‘Daddy!’ she cried out in a piercing but slowly descending pitch. And the pigs tore bloody chunks from her body and gulped them down.
*
Carl Bannock and Johnny Congo sat side by side in Johnny’s prison cell and watched the video on the TV screen. This was the third night that they had watched it, but both of them were just as excited and animated by it as they had been the first time.
From hundreds of hours of tape Amaranthus had, with professional expertise, edited out forty minutes. The final result was both sickening and harrowing to any but the most sadistic and warped mind. Carl and Johnny rejoiced in it. They bellowed with laughter at the highlights as though they were moments of sheer comic genius.
‘Run it back!’ Johnny pleaded. ‘That’s so funny. I love it when they drown the old mother bitch. I love the way the water and shit shoots out of her nose when they pull her head out.’
‘Yeah, that’s good. But I like it even better when Bryoni kneels in front of the head honcho and begs for her mother’s life, and then he kicks her in the mouth and she sits there spitting out blood and broken teeth. That’s really cool, man.’
However, both of them were agreed that the final scene was by far the best part of the show. They leaned forward in anticipation of the moment when Bryoni, broken and disembowelled, lifted her head out of the mud and called out to her father. In chorus they mimicked her, imitating her falling and sobbing inflection: ‘Daddy!’
Then both of them burst into delighted laughter as Bryoni’s eyes swivelled up towards the sky in agony and the pigs swarmed over her.
‘That scene just freaks me out.’ Carl almost choked on his own laughter. ‘This Amaranthus guy you found for us should get an Oscar for this.’
‘Yeah, man, he is a genius. When I watch that Daddy bit, it gives me a full hard-on every time,’ Johnny confessed.
‘That doesn’t mean too much. Anything at all can give you a bone, Blackbird, even a passing bus,’ Carl teased him.
‘Passing bus will do it,’ Johnny agreed. ‘As long as it’s full of schoolgirls. But don’t you want to take a look at what I got down there this time?’
‘Okay,’ Carl said with aroused interest. ‘Show it to me.’ Then as Johnny leaned back in the chair and exposed himself fully, Carl laughed out loud.
‘You could sink a Russian battleship with that big black torpedo.’
‘What you going to do about it, white boy?’
‘You know damn well what I’m going to do, Blackbird,’ said Carl, and knelt in front of him.
Later, when they had both recovered their breath, Johnny asked, ‘So tell me, when you going to send the video to your daddy?’ He used the same inflection on the last word as the dying girl had done in the video, and they laughed again together.
Then Carl said seriously, ‘Soon as we can work out a way that Henry Bannock won’t be able to trace it back to us.’
‘Your daddy didn’t get rich by being stupid,’ Johnny pointed out. ‘As soon as he gets it he’s going to know where the tape came from.’
‘Yeah, man, that’s what I want. This is his punishment for what he did to me. I want him to know that, but he will never be able to pin it on me.’
*
Ronnie Bunter and his wife Jennie were opera fanatics. They seldom missed a premiere at the Grand Houston 1894 Opera House. La Bohème was one of their absolute favourites and the travelling La Scala production was visiting Texas. The two of them were there on the opening night. After the performance they walked back to the underground car park discussing the show with animation. Ronnie opened the passenger door of his Porsche 911 and helped his wife into her seat, and then he went around to the driver’s side. As he slid into his own seat he suddenly exclaimed, ‘Now what on earth have you left here, darling?’
‘I haven’t left a single thing, Ronald.’
Ronnie groped around the back of his seat and pulled out a small oblong cardboard box. ‘Then how did this get here?’
‘Careful! It could be a bomb, Ronald,’ Jennie said with alarm.
‘If it was we would both be dead by now.’ He examined the package, and then read the handwritten label on the front of the box. To Mr Ronald Bunter. To be viewed in private. ‘It seems to be a video tape.’
‘Not something nasty, I hope,’ Jennie said primly.
‘I doubt it.’
‘Then why does it say “in private”?’
‘I’ll take it with me to the office tomorrow and have a look at it on the projector in the conference room.’
‘Better not let your new assistant watch it. She seems to be a nice girl.’
