Читать книгу The Dragon's Skin - Ross Gray - Страница 5

He is not the hero of the story, the man these words describe. He is not the villain. Although, if you think him so, you may be forgiven. The part he plays in the tale is a minor one, but no less, nor more, important than any other. He is a killer, and if in this story he kills, and you find such things distasteful, don’t be concerned, you may avert your eyes. He is not a man who kills from anger or fear or jealousy or envy or any of the petty meannesses of the human spirit. Admittedly, there is a profit motive. He kills people on behalf of other people. But don’t judge him too harshly, many people kill. They kill good people and bad people, heroes and villains: they kill people for other people. Executioners kill people. Soldiers kill people, don’t they? And we don’t judge them harshly. Especially when they kill people for us.

So please, don’t be judgemental, keep an open mind as this man and his trade are described.

Trade? He prefers the word ‘trade’. Or he would if he ever talked about it. He’s a plain man. He’s a man who didn’t aspire to tertiary education – although he is intelligent and could have done well. He considers it ‘a bit of a wank’ to call his line of work a profession. James Bond is in a similar type of employment. James Bond is a professional, isn’t he? He’s a professional who kills people for the people and the State – and HRH of course. And we think that’s cool.

Bond, James Bond, and this man share the same trade – or profession if you must. It’s a very old one. Not as old as the oldest of course, or the human race would have been a one-horse race. He – and Bond – is what you might call an assassin or hitman or hired gun or – one particular fav­our­ite, coined by Raymond Chandler in his eponymous short story – a pencil. That’s neat. Eradicating a problem just like drawing a red line through a name on a page. A flick of the wrist. A slash of the pencil. A blood-red cancellation.

However, this is a modest man. He would be the last to place himself in the same league as James Bond. James drives an Aston Martin (or a BMW), wears expensive wristwatches and leads an exciting cosmopolitan lifestyle. Although he frequently works interstate, the furthest this man has travelled on a job is Cooktown. He doesn’t have a licence to kill. In fact he neglected to apply for a learner’s permit. No, let Jimmy have the limelight, this man is content to remain backstage cloaked in shadows, sharpening his pencil. He’s a retiring man.

Some may take umbrage at the elevation of the enterprise of killing people to the level of trade or profession (military excepted). If so, this should be considered: it is not easy to kill a person. Except accidentally of course – then it is much too easy. To select and stalk and kill a human prey – let’s not mince words, to do murder – that takes skill and talent and practice, and the kind of mental qualities often attributed to athletes. To arrange an accident, that takes imagination, broad practical knowledge and finesse. By any measure, a vocation requiring such virtues qualifies as a trade, or, if you insist, a profession. And this man is an excellent tradesman.

He bears little resemblance to James Bond – any of them. His appearance is unremarkable, which is an advantage in his chosen field. His hair is a mousy brown, not too straight, not too wavy. It is abundant enough to hide the few strands of encroaching grey, but beginning to show signs of depletion around the crown. This is not evident at the moment because he wears a woollen beanie pulled down to his ears. He has a face as oval as those recommended in ‘How To’ books on drawing. He has regular features. His ears may be longish and his nose a tad too short, but there is little in this to be made of by a caricaturist – or an identikit. He is wearing sunglasses because, although it is midwinter and very cold, the sun is shining brightly, but his eyes, if you could see them, are that greenish greyish brownish colour called ‘hazel’. An odd colour, hazel. It doesn’t appear in the spectrum or on the colour swatches of interior designers. It seems to be reserved for eyes when we can’t be precise about their colour. He has a scar beneath his left eyebrow that can only be detected at a distance of ten centimetres, and a small brown mole under his chin that nobody notices. Except his children.

As well as the beanie, he is wearing a long, woollen scarf wrapped several times around his neck, a short Drizabone with a quilted lining and many deep pockets, thick corduroy trousers and the kind of rugged boots sold in outdoor adventure stores. The ones with firm ankle support and treads so deep they could remove the topsoil on a quarter-acre block. He is sitting in a park, beneath a tree, on a contoured metal bench near a playing field. He has a large red sports bag beside him that contains a thermos of coffee, two bottles of a popular sports drink, some fruit, a towel, a battered paperback novel, a box of Band-aids and the street clothing of one of his two sons.

