Rupert Thomson - The Insult

The man asked him what he was doing. He must have been the nightwatchman or the gatekeeper. He was standing up against a tree. Loots quickly drew one of his knives and told him not to move. He thought he’d pin the man to the tree by the arm of his coat. Slow him down. Discourage him from taking any further action.

‘Good thinking, Loots,’ I said.

‘He moved,’ Loots said.

‘What?’

‘He moved. Only a fraction, but it was enough.’

‘He shouldn’t have done that,’ I said. ‘He shouldn’t have moved.’

‘I know. I feel strange about it, though. It’s against the principles of knife-throwing. Knife-throwing,’ and Loots paused, ‘the whole point is, you’re supposed to miss.’

I turned and looked at him. There were helicopters flying through the place where Loots should have been.

‘Where did you get him, Loots?’

‘I wish he hadn’t moved. It would’ve been all right if he hadn’t moved.’

‘Where did you get him?’

‘In the ear.’

‘What?’

‘I pinned his right ear to the tree. Didn’t you hear him yell?’ Loots began to laugh. High, thin spirals of laughter. Then he stopped.

‘It wasn’t your fault.’ I thought for a moment. ‘How come you had your knives on you?’

‘I always carry them. For luck.’ Loots laughed again. Only once this time. Bitterly.

‘Can they be traced to you?’ I asked him.

‘No,’ he said.

‘What about the man? Did he see you? Clearly, I mean?’

‘I don’t think so.’

I settled back in my seat. ‘I’m sorry about all this.’

‘I’m sorry, too. We didn’t even get your file.’

I was staring at a battlefield — shelled farm buildings, burned-out army vehicles. Smoke rose from a blackened tree-trunk into the thin grey air. One soldier was helping another across the devastated landscape. They both looked close to collapse. The words THE END appeared.

I couldn’t believe that was the end. I just couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t there have been an exchange of weary smiles between the two soldiers? Or a symbolic close-up of a green shoot in the mud?

What about the future?

What about hope?

‘Ah, Martin,’ Visser said. ‘Still getting cable?’

I smiled, then sat down. A waitress appeared at my elbow. I ordered tea, with lemon.

To arrange the meeting had taken some courage on my part. In the time that had elapsed since our last encounter — more than two months — Visser had assumed a different persona (rather as I was supposed to have done). He’d become more unpredictable, more threatening. More veiled, too. I no longer had the slightest idea what it was that he intended. In our conversation on the phone I’d offered to meet him, but only under certain conditions. It had to take place after dark. He was to come alone. And the venue should be a neutral one. To all of this he agreed. I’d chosen the café with great care. It was located in the old quarter of the city, the 7th district, which was famous for its maze of narrow, winding streets and its clandestine squares. And I had Loots standing by, with his car. As soon as I stepped out of the café, he would draw up alongside me, I’d jump in, slam the door, and we’d be gone. Visser would be left on the pavement, too stunned even to have noted down the number-plate. It had been like planning a bank robbery; in fact, I’d been inspired by a film I’d watched at the weekend.

When I saw Visser, over by the window, I had the feeling that he was going to come clean at last. I’d been doing some thinking about it. Yes, he could feed anything he liked into my brain. But what good was it if he couldn’t monitor the process? He needed my co-operation in order to continue the experiment, so it was time for him to sit down at the negotiating table. I could read imminent capitulation in his face as I walked towards him. That was the reason why I could smile at his little joke. Obviously, there had to be some play-acting first. A bit of light-hearted banter, repartee. He had to ease himself into a position where he could admit that I’d got the better of him.

‘Cable?’ I said. ‘Yes, I’m getting cable. I’m getting channels most people have never even heard of.’

I sipped my tea. Visser was looking well. He’d trimmed his moustache (though it still looked as dictatorial as ever) and he was slightly tanned. He must have been away — some kind of conference or symposium, no doubt.

‘It’s a nice café.’ He smiled and, turning in his chair, looked round. He seemed to be taking it all in: the marble tables, the waiters in their starched white aprons, the wall-lamps with their red shades. ‘You know, I used to come here when I was a student,’ he said. ‘That was years ago, of course. I used to think I was really living it up.’ He smiled again, this time at the folly of youth.

Living it up? That was an unusual phrase for him to use. Almost slangy. He was probably just trying to create the right mood. Relaxed, informal.

‘It’s my first time,’ I said, and I, too, looked round. ‘But it is nice, yes.’ My eyes found their way back to him. ‘How have you been, Doctor?’

‘Very well.’ He paused. ‘You know, we had a break-in over the weekend.’

‘At the clinic?’

‘Yes. Nothing was taken, though. It’s a bit of a mystery, actually.’

‘So all your secrets are still safe?’ I said.

He laughed heartily — rather too heartily, I thought.

We both reached for our cups of tea and drank.

‘So tell me, Martin,’ he said, ‘why is it that we have to be so furtive? Why the cloak-and-dagger atmosphere?’

‘I’m giving you another chance,’ I said. ‘In fact, it’s your last chance. I’d like you to tell me the truth.’

‘The truth,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ I leaned back, crossed my legs. ‘I’m not going to kick up a fuss about the fact that you’re experimenting on me. I mean, you saved my life and I’m grateful for that. It’s just that I don’t want to be alone any more. Alone in what I know. I need you to admit that you know, too. That you’ve known all along. Right from the beginning.’

‘Known what, Martin?’

‘Known that I can see.’ It occurred to me suddenly that if it was a state secret we were discussing, then he might not want anyone to overhear. And there was a man behaving suspiciously behind him. The man was pretending to be an intellectual. He had all the props: a left-wing newspaper, round glasses with wire frames, cigarette ash on his lapels. But the glasses didn’t sit quite right on him. And he kept glancing at me sideways, past the edge of the page. I leaned forwards. ‘Nurse Janssen knew,’ I said, in a low voice. ‘That’s why she took off all her clothes. You know, too. You wouldn’t have been following me otherwise. You wouldn’t have turned up at the hotel.’

Visser didn’t say anything, so I went on.

‘First you gave me nocturnal vision, a kind of night-camera effect. I expect you called it something fancy, didn’t you? Noctovision or something. Not much sense of colour, though, was there? Everything at the end of the spectrum looked black, for instance. White showed as pale-green. Yellow was slightly darker. Hard to tell the difference between a lime and a lemon. Could make gin-and-tonics difficult.’ I gave him a wry smile. ‘Then you began to feed the colour in. Just magical. But you know, it happened so gradually, I never even noticed. I just kind of took it for granted. And now, of course, I’m getting TV. And, I have to say, apart from the odd film, the occasional game show, I think I prefer the old night vision. Actually, I was thinking of asking you to reinstate it.’

I looked down at my hands for a moment. ‘About the pornography,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s a bit much. I mean, twice a week, fine. But not every night. Take Sunday, for instance. Sunday! I got nine hours of it. Nine hours of people taking their clothes off every time a door closes. Nine hours of women going, Oh God, that’s so great, and men with that stupid look on their faces going, Yes, Yes, Yes. Incidentally, why do the men always look much more stupid than the women? Or is it me? Anyway. All night there were people fucking in my head. And then, just to round it off nicely, that home movie someone kindly sent in with the two thalidomide sisters and the Alsatian. I mean, Visser. What’s going on? You think you’re doing me some kind of favour? Favours like that I can do without. So, please. Let’s have the old night vision back. In fact, that’s really why I’m here. I want to come to some arrangement with you. I’m willing to co-operate.’