Lost (12 page)

Sam was dreaming of his mother. He was not asleep but still he was dreaming. He lay curled up in the dark with his cheek on his praying hands, his eyes closed.

She was lying in her bed. She often slept in the morning and he knew not to wake her because it made her bad-tempered. He stood over her and watched her face against the pillow. He wanted to kiss her cheek, but he knew if he did she would disappear. He looked at her closed eyes. Her eyelashes were very black and tangled. She had a freckle darker than the rest under her eye and one on her lip. He tried to smell her, but his dream didn’t stretch that far and he was back in the dark again, too thick to breathe, and he could hear the clicking noise coming from somewhere above his head.

Since his fall he had not climbed up to the holes again. It hurt when he stood up, so he lay on his back with his knees bent and his feet flat against the wall. His breaths were quick, like they were when he was tired out from treading water in the deep end.

He had stopped crying because he did not like to hear his own voice. It reminded him of where he was. Now he slept and woke and slept and woke. He knew when he was awake because of the clicking sound. Sometimes he counted the clicks, but he never got far because his thoughts chased the numbers away.

His shorts were wet with pee. He had dreamed that he was walking down the stairs at home. There was a blue darkness that he could see through. Dan’s door was open and he could hear his breathing as he passed. He reached the door to the bathroom and opened it. The tiles were cold under his feet.
He sat down on the loo because he was too sleepy to stand and watched a silverfish play dead, then disappear into a crack in the wall. He watched the crack and waited for the pee to come. It flowed out warm on to his stomach and woke him up. Later they had put the glasses back on and taken him out, sat him on a blue plastic bucket; but he couldn’t do anything, so they shut him in again.

He didn’t know how long he had been there because there were no days to count, but the darkness did not scare him. It was the light when the door opened and the smell of the place where the men were.

He closed his eyes and tried to get the dream of his mother back, but all he could see was his fish opening and shutting its mouth and dying in his dark, dry rucksack.

His mother would be crying now, like she did every time he got lost. The other times he had lost her, in the shops or in the woods or on the beach, he saw had just been for practice. He loved the way his mother’s face looked when she cried. When she found him she would kneel down and he would put his arms around her neck and press his face into her bosom and let her hold him until she calmed down. This time it was real.

He sat up, held his legs folded against his chest and bit his knees, one after the other. He did not bite hard but gently. He liked the taste of his skin and the spit rolling down his thighs.

They had put his finger in the trap again. They had opened the door and the one who talked all the time had told him they were going to make a tape for his mother. He had not been able to open his eyes because of the light.

‘Say hello to your mother.’

But he could not speak. He held his eyes tight shut. Then they had put his finger in the trap and closed it a little. That was when he had screamed. He wished he hadn’t. For his mother’s sake.

Ever since then he had kept silent. He had not tried yet, but he thought that even if he wanted to speak, the words would
not come out. Instead there was a lot of talking in his head: sometimes his mother’s voice, and sometimes Dan’s.

‘You’re so shellfish,’ Dan said. Sam laughed. ‘It’s not shellfish, silly. It’s selfish.’ In fact Dan was the selfish one. He never let him play with his toys. Even the pirate ship, which he never used. It stayed on the shelf all the time. ‘You’ll lose the bits,’ Dan said.

‘Yes, Sam,’ his mother said. ‘You’ll lose the bits.’

But he didn’t care. He still liked the ship without the bits.

This was prison. He had always been scared of prison. Now he was here. His worst dream was about prison. He had not dared tell his mother about it because just talking about it frightened him too much. Now he was in it.

He was hungry. He hadn’t eaten since the ravioli. They put things in his prison, but the smell made him feel sick and he sat with his eyes buried in his knees, waiting for them to take the plate away. He did not want to eat but he was afraid they would get angry.

He let go of his knees, lay down in the dark and rested his feet against the wall. His back still hurt him if he took a deep breath, so he breathed very gently. He closed his eyes and saw the different darkness of his mind. He watched the shapes moving behind his eyes and began to count the clicks.

He could see that things were easier for other kids but he didn’t know why. His head was always so full of questions that he sometimes didn’t bother asking them because the answers he got just provoked more questions. He could feel them shuffling in a queue in his head, some, often the most stupid, forcing themselves to the front. When he had asked his mother on the way from the airport whose idea it was to build all the shops and houses, he knew as he was asking that this was not the question he meant to ask but another, non-stupid question that hid itself from him.

