The Talisman (40 page)

Edward wandered around the messy house. He searched all the rooms thoroughly. There were books piled in heaps and on every available surface. The bookcases were crammed full. Many were on politics and there were plays from every period. Several shelves were devoted to film-making and there were stacks of movie magazines. Mr Duval was a complex character . . . Edward also reckoned he was a dangerous one. Why did he tell him the long elaborate story about his friend’s suicide? To get him into bed, or to alleviate his own guilt? Edward was more than sure Skye Duval must have assisted if not organized the frame-up that caused his friend’s death. He began to read a folder of press cuttings relating to Skye’s articles. They made fascinating reading and were well if rather flamboyantly written. He replaced the folder and searched the drawers, finding a lot of clothes with good labels that were badly in need of washing. The wardrobe contained many suits in similar condition, and to Edward’s surprise a set of women’s expensive clothes. Everything was muddled, haphazard. In a desk drawer Edward found so many bills that he gasped. Skye owed money everywhere. His bank statements were old and torn, his entire overdraft facility having been exhausted months ago.

The record collection was mostly classical, a few big jazz bands, Swing along with Sammy Kaye, Horace Heights and his Musical Nights, Louis ‘Satchmo’ Armstrong and Billie Holiday plus a few blues singers, some German records and a couple of recordings of black pop groups. They were dusty, many without covers or in the wrong ones. Edward was about to stroll out to the verandah when he found another bunch of folders. These contained photographs of Skye in flowing robes and the story of the trek across the Sahara in manuscript form. Looking through the photographs Edward again got the impression that Skye was one of the handsomest men he had ever seen.

A car drew up outside and Edward walked out to the dark verandah. The small Volkswagen, which a young black boy was driving, parked and he saw a very attractive white girl sitting in the back seat. The boy got out and it looked as though he was carrying something for the woman, falling into step behind her as they entered the house. They walked in silence, and then Edward heard her laughter, the lower tones of the boy. At first he had presumed him to be the girl’s servant, but there was familiarity in that laughter. They did not enter the lounge, but went straight to the spare bedroom and closed the door.

Edward was unsure if he should make some noise to let them know he was in the house. He knew they would be arrested if discovered. Any romance across the colour line was illegal in South Africa, the land of so-called racial purity. If they had ever shown in public that they were on equal terms they would have been arrested immediately. Skye would also be charged if it were discovered that he allowed his home to be used by them.

Edward waited for a while and then lay on the sofa, eventually dozing off.

Around dawn, Edward was woken by the sound of the lounge door opening. Skye entered the room. ‘Christ, are you still here? I thought you’d have gone. Do you want some wine? It’s chilled in the kitchen.’

When he returned with the wine, Skye said abruptly, ‘Well, what do you want? You’ve certainly waited long enough.’

Edward noticed the change immediately – Skye’s lisp had disappeared, and he seemed tired. Edward detailed his plan, but the only indication that Skye was listening was the constant twitching of his foot. When Edward finished, Skye set his wine glass down carefully and lit a cigarette from a half-smoked butt. He gave Edward a lopsided grin, and his lisp returned. ‘My, my, you have been busy. And, well, what can I say? It’s certainly interesting.’ He leaned back in his chair, his foot still twitching and getting on Edward’s nerves. Again he grinned, but this time it was more like a smirk. ‘How old are you, my Cambridge friend?’

Edward added a few years and said he was twenty-six. Skye raised his eyebrows. ‘Same as myself . . . you look younger, but there again, perhaps not. Be a good fellow and bring the bottle, will you?’

Skye’s eyes were shrewd and watchful. He picked up the telephone and dialled, and Edward came back in time to hear him speaking. His heart lurched – Skye’s voice was sly and his lisp was obvious. He was rocking back and forth in his chair. ‘I may have something for you, but, you bitch, I want my passport . . . Yeth, yeth, yeth, fair exchange.’

He removed the bottle from Edward’s hand and poured for himself. He did not look at Edward as he spoke. ‘About this offer – you’re on, it will also help me out of a rather nasty situation – not merely financial. Well, I think you overheard – my passport is being, shall we say, “held”, against my will. It’s rather debilitating to say the least.’

