The Beating of His Wings

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ replied Vague Henri.

  Cale resentfully explained that not only had he gone to humiliating extremes to avoid trouble, he had been too sick to do anything even if he had wanted to. The details of Meatyard’s bullying he kept to himself.

  He gave them a detailed account of the truth, the lies he had made everyone tell to cover it up as well as the peculiar bad luck that had put him in the lunatic ward in the first place. IdrisPukke went off to see the newly appointed Director of the asylum and gave her hell about the treatment given to such an important person. What kind of institution was she running? he’d asked, and other rhetorical questions of that sort. In a short time he had gouged a promise from her to end the investigation into the events of that night, and to have Cale brought under the personal daily care of their most skilled mind doctor and at no extra expense. IdrisPukke demanded and received a further promise to cut the fees for Cale’s treatment in half.

  By no means all of his anger was simulated. He had not expected a cure, given that Cale’s collapse had been so great, but he’d hoped for an improvement both because of his great affection for the boy but also because he wanted to work with Cale on a much grander long-term strategy for dealing with the Redeemers. But Cale could not even speak for long without pausing to rest and gather his thoughts: and besides, there was the dreadful look of him. When Cale gave away in passing that today was an unusually good day, IdrisPukke realized that the help they desperately needed from Cale might come too late, if it came at all.

  IdrisPukke demanded the Director summon the mind doctor who was to take care of Cale so that he could put his mind at rest as to his quality. The Director, knowing that IdrisPukke had to leave the next day, lied that the doctor was away on retreat and would not return for another three days.

  ‘She’s an anomist,’ said the Director.

  ‘I’m not familiar with the term.’

  ‘She treats anomie, diseases of the soul, by talking, sometimes for hours a day and for many months. Patients call it the talking cure.’ He could be reassured, said the Director, that she was a healer of uncommon skill and she had made headway with even the most intractable cases.

  Although he was not sure he believed her about the convenient ‘retreat’, IdrisPukke could sense the sincerity of the Director’s admiration for the supposedly absent woman. He took more hope from this, because he wanted it to be true, than his pessimistic nature would normally allow. That nature would have reasserted itself in full measure when, five minutes after he left to return to Cale, there was a knock on the Director’s door which was opened even before she could say ‘come in’. The woman who entered, if it was a woman, was of a very curious appearance and holding in her left hand something so strange that not even IdrisPukke, with all his many experiences of the singular and the fantastical, had seen anything like it.

  5

  Kevin Meatyard was unwell. He had a badly sprained ankle, a dislocated shoulder, a large cut on the left side of his head and assorted welts, cricks and tears. But none of them would kill him. It was the knife in his upper chest that would do that. The Island of Cyprus was not an island at all but a large isthmus that ballooned out into the Wooden Sea. Its system of parochial justice extended fifty miles into the hinterland so that even small villages had a special constable – even if he was only the blacksmith. Meatyard had every reason to believe he would be followed although he also realized it would be too expensive and difficult to keep half a dozen men on the road for long. The problem for him was that he knew he must stay away from any place where he could get the knife removed and the wound cleaned. In the end, he trusted in his constitution to keep him alive long enough to get so far away that no one would have heard of him. So it was that while Kevin Meatyard was trying to leave Cyprus on a road out of the way of nosy strangers, the Two Trevors were trying to enter Cyprus on a road out of the way of nosy strangers. So it was less of a coincidence than it might have been when the two assassins came across Kevin Meatyard lying in a heap beside a small pond. For obvious reasons, while out in the bundu even people very much less experienced in wickedness than the Two Trevors regarded a body lying in the road as something it would be wise to pass by on the other side of. On the other hand, they and their animals were parched. Having satisfied themselves it was not a trap (and who knew more about bushwhacking than they did?) Trevor Lugavoy threw a large rock at the lumpily prone body and, getting only a faint groan in response, decided that whatever danger there was could be avoided by keeping a close eye and not touching him.

