The Truth

  Mr Sarotzini was thinking about this now as he stared across his desk at Kündz.

  It was necessary to think about this.

  ‘How was your life before I found you, Stefan?’ Mr Sarotzini asked.

  ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘And how did I find you?’

  ‘The Voice,’ Kündz said. ‘It was the Voice that came to you.’

  ‘And what did this Voice tell me?’

  ‘It told you where I was living, where it was possible that you would find me, in a village, in Tanzania in Africa. I was five years old.’

  ‘And what were you doing in this village?’

  ‘I was learning to track game.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That was all.’

  ‘And where did you come from, Stefan?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘A missionary nun who was raped by a game warden?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why did the game warden rape the nun?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you know, Stefan?’

  ‘That you came for me.’

  ‘And why did I come for you?’

  ‘The Voice guided you.’

  ‘And why did it guide me?

  Kündz gazed down at the thick Persian carpet. ‘Because you had need of me. Especially you had need of a gene I carry. A rare gene.’

  ‘And does this Voice guide you, Stefan?’

  ‘You guide me.’

  ‘And what are you, Stefan?’

  ‘ “An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.” ’

  ‘Who wrote that, Stefan?’

  ‘Tennyson.’

  ‘And who is your light, Stefan?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘So why do you disobey me? Why have you turned weak? Because you are in love? The pleasures of the flesh? These pleasures are a distraction, they are there in your mind every waking moment, they drive you, rule you, obsess you, yes?’

  Kündz had no answer.

  ‘Why did you allow Susan Carter to go to America, Stefan?’

  ‘Because you instructed me to.’

  ‘And you always obey me? Are you my Pavlovian dog? Do you salivate when I ring bells?’

  Kündz hesitated, and he knew this was a dangerous thing to do. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you salivate when you think of Susan Carter?’

  Again Kündz hesitated.

  ‘I gave you Susan Carter, Stefan, and you let her go to America.’

  ‘My powers are limited,’ Kündz replied. ‘I do not have the authority to restrict her.’

  There was a flash of anger in Mr Sarotzini’s face. ‘One telephone call to the airport, Stefan, to inform them how many weeks pregnant she was, and they would not have permitted her to fly. That was all you needed to do.’

  Kündz lowered his head in shame.

  ‘Look at me, Stefan. You are weakened by your love.’

  Kündz raised his head and stared back at Mr Sarotzini, but had no answer. Mr Sarotzini might have congratulated him for having the presence of mind to ensure Miles Van Rhoe was flown over to America immediately, to be there even before Susan Carter landed, but this was not a moment for praise.

  ‘You understand this baby is going to need a father, Stefan?’

  Kündz swallowed, nervously. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did I honour my pledge to you, Stefan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it was good?’

  ‘It was good.’

  ‘As good as you had dreamed?’

  Kündz replied: ‘Virgil said there are two gates of Sleep. One is said to be of horn, through which the spirits of Truth find an easy passage. The other made of ivory, through which the gods send up false dreams to the upper world.’

  ‘And through which gate did you enter Susan Carter?’

  Kündz thought for a moment because, with Mr Sarotzini, all questions were traps. ‘The horn,’ he said.

  Mr Sarotzini smiled. ‘You remember, Stefan, the Fifteenth Truth?’

  Kündz replied, ‘ “To achieve your dream is strength. To repeat your dream is weakness.” ’

  And now from a drawer in his desk, Mr Sarotzini produced a barber’s razor and handed it to Kündz. ‘Is this sharp?’

  Kündz tested the keenness of the blade with his finger. He told Mr Sarotzini that it was sharp.

  Mr Sarotzini took a cigar from a box on his desk but did not light it. ‘Only you and I will ever know the truth, and this baby is the truth.’ He examined the band on the cigar, then stared at Kündz. ‘I kept my part of our bargain and now you must keep yours. Are you ready to purify yourself, Stefan? To protect yourself against future temptation? To show me that I am wrong and you are not weakened by your love, but strengthened by it?’