A man approaches carrying a plastic bag emblazoned with the logo of a well-known city store, nods to him and sits on the bench. He places his plastic bag next to the sports bag. This man is dressed just as warmly as the other, but his clothes appear to have been liberated from a rack in Toorak Road or Chapel Street rather than Bridge Road, Richmond. He wears soft leather gloves. He has fine blond hair of a shade that will disguise the spread of silver for some time. The baldness on his crown is far more advanced than that of the other man, but it is hidden beneath one of those fur hats favoured by Eastern Europeans (and often seen in James Bond movies). His face is round, and ruddy with the sting of the chill southwesterly. He is beefily handsome and, in age, somewhere about the mid-forties. He too is wearing sunglasses, but if you are interested, his eyes are blue – a colour favoured by corn-silk blonds – a sort of faded-denim blue. He watches the run of the ball on the playing field for a few minutes then speaks.

‘Got a kid out there?’

Not-Bond treats the question as rhetorical.

‘A soccer dad? Picked you for Aussie Rules,’ the blond man says.

‘Wife’s idea. Reckons it’s not as rough.’

‘I played when I was young. It can get pretty rough,’ the blond man reassures soccer dad.

‘With you playing, I’ll bet it was,’ comes the laconic reply.

‘Which one’s yours?’

‘I thought you’d retired,’ says soccer dad.

‘There’s still some accounts outstanding,’ says the blond man. He looks over his shoulder then down the sports ground to where most of the parents huddle against the elements. He places the plastic bag and its contents in the sports bag. ‘I hope that’s as it should be. Maurie used to handle this stuff.’

‘Shame about Maurie. I liked him.’

‘Maurie got what he deserved,’ says the blond man bluntly. Then he adds, ‘I was a bit surprised at the price. Double the usual is a big ask.’

‘It’s a sliding scale. This isn’t a workaday knock, there’ll be a lot of sizzle,’ says soccer dad. ‘I’ll have to take the family away for a long holiday till things cool.’ He glances around about him. ‘And if you want an accident as well. That’s expensive. More risk, lots of overheads.’

‘If there’s any doubt that it is an accident we’ll both burn,’ says the blond man and stands.

‘Don’t worry. Even you’ll think it’s an accident,’ says soccer dad.

‘When?’

‘If it’s to be done properly it may take a while to organise. Opportunity is the key.’ He is momentarily distracted by some action on the field then he looks back at the blond man. ‘But don’t worry, you’ll be the first to know.’ The blond man nods, satisfied.

He watches the blond man walk through the park to his car. It’s a Porsche. A red Porsche. He watches him drive away. Then he stands and we can see he is average in height. He hefts the sports bag and saunters around the soccer field, stopping occasionally to shout encouragement to his son’s team. Eventually he takes a seat on a bench directly opposite the one he vacated on the other side of the field. No tree. He watches the game.

At the end of the first half his son runs over and drops heavily, muddily, on the bench with an exhausted but satisfied sigh. ‘We’re winning,’ the boy breathes happily.

‘So I see,’ says proud but reticent dad.

‘D’ja see me get that ball across?’ the boy asks through vigorous dabs of the towel.

‘Sure did. Bloody beaudy. Here.’ He hands his son a bottle and an orange. ‘Don’t guzzle.’ He drapes a jacket over his shoulders. ‘And don’t get cold.’

They bask, silent except for gurgles, belches and juicy sucks, in the bonding of shared glory, and then the boy races off to join his mates. The second half begins.

