaning against the wall. It was still dark outside, but this was early spring. The nights were long. How many hours had he been unconscious?

  In front of the stove, Eloisa Fletchet’s eyes fluttered. Breen noticed the cigarette burns on her skin. The same as Bill Milkwood; the same as Alexandra Tozer. Breen thought for a moment she was going to regain consciousness, but she didn’t. Her skin was pale. She had lost a great deal of blood already. The same slow, methodical torture.

  Doyle returned with his knife unsheathed. Sharpened blades; Breen’s phobia.

  Breen stared at it, wide-eyed. Before he realised what Doyle was doing, he raised his hand over Breen’s mouth and pressed, held the knife against Breen’s belly and sliced once, diagonally.

  Breen sucked in air through his nose. A silent scream, though surprisingly the cut had hurt less than he expected.

  Doyle said, ‘How did you find me?’

  When his chest stopped rising and falling so hard, Doyle released his hand.

  ‘Don’t,’ whispered Breen. ‘Please.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Police are out there looking for you.’ His voice was powerless. Doyle leaned his head closer to his mouth. ‘They know I went this way. They’ll be here any moment.’

  Doyle shook his head. ‘I found you crawling outside over an hour ago. If they were behind you they’d be here by now. You’re lying.’

  Breen’s heart fell. Helen hadn’t persuaded them to follow. He was on his own. Doyle replaced his hand on Breen’s mouth and sliced again.

  This time it hurt. He felt warmth fill his lap. This was his own blood, dribbling down, mingling with Eloisa Fletchet’s on the floor.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I had a photograph of you. From Kenya. Hibou recognised it.’

  ‘Yes. She did.’

  Dimly, Breen wondered where Hibou was. She must have tried to come here. But he couldn’t see her.

  ‘You were in Kenya,’ Breen blurted.

  ‘Yes. That’s right.’

  Breen was thinking desperately. Keep him talking. The longer he could do that, the longer he could postpone Doyle tying on the gag again. ‘You must have seen terrible things.’

  No response.

  ‘I spoke to a Kenyan man whose girlfriend had scars…’

  Doyle paused for a second. Nodded. ‘Terrible things,’ he said.

  ‘You tortured people.’

  Doyle was untying the knot from the gag.

  ‘Was that where you learned to torture people?’

  ‘You know about it?’ he said.

  ‘A little,’ Breen said.

  Doyle lifted the knife and scratched his chin with it.

  ‘Jim Fletchet is a devil.’ He was surrounded by blood and the body of a dying woman, and this man was calling Fletchet a devil.

  ‘It was never about hurting people,’ said Doyle. ‘Not for me. You should understand that.’

  Breen saw a glimmer. ‘No? But for the others?’

  ‘Fletchet, definitely. He is a bastard. A corrupter of men.’

  ‘I need to understand,’ said Breen.

  Doyle didn’t answer. He turned, opened the door on a small blackened stove and threw a piece o
f driftwood inside.

  Where was Hibou?

  ‘I’ve watched you,’ said Doyle. ‘On the farm. I watched you looking at where I left Alexandra.’

  ‘You were there, all the time?’

  Doyle nodded.

  ‘You knew Alexandra?’

  Doyle shook his head. ‘Not really. I knew Jimmy was in love with her. I saw them fucking in his car. Are you in love with Alexandra’s sister?’

  Breen said, ‘Yes, I am.’

  Doyle nodded.

  Breen looked in the hope that there would be daylight in the sky outside but it was still dark. He could keep Doyle talking. They would find them. But the longer it took, the less chance Eloisa Fletchet would have.

  ‘I met Penny,’ said Breen. ‘In London.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Sad. She thinks you’re dead.’

  ‘She is right. I am dead,’ said Doyle. He walked over to Eloisa and held his face close to hers, feeling her breathing. ‘Is Alexandra’s sister in love with you?’

  ‘No,’ said Breen.

  They were in a dirty wooden shed of a building, with a tortured woman dying next to him, and they were talking about love.

  ‘And you? Are you in love with Penny?’ asked Breen.

