Дональд Джеймс - The House of Eros

The camera panned a line of girls on bar stools, pretty twenty-year-olds in tight skirts and meshed stockings, their dark hair glistening, their teeth white against scarlet lipstick. Resting on each girl for a moment or two, debating, deciding, rejecting, the camera’s gaze passed on.

The camera was a creature now, darting into corners with a voyeur’s intensity of purpose. On a hand down the scooped out front of a girl’s dress; on a much smaller hand deep in an open fly as a GI sprawled, rocked back in his seat, a bottle to his lips. Then the camera’s gaze moved again. To the foot of the winding stairs, then up slowly to the balustered landing.

A six-year-old child sat there, on the top step, looking down impassively at the scene below. As beads of sweat poured from Max’s forehead, Nan Luc stood up and began to climb the stairs.

Her long hair hung down in a single plait over her green uniform dress. While Max watched in anguish she glanced down once more, indifferently, on the world of the adults below.

Then the heartbeat expanded above the sounds in the bar. And the camera detached itself and glided forward, stealthily following Nan Luc up the stairs.

Following the line of the Meyerick River Nan Luc checked the area map clipped next to the steering wheel. She had folded it into a section which covered the east of the county. Coming over the brow of a hill she could see the long silvery sweep of the Meyerick River below her and the lights of the town in the distance. The Stevenson house, Jason had told her, stood on the slopes of the river above the village of Piebald two or three miles outside Meyerick City itself.

The snow was falling more lightly now, affording views of pale hills crowned with rambling well-lit houses. At the roadside sign reading Piebald she slowed down.

On her right a line of snow-covered boats rode at anchor, unreal cardboard cutouts in the black water. To the left driveways opened up every two or three hundred yards, some marked by trees, some by stone gateposts and iron gates. Each driveway carried a named mailbox with a lamp illuminating the entrance. The third box, set beside an impressive stone entrance, carried the name she was looking for.

Backing up the Chevrolet so that it rode on the grass verge under thick overhanging bushes, she killed the lights. In the darkness she reached for her purse, took out the small Italian automatic she had brought from San Diego, checked the safety and thrust it into the waistband of her skirt.

Leaving the car she walked slowly forward to the stone arch that marked the entrance to the Stevenson residence. For a moment she stood looking up the dark drive to the brilliantly lit grey stucco house. Then she pulled back quickly at the sound of a car starting. Moments later headlights flared round the side of the house and swept down the tree-lined drive towards her. When the Mercedes stopped to make the turn into the road she was standing three feet away from the outlined face of the driver. The head, angled slightly away from her, showed the profile of the man she had seen in the painting at the club.

Her hand was on the butt of the gun in her waistband. But the flare of hatred and perhaps the shock of opportunity paralysed her momentarily. In the instant it took to propel her legs forward, the Mercedes swept passed her into the road and pulled smoothly away in the direction of Meyerick.

Turning, she ran back to her car, her heels clattering on the metalled road. The tension was released now. She threw open the door and slipped behind the wheel. Ahead she could just see the receding glow of the Mercedes’ tail lights.

As Cy Stevenson drove the three mile stretch of road between Piebald and Meyerick City, he was experiencing the sort of buzz he used to feel when he still had a cocaine habit. A sharpness, a perception edged by panic, but sweetened by excitement.

A new life. Why not? Perhaps he had been digging in too deep in Meyerick County anyway. Perhaps he had stopped seeing life here as the massive, violent joke it really was, and begun to take their summer fairs and garden parties seriously. Take himself seriously. No, that was no way to survive. He would miss Sunny a little. Probably. Her money certainly. But there was no reason that couldn’t be made up by Mary. So a new name. A new life. New women. Perhaps, even, in England or Australia, a new wife. Time to begin anew.

Yet something was troubling him. It took another glance into the rear view mirror to be sure. He had seen the car behind just after he had turned out of his drive. Now as he increased his speed the car behind was doing the same.

The coke-edge left him. Without knowing clearly why, he was invaded by the certainty that it was the girl. Nan Luc. The girl who had tracked him from Saigon to Meyerick City. The girl who was responsible for him losing everything he had built up in the last ten years.

His jaw tightened as the fury flooded him. He was no longer intrigued by thoughts of a change, a new life-style. He was the child again, the ten-year-old boy, ready to scream out of control if his wishes were denied.

He swung the car sharp left, away from the river, away from the direct road into Meyerick. Only the gravel trucks used this road and on a weekend evening they had long stopped. If the lights were still with him he could be sure he was being followed.

He drove on slowly, dropping to thirty to give her a chance to back up and follow if she had missed the turning. But within moments the headlights were there, reaching out towards him across the snowy darkness.

He put his foot down and the car bucked forward. He was not yet certain what he would do. The gravel pits were less than a mile ahead, at this time of night a deserted, waterlogged scar on the hillside. He glanced again into the mirror. The car was still there, keeping a hundred yard distance, cruising along at the same easy speed.

She had a gun, suddenly it occurred to him. She was ready for him to stop. He felt his hands grow clammy at the thought of how close he had been. How certain he had been that in the deserted area of the gravel pits it was she who would be in danger.

‘Christ…’ he spoke out loud, his confidence spiralling down. Like a suicidal fool he had led her there. To the only spot within miles of Meyerick where she could kill him unseen, unheard.

His eyes flicked towards the mirror. With a sudden spurt of speed she had closed on him. The interior of the Mercedes was lit by her headlights. In the rear mirror he could see the outline of her head and shoulders.

He accelerated. The tyres spun and gripped. In seconds the Mercedes was in full flight along the edge of the strange moonscape of the quarries.

He knew now exactly what he intended, carefully gauging his speed, calculating the moment when the track would come closest to the edge of the quarry.

Ahead a black on yellow plywood sign the size of the side of a truck read: The Meyerick Sand and Gravel Company. As the girl’s car came up, filling the rear mirror, he braced himself hard against the headrest and slammed on the brakes.

Instinctively Nan Luc dragged at the wheel. The Mercedes’ brakelights reared up at her. When metal struck metal Nan’s car was skidding broadside, the impact just barely diminished in ferocity, her head wrenched sideways to crash against the quarterlight. For a moment she sat, her head in her hands, her vision a green anaesthetic haze. When she raised her head and focused her eyes, the Mercedes had gone.

Beyond the car the blackness was pierced by the single beam of her undamaged headlight. She wheeled down the window and gulped air. Slowly the ringing in her ears faded.

She was alerted by the sudden spurt and crackle of gravel in the darkness to her right. Turning her head she saw the dark shape of the Mercedes, then the headlights flicked on and the Chevrolet was filled with white light. Blinded, she jerked her head away. Her hand found the door handle. Outside, the long shadow of the Chevrolet sped out to the edge of the gravel pit.