‘Desmond,’ he said without raising his voice, ‘signature for you to witness.’ Desmond appeared, watched me sign, signed his name after mine, and withdrew.
Mr Rinyo-Clacton put the document back in the drawer and closed the drawer. ‘Now,’ he said, turning to me, ‘for my part of the bargain.’ He swung the Piero de Cosimo reproduction out from the wall to disclose a safe. He dialled the combination, opened the safe, and said, ‘Desmond,’ whereupon Desmond reappeared. ‘Get him something to put the money in,’ said Mr Rinyo-Clacton, ‘but not any of my luggage.’
‘There’s only Carmen’s shopping trolley,’ said Desmond.
‘That’ll do. She can buy another one tomorrow.’
Desmond got the shopping trolley, a blue-and-red-and-yellow plaid number, brought it into the study, and was gone. Mr Rinyo-Clacton reached into the safe and brought out two thick stacks of fifty-pound notes, each sealed in clear plastic. ‘There’s twelve thousand, five hundred in each bundle,’ he said, ‘so you get eighty of them. Count.’ He handed me bundles of notes and I counted and loaded the trolley. I managed to get sixty bundles into it and Desmond fetched carrier bags from the kitchen for the rest of the money.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘that’s it then. Off I go to live out my million-pound year.’
The Ravel quartet had ended. Now Mr Rinyo-Clacton put on the same trio Mr Perez had started earlier that day, the first-time-with-Serafina-music. He gripped my shoulder. ‘One for the road?’
‘No more brandy for me, thanks.’
‘I wasn’t talking about brandy, Jonathan.’
‘Give me a break! That wasn’t part of the deal.’
‘You’re absolutely right; this isn’t business, it’s personal. I need to feel that death in you again.’
‘And I need you not to.’
‘Tell you what — I’ll wrestle you for it. We’ll both enjoy it more if you put up a fight. If you’ll just step into my dojo…’
‘You’ve got a dojo?’
‘With mats on the floor, You’ll find it quite comfortable.’
He was about six inches taller than I and two stone heavier and I had reason to know that he was a whole lot fitter. As he turned to lead the way I grabbed the desk lamp and would have brained him with it — what a wonderful, wonderful feeling of rightness and release! — but it was taken away from me by the magically appearing Desmond, who then clamped my arms behind me with his left hand while applying a stranglehold with his right arm. Thus restrained I was taken to the dojo where I was stripped to my underpants while Mr Rinyo-Clacton also took off his clothes. Then I was released, put up the best fight I could, and lost.
The rest of it took place in the dojo as well, with Mr Rinyo-Clacton synchronising his movements to those of the Ravel trio and the violin and cello sonata that followed it. He continued with Ravel and me through the violin and piano sonata that came next on the CD, finishing triumphantly as the last movement, Perpetuum mobile, reached its climax.
‘Nice bit of fiddling, that, don’t you think?’ he said.
‘I think I don’t ever want to hear it again.’
‘Sure you do. Your problem is that you don’t really know yourself, Jonny. You’ve got a lovely little death in you, a really charming little death — we’re going to be good friends, it and I. But now it’s time you were getting home. Thank you for the pleasure of your company; we’ll be in touch.’ Still naked, he turned his back on me and walked out of the dojo, leaving his clothes where he’d dropped them while the CD concluded with the Berceuse sur le nom de Gabriel Fauré.
I got dressed and Desmond drove me and my million pounds home. I felt no resentment towards him; I recognised that although he clearly enjoyed his work he was only doing his job and I had no one but myself to blame for what had happened. As we slipped through the quiet streets I replayed that wonderful moment of rage when, if not prevented, I’d have killed Mr Rinyo-Clacton with no thought whatever for the consequences. If I’d been able to do it and get out of the flat I’d have happily left the million pounds behind and called it quits, which was of course not a viable fantasy because consequences would have followed thick and fast.
Here we were: my place. Desmond helped me out of the Daimler with the shopping trolley and carrier bags, said, ‘Good luck,’ and drove off with the engine purring like a well-fed big cat. I went up to my flat and turned on the lights. The whole place shrieked silently at me. ‘For Christ’s sake, it’s me!’ I said but the place kept shrieking. I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror to see if I was who I said I was. In the mirror I saw Death wearing my face.
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I’m not having that — you can’t wear my face.’
It’s not your face any more, sweetheart, said Death, it’s mine. And it made disgusting kissing noises.
For the second time I had a shower that did not cover me with cleanness. Then I got dressed, turned out the lights, put the shopping trolley and the carrier bags in the kitchen, and looked at my watch: quarter to three. I had the feeling that Katerina was someone I could ring up in the middle of the night; maybe she was even expecting my call. I picked up the telephone and dialled her number. She answered after one ring. ‘Hello,’ she said, sounding wide awake.
‘It’s Jonathan,’ I said. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘No, Jonathan — I was reading Schiller.’
‘Can I come over? I can be there in fifteen minutes.’
‘Yes, come. See you in fifteen minutes. Tschuss.’
I opened one of the bundles of banknotes, counted out fifty fifties, thought about muggers, put the notes in an envelope, lowered my trousers, taped the envelope to my leg, hitched my trousers up again, and took my poor little mysterious being out into the small hours of the night.
13. Sayings of Confucius
It was a chilly night and it began to rain as I left my flat; by the time I got to Earl’s Court Road the streets were shining and vivid with bright reflections. It was a Friday night/Saturday morning and the scene ought to have been a lively one but it wasn’t; everything had a low-spirited look: a few people in twos and threes with long intervals of no people; minimal signs of life at the Star Kebab House and Perry’s Bakery; a man in an apron sweeping out the Global Emporium; the Vegemania dark and silent, sending out waves of no-Serafina; modest traffic at the 24 Hour 7/Eleven; shelves being stacked at Gateway. At the closed tube station a man was leaning against the grille and vomiting. Two men were standing in the middle of the pavement and kissing. I closed my eyes and tried to see the oasis but it was Mr Rinyo-Clacton that I saw instead, his face blotchy and red and his breath bad while the Ravel played itself in my head. Then once more came the rage and the feeling of my hand closing on the heavy desk lamp.
What is the reality of me? I wondered, looking down at the wet pavement and my walking feet. I have moved out of my proper time and space into something else where anything at all can happen. Or maybe I’m not really me; maybe when I sat down in Piccadilly Circus tube station Death crawled up inside me and that’s why it was looking out of my eyeholes in the mirror.
Calm down, I said to myself. This just happens to be a part of reality and a part of you that you haven’t been to before, OK?
As I drew nearer to Katerina’s corner I was full of excitement and anticipation, the way I used to feel when I was going to see Serafina. What’s happening here? I asked myself but got no answer. The Waterstone’s window was devoted to Dr Ernst von Luker and copies of his book on the latest theory of consciousness: Mind — the Gap. Bald, bearded and bespectacled Dr von Luker, staring out of a giant photograph, looked into my poor little mysterious mind and his lips moved. ‘Arsehole,’ he said.