The Stars’ Tennis Balls

ABUSE IN SWEDISH HOSPITAL OF HELL

It wasn’t the headline, it was the photograph inset halfway down that grabbed Oliver’s attention.

Mallo!

Thank Christ he was out of the service. God bless Simon Cotter. Looked like there was going to be a stink.

Would Mallo talk? If he was being threatened with arrest he might. Idiot prick, the whole point of Mallo was that he followed the regulations. Diplomas on the wall, government inspections, everything nice and legal. What the hell had he done to bring down the wrath of the Swedish government?

Who was there left in the padded cells who might lead a nosy investigation back to the department? Well, there was that mad idealist from Porton Down of course, research chemist – what was his name? – Michaels, Francis Michaels. There was Babe Fraser if he was still alive, which was doubtful. The only time Oliver had seen him, as a junior on the trail of all the money that the son of a bitch had salted away, the great legend had been as potty as a prawn, brains fried to hell. That was when Oliver had found about ‘The Island of Dr Mallo’. No, there was no danger from Babe. Finally of course there was young Ned Maddstone. Oliver remembered him as a mental weakling. He’d have been ECT-ed into gaga-land years since.

The article didn’t say much. Just that the conditions had been ‘medieval’ and that there had been allegations of physical and sexual abuse. Hardly worthy of the front page. If it had all taken place in Britain, Oliver could understand such a report appearing in an English paper, but why bother Londoners with such routine dross? Sexual abuse, he decided. The phrase sold millions of papers up and down the land. The law-abiding liked to read about it at their breakfast tables and on their trains. They tut-tutted in horror while deep inside their deepest, darkest fantasies were touched.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I hope you haven’t been uncomfortable. You’ve been crying I see, do borrow my handkerchief.’

‘Simon?’ Oliver stared. Cotter was removing his sunglasses. He had dyed his hair blond. No, he had undyed his hair. The blond was streaked with grey.

‘Simon?’ said Ned. ‘I know no Simon. Look again.’

Oliver looked again and saw that he was looking into the blue eyes of Ned Maddstone.

‘Not exactly the same fridge,’ he observed at length.

‘No,’ Ned admitted ruefully. ‘But as close as I could get. Thought it might help you feel at home.’

‘Oh it does, it does.’ Oliver was holding himself together very well. ‘You’ve been busy,’ he remarked.

Ned looked around the kitchen. ‘Thank you. I always say good design is all about taking away, not adding. You’ll note that aside from the fridge there is no other furniture or fitments, for reasons you will discover later. The old place hadn’t changed that much, as a matter of fact. Oh, there’s the Aga of course. Same old one. Tch! Agas, eh? Where would we be without them?’

‘No, no. I meant Ashley Barson-Garland and now poor old Gordon Fendeman. I should have made the connection.’

‘People keep saying that to me. You mustn’t blame yourself, it was a long time ago. But we mustn’t say “poor old Gordon Fendeman”, you know. He’s happy now. Gone to a better place.’

‘Quite the avenging angel, aren’t you?’

‘I do my best, Oliver, I do my best. As you will discover.’

‘You escaped then, from the “Swedish Hospital of Hell”?’ Oliver jerked his head towards the newspaper.

‘Ah, I thought that might amuse you. All nonsense as a matter of fact, had the paper specially made up for your entertainment. You’ll be pleased to know that dear Dr Mallo is still there. He’s working for me now. I have some documents in my possession that he would prefer kept private between ourselves. He’s a very reasonable man, as you know. He likes to describe himself as a rationalist. Pompous, but rather touching.’

‘Am I to be lectured at? If that’s your punishment, I might as well tell you here and now that I’m very good at switching off.’

‘My dear old periwinkle, was I lecturing? How very graceless of me. Let me fetch you a glass of milk. No? I’m having one myself. Sure? Okay then. Fresh and creamy this time. Not UHT semi-skimmed. There are limits to authenticity, after all.’

Oliver was thinking rapidly. The plastic bracelets around his wrist were more than he could cope with on his own. The man behind the wheel he had now identified as Sergeant Floyd, the Drug Squad officer he had bribed to keep his mouth shut over Ned’s arrest. He still had no idea who the other two men might be, but he had a nasty idea.

‘Smart of you to escape. I have to confess I didn’t mark you down as that sort.'

Ned sat down at the table opposite Oliver. ‘You met Babe, I think. You were one of the squad that tried to beat it out of him when you found out that all that money was missing.

‘So Mr Memory himself put the jigsaw together for you did he? Thought it was rather beyond your limited capabilities.’

‘His capabilities are now mine.

‘Oh I don’t think so, old crocus. Babe was special.’