Sometimes she got angry with him because of the questions, but sometimes she asked for them and was pleased with them. He had not learned which ones made her angry
and which ones made her pleased. But this he could not learn because his mother was soft and hard. Like her name. ‘Alice,’ he said aloud. ‘A-lice. Hard, soft.’

Mickey stood in the middle of the room and mimed his favourite number: Jorge Ferreira singing ‘Ai Ai, Meu Amor, Ai Ai’. He wished there was a mirror in the room. Maybe he would ask the Scattis to get him one. He knew all the words but not what they meant. This didn’t matter because the song spoke to his soul. He could move just like Ferreira and make the same facial expressions, but he mouthed the words. If he tried to sing, a dead sound came out, nothing like what he had in his head.

He clicked his fingers as if to snap himself out of a trance and did a little rotating jump. He faced the kid’s cupboard and listened. He had stopped whining. In fact he hadn’t made a sound for a while now. He’d have to start eating soon or else they’d have problems. Paolo had told the mother they would send her his finger if she didn’t get the money in time.

‘And they would, too,’ he said aloud. He didn’t want to take the kid’s finger off. ‘I’m not into that kind of thing.’ He saw the child’s head tilted back in agony and felt a rush of adrenaline. ‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘I’ve gone all weak at the thought.’ He had sent her the video first. That was subtle.

He walked over to his chair and sat down for a smoke. Three million francs all to himself. They should have asked for more. He tilted back his head. ‘
Ai
ai,
meu
amor
,’ he sang in his head. ‘
Ai
ai
.’

Mickey drew a chair up to the wall of the kid’s cupboard and sat down. He tilted the chair so that the back of his head rested against the wall. The kid was quiet. There had been a lot of tears in the night, a lot of noise, causing the numbness in Mickey’s fingers that occurred when he wanted to hit someone. The kid whined, which was unforgivable. He had never whined as a kid. Of that he was sure.

‘Can you hear me in there?’

Silence. Mickey banged on the wall behind him three times with his fist.

‘Hey! I’m talking to you.’

Silence.

‘Don’t make me open the door.’

Three weak knocks sounded.

‘Okay.’ Mickey lit a cigarette. ‘Smoke?’ He grinned, allowing the smoke to roll out over his grey teeth. Mickey smoked all day and most of the night. Smoke was his element, had become as much a part of him as his blood. It was in his voice, in the pores of his skin, behind his nails, his ears, between his teeth and his fingers. If they cut him open, his insides would be charred, like a rotten pomegranate turned to dust.

‘I was smoking at your age. Can’t remember when I started. All I can say is I can’t remember not smoking. What do I remember? I don’t remember the islands. I don’t remember my old man. I remember my mum before she screwed herself up. Because there was a time when she was all right. She was all-right-looking. Better-looking than your mum. Not so skinny. She was half-Portuguese, half-African and she had the best of both. Portuguese hair, silky black, and beautiful dark skin and a beautiful arse like a watermelon. My dad was pure Portuguese. That’s why he fucked off in the end. He thought she was too black for him. Then José came along and frankly, he was beneath her, but she followed him here and we moved into Les Mimosas and I went to school and it was downhill from there on. But I never whined. I can’t imagine ever whining with José.’ Mickey banged on the wall once. ‘Did you hear me?’

A knock sounded.

‘You shouldn’t whine. I can teach you things and this is one of them. Whining annoys people and it’s the fastest way of getting hit. I’m not going to hurt you. I would say I’m favourably disposed to you. Can you understand that? Favourably disposed, which means I don’t hate you. You’re my ticket out of this shithole. If you don’t whine we’ll get
through this, both of us, and I’ll be leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again,’ he sang, in his high, trapped voice. ‘Cacilda, her name was. Cacilda. Isn’t that a beautiful name? Isn’t it?’ Mickey sat forward. He dropped his cigarette and trod it out. He stood up and plucked at his groin. He picked up the chair and swung it against the wall of the cupboard. One of the back legs clattered to the floor. He let go of the chair and kicked it. ‘Isn’t it?’ he shouted.

Mickey stood still in a pair of cowboy boots two sizes too big for him, which curled upwards at the tip. He stared with his good eye at the door of the kid’s prison.

‘Hey! Answer me.’

