Dunbar Page 8
“I don’t think he meant that,” said Dr. Bob, repairing the damage with studied patience. “It’s a place, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Peter, “Nut-ting.”
Credit where credit was due: Dr. Bob had manipulated the hell out of Peter. Megan watched him at work with something approaching admiration—she didn’t strictly speaking “do” admiration, which struck her as a desperate measure for desperate people, like selling your blood to a blood bank, not something that anyone as enviably placed as her was likely to be caught doing. Still, it was at these times of vague, approximate admiration that she most resented having to share Dr. Bob. She and Abby had always been passionately close and had always worked as a team, whether they were ganging up on a girl at boarding school, or planning which way to vote at an AGM, but now she wanted Dr. Bob to herself. She was the widow after all, and although Abby’s marriage was a complete farce, she was not actually in a position to marry anyone. Sometimes, when Abby was literally driving her mad, Megan thought she would propose to Dr. Bob. In the end, though, she hesitated to turn her back on so many years of sibling collaboration. One absolute classic from the early years—she still marveled at how organized they had been at that age—was the case of an older girl at their boarding school who was known to have had an abortion during the summer holidays. She and Abby worked overtime to make sure that when the disappointed mother came back to school her room was stuffed with baby things: a beautiful old-fashioned cot with a mobile hanging over it, stacks of nappies, expensive creams, a breast milk extraction pump, piles of adorable little jumpsuits, elaborately knitted cardigans, and every variety of soft toy peeping out from behind a cushion, or dangling its legs from the edge of a shelf; they had literally emptied the Slough branch of Mothercare. The pleasure of the practical joke was rather short-lived, since the girl, who invited persecution by being absurdly oversensitive, had an instant nervous breakdown, returning home immediately and never coming back. In assembly the next day the headmistress had promised to “get to the bottom” of “this appalling act of cruelty,” but when she did get to the bottom of it and found two Dunbar girls there, she was subjected to an unexpected attack. Abigail said that they came from a very sheltered background and had never known about abortion until now. Yes, they had heard that one of the older girls was pregnant and had naturally thought that she would appreciate the presents they had bought for her. Perhaps it had been naive of them, but now that their innocent illusions had been shattered, what a pity it would be if the press got hold of the story and the school became known as “Abortion Abbey.” Both sisters had gone on to be head girl, one after another, without their unforgettable reign ever being compromised by Florence, who was sent by her doting mother to an obvious day school in Manhattan.
It was bewildering, after witnessing such early masterpieces of sangfroid, to see Abby turn into the inept bully she had been last night. She did try to make up for it by dispatching Kevin, the head of security, and Jesus (“I prefer to be called J”), the handsome new bodyguard and former Green Beret who looked as if he could break your neck just by staring at you, into the storm in the middle of the night. When they arrived at Nutting, Kevin reported that it was hardly a place at all, with only four houses in it, a barn, and a red postbox built into a wall. He said there was no sign of Dunbar, but they would wait for first light to look for him along the footpath between Nutting and Plumdale, reversing the journey Peter claimed he was making. It had been light for three hours now and everyone was waiting to hear some news.
The lousy weather meant that they couldn’t use a helicopter, and discretion ruled out the Merewater Mountain Rescue Association, a voluntary organization whose brochure Megan had seen in the hotel reception. With a helicopter they would have been sure to trap Dunbar, especially if it had thermal imaging. She had hunted by helicopter before—gazelle in Arabia, wild bull in New Zealand, hog in Texas—it was something that ostentatious people kept thrusting on her as a special kind of treat, but to be honest it was absolutely deadly being trapped in one of those swaying, shuddering machines, wearing headphones and a pair of goggles while spewing hundreds of empty shells a minute into the pristine countryside below. It made one feel like such a litterbug. The animals were rather pathetic as well, trying to escape the cacophony of flying metal by setting off on what might seem to them a virtuoso gallop, but from an aerial vantage point just looked like a bad choice made in slow motion. Baby hogs always dashed loyally after their mothers, so that if one killed or injured the mother, it was considered much kinder to finish off the baby as well, which meant circling back for another pass, grinning away as if one was having the time of one’s life.
