3
MICKY MIRANDA AND PAPA were in a small eating house in Soho, lunching off oyster stew—the cheapest dish on the menu—and strong beer. The restaurant was a few minutes from the Cordovan Ministry in Portland Place, where Micky now sat at a writing table every morning for an hour or two, dealing with the minister’s mail. He was finished for the day and had met Papa for lunch. They sat opposite each other on hard wooden high-backed benches. There was sawdust on the floor and years of grease on the low ceiling. Micky hated eating in such places, but all the same he did it often, to save money. He ate at the Cowes Club only when Edward was paying. Besides, taking Papa to the club was a strain: Micky was constantly afraid the old man would start a fight, or pull a gun, or spit on the rug.
Papa wiped his bowl with a chunk of bread and pushed it aside. “I must explain something to you,” he said.
Micky put down his spoon.
Papa said: “I need rifles to fight the Delabarca family. When I have destroyed them I will take over their nitrate mines. The mines will make our family rich.”
Micky nodded silently. He had heard all this before but he would not dare to say so.
“The nitrate mines are only the beginning, the first step,” Papa went on. “When we have more money, we will buy more rifles. Different family members will become important people in the province.”
Micky’s ears pricked up. This was a new line.
“Your cousin Jorge will be a colonel in the army. Your brother Paulo will become chief of police in Santamaria Province.”
So that he can be a professional bully instead of an amateur, Micky thought.
Papa said: “Then I will become governor of the province.”
Governor! Micky had not realized that Papa’s aspirations were so high.
But he had not finished. “When we control the province, we will look to the nation. We will become fervent supporters of President Garcia. You will be his envoy in London. Your brother will become his minister of justice, perhaps. Your uncles will be generals. Your half-brother Dominic, the priest, will become archbishop of Palma.”
Micky was astonished: he never knew he had a half-brother. But he said nothing, for he did not want to interrupt.
“And then,” Papa said, “when the time is right, we will move the Garcia family aside and we will step in.”
“You mean we will take over the government?” Micky said, wide-eyed. He was bowled over by Papa’s audacity and confidence.
“Yes. In twenty years time, my son, either I will be president of Cordova … or you will.”
Micky tried to take it in. Cordova had a constitution which provided for democratic elections, but none had ever been held. President Garcia had taken power in a coup ten years ago; previously he had been commander-in-chief of the armed forces under President Lopez, who had led the rebellion against the Spanish rule in which Papa and his cowboys had fought.
Papa surprised Micky by the subtlety of his strategy: to become a fervent supporter of the current ruler and then betray him. But what was Micky’s role? He should become the Cordovan Minister in London. He had already taken the first step by elbowing Tonio Silva aside and getting his job. He would have to find a way to do the same to the minister.
And then what? If his father were president, Micky might be foreign minister, and travel the world as the representative of his country. But Papa had said Micky himself might be president—not Paulo, not Uncle Rico, but Micky Was it really possible?
Why not? Micky was clever, ruthless and well connected: what more did he need? The prospect of ruling a whole country was intoxicating. Everyone would bow to him; the most beautiful women in the land would be his to take, whether they wished it or not; he would be as rich as the Pilasters.
“President,” he said dreamily. “I like it.”
Papa reached out casually and slapped his face.
The old man had a powerful arm and a horny hand, and the slap rocked Micky. He cried out, shocked and hurt, and leaped to his feet. He tasted blood in his mouth. The place went quiet and everyone looked.
“Sit down,” Papa said.
Slowly and reluctantly, Micky obeyed.
Papa reached across the table with both hands and grabbed him by the lapels. In a voice full of scorn he said: “This entire plan has been put at risk because you have completely failed in the simple, small task allotted to you!”
Micky was terrified of him in this mood. “Papa, you’ll get your rifles!” he said.
“In one more month it will be spring in Cordova. We have to take the Delabarca mines this season—next year will be too late. I have booked passage on a freighter bound for Panama. The captain has been bribed to put me and the weapons ashore on the Atlantic coast of Santamaria.” Papa stood up, dragging Micky upright, tearing his shirt by the force of his grip. His face was suffused with anger. “The ship sails in five days time,” he said in a voice that filled Micky with fear. “Now get out of here and buy me those guns!”
Augusta Pilaster’s servile butler, Hastead, took Micky’s wet coat and hung it near the fire that blazed in the hall. Micky did not thank him. They disliked each other. Hastead was jealous of anyone Augusta favored, and Micky despised the man for fawning. Besides, Micky never knew which way Hastead’s eyes were looking, and that unnerved him.
Micky went into the drawing room and found Augusta alone. She looked pleased to see him. She held his hand in both of hers and said: “You’re so cold.”
“I walked across the park.”
