Enoch's Folly

  “Don’t worry. You won’t be hurt any more. You don’t have to tell me who did this.”

  He handed the man a card. “Go to this address. They will look after you. You’ll still be able to spread the Word, but they will look after you and make sure this doesn’t happen again, ok?”

  The man did not respond.

  Comely reached out his hand and it hung in the air.

  “You know me,” he said. “You know who I am. You have my word. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you sooner.”

  The preacher dropped his sign, and reached out and shook Comely’s hand, then looked at the card and walked away.

  Comely understood what he had to do. He’d known for a while now, but resisted. The sign sealed it. He looked at it again, now in the gutter, face up.

  He knew a man would do it in person, but he knew that for the first time in his life he would lose his nerve if he did – and if he lost his nerve he would put good people at risk and he didn’t want to do that anymore. He’d done enough damage, so he wrote. The letter was short, and he slotted it through the mail slot of Rida’s record store an hour before opening time, then slipped away.

  Dear Rida

  I kept secrets. Good people never need to do that. And I kept big secrets, which tells you a lot about the kind of person I have been.

  Now the truth. I operate in a world of community and respectability, and I operate in a world of wolves. Sooner or later whatever wall you build between two lives must come down. You and your son and even your daughter will be at risk if I stick around, so soon I will be gone.

  I will try to return, I really will, but do not waste time waiting for me. I have been far too rotten in this life to deserve happiness in the next, but even though it is too late for redemption, I will try to be a good man.

  Someone once told me that when a dishonest man stops telling lies, that is the day his life really begins. I wish I hadn’t left it so late.

  I owe you gratitude, as empty and as absurd that may sound, for reminding me of the beauty of having a part of myself unguarded.

  This time, the innocent will not suffer with the guilty. This is the first promise I have made to you – and it will be kept.

  Aldous Comely

 

  His hands shook as he walked on, and for the first time since another lifetime, he cried.

  Later, Rida would find the letter, read it, throw it in the waste basket, and open the store for business. She stood with the open door in her hand and closed her eyes, just for a moment, to feel the new morning sun on her face, then turned around and got back to work.

  *

  Rosti and Watson were happy again. They were in a cheap motel room with two beds, a wardrobe and a sink that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Mayflower landed, but they were sharing the room and that made it feel like home. Despite their high spirits, the subject turned to money. The two of them had spent precious little in Paradise, entitled to the train-stop’s supplies, still somewhat over-stocked by a bureaucracy slow to catch up with the town’s rapid demise, and had accumulated considerable savings in both cash and their bank accounts. The idea of endeavouring to live off those sums for an undefined length of time filled them with anxiety.

  Watson spoke quietly. He was sitting on the edge of his bed. Rosti was lying down on his.

  “These walls are pretty thin. Do you think the young man can hear us?”

  “He could if we did more than whisper. Cantankerous SOB isn’t he? If I was his age I would find something to smile about.”

  “He’s a decent man. I think he saw things in Spain that did him no good. And you know, after what happened with that mob…”

  “Let’s not talk about that. He did what he had to, from what I can gather. He’s been quiet – I hope he slept. On the subject of doing what we have to…”

  “Listen, you don’t need to worry about me. I will figure something out. I’m not saying we should part ways, but you know – I don’t want to, uh, be a barrier to you finding gainful employment here.”

  “We will both find something, maybe not at the same place, but that is plan A. We work together better than anyone. If we don’t find something together I will find something and I can take care of things until you find something.”

  Both had grave doubts about either plan A or plan B coming to fruition, but kept it to themselves.

  The night previous the three of them had escorted Mrs Hatfield to one of the better affordable hostels in the area before finding a less elegant one for themselves. After saying goodnight to Rosti and Watson, Kristian had walked to his room next door, thrown in is rucksack, then locked the door and headed out into the street.

  The night air hit his face but he barely noticed it. He wondered if he should have told them about Hans. He’d lied and said a neighbour told him Hans had moved but didn’t know where to. He didn’t want pity or even comfort. He loathed the idea of being comforted. Kristian wanted answers. It was ten o’clock. He wasn’t looking for the person or the people who had done it, he was looking for someone who would know who had done it. By midnight he knew who to ask. By 1am he knew who he needed to leave a message with.

  Comely, of course, remembered the murder of Hans Vandort. It was the first signal. When he got word that the dead man’s brother was asking after him, he wondered if it were a crude trap. Kristian Vandort was new in town, Comely thought, and maybe imagined Comely was the sort to shoot a young night watchman dead for no reason. But he concluded he wanted to meet with him, and did, sending a return message with a time and place.

  Comely took a risk and showed up alone at an all-night diner, his hands in the pockets of his greatcoat, one of them holding his folded up straight razor. It was 2.45am. The guy behind the bar polished glasses he’d already polished. Comely looked at him. “I haven’t seen the Futurama yet. At the Fair.” “Me neither,” the man said, and smiled. They returned to silence.

  When Kristian arrived, there were two customers in the diner. He knew at once which one was Comely.

