Black Skies

15

The day after his return from the countryside he woke up on the living-room sofa. Someone had moved him there from the kitchen table where he had fallen asleep. It took him a long time to become fully awake and he briefly thought he was still on the farm, with the morning chores waiting to be attended to. Then he remembered the journey and the wait at the bus station and the stranger who had come to collect him.

He sat up on the sofa, unsure how long he had slept. It was a sunny morning outside and in the light that streamed into the flat he noticed some items of furniture that were familiar, others not, and some that were completely alien, like the television set that he had not noticed the night before, which sat on a table, with a curved screen, black plastic sides and a strange row of buttons. Getting up, he crossed the room to the television, seeing himself reflected oddly in the screen, head elongated, body grotesquely distorted, and smiled at the caricature. He ran a hand over the glass, fiddled with the buttons, and suddenly something happened; there was a low hissing sound and an incomprehensible symbol appeared, accompanied by a terrible piercing wail that he thought would drive him mad. He reeled back from the machine, looking round helplessly, then began to jab frantically at the buttons in an attempt to stop the noise. Suddenly the strange picture shrank into a small dot, before disappearing altogether, and the sound abated. He breathed a sigh of relief.

‘What on earth’s that racket?’

His mother came out of the bedroom.

‘I think I must have turned on the machine,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘Is that you, love?’ his mother said. ‘Sorry — I meant to come and meet you yesterday evening but I couldn’t make it; I’ve been a bit under the weather lately. Have you seen my fags anywhere?’

He looked around and shook his head.

‘What have I done with the pack?’ she asked with a sigh, scanning the room. ‘Röggi met you, did he?’

He did not know how to answer this because the man who collected him had not told him his name. She found a packet of cigarettes and some matches, lit one and inhaled, exhaled, took another drag, then blew out smoke through her nose.

‘What do you think of him, love?’ she asked.

‘Who?’

‘Röggi, of course. Bit slow on the uptake, aren’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘All right, I suppose.’

‘Röggi’s OK,’ she said, sucking in smoke. ‘He’s a bit of a dark horse but I like him. Better than that sodding father of yours, I can tell you. Better than that bastard. Have you eaten, love? What did you used to have for breakfast on the farm?’

‘Porridge,’ he said.

‘Horrible muck, isn’t it?’ his mother said. ‘Wouldn’t you rather have some of that breakfast cereal? It’s what everyone eats in America. I bought a packet specially for you. Chocolate flavour.’

‘Maybe,’ he said, so as not to seem ungrateful. He liked starting the day with porridge and had always had it for breakfast, except when there was thick rhubarb stew, which he enjoyed with sugar.

He followed his mother into the kitchen where she took down two bowls and a brown packet. From this she shook out a shower of small brown balls. Then, fetching milk from the fridge, she poured it into the bowls and handed one to him. She chucked her cigarette in the sink without stubbing it out and began to munch on the cereal. Spooning up some of the balls, he put them in his mouth. They were hard and shattered between his teeth.

‘Good, isn’t it?’ said his mother.

‘All right,’ he said.

‘Better than porridge,’ his mother added.

The milk turned brown and tasted nice when he drank it out of the bowl. He studied his mother covertly. She had changed since he last saw her, had grown fatter and somehow puffier about the face. One of the front teeth was missing from her lower jaw.

‘Good to be home?’ she asked.

He thought.

‘Sure,’ he said at last, not managing to sound very convincing.

‘Eh? Aren’t you pleased to see your mum? That’s nice, after all the trouble I’ve taken to get you home. You should be grateful. You should thank your mum for everything she’s done for you.’

She lit a new cigarette and eyed him.

‘That’s nice,’ she said again, inhaling until the tip of the cigarette glowed.

When he needed to rest he would lie down on the floor of the basement flat in Grettisgata and doze for an hour or two at a time. He had not been home for days and could not afford a proper sleep, not while he needed to keep an eye on the old man, to make sure he did not escape. On no account must he get away.

So far he had failed to find the Eumig camera or any of the films, despite overturning tables, pulling out drawers and throwing the contents on the floor, breaking open cupboards and sweeping the bookshelves clear. Finally, after some hesitation, he had opened the door to the bedroom. Like the rest of the flat it was a pigsty: the bed unmade; the sheet missing, revealing a filthy mattress; no cover on the duvet. There was an old chest in one corner containing four drawers, the chair beside the bed was covered with a pile of clothing, and a large wardrobe stood against one wall. The floor was covered in brown vinyl. He tackled the wardrobe first, chucking out shirts and trousers, tearing out every garment and hacking into the lining of some with the knife he always carried. The rage boiled inside him. Climbing into the wardrobe he struck the back and sides until one of the panels broke. After that he dragged the drawers out of the old chest and flung them down, along with underwear, socks and some papers he could not be bothered to examine. He broke the bottom out of one of the drawers by stamping on it. Finally he overturned the chest and smashed it open at the back. Then he cut the mattress to shreds and scattered it all over the floor. Underneath was the bed frame which he propped up on its side, but found no trace of the camera or films there either.

Returning to the living room, he sat down beside the bound man. The only illumination in the basement was the beam from the Bell amp; Howell projector, still shining onto one wall. Its lamp was as good as new and he had not turned it off since he had found it. Now he adjusted the projector until the beam fell on the man slumped in his bonds on the chair, his face covered.

‘Where do you keep the filth?’ he asked, still breathless from his exertions.

The man raised his head, screwing up his eyes against the light.

‘Let me go,’ he heard him groan from behind the mask.

‘Where’s the camera?’

‘Let me go.’

‘Where are the films you made with it?’

‘Let me go, Andy, so we can talk.’

‘No.’

‘Untie me.’

‘Shut up!’

The man was racked by a rattling cough.

‘Untie me and I’ll tell you everything.’

‘Shut up.’

He stood up and looked around for the hammer, unable to remember where he had put it. He had destroyed the flat in his search for the camera. As he surveyed the ruins, he saw tables and chairs littered about like matchwood, and suddenly he remembered that the last time he had used it was in the kitchen. He crossed the room, stepping over the rubbish he had strewn around the flat, and glimpsed the handle. It had fallen on the floor. He carried it back into the living room and took up position in front of the old man. Grasping the man’s chin firmly, he forced his head back until the spike was poking up vertically.

‘Tell me!’ he snarled, raising the hammer aloft.

He let the hammer fall but just before it struck the spike he checked the momentum so that it merely tapped the end.

‘Tell me!’

‘Shut up, you bastard!’

‘Next time I’ll go all the way,’ he whispered.

He raised the hammer and was on the point of striking when the man began to shout.

‘Don’t, don’t, wait … don’t do it, no more, let me go … let me go …’

‘Let you go?’ he echoed.

‘Let me … go … untie me …’ The man’s words had dropped to a whisper. ‘Stop … that’s enough …’

‘Enough? You’ve had enough? Isn’t that what I used to cry at you? Remember? Remember? When I begged you to stop. Remember, you piece of shit?!’

The hammer had drooped in his hand but now he raised it high and brought it down with all his strength. It passed within a few millimetres of the man’s head.

He bent down to him.

‘Tell me where you hide the shit or the spike is going in your head!’