RailingsJo Huntly The woman, recognising the dog, called him over. The dog, rather than responding with his usual bound, shuffled toward her and lay down at her feet. "What’s the matter?" she asked, in the tone of one addressing a howling child. "Tell me all about it." She added, rubbing his exposed stomach. Suddenly, the dog jumped up, whining. The woman turned: there was a shadow over them both. "Oh - is he with you?" Her voice was almost accusing, she wished it wasn’t. The originator of the shadow did not look very friendly. "Yes." "Where’s his owner?" She asked, softening her voice and trying hard to smile. "I’m his owner." No you’re not, she thought, but said nothing. Every morning at this time she took her daily swim, every morning she saw this dog, and every morning she saw his owner. This was not the man. Nor was it the postman, whom she would sometimes see trailing the dog around the streets when his owner was away. She had spoken to the postman only yesterday, and so knew he had not changed. She frowned, pretending that it was the morning sun through the leaves, and looked hard at the impostor. He was an uninspiring individual. Apart from his brusqueness there was little to say about him, other than the fact that the dog obviously disliked him. She wondered vaguely whether he had stolen the animal. But why would he do that and then walk him in such an obvious place? She was on the point of challenging him, when he slipped the chain back on the collar and snatched the dog away. She walked on, ruffled by the encounter but determined not to allow it to spoil her day. Within a few minutes she was at the lido, mesmerised by the sun sparkling on the water: the dog and its owner forgotten.
In his Belgravia flat Michael Visconti sits tied to his chair. He is bound by live cable, his eyes are sealed by his cravat and in his mouth is a sock. The thieves, or kidnappers, or whatever they are called, have taken it from the laundry basket. Half of him is wishing they would free him and go, the other half is wishing he had changed his socks more frequently. It is strange, he thinks, how even in a time of acute crisis, the mind is preoccupied with trivia. The intruders are after his wealth, but they can’t find it and he won’t tell them where it is hidden. It is early morning, he knows this because twenty minutes earlier Columbus had been scratching at the door, demanding his walk. His captors have spent the night searching for a concealed safe. They are professionals and know where to look. At least that is what they tell him. After seven hours hard work he has heard them agree, angrily, that there is no safe. One of them, the one who has taken Columbus for his walk, wants to leave, to call it a day. The other one, the one who at that moment is stamping the silken carpets of his drawing room and kicking at the lacquered chairs, is not so easily put off. "Where is it, you Eyetie bastard?" Roughly, the sock is yanked from his mouth and Michael Visconti gags. "Where is it? We know it’s in here ‘cause we’ve done our ‘omework. We know you don’t trust banks, we know you don’t have no Swiss account. You don’t trust no one but yourself, it’s how you got so wealthy, innit?" The man lunges, breathing an unspecified staleness into Visconti’s face. Visconti, turning away as much as he dare, decides that it is worse than the sock. "So why don’t you just be sensible an’ talk. You lot are supposed to be good at that, blabbing. What’s the shortest book ever written?" He asks suddenly, as though the question has just struck him. "The Italian book of war heroes, that’s what. Ha! What’s the longest book ever written?" Visconti, stupidly, tries to think of a title. "The Italian book of football fouls. Don’t tell me you haven’t read it! But perhaps it’s too long even for you, in your clever Dick house, with your clever Dick money. Well come on then, Mr. Clever Dickie, where is it?" Visconti lifts his head, his ties are beginning to cut into him and he needs to use the toilet. "There’s nothing in here," he says for the umpteenth time. "Please, you must believe me, I swear there’s nothing in here." "Liar!" The back of a hand cracks across his jaw. Visconti, spinning in his private darkness, wants desperately to be able to cry. "Listen to me, Mussolini, if you don’t want to be swinging from that chandelier. Just answer the question and you’re a free man." Visconti, for answer, begins to choke. "Very soon," the man says, his voice suddenly sweet and mellow as honey. "Very soon my friend will be back with your dog. It would be a nice surprise if we had already done all the work. Nice for the dog too.... It’d be horrible for anything nasty to happen to him, an accident or something." Visconti, despite his blindfold, blinks. The dog is everything to him. Everything but his wealth. At this point he feels a sudden, burning shame, knowing that he will, reluctantly, sacrifice the dog as well as himself. But this outcome, he thinks, is unlikely. These men are British after all. It is unthinkable that they would hurt a dog.
It is eight-thirty. Columbus and his walker have returned. Outside, in the crescent, a shimmering Rolls Royce Silver Spirit draws up at the kerb. The chauffeur climbs from the driving seat, adjusts his gloves, breathes the July London air, and rings the bell marked Visconti. There is no reply. This is strange. The man he drives to his office every morning is always prompt. He steps back and looks up at his window. The curtains are open so he has not overslept. He rings again, perhaps there is a problem with the intercom. Alerted by the presence of someone on the doorstep for an overlong period of time, the porter climbs up from his basement lodge. "Morning." he says, as though he were in it, rather than expressing the time of day. "Good morning," says the chauffeur, feeling his nostrils pinch. They are two uniformed men doing similar jobs, but he feels he has superiority: the other man’s shirt is undone at the collar and he has no jacket. "Mr. Visconti’s late." The porter drags his shoe along the tiled steps and contemplates the pale facade of the building. He believes the superiority is all his because he lives there. "Might not be in," he winks, and the chauffeur bristles. "Last saw him on the arm of a rather tasty brunette. These foreign types have a penchant for brunettes." The chauffeur frowns, he does not like his employer referred to as a "foreign type", despite the fact that that is exactly what he is. Not only that but it is unlike Mr. Visconti to be late on account of a tart. Well... it is none of his business he supposes, and, after ringing again and getting no response, he nods curtly to the porter and drives away.