Skye drank most of the bottle of wine as he told Edward that ever since he had arrived in South Africa he had loathed and detested apartheid. He had broken every rule in the book, hating how the rich whites lived. He had stayed mostly in black townships, knowing he was breaking the law, for to enter a black area a white must first obtain a special permit and he had never bothered. He had, therefore, been under the watchful eyes of the South Africa security police, and was listed as an ‘undesirable alien’.

‘I was ordered to leave South Africa within seven days, that was three days ago. I have had to do certain things to be able to remain here, like retrieve my passport from the police.’

Edward asked why he wanted to stay so badly if he hated the country so much. Skye laughed, but it was a humourless, bitter laugh. ‘Because, old chap, I was born here. My mother took me to England on a false passport when I was a baby, helped by a certain group of people, and unwittingly I returned here, I wanted to become a reporter so I ingratiated myself with the inner sanctum of the Pretoria secret police. It was easy enough – as I told you, I just betrayed my friends . . . Rather good at that – in fact, fucking marvellous.’

Edward had noticed the Volkswagen from the previous night had already departed. He began to feel uneasy. He looked at Skye, puzzled, and asked why he didn’t go to the British Consul if he was a British subject. Skye stared at him. ‘Someone – a woman named Julia – also has my birth certificate, so I can’t go. I’m trapped here until I get it back.’

Edward told him he could send away to Somerset House, they would forward a copy of his birth certificate. Skye shook his head at Edward’s stupidity and spoke coldly, quietly. ‘I’m black, you stupid bastard. My father was black, a political embarrassment, he was one of the highest members of the banned African National Congress . . .’

Edward realized that Skye was an even more fortunate find than he had believed possible.

‘My mother was very young, her family dripping with fucking coalmines, and she got herself knocked up by a bloody black houseboy. Needless to say, I was kept very much in the dark, haw haw haw, but I was well educated and although I was shipped about somewhat, things weren’t too bad. Anyway, she got herself married, and, naturally, the husband doesn’t have the slightest knowledge of moi.’ He fell silent for a moment, sipping his wine.

Edward noticed the foot-twitching had stopped, and Skye appeared very still. He had a haunted look, and he was distant, but he continued. ‘So, buddy boy, that’s Skye Duval for you. Now you know – I have entrusted you with my life.’

Edward didn’t reply, but Skye appeared to read his thoughts. ‘It’s imperative, you know, if two people are doing a con trick, that they trust each other, have something on each other. You even attempt your little scam without me and I’ll know. Understand me, man?’

At his hotel later in the morning, Edward looked through the newspaper. He glanced only fleetingly at the front page, then flipped back to it. There was a photograph and he recognized the girl’s face. The article was by no means prominent, just a small bulletin, but the girl had been arrested with her black lover. There was no name to the article, but Edward knew it had to have something to do with Skye. He was also very aware of the importance of the information he had just gained. If he were to tip off the blacks about Skye Duval’s secrets, the man would be a walking target. This made Edward think hard. Why had Duval opened up to him? Was it simply, as he had said, trust? Or had he in actual fact bitten much harder on Edward’s offer than he had thought? Edward concluded that Skye was indeed a manipulator, and even though he joked about it, he would be in the scam whether Edward wanted him or not.

Edward knew he had Skye when they met that evening. The girl in the newspaper had hanged herself. Yet another death lay at Skye’s feet and he was in a nasty, belligerent mood. ‘Get me out of this shit-hole country, man, before I put my head in a noose like everyone else. A voice keeps whispering louder and louder, “You’re black, Skye Duval, you’re a fucking black.” And you know what? I wanna be black. The whites here are made of vomit, one day they will all spew their guts out and we will rise up and swamp them.’

Edward knew he had to get Skye on to a different subject, so he asked about the woman called Julia.

‘This woman, the one holding your birth certificate, is there any way we can get to her? If we have that you’ll be off the hook.’

Skye shrugged, and said she kept it locked in her safe.

‘At her home? Couldn’t we get it somehow?’

Skye had been sceptical about Edward, but now he looked at him with interest. Even more so when Edward suggested that the two of them together could surely break into the woman’s safe. Skye went to telephone Julia and then returned to the table. ‘She’ll see me tonight . . . we can at least try.’