  A few minutes later, with the horses still slurping the deliciously sweet water, Kevin stirred and awkwardly got to his feet, watched carefully by the two men. He started to walk over to the pond to get a drink but, still unsteady and weak, he collapsed with such a hefty thud it made both Trevors wince.

  It might be thought that given their bloody profession the Two Trevors were men without compassion. But while it was certainly the case that they were no nicer than other people, neither, except when they were being paid to kill you, were they very much worse. This was particularly true the older they got and the more superstitious. They were beginning to wonder if a few acts of generosity might be of some help if it turned out that one day there might be an eternal act of reckoning – though they both knew in their heart of hearts that they would have to rescue an epic number of children from a vast number of burning buildings to weigh much in the balance after all the evil deeds they’d been responsible for. Still, it was mean-spirited to leave a clearly wounded man lying within a few feet of a desperately needed drink of water. They frisked him, then woke him up and gave him a drink from one of their own cups.

  ‘Thanks,’ said a truly grateful Kevin, after downing five straight cups of what felt like life itself.

  ‘Look, John Smith,’ Kevin had, of course, given them a false name. ‘You’re not going to make it to Drayton – it’s fifty miles away, rough going too. That,’ he nodded at the broken blade in Meatyard’s chest, ‘comes out now or we loan you a spade and you can start digging.’

  ‘What’s a spade?’

  ‘An implement,’ said Trevor Lugavoy, ‘that can be used for digging holes several feet deep and six foot long.’

  ‘You can do it?’ said a doubtful Kevin. ‘Take this out without killing me?’

  ‘Pretty far gone, boy – I’d say seventy/thirty.’

  ‘For?’

  ‘Against.’

  This let out of Kevin what little air was left.

  ‘D’you think there’d be a proper surgeon in Drayton?’

  ‘You aren’t going to get to Drayton. And even if you did, which you won’t, he’ll be the local barber. And he’ll want paying. And some questions will be asked. Have you got any money? Have you got any answers?’

  By now the Two Trevors were beginning to feel their patience wane in the face of Kevin’s lack of gratitude.

  ‘My generous friend here is as good as you’ll get within two hundred miles. You’re lucky to have him. And you don’t have much choice. If you want to stay out of heaven, I’d do some grovelling.’

  The mention of heaven concentrated Kevin’s mind and he made a good fist of apologizing to the now miffed Trevor Lugavoy. After which, Lugavoy got on with it. In fact, he could have earned a fair living as a surgeon. Moved to become skilled for practical reasons, he also took pride in his ability and had paid for tuition from Redeemer surgeons considered by all to be the best, not that this was saying much. He had paid a high price for the medical pliers with which he grasped the little that was left of the blade sticking out of Meatyard’s chest. It was out in a moment, accompanied only by a hideous scream of agony.

  Worse was to come, as it was clear from the two pieces missing from the blade that there was more to do.

  ‘Don’t move or I won’t answer for the consequences.’

  Meatyard was skilled at handing out pain, but he could take it, too.

  ‘Well done,’ said Trevor Lugavoy, w
ho was, after five minutes digging about in the wound that must have felt like five days, reassured that there was nothing left behind. ‘That’s what kills you,’ he said to the traumatized Meatyard. He cleaned the wound with several gallons of water and began to pour a mixture of honey and lavender, calendula and powdered myrrh. Kovtun, seeing he was about to use the ointment, pulled Lugavoy to one side and pointed out that it was expensive and they might very well need it themselves. Lugavoy agreed in principle but pointed out that all their efforts would be for nothing if the wound got infected – which it would.

  ‘I take pride in my work. What can I say? Besides, he showed a good deal of courage. I’d have screamed louder. He deserves a bit of generosity.’ So that was that. They decided to stay and watch over him in the night; next morning they left him with some rations (not much, at Kovtun’s insistence) and were on their way. Though just before they left, a thought occurred to Kovtun.

  ‘You heard of the Priory?’ he said to Kevin.

  Fortunately for Meatyard his expression of alarm could easily be turned into one of pain. ‘No, sorry,’ said the ungrateful boy and at that the Two Trevors were gone. Two minutes later Lugavoy was back. He dropped a large block covered in waxed paper, an impulsive addition to the rations they’d already left him.

