The Killing Ground

“Who in the hell is it?”

The answer galvanized him into action and he swung his legs to the floor, an old-fashioned nightshirt riding over his knees.

“Your visitors are arriving soon,” the Broker told him. “A rotten morning, I think you’ll find. It would be a nice thought if you took a walk down to the Strand about four-thirty and extended the hand of welcome. And, remember, these are special people.”

“With Hussein’s face in all the papers, they would be.”

“Don’t start moaning. I’ll be in touch.”

He clicked off and Wellington sat there for a moment breathing deeply. His head was bald, his face sagged, but over sixty years in show business had to stand for something. He got up and drew the curtains. Although there were undeniable signs of early dawn, the fog crouched at the window as if trying to get in at him.

“Dear God almighty.”

He went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, stood looking at it and changed his mind and returned to the bedroom, where he removed his nightshirt and dressed in a denim shirt, brown corduroy trousers and buttoned up a sweater with a shawl collar. His dressing table provided a plentiful supply of makeup and he sat down, rubbing cream into his face, a little rouge to his cheeks and lined his eyes. It undeniably worked in a theatrical kind of way, one had to admit that. Finally he picked up the auburn wig that curled discreetly and eased it over his bald pate. Satisfied, he stood up and made his way out, through a rather charming, old-fashioned sitting room to the kitchen.

Like the other rooms, it had beamed ceilings, but everything else was state of the art, a kind of temple to a person who adored cooking. He turned on the kettle, humming to himself, got a bowl of muesli, milk from the fridge and ate without any obvious enjoyment, and when the kettle boiled, he made green tea and went and peered out for another look at the fog.

He checked his watch and saw it was just after four. “Oh, well,” he said softly. “I suppose I’d better make a move.”

He went out to the hall, procured a pair of rubber boots from the cloakroom and sat down to pull them on and reached for a heavy anorak with a hood and he left.

The fog swirled, there was a drizzle of fine rain, and there was the pond and the special smell you only got from saltings and he followed a track along a dike, passing through a bleak landscape of silted-up sea creeks and mudflats. Climate change, the difference in sea levels, had each had its effect on what had been a rather special place. Even the birds seemed to be hiding from it. He reached a very ancient, decaying seawall of stone, beach pilings beyond it, the shingle dipping down, disappearing into the fog, and the noise of the approaching engine was loud.

“Hello-over here!” he called.

HUSSEIN HAD TAKEN ADVANTAGE of the boat’s depth sounder as he took the Seagull in. A hundred feet seemed appropriate. He switched off the engine.

“Pull the inflatable round from the stern, untie her and get in.”

“What about you?” Khazid said.

Hussein was removing the engine hatch. “I’ll operate the sea cocks.” He disappeared into the cramped engine room, found what he needed almost straightaway, did what was necessary and scrambled out.

He joined Khazid in the inflatable and drifted away with a push. They continued drifting and sat there watching the boat settling in the water. Hussein found his cigarettes, lit one and passed it to Khazid, then lit one for himself. The sea was swirling across the Seagull’s deck, the boat settled much more and then completely disappeared.

“It’s supposed to be sad to see a ship of any kind sinking,” Khazid said.

“Why would that be?” Hussein pressed the starter button on the outboard and the engine kicked into life.

“It’s like someone dying.”

“Is that so?”

A small wind curled across the water, not much, but enough to stir the fog. There was a vague suggestion of land and then the sound of Darcus Wellington calling to them. Hussein throttled back the engine, they drifted in.

“Where’s Romano and the Seagull?” Darcus asked.

“He didn’t fancy his chances much in this fog,” Hussein said. “It’s an absolute pea-souper all over the bay and he started worrying about the boat. In the end he decided we must come in the inflatable. He said you could keep it.”

“Did he now? Well, that’s nice of him. I’ll walk along the beach about fifty yards. There’s what’s left of an old stone jetty. You can disembark without having to wade, pull the thing ashore for me.”

A matter of minutes and it was done, the inflatable ashore and the two Iraqis standing beside it.

“Darcus Wellington, that’s me, and you’ll be the Hammer of God, according to the newspapers. Who’s your friend?”

“My name is Henri Duval,” Khazid said.

“Darling,” Darcus told him cheerfully, “if you’re Henri Duval, I’m Prince Charles.”

They had started to climb to the dike and Khazid said, in his perfect French, “But I assure you, mon ami, I am who I say I am.”

Darcus was impressed. “Well, that’s a showstopper, I must say. You can certainly speak the lingo.” The rain increased in a sudden rush. “Come on, hurry up or we’ll all get soaked.”

He started to jog and the fog was clearing now so that they could see the house before they got there. He flung open the front door and led the way in. “ Folly Way,” he said. “That’s what they called it when Bernard and I bought it. He was my partner. It was a sea marsh then, creeks gurgling with water, wonderful plants, lots of bird life. Then a few years ago, after Bernard died, I came back from touring and found it had altered, changed a little bit more. Something to do with sea levels and silting up. Anyway, welcome to the end of the world.”

“Why do you call it that?” Hussein asked.

“Because every time I go away and return, I think it’s died just a little bit more. But never mind that. Take off your coats and come in the kitchen and I’ll make you a nice breakfast.”

Chapter 13

THE BREAKFAST WAS REMARKABLE BY ANY STANDARDS. Darcus poached haddocks, scrambled eggs, sliced onion, found a packet of unleavened bread in his icebox and defrosted it. There was yogurt and fruit in plenty and green tea.

“Cooking’s my passion. I’ve worked as a chef in my day, but I lost my temper with the staff too easily. I expected too much.” He started to gather in the crockery and put it in the dishwasher. “I’ve been in show business all my life since I first saw a circus when I was thirteen. There’s nothing I haven’t tried. Cabaret, theater, film. Having a settled home to come back to was always a problem. That’s why Bernard and I bought this place. I mean, it seemed a good idea at the time. We were in summer cabaret at Bournemouth, that’s a seaside town near here. We went for a drive one Sunday and came across this place, a bloody sight different from what it is now, I can tell you. Folly Way just about sums it up.”

He talked endlessly, much of it amusing, and yet there was a certain malice when he touched on people. “Talent, love,” he said to Hussein, “is a curse. It’s something your fellow actors can never forgive. Of course, some things are beyond teaching. Take you. You’ve got an enormous talent.”

“What for?” Hussein asked.

“For killing people. I mean, it’s not a very easy thing to do. You do it remarkably well. You’re a true revolutionary, dedicated to a cause. Che Guevara-that’s who you most resemble. A romantic hero with balls. You even look like Che with that beard.”

“Hey, that’s good,” Khazid said. “I mean, I actually think there could be some truth in that.” He said to Darcus, “There are kids in Baghdad who are proud to wear T-shirts with ‘Hammer of God’ on them.”