There was a knock on the door, interrupting Megan’s reverie.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” said Abby, “let me in.”
Already dressed in jeans, a thick sweater, and boots, Abby pushed past Megan into the room and launched straight into the latest bulletin.
“Okay, so the boys have just called from some little lake above the main lake—I think that’s what they said, but even their fancy satellite phones are challenged by this weather. Anyway, they’ve found nothing so far and it’s snowing pretty hard up there, so that if there were tracks they’d be covered by now. I told them to come down on this side and meet us in the car park where Peter claims to have parted from Daddy. I thought we might take him there to refresh his memory.”
“If he’s been lying…” said Megan, not quite knowing how to describe what she had in mind.
“I know,” said Abby. “In the meantime I’ve sent him a champagne breakfast in case he was thinking of taking his hangover back to Meadowmeade.”
“Sweet,” said Megan.
“I’ve got another treat in store for him later on.”
“What?”
“You’ll see,” said Abby.
They agreed to meet downstairs as soon as possible. Abby had already told Dr. Bob to take charge of Peter.
Megan felt pleased to have her sister back: quick, decisive, mischievous Abby, a woman who knew how to have fun, not the short-tempered, inept, and slightly pompous figure she had become over the last few weeks. Naturally, they were both tense about taking over from Daddy, but if it wasn’t going to be fun, what was the point?
As the car park was only a couple of miles away, Abby told George that she would do the driving. The real reason was that George was an old-timer they hadn’t got rid of yet (there was so much to do!) and she and Abby were driven mad by his endless concerned questions about “Mr. Dunbar.”
“But you’ll need the second car if you’re picking up the others,” said George.
“Don’t worry, we’ll manage,” said Abby, slamming the door. “They can walk if it means we don’t have to sit in the car with you,” she muttered to Megan through a clenched jaw.
“Bye,” said Megan, waving through the window at the bewildered, windswept driver.
“Well, at least he’s done something useful this morning,” said Abby, smiling at Peter in the rearview mirror.
“What’s that?” said Peter.
“Bought us a case of whisky.”
“A case, a whole case?” said Peter. “Oh my, what have I done to deserve this undeserved good fortune?”
“You told us where to look for Daddy.”
“Did you find him?” asked Peter. “Did you find Daddy?”
“Not yet,” said Abby, “but we’re going to go to the car park where the two of you parted, so that you can re-enact the scene with your amazing powers of recall and mimicry.”
“Well, it was just like I said—”
“Just show us when we get there,” Abby interrupted him.
They soon turned off the lakeside road into the deserted car park.
“I think I’m having a panic attack,” said Peter to Dr. Bob. “Can I have another Valium?”
“I don’t think that would be appropriate,” said Dr. Bob, “the benzodiazepines are highly addictive.”
“There they are,” said Dr. Bob to Abby, “in that little shelter next to the Information Center.”
“There who are?” said Peter.
Abby drew up beside the shelter.
“Now that is appropriate,” she said, “an information center, because what we want from you is some accurate information, Peter.”
“But I’ve told you everything I know.”
“Get out of the car.”
“I can’t get out of this car, I mean look at the weather; there are trees flying through the air horizontally—I wouldn’t be surprised if this storm wasn’t being filmed by one of the extreme weather channels…”
“Get out of the fucking car,” shouted Abby. “We’re talking about my father’s survival here and it may depend on some detail you’ve forgotten to tell us. Now get out!”
Peter stumbled out of the car, blown sideways by the force of the wind.
“Steady there, Peter,” said Kevin, putting an arm around his shoulder and guiding him into the shelter. “Bring the whisky,” he said to Jesus.