Julia Keevy was overweight, and wore her dyed blonde hair in a tight, lacquered set. She wore rings on every finger, and a kaftan to hide the rolls of fat drooping from her body. Her small eyes were like speckled duck’s eggs, and her skin had been exposed to the sun for so many years that it was as wrinkled as a walnut. She was grotesque, welcoming Skye with a glossy, thickly lipsticked smile. She had dismissed her servants for the night, and had the champagne on ice.

Edward waited outside. Skye had described the exact layout of the low, sprawling bungalow. Skye would open the back door, and had warned Edward to be careful of the screen door squeaking.

He moved stealthily into the kitchen, banged his shin on the fridge and held his breath. Had she heard? He could hear a deep, throaty, gin-sodden laugh from the bedroom. He slipped into the dining area, took stock of the rooms, and eventually found the lounge.

The safe was like a vault, with a heavy combination lock. He scratched his head – no way could he open it – and jumped as Skye appeared silently beside him.

‘We’ll never open the bloody thing, look at it.’

Skye gritted his teeth and swore, squinted at the numbers.

‘Baby, what you doing? Skye, honey, what you doing?’

Skye muttered to Edward to keep still, they had come this far and he was not going to give up. He walked to the bedroom, smiling sweetly as he carried the bottle towards the beached whale on the bed. ‘Sorry, the first one I took out wasn’t chilled enough, just let me open it . . .’

When Skye popped the cork out of the bottle with a loud bang, Edward nearly had a heart attack in the next room. Suddenly Skye went crazy. He leapt on top of her, ramming the neck of the champagne bottle into her mouth so hard that she gurgled and flayed the air with her hands. He sat on top of her and pushed the bottle to the back of her throat.

‘What’s the combination of the safe, you fat bitch? The combination – now!’

She tried to fight him off but she was choking, the bottle being forced further and further to the back of her throat. The champagne frothed and bubbled down her chins and her eyes bulged, then she flopped. Her body went limp, and a horrid gurgling began in her throat. Skye removed the bottle and slapped her face from side to side.

Edward was searching the desk when Skye appeared with a gun in his hand. He walked to the safe and blasted at the lock, bullet after bullet.

‘Jesus, you crazy? For Chrissake . . .’

Letting the gun fall to his side, Skye stared as the safe door swung open. He began to hurl the contents out. Bundles of bank notes fell around his feet as he scrabbled and searched. He checked inside envelopes and folders. ‘Where is it? Where the fuck is it? The bitch, the bitch!’

Edward stood frozen at the window – what if someone had heard the gunshots? There was silence, ominous, but it gave Edward confidence that no one had heard. He went into the bedroom, leaving Skye searching like a madman. The scene that met his eyes made him want to vomit – the grotesque sight of Julia on the bed, mouth wide open, eyes popping out of her head. The sheets and body dripping with champagne. He shouted to Skye, ‘Get in there and clean the bottle and glasses, your prints’ll be all over the bloody room. I’ll look for it, go on, move, those shots could bring the law any minute.’

Edward filled a carrier bag with jewels and cash, then dragged Skye out. They left by the back way, wiped the door, then ran across the gardens and down two streets to the car. This time Edward drove, slowly and carefully, so as not to attract attention.

They returned to Skye’s bungalow and Edward tipped the contents of the carrier bag on the bed. There was at least fifteen thousand in cash, but the jewels and the gold bangles were worth, he knew, at least twenty to thirty thousand more. He examined Skye’s birth certificate and slipped it into his pocket.

The newspaper reported that Julia’s houseboy had been arrested and charged with her murder. The motive for the killing was obviously robbery.

Neither Edward nor Skye waited around to hear the outcome of the murder trial. The houseboy was jailed for life.

T
he last eight years had been good, no one could deny that, Dora least of all. She and Alex had moved into the lucrative years of the flourishing London clubland. She had changed her looks – now she went in for the Diana Dors style, with pencil-slim skirts, shoulder-length hair and pale lipsticks. She always wore thick, false eyelashes, with midnight-blue mascara, and she had made sure she kept her figure. She squeezed herself into the skirts, wore uplift bras to help her sagging tits, and still looked younger than her age, but only at a distance. The small lines had deepened and the more she tried to cover them the more aware of them she became.