South by South East

CHARON

“Now, this won’t hurt…”

Why do doctors always say that before they hurt you?

Dr Monika Bloem wasn’t even a doctor. She was a vet. We’d found her farmhouse just outside the Flavoland as we’d walked back towards the city. I wasn’t too happy about being treated by someone who was more comfortable with dogs and rabbits, but I didn’t have much choice. I’d left about half a litre of my blood in a dotted line along the road and although it may have looked pretty, I didn’t have enough to continue it all the way to Amsterdam.

Dr Bloem (it rhymed with “room”) was a short, serious woman in a white coat. She had a neat clinic lined with cages of various sizes, and it was easy to see that she was married to her work. Her best man had probably been a goat.

There were pictures of animals everywhere — even in the frames on her desk. She had only agreed reluctantly to treat a human being. And she had fed me two lumps of sugar first.

Sure enough there was a moment of excruciating pain as she probed my wound with a pair of tweezers but then she was backing away with a red, glistening bullet firmly trapped between the prongs.

“You are feeling all right?” she asked. Her English was accented, not as good as her surgical skills.

“Well, I’m still a bit faint…” Tim began.

She glared at him. “I mean your brother.”

I flexed my arm. “I’m OK, Dr Bloem,” I said.

“You are lucky, I think.” The doctor dropped the bullet into a kidney tray. It hit the bottom with a dull clang. “A centimetre to the left and it would have hit an artery.”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed. “And it could have been worse. A centimetre to the right and it would have hit me!”

Dr Bloem unwrapped a packet of bandages. “You know, I think you are not telling me the truth,” she said as she did it. “How did the bullet get into the arm?”

“Well…” I began. This was tricky. We hadn’t had time to make up a sensible explanation and our story — like my arm — was full of holes.

“Your brother said you were hurt in a car accident,” Dr Bloem went on.

“It’s true!” Tim explained. “It was the driver of the car.”

“Yes,” I added. “He accidentally shot me.”

Dr Bloem didn’t believe us but she wrapped the bandage round my arm and tied a knot. “It is finished,” she said. “You should be OK now.”

“Thanks, Doc.” I tried the arm again. It was throbbing but most of the pain had gone.

“So how will the two of you get back to town?” Dr Bloem asked. “I would take you but I have another patient. He’s a little horse.”

“Has he tried gargling?” Tim said.

Dr Bloem ignored him. “You can walk — but it’s a long way. So maybe you should ask for a ride. There’s a big house just one kilometre up the road. Near a windmill.”

“What’s it called?” I asked.

Dr Bloem smiled at me. “It’s called the Villa de Winter,” she said. “The Winter House.”

I’d never seen a house quite like the Winter House. It was built out of red and white bricks but not with any pattern. The colours seemed to zigzag across the walls, colliding with each other, then bouncing away again. The whole building could have been put together by a thief. The towers had been stolen from a castle, the windows from a church, the grey slate roof from a railway station.

The house was set back from the road. Tim and I had climbed over a fence to get in and we were squatting some distance from the building itself, spying on it through a bush.

“Do you think this is where Charon lives?” Tim asked.

I nodded. “This is where McGuffin came before he was killed.”

“Right.” Tim gazed at the house. “If only we could see through the wall.”

“We can!” I said.

“How?”

“The window…”

We broke cover and sprinted across the lawn to the side of the house. Our shadows reached it first. There was nobody in sight, but now I could hear the sound of a piano drifting out of one of the windows. I recognized the music — but only just. It was Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata”, but played very badly. It occurred to me that the pianist might be missing a finger.

“Listen!” I nudged Tim.

“Is it a record?” Tim asked.

“Yes. Nobody’s ever played it that badly.”

Tim’s mouth dropped open. “Charon!”

“It figures. He killed McGuffin. And now he’s murdering Beethoven.”

We had both been crouching down but now I straightened up and tried to lever myself onto the window sill above me. Tim was horrified. “What are you doing?”

“It could be our only chance to see what Charon looks like,” I said.

And it could have been. But just as my fingers grabbed hold of the woodwork I heard a car. It was coming up the drive, heading for the main entrance. I dropped down again and squatted next to Tim. At the same time the piano playing stopped and I heard a door close. There were two dustbins just beside us. I edged closer to them, using them to hide behind.

The car had stopped. Two men got out. I recognized them, although I had only seen them once before. They had faces you were unlikely to forget. Scarface and Ugly — the two men from the skating-rink. The gravel crunched under their feet as they walked towards the door. The noise made me think of the skates in Rushmore’s back, and I swallowed hard.

Tim was staring after them. I tugged at his sleeve. “Let’s go in,” I whispered.

He opened his mouth to argue but I didn’t give him time. There was a door just on the other side of the window and, for once, luck was on our side — it was open. Making sure that Tim was still following me, I went in, up a short flight of steps and into a corridor paved with black and white tiles — like in one of those old Dutch paintings. The corridor must have led into a hall. I could hear voices in the distance, the two guests being welcomed. There was another door on our left. It opened into a large room with a desk, four or five antique chairs and a grand piano. It had to be Charon’s room. I slid across the polished floor and found my feet on a Chinese rug.

