Текст книги "Memory of Bones"

Автор книги: Alex Connor

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11

Gstaad, Switzerland

Bartolomé Ortega studied his secretary calmly, then glanced away. He resisted an impulse to bite down on his lip, to draw blood, to release a tumour of rage which was threatening to seep out of his skin as sweat, or out of his lungs as one long protracted scream. His extraordinary face, fine-boned and impassive, betrayed nothing of his anger, his hands clasped on the top of his desk, the glass reflecting the top half of his body. Like an elegant island he sat in the vast, minimal surroundings of his office, two windows on his left opened to let in some breeze, the smell of hibiscus innocently irritating.

Having been ill for the previous week Bartolomé had had little time for business. In fact he had enjoyed his sabbatical and the indulgent attention of his wife, Celina. It had even made him contemplate taking more time off in the future, just to be with her and their son, Juan.

Bartolomé knew that his grandfather would never have been as patient as he had been. Adolfo would have disposed of any barren consort within a few years. But Bartolomé loved his wife, and even though she failed to bear a child for many years, he never considered divorcing her. Instead he had made discreet enquiries through his lawyer about adoption. Previously Celina had always rejected the idea out of hand, but as she approached forty and the likelihood of becoming a mother had grown slight, she had finally become receptive to it.

Three months later she became pregnant. Just as their doctor had predicted – take off the pressure and often the couple will conceive. So it had been with them. Once they had turned their attention to adopting a child, Celina had fallen pregnant. And six months later, Juan, the most recent scion of the family, had been born. Darkly handsome, an Ortega in his pram.

Hands still clasped together, Bartolomé swallowed with effort. Perhaps a reminder of his flu? Or simple rage at what he had just been told? He swallowed again, feeling the same tightening of his throat muscles as he stared at the vast expanse of floor in front of him. He liked the emptiness of his office, the cool, chilling grandeur of possessing a room so large that its brilliant architecture and size required little adornment. With the formidable Ortega collection at his disposal, Bartolomé could have covered the walls with images, but he left them blank. When he worked he liked no distractions, nothing to clutter his mind.

His mind wasn’t cluttered at that moment; it was processing the information he had received. Goya’s skull had been found. It was in the possession of Leon Golding, the one art historian Bartolomé feared. The one man he believed might solve the riddle of the Black Paintings before he could. But that wasn’t all – Bartolomé unclenched his hands, flexed his fingers, stared at the mute walls – his brother had known. The sly Gabino had known about the skull. Apparently he had even approached Golding about it, and never said a word to his brother. Never told Bartolomé the news about the greatest passion of his life. Never passed on information which would have been priceless.

Reserved and unemotional, Bartolomé struggled to maintain his calm. As a man of stunning beauty and exquisite taste, in his hands the Ortega collection had secured some magnificent works, including a Velasquez and several paintings by Guido Reni. But Bartolomé’s real passion was for Goya. The Ortegas already owned two small works, but he was always ready to acquire more. Judicious in his financial affairs and kindly in his affections, Bartolomé was, however, obsessed by the Spanish painter. In fact it was the only area of his life which had the ability to unsettle him.

Relentlessly he hunted the internet, his personal sources and auctions around the globe for more works. Over the years he had also spent prodigious amounts of money trying to solve the riddle of the Black Paintings. A queue of experts had come and gone, offering up explanations, none of which were definitive and many derivative. Bartolomé had lost count of the times he had been given Goya’s insanity, illness or fear of death as an explanation. Even hints of a sadomasochistic relationship with his mistress, Leocardia.

None of the theories rang true, and Bartolomé, with unlimited funds, became personally infatuated with the solving of the Black Paintings. At first he had been willing to hire people and ask celebrated art historians for their opinions, but as his interest festered into obsession, Bartolomé realised that he had to win. It was only right that a Spaniard should discover the truth, only correct that the wealthy and powerful Ortega family should make this cultural triumph. And, in the process, finally overshadow the thuggish reputation of their past.

So why had his brother deliberately kept the news of Goya’s skull quiet?

