‘All right, Sante?’
I nod. Cobra and I are sitting side by side on a trapeze. A second trapeze, adjacent to ours, is lower down, as is the third. We’ve tested all three of ’em to make sure they’re secure. They are. Our problem is they’re static trapezes, and Mama Rose and Redwood trained us on the flying variety: whizz-through-the-sky-leap-and-catch, better-have-a-safety-net-or-you’re-likely-to-die trapezes!
Our challenge is to create an act that uses our skills and brings us together. As it is, though we can move from side to side and up and down, we can’t dazzle spectators by swinging from one trapeze to another. Nonetheless, we can leap and jump and create momentum. We can synchronise our moves, and try out a few tricks.
There’s a mighty turbulence racing through my heart, a crazy tension sparking my nerves, ’cause as soon as I start to dwell on what might happen next, I start to feel wobbly. We create a distraction and then what? The restless dead have waited a long time to bring me here, and even though I’ve had to trust them to come this far, I haven’t a clue what they’re planning to do, or what they really want.
There’s one thing I do know: if that ceremonial dagger they gave me is going to be part of the mix, folks are likely to freak out Big Time. In an hour or so, there’s going to be mayhem down there.
The restaurant, already filling with the Captain’s friends, bustles with the chatter of middle-aged men and women, a few old folks and young ones as well; all of ’em smiling and joking, kissing cheeks and hugging. Laughing toddlers in buggies, babies in prams, little ones cradled in their mother’s arms. Dressed in pale summer suits, splashes of colour here and there – a red pocket-handkerchief, a blue silk cravat, men nod and wink at each other; while women in light linen dresses, scarves fluttering, hair swept back, fiddle with heavy gold bangles sunflower-bright.
A few Old Ones enter with a swagger; confident, a touch overbearing. Used to being waited on. Used to giving orders, ’cause when the head waiter ushers ’em to their seats, most of ’em can’t be bothered to thank him, let alone look him in the eye. Not all of ’em are rich, though. There are poorer folk among the Captain’s family and friends: black-clad in ill-fitting suits and loose clothing. Ruddy-faced relatives, hands calloused from working on the land. Reckon it takes all sorts to know the Captain and be invited to celebrate his special day.
Even Barrel Man’s family are here. I recognise ’em from the photos on his phone: wife pinched, daughters pigtailed and plump. Barrel Man sits ’em down at a table, then clicks his fingers. Five of Miguel’s gang scuttle up. He tells ’em what to do and they do it. A man in every corner of the restaurant, while Barrel Man and another hulk position themselves either end of a top table.
Not a single one of the guests, or Miguel’s crew for that matter, has any idea what’s in store for them; but then neither do I. And if something were to go wrong? If that dagger was to whizz through the air and plunge into someone? If that someone got hurt, badly hurt, would I be to blame?
Cobra covers my hand with his on the trapeze: ‘Come on, Sante, let’s do this!’
We manoeuvre ourselves into place: Cobra at the top, Cat at the bottom, me sandwiched in-between. Cobra nods, the three of us point our toes, and with hands on the ropes of the trapezes, swing our legs.
More guests take their seats. Waiters fill glasses with sparkling water and teams of serving girls, dressed in the same ridiculous costume as Scarlett, carry buckets of Cava to each table.
I search for Scarlett among ’em, but can’t make her out, ’cause every one of those corseted girls is disguised in masks that make it impossible to recognise their features. Hair’s completely hidden as well and there isn’t a twizzle of maple-red, brown, black or blonde in sight.
Bottles pop open. Froth spills into glasses and is gulped down. Pop! Amid joyous sprays of laughter. Pop! Pop! Pop!
The insistent explosion of corks jars, reminding me of a dark undertow beneath the smiles and laughter. Human cargo trafficked, held captive; human cargo destroyed in a strafe of bullets.
I think the thought, and straightaway the forbidding tide of my dream drags me to its shore. Pop! Pop! Pop! And I’m back there, once again, as the Captain’s grey vessel, a trail of carnage in its wake, surges forwards with a splutter of gunfire. Bullets splinter the deck, ripping it open as the trawler erupts in flames.
But this time, in a way I don’t fully understand, Cobra and Cat are above and below me and the three of us are moving as one, removes the sting that flips my dream into a nightmare. I remain calm on the outside, while inside that bloodhound pup claws open my heart. Then, from one moment to the next, a tsunami of emotion sweeps me into a world in which I see them.
Around and about me; amid the laughter of revellers and outpouring of Cava, they’re everywhere. And for the first time I begin to appreciate what they’re truly capable of. Blowing out candles was nothing. A dagger levitating and drilling into a wall was simple compared to this. Might as well ask a bear to dance before it mauls you, or tell Priss to cease flying and stop dipping her talons in blood, before she rips the head off her prey.
The unquiet dead whisper and murmur with intent. They hover and glide – little more than faint wisps of smoke. Smoke that gathers, thickens, whirls and quickens.
A blot darkens the sky. Clouds form and a wind ripples the smooth surface of the sea beyond. Ripples turn into waves that crash on the beach, while inside a hush of expectation descends. I hear the tap tap tap of that golden-topped cane, the shift and shuffle of his laboured tread. He sounds weaker than he was before, desiccated.
I look up. Cobra hears it too. Sees terror in my eyes, and gestures: ‘Stay calm.’ Then he mouths: ‘We’re almost there, Sante. Hold on.’
The Captain’s footfall outside the restaurant door pauses as he gathers strength for his entrance. A clatter of feet assembles around him.
I swallow my fear and continue doing what I’m doing: swing back and forth, in time with Cobra and Cat, who’re blind as bats to what I’m seeing.
Those whirls of smoke coil up to the ceiling. As I fix my gaze on them in anticipation of the Captain’s arrival, the smoke blooms into a throng of dark moths that flit about the room. They move as one, ballooning, stretching, fluttering up, down, in a tumultuous swarm until they congregate above the restaurant door.
A drumroll announces the Captain. The doors swing open, and male dancers in black rush in. Hands clapping, fingers clicking, their feet tap to a beat of sharp advances and quick retreats as they progress, three abreast, to the top table. Behind them is Isaka and behind him, either side of the Captain, are Grey Eyes and Miguel.
It’s the Captain I keep my eyes on; the Captain and those moths. Soon as he enters the restaurant – whoosh! – they swoop from the ceiling and hang over him, like a vibrating blanket of wings.
Last time I saw the Captain he didn’t look too hot; but this? His hair’s still the same: dyed black, combed over to hide a bald patch. Still has the same gold-topped ebony cane, but that’s about it.
The man shuffling slowly towards the top table, the old man with a troupe of noisy dancers bustling in his wake, can hardly place one foot in front of the other. Supported at the elbow by Miguel and Grey Eyes, the stain of evil on his face has leeched deep into his bones. Man’s got the shakes as well, and with every step he takes, twitches like a fish plucked from the sea, gasping for breath.
While Isaka strides ahead in a robe emblazoned with silver embroidery that highlights the blue-black beauty of his face and skin, the Captain limps and falters. Stops to catch his breath, and the moths cluster in a black cloud above his head.
I’ve heard talk from Mimi and Midget Man of folk on their last legs. Heard ’em whisper late at night that when the bony finger of death prods someone, they’re like a dead man walking. Never seen it before today, but now I have: the Captain hasn’t much time left in this world, because the restless dead are intent on dragging him into theirs.