“Foolish boy, you should have taken a hansom.” Micky could not afford hansom cabs, but Augusta did not know that. She pressed his hand to her bosom and smiled. It was like a sexual invitation, but she acted as if she were innocently warming his cold fingers.
She did this kind of thing a lot when they were alone together, and normally Micky enjoyed it. She would hold his hand and touch his thigh, and he would touch her arm or her shoulder, and look into her eyes, and they would talk in low voices, like lovers, without ever acknowledging that they were flirting. He found it exciting, and so did she. But today he was too desperately worried to dally with her. “How is old Seth?” he asked, hoping to hear of a sudden relapse.
She sensed his mood and let go of his hand without protest, although she looked disappointed. “Come close to the fire,” she said. She sat on a sofa and patted the seat beside her. “Seth is much better.”
Micky’s heart sank.
She went on: “He may be with us for years yet.” She could not keep the irritation out of her voice. She was impatient for her husband to take over. “You know he is living here now. You shall visit him when you have had some tea.”
“He must retire soon, surely?” said Micky.
“There is no sign of it, regrettably. Just this morning he forbade another issue of Russian railway stock.” She patted his knee. “Be patient. Your papa shall have his rifles eventually.”
“He can’t wait much longer,” Micky said worriedly. “He has to leave next week.”
“So that’s why you’re looking so tense,” she said. “Poor boy. I wish I could do something to help.
“You don’t know my father,” Micky said, and he could not keep the note of despair out of his voice. “He pretends to be civilized when he sees you, but in reality he’s a barbarian. God knows what he’ll do to me if I let him down.”
There were voices in the hall. “There’s something I must tell you before the others come in,” Augusta said hastily. “I finally met Mr. David Middleton.”
Micky nodded. “What did he say?”
“He was polite, but frank. Said he did not believe that the entire truth about his brother’s death had been told, and asked if I could put him in touch with either Hugh Pilaster or Antonio Silva. I told him they were both abroad, and he was wasting his time.”
“I wish we could solve the problem of old Seth as neatly as we solved that one,” Micky said as the door opened.
Edward came in, then his sister Clementine. Clementine looked like Augusta but did not have the same force of personality, and she had none of her mother’s sexual allure. Augusta poured tea. Micky talked to Edward in a desultory way about their plans for the evening. There were no parties or balls in September: the aristocracy stayed away from London until after Christmas, and only the politicians and their wives were in town. But there was no shortage of middle-class entertainment, and Edward had tickets for a play. Micky pretended to be looking forward to it, but his mind was on Papa.
Hastead brought in hot buttered muffins. Edward ate several but Micky had no appetite. More family members arrived: Joseph’s brother Young William; Joseph’s ugly sister Madeleine; and Madeleine’s husband Major Hartshorn, with the scar on his forehead. They all talked of the financial crisis, but Micky could tell they were not afraid: old Seth had seen it coming and had made sure that Pilasters Bank was not exposed. High-risk securities had lost value—Egyptian, Peruvian and Turkish bonds had crashed—but English government securities and English railway shares had suffered only modest falls.
One by one they all went up to visit Seth; one by one they came down and said how marvelous he was. Micky waited until last. He finally went up at half-past five.
Seth was in what used to be Hugh’s room. A nurse sat outside with the door ajar in case he should call her. Micky went in and closed the door.
Seth was sitting up in bed reading The Economist Micky said: “Good afternoon, Mr. Pilaster. How are you feeling?”
The old man put his journal aside with obvious reluctance. “I’m feeling well, I thank you. How is your father?”
“Impatient to be home.” Micky stared at the frail old man on the white sheets. The skin of his face was translucent, and the curved knife of the Pilaster nose seemed sharper than ever, but there was lively intelligence in the eyes. He looked as if he could live and run the bank for another decade.
Micky seemed to hear his father’s voice in his ear, saying Who is standing in our way?
The old man was weak and helpless, and there was only Micky in the room and the nurse outside.
Micky realized he had to kill Seth.
His father’s voice said Do it now.
He could suffocate the old man with a pillow and leave no evidence. Everyone would think he had died a natural death.
Micky’s heart filled with loathing and he felt ill.
“What’s the matter?” Seth said. “You look sicker than I.”
“Are you quite comfortable, sir?” Micky said. “Let me adjust your pillows.”
“Please don’t trouble, they’re all right,” said Seth, but Micky reached behind him and pulled out a big feather pillow.
Micky looked at the old man and hesitated.
Fear flashed in Seth’s eyes and he opened his mouth to call out.
Before he could make a sound Micky smothered his face with the pillow and pushed his head back down.
Unfortunately, Seth’s arms were outside the bedclothes, and now his hands grasped Micky’s forearms with surprising strength. Micky stared in horror at the aged talons clamped to his coat sleeves, but he held on with all his might. Seth clawed desperately at Micky’s arms but the younger man was stronger.