  ‘Make sure,’ he said to Kevin, ‘you eat a quarter of this a day. It’s good stuff food-wise though it tastes like dog-shit. The Redeemers call it Dead Men’s Feet. There’s an address inside. If you live, go there and they’ll give you work. Tell them Trevor Lugavoy sent you – and nothing else, y’hear?’

  If you’d asked Trevor Lugavoy whether virtue was rewarded he would have been both surprised and amused, not because he was a cynic (he regarded himself as having been through all that) but rather that experience had led him not to see the world as a place of balance. On this occasion, however, while returning to ensure that Kevin Meatyard had enough nourishing food to give him the best chance of survival, his kindness was rewarded: he noticed that he was being watched from a hill about three hundred yards away. As he turned back to join Trevor Kovtun he was pretty sure he knew who it was. He caught up with Kovtun rather quicker than he expected to – Kovtun had dismounted and was on all fours with his belt undone, putting two fingers down his throat trying to make himself sick. After a few more unpleasant sounding tries, he succeeded. There was blood in his vomit.

  ‘Any better?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘We’re being followed.’

  ‘Damn, buggery, bollocks and bullshit,’ said Cadbury as he sat down half a mile from the Two Trevors. ‘They know we’re following them.’ Cadbury looked at the girl who had been waiting for him at the bottom of the hill while he was spying on Trevor Lugavoy. Behind her, set apart, were a dozen disagreeable-looking men.

  ‘You let them spot you,’ said the girl. She was a stringy-looking thing, but it was the kind of string that you could rely on to take a hard strain, with an odd face – had you seen it in a painting you would have called it underdrawn. It seemed to have something missing, a nose or a pair of lips, except that they were all there.

  ‘You think you can do any better, be my guest.’

  ‘It’s your job, not mine.’

  ‘When it comes to tracking people as good as those two you can’t get too close and you can’t get too far away. It’s just bad luck.’

  ‘I don’t believe in luck.’

  ‘That’s because you’re a kiddywink and don’t know your arse from your elbow.’

  ‘You’ll see what I know. An intelligent heart acquires knowledge, and the ear of the wise seeks it.’

  ‘Will I? How hair-raising.’

  But for all his mockery he found the girl’s presence decidedly creepy, not least because she was always quoting from some religious tract that had, apparently, an opinion on everything. But she spoke these proverbs and sayings an odd way, so that you couldn’t make out what she was driving at exactly. Was she trying to make him uneasy? He had good reason to be jumpy.

  Three days earlier, Kitty the Hare had called him in to discuss what was to be done about the Two Trevors and their search for Cale, in the light of the certainty that there was only one thing the Two Trevors did with anyone they were looking for once they found them.

  ‘Do you know who’s paying them?’ Cadbury had asked.

  ‘The Redeemers, probably,’ Kitty cooed. ‘Spying things out is not really in their gift. Fanatics find it hard to blend in, as the disgracefully illegal but entirely justified hanging ordered by Zog so clearly established. But it could be the Laconics.’ It was a matter of policy as well as amusement to Kitty never to give a completely unambiguous answer. ‘They’ll struggle to recover from the injury he did to their numbers. Neither could you rule out Solomon Solomon’s family. He has a talent for antagonizing people.’

  ‘You could say the same about us.’

  ‘Indeed you could, Cadbury.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s too much trouble?’

  ‘Oh, indeed I do,’ replied Kitty. ‘But that’s the way it is with the young. It’s a question of possibilities. His capacity for ruin needs shaping and I’d very much rather be behind him than in front of him. But there may easily come a time when that will not be the case. You might want to keep that in mind.’

  The door opened and Kitty’s steward entered with a tray.

  ‘Ah,’ said Kitty, ‘tea. The cup that cheers but not inebriates.’

  The steward laid the table with cups and saucers, plates of ham sandwiches, seedcake, and biccies with custard then left without a word or a bow. The two of them stared at the table but not because of the treats on offer.