Because Gabino had no interest in Goya, in paintings, in heritage. His life was spent fucking and hustling, as he grubbed his way around Spanish society. As boorish and ruthless as their grandfather … Pushing back his chair, Bartolomé stood up. He moved like a dancer, light-footed, erect, a man who could feel the earth under his feet and was sure of his place on it. A man who had carried the Ortega name with pride, holding it aloft, demanding respect – not like Gabino, swaggering like a stevedore with his heritage tucked carelessly under one arm.

Surprised, Bartolomé could feel himself shaking and turned as the door opened and Celina walked in.

‘Darling,’ she said, moving over to him and kissing him lightly. She smelt of earth and Bartolomé glanced down at her hands.

‘You’ve been gardening.’

She nodded, her youthful face tipped up to look at him, her eyes green and intelligent, her hair a shade lighter from the sun.

‘You should come out – it’s cooler now. It will do you good.’ She reached up and touched his forehead. ‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘Fine.’

She wasn’t convinced. Knew him too well. ‘Bad news?’

‘No,’ he lied. ‘I’m just tired.’

The lie was difficult for him, because he trusted his wife and normally confided in her. Unlike other Ortega consorts, past and present, Celina was not excluded, partitioned off in some harem, her purpose erotic or maternal. She was her husband’s equal. Her family was French and liberal. Certainly not wealthy, but Celina had attracted Bartolomé for exactly those reasons. He wanted no organised Spanish match, no mating of business interests. He wanted love and sanctuary. In Celina he found it. And something more – a prodigious intelligence.

Their chosen exile in Switzerland suited them both, as neither was particularly social and both treasured their privacy. For all his appeal, Bartolomé was not a sensuous man and his sexual appetite was meagre. He watched his brother’s seductions with puzzlement, having never felt such lustiness himself. In truth Bartolomé had welcomed his early marriage and removal from the Spanish social scene and had been fortunate in choosing a wife whose erotic appetites were also minimal. Theirs was a marriage of understanding and mutual trust.

But despite that Bartolomé wasn’t going to tell his wife about Gabino. Too humiliated to confide, he reassured himself. At any moment his brother would tell him about the Goya skull. Gabino would phone or visit. He would.

He had to.

Le Quinta del Sordo, Madrid, Spain, 1820

Dr Arrieta was aware of flies buzzing around the bed, and flicked his hand in their direction. They scattered, settling on the nets over the window, then slowly began to creep across the ceiling, eyeing the two men below. Over the previous summer months yellow fever had crawled like a cripple over Madrid, eventually reaching the bridge over the Manzanares. But the water did not stop it. Instead the fever skimmed on the surface and hopped with the gadflies in the miasma of heat and emerald slime. Fish which had populated the river had now gone, finding the further reaches where the disease hadn’t polluted the flow. And around the Quinta del Sordo the dry earth gave up its ailing weeds to the city’s sickness.

Sweating, Dr Arrieta leaned over the bed and stared into the invalid’s waxy face. He was, he thought helplessly, already expecting to see a corpse. Surely Francisco Goya couldn’t survive another critical illness at his age? Arrieta had not been in attendance before, but had been told of his patient’s long illness in1792. Some said it had been due to a fever, but although that was a possibility, Arrieta had his doubts. He wondered instead if Goya had a serious inflammation of the brain, his blood pressure rising high enough to cause a profound stroke. A stroke which might well have resulted in deafness, depression and even hallucinations.

But even after he recovered Goya had been – and remained – profoundly deaf. And after his first illness his whole life had changed, his court existence closed off, communication hobbled, music silenced. For a man with a great libido and prodigious energy, Goya had been cruelly cowed. In silence, he had gone back to painting; had grown older, more impatient, his deafness alienating him, driving him onwards.

And inwards.

Arrieta stared at his patient. He had a queasy feeling of dread that he might be watching a great man going slowly and irrevocably mad. The steaming, red heat of the Spanish summer clotted with the guttural, unintelligible sounds the painter made in his delirium and hung, clammily, about the plastered walls. Night shadows thick with the smell of drying paint and the stagnant water outside curdled around the high altar of the restless bed. At times Goya would reach out, grasping the air. But his eyes were never open, as though what he saw was not real, not of the world, but something inescapable, inside the ruin of his teeming brain.

Who would have believed that Spain’s finest painter would die as a recluse in a farmhouse apart – and yet within sight of Madrid? That this mumbling semi-corpse was Goya, sweating in grimy sheets with the flies buzzing around the white spittle atthe corners of his mouth? Goya, the man who had been the envy of Madrid, dying by a seeping river under a candle-coloured moon.

