The Sleepless (55 page)

Matthew shook his head. ‘They keep their secrets well-protected – how they live, how they survive. They have a great many friends in high places, friends who are richly rewarded for helping them. They also have a great many enemies in high places, but almost all of their enemies are far too frightened to touch them. Better to look the other way, if you know what I mean. 

‘There’s a story, though, that one old merchant in Morocco went to visit the white-white men because they had taken his favourite daughter so that they could defile her. He pleaded with the white-white man who had abducted her, but the white-white man refused to give her back. 

‘But it is a rule of Arab courtesy that a visitor to one’s house must never be asked to leave. So the merchant stayed all day and all night at the white-white man’s house, pleading with him not to besmirch his daughter’s purity, and of course the white-white man had no choice but to sit there and listen to him. The merchant stayed another day and another night, and could hardly keep himself awake, but of course the white-white man never slept. It became obvious to the merchant that he would soon have to sleep, and then the white-white man would have the chance to leave him, and take his daughter. So he began to chant a song that his grandmother used to sing to him when he was a child, to send him to sleep, and he swung his pendant in front of the white-white man’s eyes, to and fro. 

‘The white-white man fell asleep; and as he slept, his real age began to tell on him, and he began to dry up, and shrink, until there was nothing left but a –’ 

‘Small, curled-up, hairy thing like a swede,’
Thomas interrupted. 

Matthew stared at him. ‘How did you know that?’ 

‘Because I’ve seen one. Leastways, I’ve seen a photograph of one. It was hanging in the hallway of the house on Byron Street where we found Elaine Parker. There were all of these Victorian-looking people standing around a table, and one of these dried-up things was right there on the table in front of them.’ 

‘Then you’re beginning to believe me?’ asked Matthew. 

Victor said, ‘I think I need some more coffee.’ 

Thomas jotted down some more notes. Then he said to Matthew, ‘There’s something underlying all of this mythical stuff. I’m not sure that I believe that the white-white men were responsible for every major assassination ever. But I think enough of what you’ve been telling us squares with the facts to make it worth some further investigation.’ 

‘And what that merchant did, that was hypnosis,’ said Michael. ‘And the only times I’ve ever seen this “Mr Hillary” character, that was under hypnosis.’ 

‘What name did you say?’ asked Matthew. There was genuine anxiety in his voice. 

‘ “Mr Hillary,” ‘ Michael repeated. ‘I’ve been undergoing hypnotherapy, and the past couple of times I’ve been hypnotized, I’ve seen this tall white-haired man called “Mr Hillary.” ‘ 

Matthew touched his hand to his forehead, a gesture to ward off evil. 

‘Saint Hilary was the only Pope who was known to consort with the white-white men. That was back in the fifth century. There are stories that he was seen with Azazel. There were stories that he
was
Azazel. He was supposed to have come from Sardinia, but some people believe that he came originally from Morocco.’ 

‘Coincidence?’ asked Thomas. 

‘I don’t think so,’ said Michael. ‘There have been too many goddamned coincidences in this case, and all of the coincidences point to one particular party. “Mr Hillary”, of Goat’s Cape, Nahant.’ 

‘All right,’ said Thomas, stretching. ‘I think I could use some more coffee, too.’ 

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Michael. 

‘I’m going to have a long think,’ Thomas replied. 

‘Is that all? What about “Mr Hillary”?’ 

‘What about him? He has a name that sounds the same as the name of a fifth-century Pope. He’s appeared in your hypnotic trances. He’s also appeared in your hypnotherapist’s notebook. Oh – and I forgot. A blind man said his name to you in the street. I don’t think we have quite enough justification for pulling him in, do you?’ 

‘You could stake out his house,’ Michael suggested. 

Thomas shook his head. ‘I couldn’t justify that, either. Not legally, not financially.’ 

‘Then
I’ll
stake out his house.’ 

‘You stay away from his house. Keep digging, keep sifting. If and when you find something, let me know.’ 

Matthew said, ‘You’re going to go after the white-white boys, lieutenant?’ 