‘Well,’ said Ned, not allowing himself to be annoyed. ‘We can agree on that at least. He even remembered your mother, you know? One glance at a file is all he ever had. Date of birth, everything.’

‘Must have been fun for him to have a blank canvas on which to paint,’ said Oliver. ‘Dumb brick of a child, eager to learn. Taught you all those languages. Smattering of philosophy and mathematics. Arranged your escape too, I’ll bet. You couldn’t have managed that on your own. Too weak to make it over the wall himself. Am I to expect him to walk through the door at any minute? “Aha, you pampered Asiatic Jades, I’ve a thirst on me today.” All that? My old boss used to do quite an impression of him.’

‘Babe is dead. Yes, he did arrange the escape. Yes, he did teach me. Yes, I was a dumb brick. You can’t expect me to rise to such obvious bait.’

‘Above that, are you? All passion spent. What are you now? Nemesis? The Hammer of God? The Cold Hand of Fate?’

‘Something like that,’ said Ned. ‘You will have plenty of time to decide what I am. You will be able to ponder too on what you are. Years you will have. There’ll be Martin and Paul and Rolf and dear Dr Mallo to help you come to a decision. The best possible care. No one else, I’m afraid. A small staff, but since there will be only one patient, I’m sure you won’t feel badly served.’

‘For fuck’s sake

‘The journey will be painful. But no more painful than was mine. My driver John, his two friends the Draper brothers and ex-Superintendent Floyd will take you over the water. My driver John – you’ll remember him as Mr Gaine, he’s put on a bit of weight, but you’ll find he’s lost none of his charm – will dislocate your shoulder which will cause quite shattering pain. It will unbalance your walk, which we can’t have, so Rolf will dislocate the other One for you.

‘You’re insane.

‘If I’m insane then so are you. Nothing will happen to you that did not happen to me. You are a grown man. I was a frightened child.’

‘My family! I have a family. You’ve sat with my children.’

‘I had a family, Oliver. The Fendemans had a family. When you had me recite the name of Peter Fendeman into a tape-recorder, did you consider Portia’s family?’

‘But her father is fine! He was released after a week. Special Forces had been a little rough when they arrested him, but he was soon released. He’s alive, isn’t he? He’s happy? And think…’ Oliver was clutching at straws now. ‘Why did he name his daughter Portia? Remember Portia in The Merchant of Venice? “The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed. It blesses him that gives and him that receives."'

‘How perfectly marvellous that you should mention Shakespeare’s Portia. A happy coincidence, I was about to come to the one option left open to you if you really do wish to avoid a lifetime as a guest of Dr Mallo.’

‘Yes? What? What is it?’

‘There are, in case you have forgotten, two Portias in Shakespeare. One, as you rightly pointed out just now, in The Merchant of Venice. But have you forgotten the other Portia. The Portia in Julius Caesar?’

Oliver’s head was dizzy. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘She chooses to take her own life, if you recall, by swallowing hot coals. Always used to fascinate me as a child. How could it be done? Well, the Aga there is old-fashioned. The solid fuel type. There’s no other means of self slaughter in the room, I’m afraid. I’ve checked thoroughly and I know something about how rooms are furnished to prevent suicide. The floor and walls are rubberised, nothing metal, stone or wooden here. You could bash your head against the Aga I suppose, but I doubt it would kill you and it would certainly annul our agreement. It’s up to you. The plastic of your cuffs will melt against the stove very nicely. Agony, I should imagine, but it will work. You simply lift up the lid and help yourself. Basically, Oliver, it’s up to you. Swallow fiery coals like Portia or face the rest of your life in an insane asylum. You have ten minutes to make up your mind.’

‘You are mad.’

‘So you keep saying. I don’t understand how repeating it makes any difference. If it’s untrue then you can hardly expect me to be swayed by insult. If it’s true then I should have thought that it is even more useless to appeal to me. God have mercy on your soul either way, about sums it up. Nine minutes and forty-five seconds.’

The others were in the sitting-room, clustered around Mr Gaine, who was having difficulty with a crossword. Ned helped them finish it.

‘That should be owl. “Tight as an – “ Owl. You’ve put “eft”, John.’

‘Oh, well. Yeah. I reckoned, you know. An eft is a type of newt. Pissed as a newt, pissed as an eft.’

‘Mm,’ marvelling at Gaine’s thought processes, Ned checked that everything was ready.

‘Van warmed up? Good. The boat is ready. Everyone knows what they have to do.’