Two faint knocks came from within.

Coco drove his car into the car park of the Géant Casino supermarket. He saw a space in the far comer. Keeping his eye on the white Peugeot in his rear-view mirror, he crawled slowly towards it. He couldn’t see who was at the wheel and he didn’t recognise the car. Stuart must have been sent back-up.

He turned off the engine, threw the keys under the seat and climbed out. Just as Stuart’s boys were beginning to wonder, Georges would come and pick up the car. The white Peugeot pulled up next to the trolleys fifty metres away. Coco walked towards it, took a trolley and greeted the men in the car, inclining his head ceremoniously as he walked past. He did not recognise either of them and he noticed with disgust that the driver was wearing a ring in his left ear.

As he weaved through the parked cars, he began to sweat. The midday sun was not joking. He stepped into the shade thrown by the awning of the supermarket and turned round. The white Peugeot hadn’t moved. He walked through the automatic doors into the air-conditioned cafeteria.

It was a nice concession; plenty of people for a weekday. You would have thought they’d be on the beach in mid-July but no, they preferred gliding along the cool, clean floors of the hypermarket, their kids hushed with sweets picked straight from the shelf, safely imprisoned in the trolley. Afterwards, a snack here in the cafeteria and before they knew it they’d killed three hours.

Coco passed the row of people queuing doggedly, sliding their trays along the food counter. Karim was standing behind an icy slope of cheese platters, grinning stupidly at him. He had shaven his head down to a stubble. A pearly gash on his cranium shone like the Muslim new moon.

Coco pushed the door to the toilets and went straight to the disabled cubicle. He took the heavy metal cover off the toilet-roll dispenser. Hanging on the rod instead of the roll were the keys to Karim’s car, which he put in his pocket before replacing the metal cover. On the way out he glanced at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He wet his hands and ran them through his hair, checked his teeth for stray foodstuffs and left.

He pushed open the fire door that led out on to a patch of yellow lawn at the back of the hypermarket. He crossed the lawn, climbed a steep bank planted with laurel bushes heavy with diesel dust and, brushing himself off, stepped out on to the tarmac. The sun had melted the road and as he walked towards Karim’s black BMW, he felt the tar sticking to the soles of his shoes.

The inside of the car was so hot, it hurt when he breathed in. He cursed Karim for having parked in the full sun. He wound down both windows and drove carefully over the uneven slip road and on to the motorway that ran north out of Massaccio.

Surrender nothing. He must surrender absolutely nothing. He could feel Jean Filippi’s hand in his gut and he was squeezing. Those small, waxy hands, unfit for honest work, had got hold of him after twenty years. Coco saw Jean’s hands as he sat in meetings of the executive committee. They lay pasty and inert, one upon the other, while their owner, with his soft, thinking-man’s voice, talked of the long march towards the edifice of peace.

Jean Filippi’s job was killing. He was the boss of a service industry; his business was the fulfilment of the island’s irrepressible appetite for violence. With the push of the young beneath him, Jean was expanding: hence the Sam-7s. Jean was not a man of violence, he was a man of power; but he knew what people wanted. More kids were flocking to the FNL every day, looking for a free handgun and a uniform and something to do with the spare time that was all they
had. Jean would like to have kept his cottage industry, but he knew he’d get pushed out if he didn’t give them what they wanted.

Coco looked at himself in the wing mirror. This new pain in his gut was beginning to show in his face. At least he didn’t look as bad as Stuart, who was ten years younger than him.

Where was the capital going to come from for this expansion? Jean needed considerable funds for a modern army. Coco could help but not in kind. He’d have to get the stuff out of his swimming pool. I’m not comfortable with things as they are, Jean. We’re going to have to renegotiate.

He came off the motorway and followed the sparkling river winding through the wide valley that was always green, even in summer. A forest of eucalyptus sprawled up from the sea, stopping in a line where the pastures began. This valley was his favourite place. It rose very gently at its narrow end to meet the foot of the mountains. Some promoters from the mainland had tried to get hold of this valley for a theme park, but Russo had put a European preservation order on it and blocked the sale.