  Comely sat in the one booth in the corner that ran parallel to the bar, with his back to the wall, looking out of the huge windows, an empty coffee cup sitting in front of him without a saucer. He daydreamed of a long sleep, always an ambitious aim for him but now more distant than ever.

 

  Kristian took a seat, blocking Comely’s view.

  “I need your help.”

  “If you would like me to kill a man, I’m afraid you are out of luck.

  And I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “I don’t need you to kill a man. I need you to help two men find work.”

  Comely smiled. “Well, this is going better than I could have hoped. What do they do?”

  Kristian spoke without enthusiasm, but with a sense of purpose.

  “One of them manages and organisers… he’s a diligent man. Organised, meticulous, and doesn’t bore easily. That’s Mr Rosti. The other is a chef. And an intellectual. That’s Mr Watson.”

  “A chef?”

  “A chef, a cleaner, a kitchen-hand, a waiter, a coffee-maker. I think he has been other things but these things I mention are what he has been doing for years now.”

  “It’s always nice to have an intellectual around. Anything else I should know?”

  “They… It would be very good if they could be kept together. In the same workplace.”

  “There’s something missing – what else should I know?”

  “Mr Watson is blind, but if he knows the layout of a place no one would even notice. And Mr Rosti and Mr Watson, they understand one another. They work… seamlessly together.”

  “Rosti. I met a Rosti once who was a meticulous fellow, and very well organised. Maybe a relative.”

  “He has a leg injury now, but when it heals he will be… tireless. In a few weeks or so.”

  “Why me?” Comely asked. “And not some other way?”

  “You will be happy to help these two men, not only beca
use they’re great workers, but because I will do you a favour in return.”

  Comely sat up, hands on his table.

  “That isn’t necessary. I can see what I can do to help your friends, and I will get a message to you as soon as I can.”

  “No – I need to know for sure, and in return, I will rid this world of the Blue Man.”

  “You seem quite certain.” Comely leaned forward.

  “Wherever he hides, I will find him and make him pay.”

  “If it’s blood you want, you will have your fill – I can assure you.”

  Kristian seemed pleased. Comely looked back at him.

  “Mr Vandort, your friends sound like good men to me. Get them to call this number later on today… when the sun is up.” Comely handed over a card. “And you should order something. They food is surprisingly good and you look faint.”

  Comely slipped out from the booth and put his hand on Kristian’s shoulder.

  “Take care.”

  And he walked out.

  *

  Rosti and Watson had washed their faces in the sink and gotten dressed.

  “I’ll go find out about towels, Mr Watson. I have my doubts about anything left hanging in the shared bathrooms.”

  Rosti opened the room door to find Kristian standing there, looking bright and well-rested, though still in yesterday’s clothes, with a paper folded under his arm. The young man handed Rosti a card.

  “Earlier this morning I had the good fortune of meeting a very well connected businessman. Would you believe he has two vacancies that just so happen to match you two perfectly? Give him a call when you have the chance. I’m just heading back to my room to catch up on some news.”

  “Wow – how about that! Did he have any work for you?” Rosti asked.

  “Not strictly speaking, but don’t worry about me. I’ll find something soon, and I will sell the ambulance regardless, which will keep me for some time in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed.” He smiled.

  As Rosti headed downstairs to inquire about towels, Watson opened the lone window in their room and lent out for the sunshine that flooded down between the hotel and the neighbouring building. Kristian walked to the window in his room but did not open it. Instead he tapped on the glass three times. He remembered a song in Dutch his brother would sing when he was little. Hans was his younger brother, but between the ages of two and six, whenever Kristian was sick Hans would sing to him to ‘make him feel better’. Hans would always tap a wooden ruler three times before singing, whatever the meter of the song. Kristian smiled. “Everything will be ok boyki.”

  There were three knocks on the hotel room door and Kristian spun around to see a small yellow card slip under the door. He dashed and opened it, looking both ways down the tight, grubby corridor, but it was empty. The card was a telegram. A time and place. And three words: Watch. Follow. Prepare.

  He pocketed it, picked up his rucksack and slammed the door behind him, walking briskly to the stairs. He saw Rosti heading up the stairs holding two white towels.

  “Leave them in your room and go make that call now, please.” Kristian said, trying not to sound desperate.

  “Ah, ok – but you know, before heading out we are going to want to…”

  “Please, make the call then head back and do whatever you need to do. Make the call from downstairs. I’m sure there’s a pay phone in the lobby, and if there isn’t – use the clerk’s telephone and tell him to bill me for it.” Kristian darted down the stairs, leaving Rosti bewildered but convinced of the urgent need to call.

  Kristian burst out into the street again. There was much to do. He almost ran into Mrs Hatfield heading toward the hotel.

  “I hope you weren’t going to fetch me,” she said. “I am an early riser.”

  He avoided her eyes. “The other two are busy, give them a little while. There are a couple of sofas in the lobby – one of them is fairly clean.”

  She put her hand on his arm, and looked at his face.

  “Kristian, what is wrong?”

  “Mrs Hatfield…”

  “For goodness sake, call me Jessie.”

