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Fleeing deep into the living room, I finally came up against an open window. The coolness of the night air seemed to steady me, almost as if it was somehow blowing in on the panic that was enclosed in my own mind. Outside, the walls of the surrounding tenements made a glossy pit of blackness. Beyond its rough shape, no detail had reached me about the garden that must be laid out at the bottom. The light from the window that I was standing at had been printed onto the ground down there, giving the effect of a yellow rug that has been spread across the floor of an otherwise bare house. I wrinkled my nose. Presumably Rose would want her smokers to be in this garden but it looked locked up. I had already registered the dregs of cigarette smoke around the window. Who had identified the body? His mother? I was alarmed at the possibility that she had been living in Edinburgh all this time and that he had never mentioned her before to me, not even absentmindedly. Or maybe the police no longer had bodies identified. More and more these days they resemble a group of cringing imposters who are trying to pretend that they are still an official organisation. If Basajuan ever turned up again, they would just announce it was somebody else. Peep at it from enough of a side angle to make out the familiar set of his nose and jaw. Without thinking, I raised the bottle of beer to my lips before realising that it was still unopened. At exactly the same time as I had shivered at this, Bartek had seen it from across the living room. His bray of delighted laughter had replaced the gasp of embarrassment in my own mind, making me briefly believe that I had been dethroned in there and that he was now producing my thoughts for me. This gnomic little man was currently strolling towards me through the partygoers, apparently grave but clearly wound up and ticking with his mischief. Yet as he approached and before he had reached me, a number of different fears and options that had been formulating behind my mind were suddenly dislodged and they all slid forward. Basajuan had known that I was going to a party tonight but he did not know where it was or who was holding it. I had no memory of him having ever met Rose. They must have first crossed paths when he introduced himself to her, just a short while ago. She had heard me talking about him over the years but it was otherwise beyond her to have contacted him and invited him to her party. Maybe he was here, circulating, as a sign. He had been always determined to convince me that the supernatural existed. Now that death had been given to him as a splendid new outfit, and he had robed himself in it, he could parade before me irrefutably, to settle the case for his ghosts once and for all. This is nonsense, I said weakly to myself. If only I could step into the kitchen and look into his face, I would see the scandalous mistake. That he was not dead, that death had been conferred on him only through an administrative error. It could be the car, I answered myself again. Stop thinking! My mind had shut with a clap as Bartek arrived. I hauled my thoughts around from out of this dreadful interior and arranged them so that they would rest calmly and exclusively on him. I realised that he was scoffing at my error with the beer bottle. His white eyebrows were peaked in their usual mock astonishment and his quaintly pursed and lined face had sustained another crease of crocodile sarcasm. Then I saw that a slender and very young woman was in his train. His daughter? I had heard before of him having a teenaged daughter. She had silver-and-blonde hair that hung magically, like a frozen waterfall. But she wore glassy eyes and the careful and respectful innocuousness of a teenaged girl who has gone to a party with her father. A look of blankness that made her smooth face eerily fishlike. Still, Bartek had suddenly spun around, marvelling. It would be in the kitchen, no doubt far on the other side of this apparition of Basajuan. The daughter smiled at me and for a second the glassiness had vanished from her eyes. She reached out and gently disengaged the bottle from my fingers. She performed her trick too quickly for me to really glimpse what had happened. She had appeared to deliver a smart miniature karate chop to the cap and then she was handing the bottle back to me and it was open with the beer clear and motionless in the neck. For a moment the cap had been visible falling through the light from the window, like a coin flicked into a wishing well. I sensed that this procedure had been entirely painless for her and that it would not have left even a minor red mark on her hand. I had noticed that she was not holding a drink and I was uncertain whether I should offer to share the beer with her. Would her father allow this or would he — as occurs with him from time to time — hurtle mysteriously into deep offence? He was declaring proudly that he had not taught his daughter the bottle-cap trick and that he had no idea where she could have gotten it from. He was always privately studying his daughter and her teenaged friends and collecting remarkable observations about them, as if he was a lucky anthropologist and they some rare, remote people. I had allowed a gap to grow in our conversation and with this he and his daughter were smiling politely and moving on. I drank the bottle of beer in a succession of brisk wrenches. Now I was floating across the living room towards the kitchen. I had grown massively alert of everything around me and it felt somehow as if I was being moved through this room on wheels. I had paused before the door to assess what was outside in the hallway. All at once, though, Gavin Balland had thundered up to me. His thick loin of a brow jutted, his lips pouted like those of a baby and his tiny dark eyes peered out calculatingly. His grey hair was so lank that it could have been poured onto his head from out of a can. It always confused me that I looked down into his face, as if he was an old lady, and yet he still appeared to be much bigger and more physically powerful than me. Or rather, you felt that if you were a member of his household, and you had to be exposed to his charisma every day, your system would quickly disintegrate, as if it was being poisoned with awesome levels of