‘If they exist – and if they did what you say they’ve done, then I’ll go after them.’ 

Matthew heaved his enormous bulk out of his chair, and brushed down his djellaba. ‘In that case, a word to the wise. Never let the white-white men in through your door. Never speak to them. Never look at their eyes. And if you see one at night, make sure you have a flashlight or a candle, and never turn your back.’ 

Thomas showed him to the door. ‘I want to thank you for all of your trouble.’ 

‘You don’t yet know what trouble is, lieutenant.’ 

‘Well ... it sounds like I’m going to find out.’ 

Matthew touched his forehead again. ‘May the good spirits keep you safe from harm, believe me.’ 

Michael left Thomas’s apartment shortly after eight o’clock, after Megan had made them all breakfast and they had discussed the implications of Matthew Monyatta’s stories. All three of them agreed that Joe’s assassination pictures were
prima facie
evidence that there was some kind of conspiracy behind most of the major political killings of the past 120 years. But they weren’t at all sure if the pale-faced men who appeared in all of the pictures were the same men – or if they were Matthew’s so-called ‘white-white men’ – or if they really were the sleepless descendants of Old Testament angels. 

‘Remember that Matthew’s a revolutionary,’ put in Thomas. ‘He could be setting us up for his own political ends, or simply to make us look like superstitious idiots.’ 

‘I didn’t get that feeling,’ said Michael. ‘I got the feeling that he was genuinely afraid.’ 

Megan wheeled herself into the room with fresh toast. She laid her hand on Michael’s hand, and he could physically feel the warmth of her aura. 

‘Have you had enough?’ she asked him. 

He looked at Thomas and Thomas smiled; and Michael felt like the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built. 

When he got back to his apartment, he tiredly dragged off his sweater and threw it down on the couch. Then he sat down to take off his shoes. The red light on the answering machine was flashing, so he jabbed the play button to hear his messages. There was a click, and a lengthy hiss, and then he faintly heard music playing – strange discordant music, like somebody trying to express a migraine headache on the violin. 

Then, very loudly – almost as loudly as if he were standing right next to him – he heard a thick, breathy voice. 

‘You have tried our patience too far, Michael. We have tried to encourage you, tried to be tolerant. You could have enjoyed a quiet and prosperous life, if only you had looked away. Looking away is no sin, Michael. We have to protect ourselves, you understand that. Every social order has a right to protect itself. That is why we have borrowed your wife and your son, Michael – for no other reason, except to protect ourselves. All you have to do, Michael, is to look away, and never, ever look back.’ 

That was all. The scraping music continued for a little while longer, and then died away, and the message ended. Michael immediately picked up the phone and jabbed out his home number in New Seabury. The first time, he pressed the wrong number, and he was greeted by a continuous whining tone. The second time, he heard his home phone beeping, but it beeped and beeped for almost a minute and nobody answered. 

He phoned Thomas. ‘I came back and there was a message on my answering machine. Somebody said that he’d “borrowed” Patsy and Jason. I phoned them but there was no reply.’ 

‘You’re sure they didn’t go out for a while?’ 

‘Patsy’s normally home at this time of the morning. Jason’s at school.’ 

‘Why don’t you call the school, see if he’s shown up. If he hasn’t, I’ll call my old friend Walt Johnson down at Hyannis and have him check out your house. The main thing is not to panic.’ 

‘Giraffe –’ 

‘What is it, Mikey?’ 

‘I think it was him. The voice on the phone. I think I recognized it.’ 

‘That’s a good start. Who do you think it was?’ 

‘I’m ninety-nine percent sure that it was “Mr Hillary.” ‘ 

There was a very long silence. Then Thomas said, ‘Oh, shit.’ 

‘Why, “oh, shit”?’ Michael wanted to know. 

‘Listen,’ said Thomas, ‘we know where “Mr Hillary” lives, don’t we?’ 

‘That’s right – so if he’s kidnapped Patsy and Jason –’ 

‘He may have kidnapped Patsy and Jason, yes. If he’s involved in the John O’Brien killing, then he certainly had a motive to kidnap Patsy and Jason, to stop you from digging into it any further. But I can’t search his house without a warrant, and in order to get hold of a warrant I have to show just cause.’ 