  Kündz stifled a fleeting surge of panic. He did not want to do this, he really did not, but he could not disobey. And he must demonstrate to Mr Sarotzini that he was not weakened by his love. He tried to calm himself. It would be for the best. He trusted Mr Sarotzini absolutely, and Mr Sarotzini would not make him do this unless it was for the best. It was going to be painful now, but it would be for the best. And he had made his pledge.

  He drew a breath and said, ‘I am ready.’

  Mr Sarotzini went to the cabinet and opened the door. Then he turned on the videotape player and Kündz shuddered. He knew what was coming next and he did not want to watch this, but Mr Sarotzini was presenting him with no alternative.

  He had to watch.

  Claudie appeared on the screen. She was naked. The left side of her body was a milky white colour, those flesh tones that had so excited Kündz once, that he had found so sensuous. But the right side was a pinky colour and the texture was quite different, and the nipple was missing from the breast.

  She was held by chains, one around her neck that rose tightly to the ceiling, one around each ankle, securing them to the floor, and one around each arm, holding them out in the crucifixion position. She was staring at the camera and there was such horror in that face, such terror, and she was screaming, pleading, her eyes bulging with fear.

  On the tape, Kündz watched himself enter the frame now and go up close to her. He was holding a knife in his hand, a small boning knife that was as sharp as a razor, and he had no choice, he had to continue with the job he had begun days before.

  He remembered that when he had been close up to Claudie, he had tried to communicate that he was sorry, that he really did not want to do this. And Kündz, watching this now, was pleased that this attempt to communicate with her did not show.

  He observed himself make a small horizontal incision below her left shoulder blade, being careful not to cut into the flesh itself, and then – even he flinched as he watched what followed – he continued his task of skinning her alive.

  After a few minutes, Mr Sarotzini stopped the tape and said to Kündz, ‘You would not want to hear Susan Carter scream like this?’

  Kündz said that he wouldn’t, and he meant it, he really wouldn’t.

  Mr Sarotzini said, ‘When you have done your duty, Kündz, I will keep my second pledge. Susan Carter will be yours for ever.’

  Kündz stared back at Mr Sarotzini, stared hard into his eyes, and felt the same trust he always had in the man. It was the right thing, it must be done.

  Taking the barber’s razor, he went through into the washroom behind Mr Sarotzini’s office and closed the door. Swiftly, he unbuckled his trousers, let them fall to the floor and then he dropped his cotton boxer shorts.

  Claudie was now, finally, mercifully, dead. But Susan Carter was alive. And if Susan Carter tempted him again, tried to seduce him again, or even just tried to run away again, he understood that Mr Sarotzini would make him punish her the same way he’d had to punish Claudie. And he could not bear to do this, because he loved Susan. He had to save Susan from this.

  He tested the blade of the razor again, then fought off his nerves, his hes
itation, his doubts, by reminding himself that Mr Sarotzini had experienced this same pain himself, and that he was saving Susan Carter’s life. And perhaps some of Mr Sarotzini’s powers were so strong because of the way he was. And that if he wanted to become as strong as Mr Sarotzini, he must become like him.

  Yes, now he understood, this was Mr Sarotzini’s way of telling him, of making him understand. And he did, and it was beautiful.

  And he was saving Susan Carter’s life.

  Flooded with gratitude to Mr Sarotzini, he gripped his scrotum, and his testicles hurt as he squeezed them, as he pulled them tight against the sac, searching for the base of his penis. But this pain was nothing compared to the pain that now followed as he sliced the blade of the razor through the skin and then through the gristle, blood spurting over his hand and dripping in an increasing trickle on to the tiled floor.

  He bit his lip, stifling a cry of pain through clenched teeth. He was shaking, his eyes narrowed. He tried desperately to keep his hand steady, fighting the pain, perspiration torrenting down him. There was more, a long way to go, he tried to keep up the concentration, to keep going. I’m saving your life, Susan. Tiny grunts, moans, hisses escaped from his mouth: he clenched his teeth even tighter, his body contorting, twisting, bending then straightening.

  He must not scream.