  He looked surprised.

  “I never thought you were a Jessie.”

  “Oh,” she said, before using her real accent for the first time in years: “I’ve always been a Jessie, no matter what.”

  “You’ve come a long way from home, but still ended up nowhere.”

  “I wouldn’t be so bleak. Everything is relative, and this is all bright enough after where I started.”

  “I’ll walk you back to where Watson and Rosti are. They’ve got jobs here now.”

  “What? Already?”

  “They are nothing if not charming. And resourceful.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll think of something after I track down my brother.”

  As they walked, the streets were starting to fill with people as though someone had thrown a switch. An amazing mass of people, united by so much, including the mistaken belief they were more or less alone in the word, poured out of their buildings. Lunches packed, thermoses for some, all marching to the beat that in the end drowns out all others. Kristian watched them and envied them while knowing nothing of their own battles.

  They were close to the hostel now, and Kristian stopped.

  “It’s about a hundred feet down there, number 176. If they aren’t in the lobby they will be soon enough.”

  “And you? Where will you be?”

  “I’ll be gone. There’s a lot of work to do.”

  “If your brother’s in the city it won’t be too hard to find him. There can’t be many Vandorts around. Surely you can come b…”

  “Mrs Hatfield. Jessie. I can’t talk. I have to go.”

  “What is this about? Tell me.”

  Without changing the expression on his face or the tone of his voice Kristian explained.

  “My brother is dead. He was murdered by men working for a criminal people call the Blue Man. Stupid name really. I am going to kill him and hunt down his men and kill them all, the ones who murdered Hans and the ones who didn’t. I won’t leave anyone behind. I’ve seen monsters before. I was in Guernica after the raids. I saw what happened to prisoners too. It’s strange that I only grasp it all now, here, after seeing what I saw in Spain and not understanding it. But I see it now – the beginning and the end. Our capacity for cruelty can’t be diminished, but our capacity for pain can be. We can be invulnerable, you know, and that is what I choose now.”

  “Kristian…”

  “Custer tried it before Little Big Horn. He wanted to manoeuvre the Sioux so the battle would take place near their camp. He knew the Indians did not like fighting when it put their women and children in danger. Custer failed in his plan and Crazy Horse chopped him and his army to pieces, but the plan did show Custer understood the weakest point in a human being – the people they care about. I won’t let anyone manoeuvre me.”

  She stared hard into his eyes.

  “Don’t do this. You can do anything at all – don’t throw it away by becoming one of them.”

  “You don’t know what I have to throw away. Why should either of us care what the other does?”

  “You know why.”

  “Certain things… which ordinary people value dearly are nothing but weaknesses, and this is what keeps them ordinary.”

  She turned and walked away toward the hostel, and did not look back as she disappeared into the crowd.

  He smiled and spoke quietly to himself:

  “O from this time forth, my thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth.”

  *

  Sixteen hours later the Blue Man stood on his own under a rail bridge. Eight of his boys were crammed into a van squatting idly behind him, with one at the wheel. It was night, and the street running under the bridge was otherwise deserted. Comely’s car pulled up. The driver wore a bullet proof vest under his coat and remained in the car when Comely got out. A second car pulle
d up behind him. Comely preferred to choose his own spot, fight on his own terms, but the Blue Man had insisted on the location, so Comely had his five best men in the second car. Well. Five of his six best. Romero would have known exactly how to handle the situation. And Robert too, despite his taste for Pollyanna platitudes. Both of them gone. He tried not to let it bother him. The slightest distraction could prove disastrous.

  The Blue Man grinned. He knew Comely wouldn’t be foolish enough to come alone, even to parley, or to come defenceless. He wondered what the old cat had in mind. He was almost eagerly anticipating the card up Comely’s sleeve – would it be an ace? The Blue Man was not overly concerned with surviving that day. The game was the thing.

  “Comely!” He called out when they were still 50 yards apart. “You know what the old timers used to say about you? You remember?”

  Comely said nothing.

  “They used to say ‘the Devil is afraid of him’. That’s a big rap, but I’ve got news for you buddy – he ain’t.”

  Comely heard the faintest hint of a gun cocking and looked beyond the Blue Man. It wasn’t from the van or the bridge, but far further away, he thought. An attic, or crawlspace at the top of some building. Someone with a telescopic aim and a hunting rifle. Something his people had missed while casing the entire area. Probably the one thing. He went for the pistol in his belt while leaping to his left, and had the Blue Man’s grinning face in his sights when a single slug – fired from a distance - smashed into his chest, throwing him back and sending a flower of red spurting out. As he hit the ground the pistol jarred loose, his men were already out of the car and firing, the Blue Man already diving behind the bridge strut, scrambling onto a motorbike and fleeing into the night. Comely’s boys made short work of the machine gunners who’d poured out of the van screaming like bats, but they couldn’t make the boss proud. The last sensation Aldous Comely had before his body crumpled into the street was one of overwhelming relief. They loaded him into his car and the driver drove slowly to the great man’s nearest outpost.