From greed the visitor had set out to destroy me. Not because I’d done him any harm. Simply because I stood in his plundering way. He’d sent me a message; join or be flattened, an ultimatum as old as tyranny.
My own fault, as they had tirelessly pointed out, if the answer I’d chosen was flatten and be damned.
Kerry Sanders had been only a convenient door. Had she not thought of her equine birthday present, another way would have been found. The intention was the activating force. The means were accidental.
I remembered what Pauli Teksa had said at dinner that evening at Newmarket. I remembered his exact words. The classic law of the invader was to single out the strongest guy around and smash him, so that the weaker crowd would come to heel like lambs.
At various times I had thought of the man who lay on my carpet as ‘someone’, as the expert, as Vic’s friend, as the driver, and as the visitor; Pauli’s word — the invader — suited him best.
He had invaded the bloodstock game with gangster ethics. Invaded Vic’s life and business as a dangerous ally. Invaded mine as a destroyer.
The fact that I did not feel that I filled the role he’d cast me in had not mattered. It was the invader’s view which had mattered. My bad luck that he’d seen me as the strongest guy around.
There was no way of winning against a determined invader. If you gave in at once, you lost. If you fought to the death you still lost, even if you won. The price of victory was sore.
Pauli Teksa had said, just before he went back to America, that it was easier to start things than to stop them. He had been warning me that if I lashed back at Vic I could find myself in even more trouble than before.
He had been right.
But he had been speaking also of himself.
Pauli Teksa, the invader, lay face down on my carpet, my broken typewriter beside his bloody head.
The stocky tough wide-shouldered body looked a solid hunk of bull muscle. The crinkly black hair was matted and running with red. I could see half of his face; the strong distinctive profile with the firm mouth now slackly open, the swift eye shut.
His hands lay loosely on the floor, one each side of his head. He wore two thick gold rings. A gold and platinum wrist-watch. Heavy gold cufflinks. The tip of the gold mountain he had siphoned off through Vic.
I thought it likely that his British venture had been an extension of activities at home. The super-aggressive kickback operation had been too polished to be a trial run. Maybe he had set up Vic-equivalents in other countries. Maybe Vies in South America and Italy and Japan were rooking the local Constantines and Wilton Youngs for him and driving the Antonia Huntercombes to despair.
Vic and Fynedale had been amateurs, compared with him. Fynedale working himself into a white murdering manic state. Vic nearing apoplexy with easy rage. Pauli stayed cool and used his eyes and made his snap decisions, and when he saw the need to kill he did it without histrionics. An unfortunate necessity, best done quickly.
He had even with macabre kindness told me I wouldn’t feel much, and I believed him. I’d heard shot people say all they had felt was a sort of thud, and hadn’t realised they were wounded until afterwards. If you were shot through the heart there was no afterwards, and that was that.
He had himself urged me several times to throw in my lot with Vic, and to go along with the crowd. He’d warned me of the dangers of holding out. He’d given me the advice as a friend, and behind the smile there had been an enemy as cold as bureaucracy.
I realised slowly that perhaps at one point he had in fact done his best to stop what he’d started. He had said no to some demand of Vic’s, and he had gone home to America. But by then it was too late because in burning my stable he had switched me from tolerance to retaliation. Bash me, I bash back. The way wars started, big and small.
On the floor, Pauli stirred.
Not dead.
Across the room the gin bottle lay where Crispin had dropped it. I shoved myself off the desk and went over to pick it up. If Pauli were to return to consciousness, groggy or not, I’d trust him as far as I could throw the Empire State Building. A reinforcing clunk with green glass would be merely prudent.
I looked closer at the bottle. It was full. In addition the seal was unbroken.
I returned to the desk and set the bottle on it, and looked down with impossible grief at my brother. I knew that I had needed him as much as he needed me. He was at the roots of my life.
Pauli stirred again. The urge to finish off what I’d started was almost overwhelming. No one would know. No one could tell whether he’d been hit twice or three times. Killing someone who was trying to kill you was justifiable in law, and who was to guess that I’d killed him ten minutes later.
The moment passed. I felt cold suddenly, and old and lonely and as tired as dust. I stretched out a hand to the telephone, to call the cops.
It rang before I touched it. I picked up the receiver and said dully, ‘Hello?’
‘Mr Crispin Dereham?’ A man’s voice, educated.
‘I’m his brother,’ I said.
‘Could I speak to him?’
‘I’m afraid...’ I said, ‘he’s... unavailable.’
‘Oh dear.’ The voice sounded warmly sympathetic. ‘Well... this is Alcoholics Anonymous. Your brother telephoned us earlier this evening asking for help, and we promised to ring him back again for another chat...’
He went on talking for some time, but I didn’t hear a word he said.