  A dagger shot right up into his guts, skewering the base of his skull, exploding into needles that ripped through his brain, then down through his body again. He doubled over, let out a roar of pain, followed by a terrible, shocked groan; and then, unexpectedly, the bloodied sac was free in his hand. Near delirious with agony, he dropped it into the lavatory bowl and pulled the chain. Blood sprayed into the bowl. He looked down at the blood streaming on to his thighs and the floor, grabbed a handful of lavatory paper, balled it and pressed it up between his legs.

  Then, unable to stand the pain any longer, he knelt, pressed his red-hot forehead against the cool tiles of the lavatory wall and retched. He retched again. He was being weak, he knew, and this scared him. Mr Sarotzini would not approve of this, he had to be strong, had to find strength, had to draw on reserves. Mr Sarotzini was waiting for him, he had already taken enough time, he must show strength.

  He retched again, and then he vomited. Afterwards his head felt a little clearer. Staggering to his feet, he took the gold Dunhill lighter from his pocket, and opened the lid. Then, silently reciting each of the Truths in turn, he removed the bloodied paper, and applied the flame to the ragged skin. He felt the pain, the smell of singeing flesh filled his nostrils, but the Truths gave him strength. He continued to repeat them over and over, one after another, until they became like a mantra, and he went on saying them until the wound was cauterised and he had somehow forced the pain into retreat, reduced it to a numb throbbing.

  He washed the bloodstains off his shirt-tails, cleaned his hands, straightened his tie, then returned, walking slowly because it hurt terribly to walk, to Mr Sarotzini’s office. He informed Mr Sarotzini that he had honoured his pledge.

  But this, still, was not enough. Mr Sarotzini nodded, but he was not looking pleased. He told Kündz, ‘Now you must explain to me, Stefan, why you have not yet punished Susan Carter for going to the obstetrician Harvey Addison?’

  Kündz was unable to give this explanation. His brain was burning, the terrible pain was returning, but he dared not let it show.

  ‘There is a weakness you have, Stefan, which is so dangerous. Do you understand the danger?’

  Kündz swallowed, then nodded.

  ‘And you are angry, Stefan?’

  Kündz nodded again. He wanted to sit down, to lie down, to grip his crotch, to double up, to vomit again, but he could do none of these things in the presence of Mr Sarotzini.

  ‘You are angry at your weakness? At Susan Carter? You must direct your anger, Kündz, you must focus it. You have brought with you the photograph?’

  Kündz pulled the photograph of Casey from his pocket.

  Mr Sarotzini nodded at him. Kündz took out the Dunhill lighter and, with it, set fire to the photograph. The banker held out his hand, took the burning photograph, and brought the flame to the end of his cigar. Then he dropped the burning photograph into the glass ashtray on his desk and they both watched as the last corner of it burned. ‘You have something personal from Susan Carter, Stefan?’

  Kündz produced the tiny handkerchief, embroidered with a blue ‘S’ that he had taken from the laundry basket in Susan’s bathroom. She had never missed it.

  Mr Sarotzini looked at his watch; then, holding the cigar in the crook of his finger drew deeply on it. ‘Are you grateful, Stefan? Do you now feel gratitude for all I have done for you?’

  Kündz dared not open his mouth because he was afraid the pain would show in his voice. He had already shown Mr Sarotzini one weakness, it was unwise to show him another. And he knew that Mr Sarotzini was playing with him now, trying to trip him up. And from out of his terrible pain a warning screamed at him. The Twelfth Truth: ‘Gratitude is weakness.’

  ‘I am aware of being privileged, but that is through birth and not charity.’

  Mr Sarotzini looked delighted. ‘Good, Stefan, that is such a good answer! Now, we need energy. You must hold the handkerchief, the connection will be made better through you than me. Close your eyes. Tune in the handkerchief. Let it speak.’

  Kündz saw a tiny room, a child’s room, a row of fluffy toys on a shelf, a flamenco-dancer doll inside a cellophane tube. A woman was sleeping in this room. It was Susan Carter.