“Oh, I see,” said Peter, “it’s party time! Why sit in the Lakeview Lounge of that depressingly comfortable hotel, sipping tiny cocktails, when you could be in a public car park, in sub-zero temperatures necking your very own bottle of Scotch? A man after my own heart.”
“Sit down, Peter,” said Kevin, “take the weight off. I know I could use a rest, but then I’ve been up since three in the morning looking for my employer’s father. Two hours ago, I was up to my waist in snow, couldn’t see shit, and do you know what I thought? I thought, if Peter’s been giving us misleading information, I’m going to fucking crucify him!”
“But I didn’t give you any misleading information,” said Peter, “I promise.”
“Hold his arms, J,” said Kevin.
Peter’s arms were twisted over the back of the bench and held in place by Jesus. Kevin unscrewed the tops from two bottles of whisky and started to pour them over Peter’s head. The whisky soaked his hair, streamed down his face, and drenched his shirt and the lapels of his jacket. As soon as they were empty, Kevin replaced the bottles and got out two more full ones.
“What do you call this, son?” said US Colonel Peter, twisting his face up to suck in some of the second downpour, “Whisky-boarding? It should be mandatory under the Geneva Convention.” Getting no response, Peter switched voices abruptly to a disgruntled customer, “I don’t know how long you’ve been training as a barman, young man, but let me introduce you to a key concept: the glass, or any kind of container, a cocktail shaker, a coconut shell, or in your case a couple of big leaves stitched together with that surgical thread you use to sew up a wound after you’ve sucked a bullet out of your shoulder…”
Kevin went on impassively pouring bottle after bottle of whisky over Peter’s body, while Abby, Megan, and Dr. Bob took up positions around the shelter.
Peter transformed himself again, this time into a lisping Hispanic stylist. “Guys! I gotta tell you: this cocktail is not going to catch on. It’s way too expensive, and it’s crazy how messy it gets!”
“Shut the fuck up,” said Kevin. “Unless you’ve got something to tell us about where we can find Mr. Dunbar, not another word.”
“But I’ve told you,” said Peter, beginning to sob.
“Do you know what this is?” said Abby, holding up a little silver pistol. She aimed it at her temple and pulled the trigger, producing a ferocious gas flame. “It’s a Hurricane Lighter, designed to work in just these sorts of conditions.”
“Mustn’t forget the trousers,” said Kevin, splashing more whisky into Peter’s lap and onto his thighs and knees.”
“No,” said Peter. “No, no, no, no, please.”
Abby sat down on the bench next to him, clicking the lighter on and off, like a nervous habit.
“So, you came here with my father yesterday,” she said.
“It’s like I told you,” said Peter, who seemed to be having trouble breathing. “We parted over there…by the big tree…we shook hands…I told him there would be snow in the pass. You’ve got to believe me!”
Abby was too spellbound by the roaring cone of flame to listen to Peter. She brought the lighter closer to his face.
“I swear I’m telling the truth,” sobbed Peter.
“I’ve seen a lot of men under interrogation,” said Kevin, “and this one is telling the truth.”
Abby let the lighter go out, just before running the hot barrel through Peter’s whisky-soaked hair.
“Ouch!” Peter screamed. “You fucking burnt me! Your father is right: you’re a monster, a fucking monster!”
“Really?” said Abby. “Is that what he says?” She calmly brought the pistol down to the level of Peter’s navel and lit the edge of his shirt.
“Is that really necessary?” said Dr. Bob, wearily. “He’s telling the truth now and he was already telling the truth last night, because he was psychologically prepared.”
Peter had started screaming as a delicate blue flame spread slowly over his shirt and trousers.
“He needs to learn some manners,” said Abby. “Nobody calls me a monster.”
“It was a quotation. Let’s find the man he was quoting. We’ve only got until Wednesday, at the latest, before we have to head back to New York. Let go of his arms, or we’re going to have to take him to a fucking hospital.”
