October Men

General that you have no use for me.'

As a final statement of intent that was not wholly without dignity, he decided. From the spreading smile on Villari's face, however, it seemed to lack something as an ultimate threat, though under the face-concealing glasses it was difficult to make out what species of smile it was.

'Then you have a long walk ahead of you,' said Villari equably. 'But I have never said I had no use for you—you must have patience, little Boselli. This is a game of patience, you know, is it not?'

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'What use am I, then?' Perversely Boselli found the Clotheshorse's amiability as off-putting as his insolence: it made him wonder whether his real usefulness was not in truth simply as someone to carry half the responsibility for failure. Perhaps he had underrated the man after all. ...

'You can put names to faces for me, I'm told. And that's what we need at the moment, a few more names to add to this Englishman's. Then we can really get started.' Villari sounded almost friendly now. 'Does that answer your question?'

Boselli stared at him wordlessly, conscious once more of the insistent pressure on bis bladder.

'Is there anything else you'd like?' asked Villari.

'I—I—you must excuse me for one moment,' Boselli muttered. 'The call of nature—'

He stumbled down the nearest alleyway until he was just out of sight of the main street, fumbling as he went for the zip fastener on his fly. It was partly nerves, of course, as well as nature, but it was also hugely humiliating. Why did people like Villari never, never need to do it, though?

He sighed with relief at the little lizard staring at him with bright eyes from a crack in the wall just above his head. To his right he had a part view of a little courtyard with a faded black and white geometric mosaic pavement already half covered by modern detritus. Around it were splintered columns like a line of tree stumps felled by inexpert foresters.

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A little hysterically, physical and mental relief at two distracting jobs done restoring his spirit, he thought: this is the moment when the Englishman and his contact come strolling round the corner, or if not them then the Englishman's model-girl wife in her wide hat, catching him in the unstoppable moment of midflow.

The thought made him rise on tiptoe and peer round him, and then back away from the spattered wall as he pulled up the zip, still searching the alleyway for prying eyes—

There was a man leaning in a ruined opening halfway down the alley—a man with a bright red cravat like a stain running down his white shirt front—

As he stared, hypnotised, the man raised a red hand to adjust the cravat, turning slightly away from him as he did so, totally ignoring him.

Boselli's mouth opened—he felt it open as though his lower jaw was falling away from the upper one, its muscles severed

—and a meaningless sound rose out of it.

The bright blood rippled over the fingers suddenly and the head sank against the wall as though the man was overcome by weariness. In ghastly slow motion he sank on to his knees, head and shoulder scraping down the stone work; for one instant he remained balanced, then he began to fold forward until he was bent double, the top of his head resting on the ground—

The sound inside Boselli became coherent.

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' Villari!' he wailed.

As though released at last by the sound, the kneeling man pitched over suddenly on to his side, his back towards Boselli. His left leg straightened and kicked convulsively at the stone doorstep on which he had been standing.

' Villari!' This time the wail was much louder, more like a scream.

There was a low, bubbling rattle ahead of him and the sound of running footsteps behind, but both were lost in the tide of sickness which swept over Boselli: he vomited helplessly and painfully into the dust at his feet, the tears starting from his eyes as he did so.

'What the—' Villari stopped dead beside him. ' Jesu!'

'He was standing in the—' Boselli choked on the lump in his throat. 'He—just fell down.'

Villari moved forward, but cautiously now, staring all around him and stooping. As he moved he reached back inside his coat with his right hand, towards his hip. Boselli blinked the tears out of his eyes, fascinated even though fear was now flooding inside him to replace the sickness: it was like watching a cream-fed tomcat transformed into a tiger hunting in the territory of its enemies.

When he reached the opening out of which the man had fallen Villari paused, setting his back against the wall for a moment. Then, with his automatic pistol held at the ready across his chest, its muzzle level with his left breast, he dummy2

peered into the courtyard over his left shoulder. The movement was smooth and continuous: the right shoulder swung away from the wall and Villari pivoted across the gap, facing it squarely for an instant with the pistol now extended to cover the ulterior, stepping over the legs of the man in the alley without looking down and ending up with his back against the wall on the other side in exactly the same stance as he had started. He looked up and down the alley, shifting his pistol from his right to his left hand as he did so, and then sank down on one knee beside the body, reaching with his free hand for the pulse at the neck.

It was unnecessary, thought Boselli, the memory of the man's collapse still horrific in his mind. But it was also enormously reassuring: this was an altogether different Villari from the languid, aristocratic brute of a few minutes ago. A brute still, no doubt—but one with all the necessary jungle qualities and skills.

He recalled with a pang of surprise that he had said as much to Villari in the cafe an hour earlier, ascribing it to the General without believing in it himself. Once more he saw that his instinct had been sound, although he had allowed his personal feelings to confuse it and to doubt the wisdom of the General's design. He should have known better than that.