The Imposter

He giggled again, and then sobered himself by deliberately concentrating on the one problem that he still had to solve: how to persuade Violet and Joseph to follow his advice and take the fight to Jack Spot. He had brought them to a desperate pass, removed the threat of Billy from the equation, removed George and his enmity and cynicism, and deftly manoeuvred events so that he could persuade them that Spot had orchestrated the family’s demise. Raiding the restaurant. Burning down Ruby Ward’s garage. The dog. They were hopeless. They would listen to him now. He would have what he wanted.

But was he ever tired! He allowed himself to relax and tried to concentrate on the things he had to do. He thought of Joseph, a few rooms down the corridor, bathing himself at this very moment, his legs as sore and weak as his own, his body covered with mud. He would be confused and angry. He could see the frown across his brow, the hurt in his eyes as he sat brooding about his oldest friend and what he might have done. He would still be doubtful but those doubts would become suspicions when Billy failed to show up. He imagined him tomorrow, setting off for the Hill, knocking on the door of Mrs. Stavropoulos, but she wouldn’t know where her son was, either. He pictured him in Soho, trying the Alhambra, the French, the Caves de France, the Colony, the Mandrake and the Gargoyle and finding no sign of him anywhere… what else was he to think, under the circumstances?

So tired.

A sense of grogginess overcame him and he closed his heavy eyes. The scene dissolved in a wash of greys and blacks and then it was all green and brown, the greens of bamboo and delphiniums and hostas, the browns of teak and mangrove trees, the colours of the jungle, and, overhead, the grey and black spectrum of the monsoon. The air was still and heavy, pregnant with static, and then the rains came. Big, fat, ponderous globules that grew heavier and heavier and then, as if at the press of a celestial switch, fell as a deluge, a great roar of water, thundering against the trees and the earth and river and the mountains. Edward saw himself, at the rear of his platoon, dressed in his khaki fatigues and with his Sten gun aimed out ahead of him, sweeping the vegetation on either side of the narrow road as they progressed towards the bridge across the Irrawaddy. He was scared. Rain washed across his face, blurring his vision. He watched the muzzle flashes from either side of the road, a Japanese platoon lying in ambush, hidden behind screens of bamboo and obscured by the curtain of rain, two type 92 heavy machine guns set on tripods on either side of the road, a lethal firing zone that they were already deep within. The machine guns were ‘woodpeckers’ because of the noise they made, the whirring rat-tat-tat calling out, the men at the front taking the first barrage. Their weapons splashed into muddy puddles as they staggered backwards, arms flailing. The other men got their weapons up and started to fire, shredding the bamboo as they emptied their clips. Edward threw himself into the mud, shuddering as the body of one of the privates collapsed across him, then another falling across the first. He closed his eyes and prayed, his bowels loosening as a third and then fourth soldier was picked off. The woodpeckers fired for thirty seconds straight and then stopped. Eleven soldiers were left dead on the road. The only noise was the thunder and the rain, the cycling down of the guns and the whooped celebration of the Japs. Edward lay still, feeling the thick, warm tick of another man’s blood as it dripped down onto his forehead, onto his lips, into his mouth. Four Japs approached, firing single shots into the fallen bodies, one by one, but not Edward. They missed him. The Japanese paused for a minute, sharing a prayer to their Emperor or whoever the hell it was that they worshipped, and began to fold up the machine guns. It took ten minutes, twenty minutes, then thirty, the guns dismantled and hoisted onto their backs. A banded krait slithered out of the envelope of grass at the side of the road and curled itself into the warm cavity between Edward and the dead man beside him. A snub-nosed meh nwoah monkey sneezed in the overhanging branches. Edward did not move. Finally, the Japanese turned towards the bridge. He shouldered the bodies aside, the snake slithering away as he burrowed out from amid the outflung arms and legs, swiping rain and blood from his eyes. He stooped to collect a Sten gun, pressed in the box magazine with shaking fingers and held the trigger, spraying the platoon with bullets. The six men were close, and too encumbered with the woodpeckers to defend themselves, and Edward fired until the magazine ran dry, replaced it with his spare and emptied that, too. Sixty-four shots. He went over to where they had fallen, took a Nambu pistol from the holster of one of the men, and shot them in the head, one after the other. Then, one bullet left in the chamber, he aimed the muzzle downwards, at his foot. He pulled the trigger.

Edward looked around the bathroom, looking for the dead bodies and the Japanese soldiers in the corners, in the laundry cupboard, beneath the bath. He felt his own eyes stretched wide, terrified, and although he knew his fear was senseless he kept looking for them, in the dusky windows and in the mirror above the sink. He lifted his leg out of the water and stared at his foot. He saw the corresponding scars where the bullet had punched its way in and out. He held his breath and dunked his head beneath the water again, letting the warmth envelop him, and then pushed himself up. His body felt leaden and slow, as if he were trying to raise himself out of deep water.

A peal of thunder brought him back to himself again. He got out of the bath and towelled himself dry. He had let his imagination run away with him. They were all dead. The grogginess was just fatigue and hunger. He just needed to manage for another hour, or maybe two, and then he could sleep. There would be more to do tomorrow and then the days that followed, much more, and he would need to be rested to do it, but, for now, he bounced on his heels with satisfaction. He was inordinately proud of himself. The day had been all he could have expected, and more.

63

EDWARD DRESSED AND, putting himself back into character again, made his way down to the study. The storm had grown bigger, and now lightning crackled overhead with thunderclaps, still distant, booming in response. The electricity was still out and it had made the house u

Chiara got up and hurried to him. “Oh, Edward,” she sobbed. She had been crying. Her eyes were red and her face was ashen.

He held her in his arms. “I’m sorry.”

She held her hand up against her mouth. “Did you see him?”

“Yes. I’m truly sorry, Chiara. It’s horrible.”

“Poor Roger.”

“It’s Spot,” Joseph said. “All of it.”

Chiara buried her face in Edward’s neck. “Poor dog. Poor boy.”

“Are you sure, Joseph? The wreath didn’t say––”

Joseph interrupted him angrily. “Of course it’s him. He’s making it personal: what he did to me, Ruby’s garage, the dog.”

“And this morning,” Edward added.

“Yes, and this morning. It must have been him. Aunt?”

“I don’t know,” she said wearily. “I need a drink. We can talk about it over di

They repaired to the dining room. It was one of the worst di