‘Everything ready, sir,’ said Floyd, smartly. ‘When We arrive at Levington it should be dark enough to – The screams were like nothing anyone in the room had ever heard before. Mr Gaine and the Drapers had seen violence. Floyd had witnessed enough to last a lifetime, but this … this was something new. He started towards the kitchen, but Ned held his hand up to detain him.

‘Give him a moment,’ he said. ‘This is his choice.’

The Drapers looked at each other with wide eyes. Gaine looked down at the carpet and Floyd stared at Ned. The screaming stopped.

‘Now I think,’ said Ned, who was the first to reach the kitchen door.

Delft’s hair and clothes were on fire, blisters the size of oranges had ballooned from his lips and his mouth was screaming. He had no tongue and no vocal chords with which to make a sound. He was hurling himself against the wall, clawing at his body.

He caught sight of Ned and lurched towards him. Ned smartly closed the door and bolted it. They heard the body bang against the rubber surface of the door.

‘We’ll give him another five minutes,’ he said. ‘He’ll be done then.’

Floyd put a hand on Ned’s chest. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Cotter,’ he said. ‘I don’t care how much you’re paying me. Someone’s got to go in there and put him out of his misery.’

Ned slipped aside and led the way back into the sitting room. ‘A word,’ he said. He stood and faced them with his back to the fireplace. ‘Now, let’s just sort ourselves out shall we? Mr Floyd, you arranged the lease of this house?’

‘You know I did, but what – ?‘

‘You paid in cash. The same with the car and the van?’

‘Of course.’

‘No one knows you’ve been here. Once we’ve wiped all the prints, the place will be clean.’

‘That’s not the point, sir.

‘Oh but it is, Mr Floyd.’ Ned took a small revolver from his pocket and shot Floyd through the throat. Moving round anticlockwise, he shot Gaine and the Drapers in the head. He dipped the end of the revolver in Gaine’s cup of tea on the table by the sofa and it hissed pleasingly. Ned drank the tea and dropped down to Gaine’s body. He pulled a set of car keys from the jacket, put them in his own pocket and moved to the kitchen.

Delft was lying on the floor writhing and twitching.

‘One,’ whispered Ned, administering a final kick to the charred ruin beneath him.

He drove the car as far as Peterborough, where he left it in the station car park, right next to the Lexus that he and Gaine had left there eight hours earlier. A busy day and still not over yet.

Ned was surprised that he was trembling, for he knew that he was calm. He had that true calm that can only come to those who have earned their night’s repose. The peace that flows from true achievement.

Now he was ready to turn his mind to good things. The memory of Babe would be celebrated in every major city from Copenhagen to Canberra. Libraries, schools, hospitals. An international university. Research centres. Orphanages run on new, enlightened principles. The children of the world would be enriched in mind and body. Portia would be by his side. Together they would rule the greatest charitable empire on earth. All the good that would flow from them. Maybe, in some extraordinary way, everything that had happened to him had been part of a great plan. How dull his life would have been without this great cause that had lit him from within for so many years. The stars had guided him well. They had led him to this great point.

He looked across the street to the house. Through the darkness he saw that the lights were on in one room only. Portia and Albert would be sitting in the kitchen, perhaps, talking quietly.

He rang the doorbell, but there was no reply. He rang again. A cat leapt down from the wall and rubbed itself against his ankles, mewing plaintively. Ned heard another plaintive sound from within, a low whining chant that he could not understand. He pushed against the door which swung open on its hinges. The cat jumped in ahead of him.

‘Portia? Are you there? Portia, it’s Ned.’

The chanting grew louder. Ned saw a light shining through the kitchen hatch and walked round into the dining-room.

‘Portia, it’s me. What are you doing here?’

A black cloth had been hung over the mirror above the sideboard and on a low stool sat Peter, his jacket and tie ripped. His eyes were cast down to the floor and he was chanting a Hebrew prayer.

‘Peter? It’s me. You remember me?’

Peter lifted his eyes. ‘Ned. I remember you. It’s Ned.’

‘Where are Portia and Albert?’

‘Gone. They are gone. My brother’s son is dead, did you know?’

‘Where? Where have they gone?’

‘Who knows?’

Ned left the room and ran upstairs. Clothes trailed across the floor, wardrobes hung open, bottles of shampoo and tubes of toothpaste had fallen into the basin under the bathroom cabinet and the floor was littered with pill-bottles and combs and bars of soap. They had left in a hurry, in a terrible panic. Did they think they had something to fear from him? From Ned?

He rushed downstairs again. The old man’s moaning was driving him crazy.

‘Where did they go? They must have told you.’

Peter said nothing but continued to rock backwards and forwards, singing his prayers. Ned went into the kitchen to find some milk. The light of the fridge shone onto the table and that is where he saw the envelope.