Unnerved, Arrieta glanced away. From the stable outside came the sound of a horse birthing a foal, its animal cries as wild and blinded as the crowding night.

12

Madrid

The following evening, a bushy-haired man with a freckled complexion and weak, pale blue eyes walked into the Golding house, Leon hanging back in the doorway of his study as Gina greeted Frederick Lincoln with a kiss to the cheek and ushered him into the small morning room. He moved slowly, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, sweating in the Madrid heat although all the windows were open. His hands were long and very pale, freckles marking the skin like a sprinkling of dun-coloured paint.

‘Leon,’ Gina called out, turning as her lover walked in. ‘Leon, this is Frederick Lincoln. He’s agreed to hold a seance for us. We’re very lucky – he doesn’t visit many people any more. Do you, Frederick?’

He shrugged, but seemed fascinated by Leon as he walked into the room.

‘Gina is an old friend of mine. My mother was Dutch and I was brought up in Amsterdam where we met.’

Nodding, Leon sat down at the small circular table and began to fitfully pick at the cloth which was covering it.

‘Are you a believer in spiritualism?’ Frederick asked, sitting down. ‘Do you believe in life after death?’

Leon raised his eyebrows. ‘How can I? I haven’t died yet.’

‘Not that you remember.’

‘I don’t think this is going to work,’ Leon said suddenly. Gina gave him a pleading look and took his hand.

‘I know all this seems strange to you, darling, but it might help your work. And nothing you tell Frederick will ever be repeated.’ She turned to their guest. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘My business runs on trust,’ the visitor replied. ‘I don’t break confidences. You have to believe in me, Leon. Trust that I can help you—’

‘I don’t need help!’

‘Leon,’ Gina said, intervening, ‘you want Frederick to see if he can get in touch with Goya, don’t you?’

He laughed. ‘If he thinks he can.’

Unperturbed, Frederick studied him. ‘Have you got the skull?’

‘What skull?’

Gina took in a deep breath. ‘No, he couldn’t get it back in time—’

Enraged, Leon turned to her. ‘I told you not to tell anyone!’

‘Frederick isn’t “anyone”!’

Leon was close to panic. Jesus! Didn’t Gina understand that she couldn’t talk to anyone about the skull? What if Gabino Ortega heard about it? And knew that he’d been lied to?

‘You shouldn’t have told anyone!’

‘You can trust Frederick implicitly,’ Gina reassured him. ‘He only wants to help you.’

‘Trying to make contact would be easier with the skull, but we’ll go ahead anyway and see what we can get,’ Frederick said evenly, glancing around the room. ‘Perhaps we should try another seance when you get the skull back. I can’t promise anything tonight.’

Leon’s breathing was speeding up. If he’d been there, Ben would have been furious. Keep quiet about the skull, he had warned his brother. Don’t do anything until we have it authenticated … Yet now this bizarre man was in on the secret. And here he was, lying through his teeth, telling his girlfriend that he couldn’t get hold of the skull, while all the time it was in his brother’s possession in London.

Closing the door of the breakfast room, Gina smiled and regained her seat. The window was open to let in the cooling night air, a late bird making its last-ditch effort at a song. The main light had been turned off and only one small lamp was burning against the far wall so that the three figures sat in the semi-darkness. Uneasy, Leon thought of Detita and the stories she used to tell him, always in the half-light, when the furniture became islands of black rock and the shutters flapped like broken wings in the acid dark.

‘We have to try and contact the other side …’

Leon could hear Frederick’s voice and found himself shifting restlessly in his seat. Slowly the medium reached out and touched the tip of Leon’s little finger with his own. On the other side Gina repeated the action, the three of them making a circle. Through his skin Leon felt the warmth of both of them, and a sensation of dread as Frederick continued to talk.

‘We need to contact the spirit of this house, or any place nearby. We are trying to contact the painter Francisco Goya …’

Chewing his bottom lip, Leon stared at Frederick. Then suddenly, behind the medium, a man stood motionless, his face shadowed. Nervously, Leon giggled, Gina following his gaze but seeing nothing. Transfixed, Leon watched the vision move behind the medium’s chair, then bend down and blow into Frederick’s ear. But to Leon’s astonishment, the Dutchman didn’t seem to notice anything. Still staring at the apparition, Leon watched as the ghost hovered in the warm air, gliding about the stuffy semi-darkness of the room. Then, just as suddenly, it disappeared.

