Strange Images of Death

Chapter Three

Joe entered the building with eyes still dazzled by his prolonged scanning of the midday sky and it was a second or two before he was aware of the figure coming towards him down the corridor. Dressed in black and moving on silent feet, the stranger made straight for him. Once within striking distance, the man grunted an exclamation and raised his hand, the chopping edge lined up on the centre of Joe’s face.

Joe’s reaction was swift and instinctive. He seized the outstretched arm by the wrist and tugged the man forward, jerking him on to his swiftly extended right foot. The unknown crashed to the stone-flagged floor, falling to his knees with a scream of pain. A second scream rang out as Joe yanked his arm up behind his back.

‘What the hell? For Chrissakes, lemme go!’ protested an American voice.

From the end of the corridor Orlando’s voice rang out, reinforcing the suggestion: ‘Joe! Let him up! Are you mad? What’s going on?’

‘Who’s your friend?’ Joe asked when Orlando joined them.

‘That’s Nathan! Nathan Jacoby. He’s staying with us. He was only coming to say hello.’

‘He has a strange way of introducing himself!’ Joe grunted, his anger blocking any embarrassment or regret. He hauled the spluttering American to his feet and addressed him in a tone of false bonhomie: ‘Look, mate, let me explain: if you come at a London copper down a dark corridor dressed like a lascar thug and stick a fist in his face, you must expect to be lifted out of your socks. In polite circles we put out a hand at waist level. Like this.’ Joe demonstrated. ‘How do you do, Mr Jacoby … I’m Joseph Sandilands … And I’m pleased to meet you,’ he added, remembering the American greeting.

‘Well, I can’t say I’ve been overjoyed to meet you- so far! But thanks for the advice. I’ll be sure to hail a British bobby from a safe distance in future … Like the width of the Atlantic. Shall we start over?’

Orlando gave a nervous burst of laughter. ‘Nat, you twerp! You were doing that gesture again, I’ll bet! That affected business with your hands. You’ll have to forgive him, Joe-he gets carried away. Nat’s one of those photographer chappies. He’s incapable of looking at any new face or vista without framing it.’ Orlando put up his hands, made a box shape and pretended to peer through it. ‘Like this.’

‘No, no, Orlando!’ the American said in exasperation. ‘You’re just not seeing what I’m seeing. You haven’t noticed it, have you? Perhaps you’re too accustomed to the sight of this man’s face?’

‘Ugly brute to meet for the first time in a dark corridor, I agree,’ said Orlando peering uncertainly at Joe. ‘And perhaps I should have said something.’ The American sighed. ‘Permit me, Sandilands?’ He carefully put up the edge of his hand again, centring on Joe’s nose, and turned it like a flap from side to side. ‘I caught sight of you lit up in the doorway. See that, Orlando? This side you’ve got light, this other darkness. We’ve got ourselves a Janus … a Lucifer in mid-fall … an Oxymoron of War … I’m assuming it is war we have to thank for this fascinating rearrangement of your physiognomy?’

‘Oh, come on, Nat! He’s just a bloke, you know,’ Orlando protested. ‘A bit battered but then so are thousands like him … nothing out of the ordinary for an Englishman of his age. You’ll pass a dozen in worse condition between the Ritz and Boodle’s.’

The photographer raved on: ‘If I put a high wattage bulb over him, up here-’ an elegant hand indicated a spot to the right and above Joe’s head-‘you can imagine the drama! No-a daguerrotype! Old-fashioned perhaps and a pain in the neck to perform but this face is worth the bother. Nothing like them for portraits, you know.’

‘Do leave it for later, Nat!’ Orlando pleaded and turned to Joe. ‘He sees everything in black and white, don’t you know. Only to be expected when he spends the hours of daylight squinting through a viewfinder and the hours of darkness closeted away in some garde-robe developing the stuff. I reckon all those chemicals he uses are softening his brain.’ He grinned at the American, who grinned back cheerfully.

A face much more fascinating than his own, Joe decided now his eyes had readjusted. The smooth tanned oval was framed by an explosion of dark hair which curled in corkscrews, unrestrained by scissors, brilliantine or even a comb, Joe guessed. Startling enough and some preparation for the majesty of the nose which would not have disgraced an eagle owl or a Pathan warrior. But the first intimidating effect was countered by the warmth of the eyes. They disarmed. Deep-set and dark, they shone with humour and were fringed by lashes of an extravagance any cover girl would have envied.

What had Joe called him? ‘A lascar thug’. He regretted the jibe. It was a common enough insult back home in the London docklands where these tough Eastern seamen had acquired a certain reputation for lawlessness and skill with the knife, but this man, by all appearances, could indeed have his origins in the Middle-or even farther-East.

‘I say-do forgive me for implying …’

‘I didn’t take it personally. I’m not from Alaska,’ came the easy response.

He waited for Joe’s jaw to drop and added: ‘But if your reference was to Al Askar and the ruffians who go by that name-well, I guess that’s kind of flattering. It means “a soldier”, they tell me. In Persian. Can’t say I’ve ever been called a soldier before-in any language.’

So why, Joe wondered, was this intelligent and professional man parading about in his present costume? He glanced with some distaste at the baggy black cotton trousers, the chest-hugging, collarless shirt-also in black-and the black rope-soled espadrilles. All bought in the local market, Joe supposed, and more suited to one of the fishermen who lounged along the sea front at Collioure. Well, Orlando and his smart artist friends set a standard of flamboyant eccentricity a humble photographer might find hard to emulate. Tricking himself out as a devil-may-care cut-throat must be his way of keeping his end up. It was all a house-party game. Tedious stuff! Joe wondered briefly what gambit a humble policeman might use for the same purpose and resolved to annoy them all by simply changing his white shirt for an even crisper white shirt and polishing his already shiny shoes.

He smiled and, perfectly ready to offer himself to the assembled company as a source of derision or even a comic turn should that be what tickled their fancy, he straightened his Charvet cravat, smoothed down the pocket flaps of his linen jacket and moved off down the corridor. Joe Sandilands was used to singing for his supper.