When that failed Seth began to kick his legs and squirm. He could not escape from Micky’s grasp, but Hugh’s old bed squeaked, and Micky was terrified that the nurse might hear and come in to investigate. The only way he could think of to keep the old man still was to lie on top of him. Still holding the pillow over Seth’s face, Micky got on the bed and lay on the writhing body. It was grotesquely reminiscent of sex with an unwilling woman, Micky thought crazily, and he suppressed the hysterical laughter that bubbled to his lips. Seth continued to struggle but his movements were restrained by Micky’s weight and the bed ceased to squeak. Micky held on grimly.
At last all movement ceased. Micky remained in place as long as he dared, to make sure; then he cautiously removed the pillow and stared at the white, still face. The eyes were closed but the features were still. The old man looked dead. Micky had to check for a heartbeat. Slowly and fearfully, he lowered his head to Seth’s chest.
Suddenly the old man’s eyes opened wide and he took a huge, dragging breath.
Micky almost cried aloud with horror. A moment later he regained his wits and shoved the pillow over Seth’s face again. He felt himself shaking weakly with fear and disgust as he held it down; but there was no more resistance.
He knew he should keep it there for several minutes, to be sure the old man really was dead this time; but he was worried about the nurse. She might notice the silence. He had to speak, for a pretense of normality. But he could not think what to say to a dead man. Say anything, he told himself, it doesn’t matter so long as she hears the murmur of conversation. “I’m pretty well,” he mumbled desperately. “Pretty well, pretty well. And how are you? Well, well. I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better. Splendid, Mr. Pilaster. I’m very glad to see you looking so well, so splendid, so much better, oh dear God I can’t keep this up, very well, splendid, splendid …”
He could stand it no longer. He took his weight off the pillow. Grimacing with distaste, he put his hand on Seth’s chest where he imagined the heart would be. There were sparse white hairs on the old man’s pale skin. The body was warm beneath the nightshirt, but there was no heartbeat. Are you really dead this time? he thought. And then he seemed to hear Papa’s voice, angry and impatient, saying Yes, you fool, he’s dead, now get out of there! Leaving the pillow over the face, he rolled off the corpse and stood up.
A wave of nausea engulfed him. He felt weak and faint, and he grabbed the bedpost to steady himself. I killed him, he thought. I killed him.
There was a voice on the landing.
Micky looked at the body on the bed. The pillow was still over Seth’s face. He snatched it up. Seth’s dead eyes were open and staring.
The door opened.
Augusta walked in.
She stood in the doorway, looking at the rumpled bed, the still face of Seth with its staring eyes, and the pillow in Micky’s hands. The blood drained from her cheeks.
Micky stared at her, silent and helpless, waiting for her to speak.
She stood there, looking from Seth to Micky and back again, for a long moment.
Then, slowly and quietly, she closed the door.
She took the pillow from Micky. She lifted Seth’s lifeless head and replaced the pillow, then she straightened the sheets. She picked up The Economist from the floor, placed it on his chest, and folded his hands over it, so that he looked as if he had fallen asleep reading it.
Then she closed his eyes.
She came to Micky. “You’re shaking,” she said. She took his face in her hands and kissed his mouth.
For a moment he was too stunned to react. Then he went from terror to desire in a flash. He put his arms around her and embraced her, feeling her bosom against his chest. She opened her mouth and their tongues met. Micky grasped her breasts in both hands and squeezed them hard. She gasped. His erection came immediately. Augusta began to grind her pelvis against his, rubbing herself on his stiff penis. They were both breathing hard. Augusta took his hand, put it in her mouth, and bit down, to stop herself crying out. Her eyes closed tight, and she shuddered. He realized she was having an orgasm and he was so inflamed that he, too, reached a climax.
It had taken only a few moments. Afterwards they clung together, panting, for a little longer. Micky was too bewildered to think.
When Augusta had caught her breath she broke the embrace. “I’m going to my room,” she said quietly. “You should leave the house immediately.”
“Augusta—”
“Call me Mrs. Pilaster!”
“All right—”
“This never happened,” she said in a fierce whisper. “Do you understand me? None of it ever happened!”
“All right,” he said again.
She smoothed the front of her dress and patted her hair. He watched helplessly, immobilized by the force of her will. She turned and went to the door. Automatically, he opened it for her. He followed her out.
The nurse looked an inquiry at them. Augusta put her finger to her lips in a hushing gesture. “He’s just dropped off to sleep,” she said quietly.
Micky was amazed and appalled by her coolness.
“Best thing for him,” said the nurse. “I’ll leave him in peace for an hour or so.”
Augusta nodded agreement. “I should, if I were you. Believe me, he’s quite comfortable now.”