‘Don’t worry about Jo Stanley. She has just finished three years in law school. You can bet your bottom dollar she could teach two old fogeys like us a thing or two.’
*
As soon as he had viewed the video the next morning Ronnie phoned the Bannock Oil Corporation offices in Anchorage, Alaska. When Henry Bannock came on the line he asked, ‘Henry, when will you be back in Houston?’
‘I’m flying back Friday.’ Henry detected the gravity in his old friend’s voice. ‘What is it, Ronnie? Is something up? Have you received any news from the police about my daughters yet?’
‘Listen, Henry, you must get back here right away. No, I can’t tell you why until you get here. Just come, Henry. Come to my office just as soon as you can. Do not bring Hazel with you, do you understand? Come alone.’
‘Hold on, Ronnie.’ Ronald heard him speak to somebody with him and then he came back on the line, ‘Okay. We will be airborne in an hour. But the flying time is more than seven hours. We will get in to Houston pretty late.’
‘No matter how late you get in, come straight to my office, Henry. I will be waiting for you. Someone will be downstairs to let you into the building.’
‘I’ll phone you soon as we land,’ Henry assured him.
Bonzo Barnes in his chauffeur uniform was waiting at the VIP fast-track gate of Houston airport when Henry Bannock and Hazel came through.
‘Welcome home, sir and madam. We missed you.’
‘How you been, Bonzo?’
Henry shook his hand. Mr Bannock was a real gentleman. He treated even his employees with respect; but his grip was no longer firm. Bonzo turned to Hazel and during their brief handshake he asked a silent question; cocking his great black head slightly on one side and lifting an eyebrow. He was fearful of mentioning the missing girls in front of their father.
Sacha and Bryoni had been gone for almost a year. They had left only sorrow and despair behind them. Perhaps the worst part of their loss was the uncertainty; month after month of agonizing suspense.
Henry Bannock was suffering far worse than any of them. His powerful and rugged features seemed to be crumbling. His eyes no longer sought new horizons to conquer; they had become dull and introspective. His shoulders were slumped and his back bowed. He walked like an old man, shuffling along and clinging to Hazel’s arm for comfort and support. But now he rallied and gave Bonzo a weary smile.
‘Subtlety has never been one of your many outstanding gifts, Bonzo Barnes. The answer is no. We have heard nothing about the girls.’
Bonzo winced. He had worked for Mr Bannock for nigh on thirty years. He should have remembered that he had eyes in the back of his head.
‘Sorry, Mr Bannock, sir.’
Henry clapped his shoulder with some of his old vigour. ‘We must all bear up, man. Now you can drop me off at Mr Bunter’s office. After that you can take Mrs Bannock home. Then come back to town and wait for me. I don’t know how long I am going to be.’
On the back seat of the Cadillac Hazel sat close to Henry and hugged his arm. ‘If you have changed your mind, Henry, I’ll come with you to hear what Ronnie has to tell us.’
‘Cayla hasn’t seen her mama for four days. You go on home.’
‘In my life you come first, Henry Bannock; Cayla comes second.’
Henry turned in his seat and looked into her eyes. ‘You’re a
good woman. The best I ever knew. I’m going to miss you.’
‘Why did you say that?’ She looked at him with alarm.
‘I don’t know why. It just came out.’
‘You aren’t planning to do something stupid, are you?’
‘No, I promise you.’
‘You think Ronnie has bad news, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I know Ronnie Bunter has bad news for me.’
*
Hazel walked with him from the car to the front door of the tall building that housed the law firm of Bunter and Theobald, Inc.
Beyond the double glass doors Jo Stanley, Ronnie’s new legal assistant, was sitting on one of the white leather sofas in the spacious lobby, reading a glossy woman’s magazine. She looked up and saw them crossing the sidewalk. She dropped the magazine and came to meet them. As she stooped to unlock the door Hazel turned and hugged Henry.
‘Take note of what I tell you, husband!’ she said softly. ‘I shall never miss you, because I will always be walking close beside you.’ She reached up on tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth and then she turned away and hurried back to where Bonzo held open the back door of the Cadillac for her.