“What are we doing?” Tim hissed.

What were we doing? Already I could hear the rap of footsteps making their way back along the corridor. Charon was about to come in with his two friends. If they found us there, I doubted they’d invite us to stay for tea…

“Quick!” There was an alcove to one side, half-covered by a heavy, ornamental curtain. We ran behind it and pulled it the whole way across. A second later, Charon and the two new arrivals walked in.

I heard them close the door and come into the room. Someone was talking in rapid Dutch. I couldn’t understand a word of it, nor did I recognize the voice. A second person spoke. I didn’t recognize his voice either. But this time I did understand one word of it. The name Waverly. Why were they talking about the head of MI6? Rushmore had told us that there was some sort of secret connection between them. Was that what they were discussing now?

It was infuriating. I was stuck behind the curtain with Tim. I couldn’t understand a word that was being spoken. And I couldn’t see anything either. Why had we even bothered to come in? I glanced at Tim. There was a tiny chink of light on one side of his cheek. I followed it back to the curtain. The curtain was torn! I hadn’t noticed it before but there was a small hole, right in the middle. I leaned forward and put my eye against it, trying not to move the material. I could feel my heart pounding against my chest. At last I was going to see Charon!

But it wasn’t to be. Charon had chosen the antique chair that had its back to the curtain. Looking through the hole I could see Scarface, smoking a cigarette in the chair opposite him, and Ugly, standing to one side. But Charon was concealed.

And then he spoke. It was a single word and I didn’t understand it, but at least I had heard his voice. It was a chesty sort of voice, not deep. Had I heard it somewhere before?

His hand stretched out and I saw the four fingers open in a palm-up gesture. At the same time, Ugly hurried forward with a small white hammer. It was another antique, probably made of ivory. What were they doing with it? Ugly jabbered away for about one minute and I got the sense that they were wrapping things up. If only Charon would stand up… every nerve in my body was screaming at him to get out of the chair.

It was Scarface who got to his feet. He walked across towards the curtain and I was forced to retreat from the eyehole, away into the shadow. There were more mutterings behind him. The door opened and I knew even without looking that Charon was on his way out. Sure enough, when the door closed, the room was silent. I had been that close to unravelling the biggest mystery of all. But not quite close enough.

“Have they gone?” Tim whispered.

“They’ve gone…” I pushed back the curtain and went out into the room. Charon might have left but his desk was still there. I just hoped he didn’t lock his drawer.

“Did you see his face?” Tim asked.

“No. But I heard a bit of what they said. They were talking about Mr Waverly.”

I pulled open the top drawer. I’m not sure what I was looking for. Would Charon have a driving licence, a photograph of himself, a credit card?

Surely there would be something to tell me who he was? But the drawer was empty apart from three paperclips, a comb, a small mirror covered in some sort of powder and a half-smoked packet of cigarettes.

It told me nothing. I wasn’t thinking. It should have told me who Charon was.

I tried the second drawer. And that was where I found it. It was an ordinary cheque, made out for the sum of four hundred thousand guilders. Payable to “Charon Enterprises”. And signed by…

I showed it to Tim. “Four hundred thousand guilders!” he exclaimed. “That’s…” But as usual his mathematics wouldn’t stretch that far.

“It’s about?120,000,” I said. “But look at the signature.”

Tim read it. His eyes bulged. “Mr Waverly!”

“That’s right,” I said. “Mr Waverly is the one who’s paying Charon to kill Kusenov.”

“But why?” Tim demanded. “He was the one who wanted to stop Charon.”

“I know.” I pocketed the cheque. None of it made any sense — but at least I had some sort of evidence against Waverly. “Come on.” I moved towards the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Let’s take the window,” Tim said, moving the other way.

“And keep it quiet. OK?”

He opened the window. Alarm bells exploded throughout the house.

It was too late to argue now. We dived head first through the window together, hit the grass in a somersault and staggered to our feet. A door crashed open behind us and I glimpsed Scarface hurtling towards us. But I was already halfway across the lawn, running with all my strength towards the undergrowth that might offer somewhere to hide. There was a bang and something whizzed past my head. My arm was suddenly hurting again. Hadn’t I been shot at enough for one day?

We jumped over the first shrubs and sprinted on through the rough woodland at the edge of the house. Ugly had joined Scarface. I heard him shout something in Dutch. There was a second shot. Tim screamed. I wheeled round.

“Are you hit?” I demanded.

“No. I stepped on a stinging nettle.”

“We’ve got to find the road.”

We found the road about thirty seconds before Scarface and Ugly found us. Even as we climbed over the fence and dropped down on to the tarmac, the wood was torn to splinters by another burst of gunfire. But there were no cars on the road. No buses. Nothing. We still hadn’t got away.

“Where now?” Tim panted.

“There!”

Dr Bloem had said the Winter House was near a windmill and there it was, a few hundred metres away, its huge sails turning slowly in the wind.