  ‘I am dead, remember?’ said Doyle. ‘I am not capable of love. I haven’t been for many years. It’s strange how attractive that can make you to women like Penny. And Hibou.’ He picked up Eloisa’s limp arm and felt her pulse. Was he checking to see if she was still alive?

  Breen looked at him. He had a crude tattoo on his left arm. Under a Union Jack, it read ‘Queen and Country’. He was around thirty-five years old, but scrawny and fit still. Under his long hair, his face was sharp and angular.

  ‘Is she dying?’ said Breen.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You can save her still,’ Breen said.

  Doyle snorted. ‘Not her. She’s not worth saving. I was in love once,’ he said, taking out his knife again.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Breen, desperately.

  Doyle glared at Breen, then suddenly seemed to relax. ‘People tell stories all the time in Africa. You want to hear mine?’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘No,’ said Doyle. ‘You’re not. One thing I have missed is company.’

  The cuts were starting to sting now. ‘You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?’

  ‘I don’t have a lot of choice.’

  ‘They’ll know it was you.’

  ‘The police think I’m dead in Spain. They’ve nothing to connect me to you.’ He turned towards the dying woman. ‘The only person who will know it’s me is… your husband, Eloisa. He’s known all along.’

  Breen said, ‘What about Hibou? She knows where you are. Did you kill her too?’

  Doyle seemed surprised by the question. ‘No. I decided not to.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She said she saw a photograph. She heard you talking about me as the man who had killed Alexandra. So she came to find out for herself.’

  ‘She’s alive?’

  Doyle sighed. ‘Don’t agitate yourself. It does not help.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Breen heard a muffled banging from somewhere. ‘Hibou!’ he called.

  The banging got louder. Doyle looked at Breen. ‘Please. It’s better for her if she is not stirred up.’

  She must be in another part of the shed, tied to a bed or a chair, banging a foot against the floor or the wall.

  ‘Shh,’ said Doyle, louder. ‘If you don’t calm down, I’ll have to tie you tighter.’

  The banging stopped.

  ‘Will you let her go?’ Breen asked.

  ‘How can I? Thanks to you, she knows who I am.’

  ‘So you are going to kill her anyway?’

  ‘Death is not important. You don’t know that yet. But you will. I’ve seen a lot of people die. What is important is how you do it. If you are prepared, it doesn’t leave marks on your soul.’ The muffled banging from next door continued. Doyle stood. ‘Hush, girl,’ he called. ‘Relax. Clear you mind, like I taught you.’

  Breen could not turn his head fully, but the sound seemed to be coming from the other side of a partition made of planks of wood.

  ‘Tell me about Kenya,’ said Breen. Keep him talking.

  ‘The energy is different there. Have you ever lived in a hot country? No? You loved it, didn’t you, Eloisa? We agreed on that, at least. You used to say you adored the heat. I did too. I was in the police, like Mr Breen here, remember? Fresh out of Hendon. Spent a couple of months in Nairobi, then I was stationed in Nyeri with Milkwood. The White Highlands, they called it. And that was where all the Mau Mau militants were. Mickey Mau Maus you used to call them. And then, early ’53, a couple of us were seconded to where you were, a tiny little place called Ngala. Myself and Sergeant Milkwood. It’s where I fell in love.’

  ‘Eloisa says you went native.’

  ‘No. I just stopped being a cunt. That’s what you didn’t like, Eloisa, wasn’t it?’

  Doyle opened a tin and pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette. Opening the stove door, he lit a twig and used it to light the small cigarette, then he lowered himself onto his haunches, squatting on the floor.

  ‘After Nairobi, Ngala was great. I was twenty-one. And in the morning the sun would rise behind a beautiful mountain called Mount Kenya. Some parts of the White Highlands were like World War Two, but the troubles hadn’t come to Ngala, not then. It was paradise. We were kings, us white men. It was a little village. Everybody said, “Hello, sir.” There was a little shop in the village. Sold powdered milk for the tea. Stuff like that. “Hello, sir! Your usual?” Packet of fags. Bottle of beer. Can you imagine anything better? Me. A lad from Bow.’

  ‘No,’ said Breen. ‘I can’t imagine that.’