Henry watched them drive away and then he went into the lobby through the door that Jo Stanley held open for him.
‘Sorry to keep you at work so late, Jo.’
‘It’s no trouble, sir. I don’t have much reason to hurry home.’
‘Is Ronnie still here?’
‘He’s waiting for you on the tenth floor in the main conference room. I’ll show you up, Mr Bannock.’
‘I know the way better than you do, Jo Stanley. I have been coming here from before you were born. Off you go home like a good girl.’ He smiled at her but she saw the smile was forced and his eyes were tired.
When the elevator doors opened on the tenth floor Henry found Ronnie waiting for him on the landing. ‘Sorry to put you through all this palaver—’ he started, but Henry cut him short.
‘Cut the bullshit, Ronnie. Give it to me straight, have they found Bryoni?’
‘It’s not quite as simple as that, Henry.’ He took Henry’s arm.
Henry shrugged his hand away. ‘Come on, Ronnie. I can still walk.’ He straightened his shoulders, stood to his full height and marched to the conference room. He took his usual seat at the long table and glowered at Ronnie. ‘I am listening,’ he said.
Ronnie sat across the table from him. ‘I received a video cassette,’ he said.
‘From whom?’
‘I don’t know. While Jennie and I were at the opera Saturday evening somebody left it on the driver’s seat of my Porsche.’
‘Have you played it?’ Ronnie nodded. ‘What’s in it?’
‘I cannot describe it. It’s the most harrowing and disgusting filth imaginable. Only a very sick and vicious mind could have conceived of this. That is why I asked you not to bring Hazel with you.’
‘Does it involve my girls?’
‘Yes. But now I have warned you, do you still want me to screen it for you?’
‘If it affects my girls, do I have any other choice? Run the thing, Ronnie. Cut the crap and have done.’
Ronnie reached for the control panel on the desk in front of him and the lights dimmed as the silver screen unrolled from the ceiling to cover the far wall. Henry swivelled his chair to face it.
‘Steel yourself, Henry, my old friend.’ Ronnie’s tone was compassionate as he pressed the ‘Play’ button on the console panel.
The lilting strains of violins playing a Strauss waltz filled the room as the screen lit with the image of a tall athletic man playing with a pretty little girl on the wide lawn of a magnificent mansion. In the background a lovely young woman was watching them fondly.
Henry straightened up in the chair. ‘What the hell! That’s a cut from one of my own home movies. That’s me and Marlene with Sacha when she was a kid.’
The scene faded and then was replaced by a magnificent vista of a high summer sky and billowing cumulus nimbus clouds. Over this a line of prose appeared in golden script:
The extremity of joy is separated by merely the trembling of a leaf from the depths of despair …
The vista of sky jump-cut to a night scene of a swimming bath surrounded by the shadowy shapes of palm trees. Three masked men held Marlene in the water. The underwater lighting showed everything in stark and remorseless detail. Marlene was naked, and as Henry watched they drowned her, drawing out the process with exquisite sadism.
Then the camera cut away to Bryoni, naked on the edge of the pool, pleading and weeping for her mother’s life. She was at the feet of another black-clad assailant. Sacha was curled up on the coping beside her. She was hitting her head on the marble slabs with such force that her blood flowed.
‘In the holy name of Jesus Christ, don’t let this be happening,’ Henry whispered, and his voice was hoarse with agony.
Then he went silent and still as a statue cast in bronze as the horrors multiplied. He was unable to tear his eyes from the screen as rapes followed beatings, as his girls were forcibly injected with narcotics and then were held down by lewd sub-human creatures, and mounted by others even more obscene.
The recorded sounds: the thud of the lash impacting on flesh, the lascivious clamour of the tormentors and the agonized whimpering and sobbing of the tormented girls were almost as terrible as the images.
At the very end when his beloved Bryoni was down in the mud and filth of the sty, being ripped into bloody tatters by the slavering pack of pigs, Henry heaved himself painfully to his feet and stood swaying at the head of the long table.
On the screen Bryoni lifted her head and seemed to look directly at him.
‘Daddy!’ she cried.