Coco opened the window and breathed in the smells that were coming off the hills to his left. After the eucalyptus from the coast the
maquis
was delicate and he thought of the Englishwoman and wondered what she would smell like. He was glad she was dark because he did not like the smell of blondes so much. He knew who had her child. A black Mercedes 500 had been abandoned in the main square. The police had been crawling round it all morning. The plates were from another Mercedes of the same model, same colour. Stealing cars was the one thing Mickey da Cruz did well. She had nothing to worry about. You having nothing to worry about, madame. I’ll find your son for you.

No villages had been built along this road. A witch had cursed this mineral land so long ago, no one could remember why, and it was unfit even for goats. As the road climbed, the
maquis
thinned, giving way to a plateau of granite. He drove along a ridge on either side of which was nothing but scree for fifty metres. Three vultures hung about like delinquents, drawing circles round each other in the sky.

Soon the graffiti began. Every decent expanse of rock beside the road was daubed with red letters. He was surprised to see that even the MPC came up into this wasteland to mark their territory. The kids had shot out every road sign, leaving the triangular panels full of holes dripping with rust.

Coco parked in a lay-by, in the shadow of a wall of smooth, pink rock that rose straight upwards and out of sight. He turned off the engine and prepared for the wait. He was ten minutes early. In the shade the air was cool. A pleasant breeze came through the window. Coco pushed back the seat and closed his eyes, trying, as Evelyne suggested, to visualise the hand stirring his entrails: if you can see it, she said, you can make it disappear. But Coco could see only three vultures circling above a pool of blood.

Coco woke as Jean opened the passenger door and climbed in. Sleep seeped away, leaving him bereft. He did not appreciate being caught unawares. He wiped saliva from his beard.

Jean held out his hand. Coco shook it briefly, then turned on the engine. He closed the electric window, drove out on to the hot road and made his way further up the mountain.

‘How are things in town?’

This irritated Coco. Jean always spoke as if he were some kind of hermit, the island’s John the Baptist. But he got around. Georges had seen him last week at Las Palmas. Soulas had given him a job at the source over the hill. The island’s only mineral-water company was surviving on subsidies – fifty people had been laid off since the beginning of the year – while Jean was getting a salary and expense account big enough to entertain at Las Palmas.

‘I’m up at the village,’ Coco said. ‘There’s no room for me in Massaccio at this time of year. It’s full of people wearing thongs. I feel overdressed.’

Coco had not looked at Jean yet, but he knew he would not smile at this. Jean only smiled where it was inappropriate, blinking patiently at all manifestations of humour. Coco glanced at Jean’s hands, one resting on each thigh. The nails were horribly bitten, making nubs of his finger-ends. Coco should have looked at his fingers before having suggested him as head of the Executive. Jean sat at his side quietly surveying the wilderness as if he owned it. Thankfully this was about all he owned.

Coco realised that Jean was not going to speak first. He had hoped that he would refer to the cache. Coco now wished he had brought Georges. He had miscalculated: it was not a good thing for him to be at the wheel. In this position he could not face Jean and look straight at his ruined mouth, imperfectly hidden by the thick moustache. Coco turned and looked now. From the side, the hare-lip did not show.

‘So,’ he began. ‘We had a bit of a surprise the other night.’

‘Oh?’

‘The Sam-7s.’ Jean gave no sign. ‘You’re building quite an armoury.’

Jean turned and looked at Coco, who kept his eyes on the winding road.

‘This is a war, Santini, not a hobby.’

‘I know, I know. And I notice they’ve sent in two new CRS units. They’re talking peace to give themselves time to arm their troops.’

‘Exactly.’

Coco was looking for a place to pull in. He was sick of this arrangement. He was not the man’s chauffeur.

‘Of course, they do generally send in more CRS for the summer.’

‘It’s a provocation.’

‘Of course.’

‘I assume you didn’t come all the way up here to be sarcastic,’ Jean said.

Coco pulled into a lay-by. A single acacia tree sprang from a
cleft in a sheet of rock. Coco stopped beneath its frail canopy. Patches of sunlight quivered on the bonnet. He turned off the engine.

‘I’m not in a position to keep Sam-7 missiles under my swimming pool. You talked about a “stop-gap” last April. I have considerable heat on me at present. A child has been kidnapped and Stuart is hoping that I’m involved. At the moment I have a minimum of three cars trailing me at all times. I think it’s time you made alternative arrangements.’

Jean was looking nervous. Coco opened the window to breathe in the sweet smell of the acacia.

‘If you’re being followed …’

‘Don’t worry. I lost them in town.’