  ‘You and your husband put us up in a chalet on their farm,’ said Doyle. ‘I thought you were wonderful. You had us round for dinner. Drinks on the veranda. Oh yes. You gave me the thirst. Isn’t that right, Mrs Fletchet?’ He addressed her naked, unconscious form, then looked back at Breen. ‘But back then, I couldn’t believe my luck. Great people. Plenty of everything. Because we were white, Bill and me, we were OK. Back in England I would have been shit to you, but out in Kenya, it was like I was a king. I had respect. Everything. Even me, I had a servant. Well, a houseboy, anyway. He looked after Milkwood and me at our quarters. Me. A lad from a back-to-back. Drinking gin and bitters on your patio. What were those little things you used to serve with the gin, Mrs F?’

  Eloisa Fletchet groaned, but she didn’t seem to be fully conscious.

  ‘Gherkins. Pickled gherkins on little sticks.’ He mimed holding up a toothpick. ‘It was lovely. Though I’m not sure you approved of me, did you, Mrs Fletchet? You didn’t like your husband mingling with a couple of mere coppers. But he knew what he was doing. We were new in the country. We needed taking in hand. He explained the things we couldn’t see. How families like his had come here in the Thirties. His uncle had settled the place. How there had been nothing here when they arrived. They had made this place. He knew about the Kikuyu, the local people. Spoke a bit of the language. Said he admired them. Wonderful people.

  ‘We heard about the Mau Mau atrocities everywhere else. All the white farmers were getting ready for their turn. Out in Ngala they didn’t touch us. So we didn’t have much to do, except file reports. I met the local schoolteacher, Ruth Wairimu. She was twenty-five. Older than me. She taught in the local Kikuyu School. One day I met her in the village shop… a tiny little outpost it was… and said hello. She asked me if I would read Shakespeare to her schoolchildren. Me. Read Shakespeare. She said she wanted her children to hear an Englishman read the Bard.’

  The rain had started now. It spattered onto the window behind the blankets that hung as curtains.

  ‘So I did. I always liked English. It was my favourite subject at school. Her school, it was this concrete block
with a tin roof. All these desks lined up. And Ruth there in front of them all. She handed a book to me and made me read out of it. She gave me Hamlet,’ he said.

  ‘Who would fardels bear,

  To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

  But that the dread of something after death,

  The undiscover’d country from whose bourn

  No traveller returns, puzzles the will

  And makes us rather bear those ills we have

  Than fly to others that we know not of?’

  He spoke it quietly, with feeling, looking straight at Mrs Fletchet. ‘Bloody love Shakespeare. I don’t know if they understood a word I said. Ruth explained it all to them… They loved it. All that murder and plotting. Next day we went for drinks on your veranda. Remember that, Mrs Fletchet?’ No reaction. ‘“Oh, I hear you’ve been getting chummy with the local schoolmistress,” said your husband. “Yeah. As it happens…” He sidles over to me and says, “Word to the wise, old chum. Steer clear of the dark meat. If you want it, go to Nairobi. Plenty there. Not round here. Word gets around.” So what if word gets around?

  ‘I said, “She’s not after my body, only my mind.” We all had a good laugh at that, but you could see it there. And obviously I knew what he was getting at. We had our place. They had their place. Mess that up and it all goes wrong.’ Doyle looked at his watch, then said, ‘But I didn’t want to admit it. I’d fallen in love with her from the start. She was beautiful. Not like you were beautiful, Mrs F. God, you were gorgeous, and didn’t you know it? But Ruth was clever. And she didn’t treat me like some piece of dog shit.’

  Mrs Fletchet was waxy white. She did not have long left.

  ‘In the evenings I would go and sit with her outside the house she shared with the other schoolteacher. There was this amazing noise, in the evening. All the crickets and toads. It was beautiful. We would sit on a bench where everyone could see us, so she could show everyone we were not getting up to no good, you know? I used to love to hear her talk. It was always about her kids. The stupid things they’d done. Out there, one moment it’s the afternoon, the next it’s night-time. The night comes down like a curtain in a play. And sometimes we would only sit there and just listen to the noise of the bugs. She was really funny and smart. I had to write reports and she’d help me with them. It was nothing more than just holding hands. I wanted more, of course. I did try, but she wouldn’t let me…