Rupert Thomson - Death of a Murderer

“Raymond! Please!”

Water poured into his mouth.

Gradually, the pedalo swung round until Raymond was facing him again, but Raymond’s eyes had no light in them, no feeling. They looked flat, like bits of paper; if you poked one with a finger it would tear, and there’d be nothing behind the hole, just darkness.

Choking, Billy sank below the surface, then rose again and found some air. Thirty feet away, the boat sat on the lake. It seemed higher than Billy, as if the water had a gradient to it, as if it sloped uphill. The splashing sounds that he was making took place in a vast, bored silence, and would soon be swallowed by it.

Then, with a certain reluctance, Raymond started pedalling towards him. At last, Billy was able to grab hold of the side and haul himself back into the boat. Wrapping his arms around himself, he hunched over in the seat. Despite the heat, he was shivering.

“You bastard,” he said in a low voice.

But Raymond was staring at the trees on the far shore. He appeared not to have heard.

“Bastard,” Billy said again.

Raymond reached behind the seat for Billy’s T-shirt. “Here. Put this on.”

“What did you do that for?” Billy said. “I could have drowned.”

Raymond smiled. “Let’s go and get something to drink.” He glanced over his shoulder, back towards the beach. “There was a little bar there. Did you see?”

The moment when Billy could have hit him was already gone. Instead, he lapsed into a sullen silence, hardly bothering to pedal, which meant that Raymond had to do most of the work. After a while, Billy began to feel as if he was the one in the wrong. That was the thing about Raymond. He had this uncanny knack of turning everything on its head. And before Billy knew it, gratitude was lifting through him. He was grateful to have been included in Raymond’s new initiative, and for the hint of affection that he had detected in Raymond’s voice. Did you see?

Looking at the shore, he noticed a wooden hut or kiosk set back in the shadow of the trees. Above the open hatch was a faded Campari sign. At the front, on the sand, were several benches and trestle tables, the wood buckled, silver-grey. Once they had hauled the pedalo out of the water, Raymond and Billy walked over to the hut where a man in a soiled white vest sold them two bottles of lemon soda. They both drank thirstily.

When they turned to go, three other men were standing on the beach, no more than fifteen feet away. They wore shabby, colourless clothing, and their faces were dark from the sun.

Raymond started speaking in Italian, but one of the men talked over him. He kept his eyes fixed on Raymond, though he seemed to be addressing the men behind him, and his voice sounded dismissive, contemptuous. Every now and then, he would punctuate his speech with abrupt, violent gestures that Billy didn’t understand. Perhaps he and Raymond were trespassing — or perhaps the men owned that little boat…Though the man was still talking, Raymond had moved off along the beach, making for the path that led back up the hill. He kept his head down and walked quickly. Billy took one last look at the three men, then hurried after him.

Halfway to the path, Billy heard a sound behind him and turned round.

“Raymond?” he said in a shaky voice.

The three men had surrounded the man in the dirty vest, and they were punching him. Though it was happening about a hundred yards away, Billy could hear the blows — solid, weighty, dull, like somebody beating a carpet. As he watched, the man in the vest dropped to his knees, but the other men kept hitting him, taking it in turns. It was all amazingly slow and deliberate.

“Keep going,” Raymond said.

But Billy was still hesitating. “Shouldn’t we do something?”

“Don’t be a fool.”

Once they had entered the woods, Raymond spoke again. “They thought we were queer.”

“What?” Billy’s voice was almost shrill. “That’s ridiculous.” They were both panting as they climbed the hill, the sandy soil working against them now. Billy glanced over his shoulder. “Do you think they’ll come after us?”

Raymond didn’t answer.

When they reached the top, the cars were still there. The one on the right had its lights on, as before. It was at least two miles to the road, but Billy and Raymond had no choice. They began to walk.

A white crack showed briefly above the high ground to the south. Lightning. Billy counted the seconds, bracing himself for thunder. None came. But the air seemed to have thickened all around them.

They had only been on the track for a few minutes when Billy heard the cars. First one engine started, then the other. He sent Raymond a wild look. “It’s them!”

Raymond didn’t react.

With a cry, Billy plunged down a bank of stiff yellow grass into the undergrowth. He lay on his stomach and covered his head with his hands. The cars slowed down, as he had known they would. He heard Raymond’s voice, then another voice. A man’s. A door slammed. The cars both revved savagely, and then drove on.

When the sound of their engines had died away, Billy climbed cautiously back up the grass bank. The track was empty. Raymond had gone.

Panic and helplessness prevented him from doing anything at all for quite some time. The sky seemed to heap itself on top of him. Sweat stuck his T-shirt to his back. In the end, he realised there was nothing for it but to carry on towards the road. Certainly he wasn’t about to go back to the lake. He would have to hitch a lift into the nearest town and report the incident to the police. It wasn’t going to be easy because he didn’t speak the language. He didn’t know what the Italian for “car” was, for instance. He didn’t even know the word for “man.”

“Impossible,” he said out loud.

His voice sounded weak in the harsh landscape.

As he trudged along, his mind began to fill with all kinds of scenarios. Raymond had been kidnapped — but what for? The men would rob him at the very least. He might be beaten up as well, or even killed.

Billy imagined Raymond’s gangster hat lying upside-down on a deserted road.

Though it was starting to get dark by the time he reached the end of the track, it didn’t seem any cooler. He stood still for a moment, trying to remember which way they had come. To his right, on a bend in the road, he saw a cluster of lights. It looked like a restaurant. Perhaps he would find help there.

When he pushed the door open, he saw Raymond sitting at a table by the wall, eating a pizza. Billy was so astonished that he couldn’t speak.

Raymond glanced up. “You took your time.” He was chewing with such relish that knots of muscle showed beside his ears. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Yes, but what happened?”

“I got a lift.” Raymond laughed. “You didn’t think I was going to walk, did you?” He drank from a tall glass, then reached for another slice of pizza.

“But the men — those men—”

“What men?”

“The ones on the beach.”

It turned out that they hadn’t been involved at all. The cars belonged to a group of young Romans who had been taking drugs in the woods. Raymond had flagged them down and then smoked a joint with them. They had stopped at the restaurant because they were starving.

“They only left about five minutes ago,” Raymond said. “Jesus, this pizza’s good.”

Billy shook his head. “I’m such an idiot.”

Raymond ordered another beer. The waitress had straight black hair and sallow skin, and her lips were a curious deep-purple colour, almost aubergine. There were dark rings under her eyes. Raymond watched her walk back across the restaurant, then he turned to Billy. “She looks like a vampire,” he said, “don’t you think?”