  It was twelve thirty-five p.m., local time, three thirty-five a.m. in Los Angeles.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Casey ran on ahead along the hiking trail, though the craggy crimson bluffs and towering boulders, her flaxen hair shimmering beneath the blazing Colorado sun. Susan and her parents lagged behind.

  Then Casey stopped and turned, a great big grin on her face, and shouted, ‘Hey, come on, you guys, you’re gonna miss the show!’

  She sprinted down the ramp alongside the auditorium steps, and on to the stage of the deserted amphitheatre. Then she stood, in her jeans, sneakers and Save the Whales sweatshirt, hands on her hips, and hollered to Susan, her parents, and six thousand empty seats: ‘This is it, once in a lifetime, Casey Corrigan performing live at the Red Rocks. Yeeeaaaahhhhhhhh!’

  Then, using a short stick she had picked up as a pretend mike, she burst into Cyndi Lauper’s ‘Time After Time’, singing at the top of her voice, throwing herself wildly around the stage. Then she followed it with Tina Turner’s, ‘What’s Love Got To Do With It?’. Half-way through she paused. ‘C’mon, join in, Mom, Dad, Susan. C’mon … Susan, Susaaannnnnnn. Susaaaaaannnnnnnnnn. Susaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnn.’

  Susan woke in panic, disoriented. Casey’s voice echoing in her mind. The bed was too small, the window was in the wrong position. Where was John?

  Then she remembered. She was home, in her old bedroom, in her parents’ house. She was drenched in perspiration, deeply afraid. Casey.

  Casey was crying.

  Something was wrong with Casey.

  I flew over from London yesterday.

  The pain in her abdomen was worse than last night. Her back was aching like hell – probably from the bed, which had been built for a child, not for a heavily pregnant woman. She turned on the light and her watch told her it was three thirty-five a.m.

  The Red Rocks. She could remember that day clearly. It was ten – more like twelve – years ago, when they’d gone on a family hiking holiday in the Rockies. Casey, just turned fifteen, had been the greatest fun on that trip. To look at, she was blossoming into a stunning young woman, but inside she was still a playful child, full of confidence and no cares in the world.

  Susan could remember standing up there in the vast, deserted auditorium, Denver and the plains way down below them, watching her and suddenly getting that feeling of dread. She’d hardly been able to sing the words because of the foreshadowing she had that something bad was abou
t to happen. It was almost as if she had realised that Casey was too kind, too big-hearted, too friendly for this mixed-up world to be able to leave her alone, and that somehow it was going to draw her in, corrupt her, change her, drag her down to its own level.

  Three weeks later Casey took the tab and was changed for ever.

  That hadn’t been the first time she’d picked up feelings about Casey. Often when they had been kids, even when they were miles apart, she could tell how Casey was feeling. One afternoon she’d had a terrible pain in her right arm, and discovered when she got home that Casey had fallen off her bike and broken her right arm.

  Susan knew that telepathy between twins was common, and although it was rarer among ordinary siblings, there were plenty of cases of it. Even during these past years when she’d been in England, there had been moments when she was certain she knew what Casey was thinking, or had felt that Casey was trying to get a message through to her.

  She had that feeling now, intensely strongly. A feeling that Casey was frightened.

  Bump was awake also – she could feel one of his feet pushing out the skin of her abdomen. He was thrashing around, agitated, as if he was trying to communicate something to her, as if he, too, could sense his aunt’s distress.

  Outside in the night a siren wailed. She swung herself out of bed, put her feet on the floor, stretched as far forward as she could over her swollen abdomen towards her toes, then straightened herself right up, trying to ease her back pain. She looked at the bed which, along with her suitcase on the floor, took up most of the space in this small, narrow room. It was sagging visibly in the middle.

  A row of fluffy toys stared down at her from a shelf above the bed; a flamenco-dancer doll, with jet black hair and an inane smile, sat inside the cellophane tube in which it had been given to her, brought back years ago from some relative’s travels.

  She padded across to the window, parted the thin curtains and looked out. There was a full moon and this, together with the background glow of the streetlights, made it so bright she could have read a book in the back yard. A creature leapt over the fence, she didn’t see what it was – a cat, or maybe a coyote or a raccoon.