The Passenger (The Passenger, #1)(15)

We’re not at liberty to do that.

Of course.

But you didnt take anything from the aircraft.

No. We dont take things. Oiler said we should get out of the water and that’s what we did. The water was full of dead bodies. We didnt know how long they’d been dead or what they’d died of. We didnt take the Jepp case. We didnt take the data box. We didnt take the luggage. And we damn sure didnt take any bodies.

Are you bonded, Mr Western?

Yes.

Is there anything else that you’d like to tell us?

We’re salvage divers. We do what we’re paid to do. Anyway, I’m sure you know more about this than I do.

All right. Thank you for your time.

They rose from the couch simultaneously. Like birds leaving a wire. Western eased himself from the bed.

Maybe I really should look at those badges again.

You have a peculiar sense of humor, Mr Western.

I know. I get that a lot.

When they were gone he closed the door and knelt and reached one hand up under the bed and talked to the cat until he could get hold of it. He rose and stood with it in the crook of his arm stroking it. A solid black tomcat with teeth outside. Its tail twitched from side to side. He was well disposed toward cats. They to him. Where is your dish? he said. Where is your dish? He carried the cat to the door and stood in the doorway. The air was cool and damp. He stood there stroking the cat. Listening to the quiet. Under his sockfeet he could feel the dull hammer of the distant piledriver. The slow beat. The measure of it.





II


She said that the hallucinations had begun when she was twelve. At the onset of menses, she said, quoting from the literature. Watching them write on their pads. Reality didnt really much seem to be their subject and they would listen to her comments and then move on. That the search for its definition was inexorably buried in and subject to the definition it sought. Or that the world’s reality could not be a category among others therein contained. In any case she never referred to them as hallucinations. And she never met a doctor who had the least notion of the meaning of number.

This then would be in the little room under the eaves of her grandmother’s house in Tennessee in the early winter of nineteen sixty-three. She woke early in the morning on that cold day to find them assembled at the foot of her bed. She didnt know how long they’d been there. Or if the question itself had any meaning. The Kid was sitting at her desk going through her papers and making notes in a small black notebook. When he saw she was awake he put the notebook away somewhere in his clothes and turned. All right, he said. Looks like she’s awake. Good-O. He rose and began to pace back and forth with his flippers behind his back.

What were you doing going through my papers? And what were you writing in that book?

One question at a time, Princess. All in due course. Book: Book of Hours, Book of Yores. Okay? We got a certain amount of ground to cover so we need to get going. There could be a quiz on the qualia so keep that in mind. True false on the interalia, four wrong and we fail ya. And no multiple choice on the multiple choice either. Pick one and move on.

He turned and eyed her and then continued to pace. He paid no attention to the other entities. A matched pair of dwarves in little suits with purple cravats and homburg hats. An ageing lady in pancake makeup smeared with rouge. Antique dress of black voile, graying lace at throat and cuffs. About her neck she wore a stole assembled out of dead stoats flat as roadkill with black glass eyes and brocade noses. She raised a jeweled lorgnette to her eye and peered at the girl from behind her ratty veil. Other figures in the background. A rattle of chains in the far corner of the room where a pair of leashed animals of uncertain taxon rose and circled and lay down again. A light rustling, a cough. As in a theatre when the houselights dim. She clutched the covers up under her chin. Who are you? she said.

Right, said the Kid, pausing to make an encouraging gesture with one flipper. We’ll get into the core questions as we go so no need for twisted knickers on that score at this juncture. All right. Any other questions?

The left dwarf raised a hand.

Not you, fuckhead. Jesus. Are you trying to give me gas? All right. If there are no further questions we’re going to kick this thing off. Got some great acts lined up. If anything gets too spicy for your taste feel free to make a note of it and then fold the paper longwise and stick it where the sun dont shine. All right.

He traipsed over and sat in her chair again. They waited.

Excuse me, she said.

The question period is over Olivia so no more questions period. All right? He hauled a large watch from somewhere about his person and pressed the button. The cover sprang open and a few bars of music tinkled feebly and ceased. He closed it and put it away. He folded his flippers and sat tapping one foot. Christ on a crutch, he muttered. It’s like pulling fucking teeth around here. He raised one flipper to the side of his mouth. Places, he called.

The closet door flew open and a small benchjumper in a plaid hat and reachmedown breeks sprang into the room clapping his hands. He leapt onto the cedarchest. He had a smile painted onto his face and his waist was hung with tinware and he did a little clanking dance and held up a pair of pans by their handles.

Jesus, said the Kid, rising and coming forward. God’s bleeding piles. No no no no no. For the love of Christ. What the fuck do you think this is? You cant come in here hawking this crap. We ask for straightforward acts and we get some fucking tinker minus his forelobes? Good God. Out. Out. Jesus. All right. Who’s next? Christ. Where do you have to go for a little talent? To the fucking moon?