Henry lifted his right hand in a gesture of supplication, as if he were begging her forgiveness for failing her in her hour of direst need.
‘Bryoni!’ Henry answered her with his own cry; one ringing with the utmost spiritual anguish.
Then he began to fall like a giant Sequoia redwood, slowly at first but swiftly gathering momentum, until he crashed face-down onto the long table and lay deathly still.
*
The time was already past midnight, but Hazel had asked Cookie to keep dinner for Henry. It was a warm evening and the sky was full of stars. She waited on the terrace for her husband.
She had chosen a sleeveless blue evening dress, a shade that matched her eyes. It left her back bare, and showed off her bosom and the fine musculature of her arms. She knew it would please Henry. She had been very strict with herself since the birth of Cayla and she was as lean and beautiful as she had been when she first met him.
She could not remain still. Impatiently she paced the terrace with panther-like grace, sipping the single glass of Pouilly-Fuissé that she allowed herself each evening, and humming softly in tune to the music from the concealed speakers. She thought about phoning Henry to make certain he was all right, but then she shook her head. Henry did not welcome interruption when he was in a business meeting.
She paused beside the dinner table and realigned the silver cutlery laid at Henry’s place. The wine was in the crystal decanter. She had opened and poured one of Henry’s favourite Burgundies to let it breathe and unfold. She decided to light the candles as soon as she heard the Cadillac coming up the hill, and she checked that the vintage Ronson lighter for that purpose was ready to hand.
‘I know that something has happened to the girls. No matter what Ronnie has told Henry tonight I am going to be strong,’ she promised herself. ‘I am not going to break down and weep. I am going to be strong for him.’
She resumed her restless pacing. Suddenly the phone that she had placed beside her own seat rang and she ran back to the table and snatched it up with a great surge of relief.
‘Henry!’ she said. ‘Darling! Where are you?’ And her voice sang joyously.
‘No, Hazel, it’s me. Ronnie.’
‘Oh God!’ The music went out of her voice. ??
?Is Henry all right? Where is he?’
‘There is only one way to tell you this, Hazel. With any other woman I would try to soften it, but you are different. You are as strong as any man I know.’
Hazel could hear her own heart beating in her ears. She did not speak for five slow heartbeats, and then she said quietly, ‘He had a premonition. He’s dead, isn’t he, Ronnie?’
‘I am so dreadfully sorry, my dear.’
‘How?’
‘A stroke. A massive stroke. It was almost instantaneous. He felt nothing.’
‘Where is he?’ She felt the cold, a searing arctic cold that struck down into the inner regions of her soul.
‘Hospital,’ he said. ‘St Luke’s Episcopal.’
‘Send Bonzo to fetch me, please, Ronnie.’
‘He’s on his way already,’ Ronnie assured her.
*
Hazel stood beside the high hospital bed and looked down on the human shape under the white sheet. The cold was still in her heart and in her bones.
Ronnie stood beside her. He took her hand.
‘Thank you, Ronnie. I mean no offence, but I have to do this on my own.’ Carefully she withdrew her hand from his.
‘I understand, Hazel.’ Ronnie took a pace backwards and then looked across the bed to the nurse who was standing ready. ‘Thank you, Sister.’ The nurse took the top edge of the sheet and drew it down gently.
In death Henry Bannock had recaptured the imperial mantle which grief had stripped from him.
‘He was a beautiful man,’ Ronnie said softly. ‘He was the finest man I ever knew.’
‘He still is,’ Hazel said. She leaned forward and kissed Henry. His lips were as cold as her heart.
‘Au revoir, Henry,’ she whispered. ‘God speed, my love. You should have died hereafter. Cayla and I are bereft. You have left us only dust and darkness.’
‘No, Hazel,’ Ronnie contradicted her softly. ‘Henry has left you an empire and the shining beacon of his example to light the way ahead for both you and Cayla.’
*
‘A stroke!’ said Carl Peter Bannock joyfully. ‘A massive stroke. The only thing bad about it is that they say he never suffered. His doctors are on TV saying that it was so quick that there would have been almost no pain. I would have enjoyed it even more if they told me that he went out screaming and blubbering in agony.’