Confused, he giggled again, Gina and Frederick exchanging glances.

‘This is no laughing matter, Mr Golding,’ Frederick warned him. ‘The word’s out. You should be very careful who you trust.’

Leon’s mind was swimming, just as it had done when he was a child. He was back, climbing the tree outside. High up, standing on the branch, another breath of wind telling him to let go, to fall flat into the terracotta earth. A daytime shadow chasing him in amongst the leaves.

‘Leon, relax – stop fighting this,’ Frederick went on, his tone kindly. ‘There’s nothing to fear. The spirits won’t harm us …’

Oh, but they will, Leon thought.

‘Is there anyone present?’

There was a sudden noise outside the door. Frederick carried on talking.

‘Welcome, spirit. Come closer …’

No, don’t come closer, Leon pleaded silently. Don’t come out of my head or out of my madness. Don’t come.

‘We mean you no harm …’

But I mean you harm, Leon thought. I mean you to burn in hell. I mean you harm.

‘I have a message for you,’ Frederick said quietly to Leon. ‘There is a woman here – an elderly woman. She was very close to you, to this house. She was born in this country. She comes to greet you. She used to look after you when you were young … She says she was right. She was right …’

Leon stared at him – was he talking about Detita?

‘She knew you better than anyone. Even better than your brother. She says that you have to listen to her …’

‘I don’t believe it!’ Leon snapped.

‘She says I have to tell you that people passed by this house at night. Evil people. They meant harm. This is a long time ago. A long time ago …’ Frederick’s voice picked up speed, echoing in the confined space. ‘They wanted to punish someone who lived nearby … She says she was right about the demons, only they were real. Real people. They wanted to punish him … they stole his hearing …’

Unnerved, Leon took in a breath.

‘She says you’re searching for the answer. That you have to keep looking, searching. She is talking about the head …’

Irritated, Leon tried to pull away, but Frederick caught at his hand.

‘Listen! She wants you to listen …’

‘I don’t believe in this! You’re a fake. A bloody fake!’ Leon snapped, trying to break the Dutchman’s grip.

‘She wants you to bring the skull back …’

‘This is ridiculous! Bloody ridiculous!’

‘She knows what happened up in that tree …’

At once Leon stopped, rigid in his seat.

‘All those years ago, when you were only a boy … She says you heard a voice. Up in the tree, coming from in among the leaves. The voice told you to let go … She said “the tree made you do it” … She knows you better than you know yourself …’

‘No …’

‘She says she watches you …’

‘Christ, no …’

‘She watches you here, when you work. In your study … She watches you …’

‘Let me go!’ Leon hissed, finally pulling away and running to turn on the lights. His face was waxy as he challenged Frederick. ‘It’s a trick! You knew about Detita! Gina must have told you!’

‘I didn’t tell him anything,’ Gina insisted, giving the Dutchman an unfathomable look. ‘I didn’t, did I?’

‘No.’

Confused, Leon blustered. ‘You’re lying! You knew! You must have done!’

He was reeling like a drunkard. Desperately he scratched around for a logical answer. It was a parlour trick, that was all. He tried to see it from his brother’s point of view. Ben would have laughed – said it was a joke, a cheap con. Nothing else … But Leon had seen something moving behind Frederick’s chair.

Had he seen it?

What had he seen?

Madness?

His own?

Pushing Gina aside, Leon blundered out of the room and made for the garden. There he stood, panting dryly, in the night air. He could pretend that it had all been a sham, but he knew otherwise. Much as he loved Gina, he had never confided in her about his childhood accident. About his fall. About how the tree had told him to do it. So how had she known? Had he talked in his sleep? Jesus, had he?

And if he hadn’t given himself away to Gina, the alternative was chilling. Because someone had known. It had either been Detita in that room or some other spirit, but they had known the secret Leon had hidden all his life. His first flirting with instability. His first plunge into the mind’s labyrinth.