Abby nodded her confirmation and J released Peter, who started frantically slapping out the flames on his chest and lap. He ran out of the shelter into the wind and the rain and soon put the fire out, but something in his mind seemed to have snapped and he continued to run toward the lake, gibbering and screaming.
“What a drama queen,” said Abby.
“It’s not like it was gasoline,” said J. “What just went down could have happened in a fancy French restaurant.”
“Collateral damage from a crêpe suzette,” said Dr. Bob.
“That’s right, sir,” said J.
“Look, he’s actually smoking,” said Megan, “I’ve got to take a photo.”
“I wouldn’t do that, ma’am,” said J respectfully.
“You’re quite right,” said Megan, clasping his muscular, tattooed forearm. “I was getting carried away.”
They looked on as Peter waded into the lake, shouting incoherent curses at the sky. After a few yards he slipped on one of the unreliable stones underfoot, lost his balance, and toppled into the water.
This was too much for Abby and Megan, who got such contagious giggles that they had to lean on each other for support.
“At last I can see why people think he’s funny,” said Megan, applauding as Peter floundered around in the frigid water.
“I hate to spoil your fun,” said Dr. Bob, looking up from his phone, “but I just got a message from Jim Sage. He says that Florence is flying in to Manchester and has asked him where you are.”
“Just ignore it,” said Abby, snapping into action. “If he doesn’t know, he can’t tell her, but we don’t want to tell him not to tell her. Okay, let’s go back to Nutting and start asking questions. Presumably you didn’t go into those four houses in the middle of the night.”
“No, we didn’t want the attention,” said Kevin.
“I’ll go on foot, ma’am,” said J. “That way if he tries to come back here, I can round him up.”
“Good idea,” said Abby.
“You’re such a hero,” said Megan, resting her hand back on J’s arm. She was enthralled by the energy she could feel radiating from his body: here was a man who knew all about killing and all about fucking, and almost nothing about anything else. Absolute heaven.
“I’m just doing my job, ma’am,” said J, hoisting his rucksack onto his back. “I’ll see you all in Nutting.”
“Look, darling,” said Megan to Abby, “he’s jogging!”
“As he says, he’s just doing his job.”
Megan watched J until he disappeared into the trees.
“Come on, come on,” said Abby, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel.
Megan climbed into the back seat, next to Dr. Bob. She glanced back and saw Peter. She had completely forgotten about him, he seemed so irrelevant now. He was back on the shore in what a yoga teacher would have called child’s pose, kneeling forward with his back arched and his forehead on his folded arms.
“Baptized by fire and baptized by water,” said Dr. Bob. “If he’s not born again, I don’t know who is.”
“Don’t,” said Megan, “you’re making me jealous.”
Dunbar clambered over the stile as stealthily as he could and once he was crouching behind the drystone wall on the other side, looked back at the disappointing hamlet of Nutting and at the barn where he had spent part of the night. He was not certain whether he had been spotted by anyone, but until he got out of the bowl of this valley he was as conspicuous as an insect crawling across a windowpane. His plan had been to wait until morning to ask one of the residents to call him a taxi for London. He dreaded the prospect of this social exertion, fearing that he was in too much of a muddle to make himself understood. If he looked as mad as he felt, he was more likely to end up in an ambulance or a police car than a taxi. His muddle was at once immediate and fundamental; he seemed to be reaching for the keys of a piano that was sliding across the floor of a sinking ship, trying to remember snatches of a piece he had once known by heart.
Part of him was grateful not to face the challenge of a human encounter. He was driven to be alone with his madness, even if being alone was driving him increasingly mad. Perhaps there was a point at which the disorder would become a new kind of order, or at least a new kind of perspective, like a pilot who struggles through an overcast sky and then emerges from blindness into the serene light of the upper atmosphere, looking down on a sea of cloud beneath the wings, seeing completely what had just prevented him from seeing at all. Yes, that’s what he wanted, that’s what he desperately wanted.