It was our only hope. We had nowhere else to hide and I knew that Scarface and Ugly would be over the fence — or perhaps through it — in seconds. With Tim close behind me I crossed the road. There was only one door and it was open.

One way in. One way out. It was only when I was inside that I realized we were trapped. Worse still, Scarface and Ugly had seen us go in. I saw them now, guns in their hands, slowly crossing the road towards us. Scarface was smiling. It made his scar bend in the middle so that it was like the point of an arrow. And the arrow was pointing at me.

“They’re coming after us!” Tim was close to panic. “What are we going to do?”

“Hide!”

Tim went one way. I went another.

The inside of the windmill was like nothing I’d imagined. In fact it seemed bigger inside than out with a mass of slowly turning wooden beams, wheels and great stones all meshing together like the workings of some fantastic clock. Four separate staircases ran up in different directions. One led to a door that opened on to an outer gallery, and this was the one I chose. I felt trapped inside the mill. If anybody was going to shoot me, I’d prefer it to be in the open.

I scrabbled up the staircase — it was more like a ladder — wondering which way Tim would go. But I didn’t have time to worry about him. Even as I reached the top and the sunlight, I saw Scarface grab the bottom of the ladder and start up. Maybe fifteen seconds separated us. I had to find somewhere to hide.

But where? I was on a narrow wooden platform that circled all the way round the windmill about four metres above the ground… too high to jump. There were no other doors. I could run round and round in circles. But there was no other way up and the way back was blocked. A great shadow swept over me as one of the sails sliced down, cutting diagonally across the platform.

The sail…

I knew it was a crazy idea even as I started moving towards it. If you think a windmill’s sails are slow and gentle, think again. Even when the wind is down they move at speed and they’re strong enough to stun an ox. I was just lucky this wasn’t a windy day.

As the next section of the sail swung round I leaped forward and grabbed it. Somehow my hands found the rough wooden framework behind the canvas. My arms were almost pulled out of their sockets. But an instant later, without any effort at all, I had been jerked off my feet and into the air, spinning round with the sail in an enormous, sickening, heart-stopping circle.

I clung on desperately. At the same time I kicked out with my feet and managed to find a grip between the wood and the canvas. I was left pinned to the sail — like a fly on flypaper as it spun me silently round and round, the green grass whirling away, the blue sky streaking in. It was as if the whole world were being stirred in a gigantic pot.

I shut my eyes. I couldn’t watch.

But would Scarface see me? I could imagine him standing on the platform, circling it once, searching for me. Would he look up? I was behind the sail so unless he was standing at the back of the windmill I had to be hidden from him.

The windmill must have turned thirty times. I’d lost count after the fifteenth revolution. Everything I’d eaten in the last two days was threatening to leave my stomach. My arms and legs were groaning, feeling the weight of every turn. The wind dropped again. The sail slowed down. I’d had enough. As the platform veered up at me, I let go and fell in an untidy heap onto the hard wooden surface. If Scarface was still there, if he shot me now, it would only come as a relief.

But Scarface had already gone. I was too giddy to get to my feet but as I lay there, exhausted, I saw the assassins running across the fields below. They must have assumed I’d jumped down and got away. Then the nasty thought struck me.

Had they found Tim?

It was another five minutes before I found the strength and the balance to get up. Even then the ladder down was a nightmare. I could still feel the motion of the sail inside my head and the ladder twisted away from me like a snake. It was ominously silent below. The only sound was the grinding of the massive stone as it turned in endless circles, crushing whatever got in the way into dust.

There was no sign of Tim.

Using my hands to keep myself upright, I staggered round the lower level. There were great sacks of flour to one side and, at the back, a loose heap of the stuff, stretching half-way up the wall. The platform above my head was empty. The door leading out was closed.

“Tim!” I shouted. “Where are you?”

Silence. I was starting to worry.

“Tim! It’s all right! They’ve gone!”

Then something moved. I turned round. The loose flour, piled two metres high against the wall, was shifting. It was like watching a miniature avalanche.

A hand reached out, clawing at the air. The whole pile broke open and I was just able to make out a figure, fighting its way free. Flour was everywhere, billowing out into the air. Somehow Tim had managed to bury himself in it. Now he was free.

He stood there, completely white from head to foot. Maybe Ugly had shot him and this was his ghost.

“Hab day gob?” he asked.

There was flour in his nose and mouth. He sneezed. Flour cascaded out of his hair and a little pink circle appeared around his nose and mouth.

“Have they gone?” he tried again.

“Yeah. Are you all right?”

“I’m all white,” Tim mumbled. At least, that’s what it sounded like.

“Let’s move.”

We stalked out of the windmill, Tim leaving white footprints behind him. The sails were still turning slowly behind us.

In the last twelve hours we’d been machine-gunned through a cornfield and stitched up by a vet. We’d found Charon’s headquarters and we’d come infuriatingly close to seeing Charon. We’d stolen Mr Waverly’s cheque and we’d almost been shot getting away with it.

And now we were dead on our feet. We needed a bath and a long, long sleep. Because you had to admit — both of us had been through the mill.