‘But I recognized his voice! What more “just cause” do you need than that?’ 

‘Did you ever meet “Mr Hillary”?’ 

‘Well, no, of course, not. But –’ 

‘Mikey – where do you recognize his voice
from
?’ 

‘He talked to me, for Christ’s sake! He talked to me when I was under hyp –’ 

He stopped. He suddenly understood what Thomas was trying to tell him. No judge would grant a search warrant on the basis of an identification that was based on a voice heard in a hypnotic trance. 

‘Call the school,’ Thomas urged him. ‘Call the school, then call me back.’ 

‘Okay,’ said Michael, and hung up. 

He searched through his address book until he found the school’s number, and dialed it. But he knew even before he had talked to Jason’s class-teacher what the answer was going to be. Patsy and Jason had been taken – by ‘Mr Hillary’, by the lily-white boys – and all he could think of was Elaine Parker’s cigarette-scorched skin and the slimy cat that still grinned in his nightmares from the ruined body of Sissy O’Brien. 

Seventeen 

There had been an accident on the McClellan Highway at its intersection with Revere Beach Parkway. A huge tractor-trailer had overturned, and lay on its side like a dead bull-elephant, leaking diesel fuel instead of blood. Traffic was backed up as far as Bennington Street, and Michael and Victor had no choice but to wait in frustration for it to edge its way forward. 

It was almost four o’clock by the time they reached Lynn Shore Drive and turned south along the Nahant Beach isthmus. The afternoon was warm, and the sea breeze was feather-light, but the sun was obscured by a thick grey haze, which gave the beach the appearance of a black-and-white photograph, drained of colour. 

‘You realize that Giraffe is going to go apeshit when he finds out that you’ve come up here on your own,’ Victor remarked. 

‘Giraffe can do what he likes. Giraffe’s family hasn’t been kidnapped by some gang of white-faced maniacs.’ 

‘You really think that was “Mr Hillary” on the phone?’ 

‘I played it over and over. I’m sure of it. I don’t know how I could have heard his real voice when I was under hypnosis, but I did.’ 

‘Well ... Aura Hypnosis is a pretty powerful form of human communication. I don’t know whether anybody has the mental strength to talk to somebody else over thirty miles, so clearly that their voice can be recognized. But who knows? The whole thing’s still in its infancy. It’s like virtual reality without the need for any VR equipment.’ 

‘It’s like flying without the need for wings,’ put in Michael. ‘Just like Dr Moorpath.’ 

Victor said, ‘I wish I’d seen that.’ 

Michael glanced at him. ‘Believe me, it happened.’ 

‘Don’t get me wrong ... I’m not doubting your word. I just wish I’d seen it.’ 

‘Do you think ... ‘ 

‘What?’ asked Victor. 

‘Well ... I saw Dr Moorpath walking through the air like that, and I suddenly thought about Elaine Parker. She fell thousands of feet out of that airplane, yet she managed to survive. I’ve been having nightmares about that crash for months. I’ve fallen out of that L10-11 more times than you can count. I’ve been falling and falling and each time I’ve been thinking to myself
if only I could fly.’
 

Victor raised his eyebrows. ‘What you’re trying to suggest is – supposing Elaine Parker flew? Or walked in the air? Or whatever it was that Dr Moorpath did?’ 

‘It’s a possibility, isn’t it? If he could do it, then maybe she could, too. And people have fallen out of airplanes before, and survived. There was some wartime bomber pilot who fell eighteen thousand feet and landed in some trees.’ 

They drove past the neatly-painted beach houses of Little Nahant, and then turned off down the rough, sandy track that led to the lighthouse at Goat’s Cape. The big Mercury bounced and banged on its suspension, and at one point the rear wheels stuck in a slew of gravel and sand. Suddenly, however, they were out in the open, driving over knobbly clumps of sea-grass, and there ahead of them stood the squat white lighthouse which Michael had seen in his hypnotic trances.