‘If you’re being followed, I said, you’re not going to want to move anything now. Do you mind closing that window?’

‘Are you cold?’

Jean simply nodded at the window.

‘Do you mind?’

Coco closed the window. Jean’s tone disgusted him. He was worse than a priest.

‘We’re very grateful for the space. We shouldn’t be needing it for much longer. I’m glad, though, to have this chance to talk to you, because we were meaning to ask you. It may be a little premature, but things have been shifting lately. The MPC has retreated, leaving a lot of open ground. We’re interested in acquiring Las Palmas.’

‘What?’

‘We’ve approached Edouard Getti, but he seems reticent.’

‘You must be joking.’

Jean blinked at him.

‘Edouard is an old friend of yours, we know. We wanted you to talk to him.’

‘Ed’s not going to sell Las Palmas. He’d sell his mother first.’

Jean just stared. His hair had turned greyer and lent a cartoon quality to his thick moustache, which was still jet black.
His eyes shone as any charismatic leader’s should.

‘We have plans for it that go far beyond anything Edouard could achieve. He’s sentimentally attached to the place and it’s stagnating.’

‘You want to put machines in,’ Coco said. ‘You want to take over the best club on the front, the only place you can eat a decent meal without having a pair of tits in your face, and you want to turn it into a twenty-four-hour pay-and-puke joint.’

‘Coco, I’m going to have to reason with you on this. You’re not being objective.’

‘No way.’

‘You don’t want what happened to Monti to happen to Edouard.’

‘Get out.’

Jean did not move.

‘I said get out.’

‘You’re making a mistake, Santini.’

‘Get out of the car. Don’t threaten me. Get out of the car.’

‘I think…’

‘Get out or I’ll throw you out.’ Jean opened the door. ‘Hurry up.’

He climbed out and slammed the door. Coco reversed and turned round. In his rear-view mirror he saw Jean standing beneath the acacia tree. Coco paused a moment, feeling the tug in his gut. His foot hovered above the accelerator, poised to slam the man against the rock. Jean stood there waiting, his fat arms that would not lie straight floating out to each side of him. Jean had no gun. That, Coco thought, was the secret of his success.

He put Karim’s car in first gear and pulled out into the road. He forced himself to drive slowly, calming himself, counting his breaths and letting them go.

In just two months the FNL had slipped out of control. I made you, Jean. I even allowed you the luxury of thinking you were a free agent. Coco slammed his foot on the brake.
He sat there in the middle of the road, his hands sweating on the wheel, the
maquis
coming at him, hammering at him this time, through the open window.

They wanted Las Palmas. Now it was Ed but tomorrow it would be The Pescador and The Palace of Glass. Last year two men on a motorbike had shot Monti as he was coming up the steps that led from his club to the main road that ran along the seafront. Monti’s body had fallen back into the bamboo below the steps and it had taken Stuart three days to find his body, for the bamboo had grown over him. Coco had not worried too much about the killing because he knew Monti was Stuart’s grass and Electric Blue was never a good venue anyway, too small and isolated. Now he saw that it had been Jean’s first move. Something was twitching in his cheek. Coco wiped his hands over his face in an attempt to smooth out his nerves which were twisted like cables. Jean had threatened him. How had things degenerated so fast?

His nervous system partially untangled, he moved on. The scrub on either side of him went on banging under the hot sun. Coco accelerated, hurrying towards the valley. The idea came to him as he passed a lay-by that was marked by a large ‘P’. Some grey-faced moron from the tourist office had put out a couple of tables with benches. As though anyone would choose to have a picnic up here.

The idea may have come to Coco as he drove by that certain things were not put to their proper use. Perhaps it was the P-sign, but out of the image of the inhospitable lay-by, snatched as he drove past, came that of Philippe Garetta, sitting out his days at the darkest table in The Pescador, violent and idle. Coco thought of the Englishwoman. He saw her pulling back her hair to reveal her shoulders and her neck, curved in offering. In his plan, he saw a way of winning her too. Garetta was dangerous; he was the only one who still talked about revolution. The question was, if he wound him up, could he stop him? As he passed the first eucalyptus trees fringing the road, Coco felt a slackening inside. The banging
of the
maquis
was just blood pumping in his ears. Still, he kept the idea that had come to him when he was not entirely himself. He would start a new movement, make a war.