The tree told me to do it …

13

Little Venice, London

Hand in hand with dusk, the restaurant lamps came on, lighting the water of the canal below. It was a mild, humid evening and people had taken the tables on the terrace, the soft lapping sound of the water and the muted breeze making a little city ripple of cool. In the distance, Paddington station huffed and shuffled its trains in the dusty night and the evening traffic slid under a shimmer of street lamps.

And in Little Venice – a knot of white stuccoed town houses bordering the canal in West London – the local high-grade supermarket closed for the night, the lights went out in the window of the French patisserie, and a middle-aged couple entered a nearby restaurant. Shown to their seats a moment later, the woman took off her jacket in the unseasonable warmth, the man beckoning to the wine waiter. On the table next to them, a younger couple were sitting in silence. The woman had taken a lot of care with her clothes, her dark hair glossy, makeup subtle. Beyond them, sitting alone, was a pale blond man reading the late copy of the Evening Standard.

Listlessly, the brunette scrutinised the menu, the waiter hovered, the blond man ordered paella and the middle-aged woman looked up to the night sky.

‘Did you feel that?’ she asked, surprised. ‘Rain.’

Her husband scoffed. ‘It can’t be—’

His words were drowned out by a clap of thunder, violent electric lightning impaling the sky, its jagged white light reflected in the water below. At once the diners fled into the shelter of the restaurant. On the canopy outside the rain pelted down, splashing upwards as it landed, the thunder snapping overhead.

‘Bloody weather,’ the brunette’s companion said, brushing the rain off his suit. ‘You want a drink?’

She nodded. Beside her, the middle-aged couple squabbled and the blond man stood under the canopy by the door to watch the storm. The rain drummed incessantly on the metal tables outside, food washed off plates, some spilling on to the floor, the wine diluted, glasses overflowing as the waiters hurried to clear the tables. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the storm ended.

Apologising, the waiter showed his customers to other tables inside, only the blond man resisting.

‘Just dry off my table and chair. It won’t rain again tonight.’

Surprised, the waiter did as he was told.

Below, steam rose from the canal and spring trees shed pendulous water droplets. Dividing his paper into two parts, the blond man sat on one half of the Evening Standard and then calmly began to read the remaining pages.

‘Moron,’ the middle-aged man snorted, moving to the bar.

His wife followed as the younger couple took a table by the window. Curious, the brunette watched the solitary diner on the balcony, his figure illuminated by the outside light.

‘I thought you wanted to come out for a meal,’ her companion said, irritated, ‘but you look so bloody miserable …’

She shrugged, staring ahead.

‘You not feeling well?’

‘I’m fine. Let it drop.’

A sudden movement on the balcony made her turn and look over to the blond man again. He was standing up and leaning on the stone balustrade, his eyes fixed on the water below. From where she sat, the woman could see nothing, only the restaurant’s lights reflected in the still, unblinking, water.

‘We could have a weekend away …’

‘Maybe.’

‘Don’t sound so bloody excited.’

The woman’s whole attention was now centred on the blond man. He was standing, rigid, looking into the water below.

‘Are you listening to me?’

The brunette no longer heard her lover. Watching the fair-haired man, she again glanced out to the canal as he leaned further out, bending over the balustrade.

Christ! she thought suddenly. He’s going to jump.

Leaping to her feet, the woman raced over and caught his arm, pulling him back. Surprised, the man turned and then quickly motioned for her to look down into the water.

‘Look over there!’ he said, pointing. ‘There’s something’s over there.’

Hurriedly, she snatched a candle from an inside table and then leaned over the balustrade, holding the light as far as she could towards the water.

‘No!’ the man said urgently. ‘Not there. Look over there!’

Leaning out even further, the woman shone the candle light over the flat, black water. The night was very dark, the moon obscured by cloud, the canal deep, its surface unbroken apart from a smattering of reeds and the dripping of water from underneath the balcony.

And then she saw it.

Floating on the water at the edge of the canal, hardly visible, was a bundle, wrapped tightly in a soiled white blanket. It was small, benign, but eerie. Gently, it glided away and began its grisly procession down the middle of the canal, on an almost imperceptible current. Transfixed, they watched its progress, the bundle finally passing under the full glare of one of the restaurant’s outside lamps. The beam illuminated the blood-spattered wrapping – and the place where the parcel had come partially untied.

From which a disembodied hand, fingers outstretched, clawed its way to the light.