radiation. At this point he should have shot away like a comet but next it seemed that for once I was being granted more than the standard, usually allocated portion of time with him. He was leaning forwards and ushering me into his husky confidence. He was speaking under his breath and yet his voice had become strangely thin and oily. Your colocataire , this Basajuan , is really making a TOP impression. With a great plunge, he was away again. He smiled grimly at me from the kitchen doorway. See you around. I was left standing by myself in the hallway. Rose passed me, clutching an armful of beer cans against her chest. Her eyes appeared to have widened due to the excitement of the party, or her agitation, and it seemed that she was unable to shake her face slack again. I should have taken some of the cans from her — or made her sit down and breathe — but instead I swooped in to interrogate her. Her face was still very pink but for a second different expressions were fluctuating within it. She broke away from me and, aghast, I realised that she was actually running, or rather scrambling within the corridor just as a panicking animal would do. A door opened and swallowed her up. I had not moved within the hallway. Now Bartek was marching up to me. It was beginning to feel rather as if I was a joint in an ashtray that the partygoers here were visiting, each in their turn. But when Bartek spoke to me his voice was curt and flat and shorn of its familiar merriment. As though we were a pair of divorcees who were still gingerly processing the news that they were at the same party. Where is your daughter? Despite myself, I had looked in the direction of the kitchen. Next, however, there was a great peal of booming laughter, the age-old sound of Gavin Balland being richly pleased with something. At this, Bartek appeared flushed and startled. Whenever he is angry, he becomes small and compact, almost Boy-Scout-like in fact. When he is happy, he spreads out again like a perfume. Resigned, I could only follow. Nonetheless, there were two partygoers standing at the kitchen doorway and whereas Bartek had stepped smoothly through them, I took the opportunity to pause. I then berated myself for the enormity of my cowardice. There are times in life when you have to face something and any further thinking about it is simply a pointless repetition. As when a cat has killed most of a bird and you have to just walk in a straight line towards the bird, pick it up and snap its head back. It was all or nothing now. If the familiar, smiling Basajaun was revealed in there, it would be all. Alternatively, if there was some hellish monstrosity or caricature in this face, it would be nothing. I had entered the kitchen. I braced myself and the living breath seemed to fly from my throat. What I saw immediately was Gavin Balland, hunched over under his lank hair with his head cocked and listening intently. Bartek was remonstrating with him, his compact body almost pulsating and his nostrils rising like wings with impatience. Meanwhile, a third man was hurrying from them and as he left, Bartek spun around. He snapped his fingers at me and his words chased after the man. I had not known how to react and next the man and I had crashed into each other. I was met with an intelligent-looking Latin face, clean- shaven, bespectacled and with short black hair. This was it, there was nothing more. I might have caught the start of a smile or a dot of something mocking but I could not be certain. He had ducked behind me and then he was gone. He had approached me, looking very dangerous. At it, every voice in the kitchen was wiped from the air and everybody stood blankly enthralled. Rose had appeared in the doorway, weeping. Her uncle turned from her haughtily, his face an unearthly black. Bartek and I had both rushed to Rose. It was dawning on me now that something was going seriously wrong with her lately. But I also knew that in the coming weeks, helping her would help me as well. When you are sick, the best treatment is always to find somebody who is sicker than yourself, who will cause a nurse to rise, magically and majestically, from your own disastrous sickbed. Gavin Balland owns a large collection of vintage cars. He had contrived it so that this had soon come up in their conversation. Bartek had seen what was happening. He had encountered this scheme before and he may have even recognised the operative posing as Basajuan from some previous scam. Presumably, in the pictures that Gavin Balland had been shown, its colour had changed and maybe it had been even beaten up a bit to give it some extra character. If or when the real Basajuan ever turned up, he would no doubt proclaim that there had been a misunderstanding and dive under a table. The gang operated in this way, stealing cars and selling them on to greedy and gullible people. It is conceivable that they had also sold Basajuan the methamphetamines that had killed him. The Botendaddy said:. April 14, at am. He was played by Jack Klugman in chiaroscuro black and white teleplay style. Jefferson was a corny DJ with no game. He slung yayo. April 14, at pm. He had been murdered. I knew him since he was a baby. It was horrific and sad. Having to do that is not like in the movies. April 15, at am. Fortunately I have never experienced this situation at least, yet. Incidentally, I was speaking with a friend at a party this weekend and he started telling me about a time when he had worked in a hospital morgue. This was in Madrid and he had been eighteen. He would sometimes have to close the eyes, shut the jaws etc. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed. This is the first time, no? What was this? I smiled. Next I was staring at her in utter disbelief. I continued to stare at the door. Was this the car? The evil of the car? Then it came to me, splitting open the sky like angelic bells. Basajuan is dead. I am an old man now by crackulous, and I Shroake poetry in the park behind Independence Hall. The Botendaddy said: April 14, at pm. Sounds horrific and such a waste. Poor kid. Leave a comment Cancel reply. Comment Reblog Subscribe Subscribed. Sign me up. Already have a WordPress. Log in now. Loading Comments Email Required Name Required Website. Design a site like this with WordPress.

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