Down the field a figure detaches from the cacophonous clump of parents and supporters and moves in this direction. It is a blunt brick of a man, rounded on the corners and edges. He is wearing a thick straight woollen overcoat that reaches to his knees. It is buttoned to the chin and the collar is turned up to his ears. His hands are stuffed deep in its pockets. He is hatless and the sunlight glistens on a head that has been shaved to a shadow. At a distance he could be mistaken for something designed by Lego. A scarf, similar to soccer dad’s, is draped loosely – and insincerely – around his thick shoulders. Soccer dad’s eyes drift from the play long enough to note his progress.

The man from Legoland reaches the bench and, without removing his hands from his pockets, bends like a butted cigarette and sits. His eyes are agate marbles and he watches the game, unblinking. Soccer dad twists around and fossicks through the plastic bag in the sports bag. He extracts a crisp hundred-dollar bill and hands it to Lego man.

‘You win,’ he says. ‘I didn’t think he’d have the nerve. How’d you know?’

‘Didn’t,’ says Lego man. ‘Just playin’ safe.’ His voice is deep, but flat, like a bag of wet sand striking a concrete floor. It begins and ends with his words.

‘But you knew he’d come to me?’

‘Boss knew.’

‘Coughed up double, hardly a squeak, just like you said.’

‘What’d he want?’

‘He wants an accident. No doubts.’

Lego man nods solemnly as if this was expected. ‘Give ’im what he wants,’ he says. ‘It’s ’is funeral, an’ he’s payin’.’

‘Poetic justice,’ soccer dad says glibly.

Lego man turns his face towards him and he sees the lengthening of the short hard line of the small mouth, which in this man passes for a smile. ‘Didn’t want ’is own back,’ he says. ‘Shouldna pissed into the wind.’

‘It would be simpler and safer just to press delete,’ says soccer dad.

The smile closes down like a computer screen in a blackout. Obsidian eyes swallow soccer dad’s gaze, like a thin stream of water poured in a well. ‘An accident,’ he states. ‘An’ it better look sweet. The cops are the least of y’ worries.’

Soccer dad stares at Lego man, something dawning in his eyes. ‘Shit,’ he says. ‘He hasn’t sanctioned this.’

‘I’ve sanctioned it,’ says Lego man. ‘There a problem?’

‘Nah, nah. Just a bit disappointed. Thought he’d owe me a favour.’ He sighs. ‘Should’ve known. Weeds his own garden, doesn’t he?’

‘I owe y’ a favour,’ says Lego man. ‘ ’S almost as good.’

Soccer dad seems to agree. ‘But he knew about the contract?’

‘Didn’t need to. Soon as ’e came to you, Bernie took out a contract on ’imself, didn’t ’e?’ Lego man has been following the play during the latter part of this exchange. ‘Y’ son just got a goal,’ he says.

Soccer dad’s eyes flick to the running and jumping and hugging melee down near the goal then back to the man beside him on the seat. ‘You know which one is my boy?’

‘Yeah,’ says Lego man. His head rotates, owl like, in his upturned collar. His mouth’s grim line tweaks to a grin line. ‘Research.’

Soccer dad regards him closely. ‘You’ve learnt a lot from him, haven’t you?’

‘The Boss? Yeah.’ There is an odd softness in the last syllable. And for a moment he ceases to look like something that would anchor the bowlines of a battleship. Then, abruptly, he stands and the moment is gone. He pats soccer dad heavily on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, you’re not Whitey Poynter.’ Thin grin. ‘I’ll be watchin’ the news,’ he says as he walks away.

Soccer dad watches the game to its end, distracted from time to time by small inspirations related to his plans for the demise of the blond man. His son’s team wins. After the game, to celebrate, he takes his son to a McDonalds. Just like in the ads on telly.

A little over two years from now his son, this same boy, hero of the day, will die. An accident – a real one. No human intention or intervention, just stupid fate or the flap of a butterfly’s wing somewhere on the planet. With this event the man described will gain an appreciation of death that had formerly, somehow, eluded him. He will break his pencil in small pieces and never strike out another name. He will let James Bond have backstage as well as front and centre. He will live to a very old age. And not a day of his life will pass that is not tinged with regret and abraded by a question that clots like sand in the perpetually damp Speedos of his immortal soul.