  ‘You will have noticed, no doubt, Cadbury, the table’s laid for three.’

  ‘I had, yes.’

  ‘There’s someone I want you to meet. A young person I’d like you to keep an eye on. Give her the benefit of your experience.’ He moved toward the door and called out, ‘My dear!’ A moment and then a girl of around twenty years appeared and gave Cadbury the most dreadful fright. The sense that you have seen a ghost from the past is disturbing to anyone, but imagine how much worse it is when you were the one responsible for that ghostliness. The last time Cadbury had seen her was while they had both been spying on Cale at Treetops – a chore that had finished with him putting an arrow in her back. In the perpetual gloom required by Kitty the Hare to shield his so-sensitive eyes, it took him a few moments to realize that this was not the late Jennifer Plunkett nor her twin but a younger though disturbingly similar relative. It wasn’t just her looks that gave the similarity but the same disfiguring blankness of expression.

  ‘Meet Daniel Cadbury, my lover.’ This peculiar endearment was addressed to the girl and was merely an alternative to ‘my dear’ but deliberately more disconcerting. ‘He and your sister were old friends and often worked side by side. Daniel, this is Deidre Plunkett who’s come to work with us and share her very considerable skills.’

  Even though he realized his mistake quickly enough, there was reason for Cadbury still to be unnerved: the surviving relatives of people you had murdered were generally best avoided.

  Kitty had insisted that Cadbury bring Deidre with him in the attempt to track down the Two Trevors: ‘Take her under your wing, Cadbury,’ he’d said. But the question for Cadbury was what kind of mockery was involved here. Jennifer Plunkett had been a murderous nutcase who, without ever speaking to the boy, had conceived a deep passion for Cale as she spent days watching him swimming naked in the lakes around Treetops. Cale had laughed and shouted for joy for the first time in his life as he swam and fished and ate the wonderful food prepared by IdrisPukke, and sang horribly out-of-tune garbled versions of the songs he’d picked up while he was in Memphis: Weigh a pie in the sky. The ants are my friends. She’s got floppy ears, She’s got floppy ears.

  Jennifer had been convinced that Kitty meant Cale harm: this was not the case, in fact, or at least probably not the case. Jennifer had tried to stab Cadbury
in a bid to protect her beloved and when she failed had run towards the astonished Cale screaming blue murder. It was at this point that Cadbury had put an arrow in her back. What choice did he have? Afterwards, he had decided it might be better if he told Kitty that Cale was responsible, startled into action by the sudden appearance of a murderous screaming harpy. ‘Honesty is the best policy’ may not be a virtuous guideline (the man who believes that honesty is the best policy is not an honest man) but it was one he should have followed in this instance. Not only was he now left with the problem of what to do about Deidre Plunkett, but also of working out whether her sudden appearance was just a coincidence or Kitty’s revenge for having been lied to. If the latter, the question was what sort of lesson his employer had in mind.

  At any rate, he took Deidre with him to negotiate with the Two Trevors. If things went fat-fingered, which they easily might, there was a chance the Trevors might solve the problem for him. On the other hand, they might solve all his problems permanently.

  ‘You’re coming with me, keep your cake-hole shut and don’t make any sudden moves.’

  ‘You’ve no call to talk to me like that.’

  Cadbury didn’t bother to reply.

  ‘The rest of you,’ he said to the others. ‘Keep back but in calling distance.’

  They ignored Kevin Meatyard on their way past, it being clear he wasn’t going to be any trouble given the state he was in, and in a few minutes they caught up with the Two Trevors.

  ‘Can we talk?’ shouted Cadbury from behind a tree.

  Lugavoy nodded the two of them forward. ‘That’s far enough. What do you want?’

  ‘Kitty the Hare thinks there’s been a misunderstanding and he’d like to resolve it.’

  ‘Consider it resolved.’

  ‘He’d like to resolve it personally.’

  ‘We’ll be sure to drop in next time we’re passing.’

  ‘Your friend looks a bit peaky.’

  He was, in fact, the colour of half-dry putty.