Upstairs, with the sock firmly re-implanted in his mouth, Michael Visconti hears the chauffeur pull away, and smiles. He knows redemption is near at hand: the chauffeur will report back to the office, they will find it strange and try to contact him by telephone. When this fails their suspicions will be aroused and the police will be contacted. He smiles again, an act he finds extremely difficult without swallowing part of the sock. His captor clears his throat and spits. "Three rings Visconti, is that all you’re worth?" But the smile has disturbed him - he’s no fool. He turns to his accomplice who is petting the dog. "Put that bloody dog down!" he snaps. "If that bell rings again, answer it, say you’re the plumber or something, but get rid of whoever’s there." "Sure, Ted," the man answers nervously, playing with the dog’s ears. "Don’t bloody call me that, you berk! Get out of here and cook some breakfast, will you? I’m starving. I can’t think when I’m hungry. And I need to think, don’t I, Visconti? Me old dear." And, turning on his prisoner he pulls on his binds to ensure they are secure. "If I don’t think things straight, I might make a mistake."
At a quarter to nine the chauffeur, with his empty car, reports back to Visconti’s luxury offices. He relays his information to Mr. Visconti’s secretary who, while pressing a button on her desk, relays it to Mr. Visconti’s deputy. "What did she look like, this girl?" Visconti’s deputy asks, appearing in the doorway of his office. He is of the tall, angular, public school brigade that litter Knightsbridge. He finds it hard to stand without lounging and though he has been taught to be loyal to his boss, cannot contain the curl on his lip. "Brunette, shapely, you know..." The chauffeur feels like winking as the porter had done, but cannot bring himself to do so. Besides, he would probably be fired. "No, I don’t know." Visconti’s deputy has not yet discovered women. But he has an idea. "Would you say she was anything like Miss Perkins?" The chauffeur considers the porter’s description, comparing it with that of the new typist. "Yes, I suppose you could say that. Yes. Why do you ask?" "Never mind. You can go now." He says, withdrawing into his office. As the door closes behind him, Visconti’s deputy frowns. Miss Perkins has also failed to show up for work that morning, some snivelling excuse about a cold. Momentarily his hand reaches for the telephone, but he lets it drop. It might not be so bad for him if Visconti’s run off with some woman. He’ll turn a blind eye for a while; show the directors that he can run the company as well as any damn wop.
The thieves have turned the attic upside down, they have scratched the surface of every heavy item in the place. What is worse they have cut every picture from its frame and attempted to peel it from its canvas. Visconti, who has had his blindfold removed so he can witness the destruction of his home, is angered by the waste. They weren’t treasures, but they had meant a lot to him. "Where is it?" Ted, his chief captor, demands. His voice is tired and uneven: he is beginning to lose his cool, something Visconti dreads but knows is inevitable. He notes the beads of perspiration on his forehead and the patches spreading under his armpits. He wrinkles his nose, depriving himself of air for a moment, but it is worth it, the man is nothing but an animal. If he truly thinks he is walking out of there with all his, Visconti’s, worldly wealth under his sweaty arm he is an even bigger fool than he looks. Visconti’s eyes narrow with hatred. Didn’t the criminal classes know anything of the mentality of the wealthy? Didn’t they know he’d rather give up his last breath than surrender his life’s gains to such pigs? He remembers the last time he was robbed, that had been an easy job for them: jewellery, silver, antiques, even bank notes. He’d been determined it would not be so easy another time. It was why he’d filled his house with worthless junk. Why he wore nothing but rolled gold, why he had nothing in the house that was older than himself. No, he thinks, his eyes screwing up tight with pain and fear. Breathing comes easily and cheap, gold, gold is another matter. Ted is on his knees now, his hand between Visconti’s legs, cupping his testicles. Slowly, he starts to squeeze. "There," he smiles. "You probably like that don’t you, you bent bastard." His hand closes and Visconti doubles up. "You’ve got no safe. Your furniture’s reproduction. The pictures are crap. You’ve got no silver to talk of, no china, but... WE KNOW IT’S IN HERE. SO BLOODY TALK!" His hand flicks away from Visconti’s crutch with a final flourish. Visconti is too sick to feel any more pain, he wants to die. He knows that if he doesn’t get a breath of fresh air very quickly that is exactly what he will do. His eyes, without focusing, go down to the sock in his mouth. "Thank you," he gasps, as the sock is pulled unceremoniously free. "There is nothing of any value in this place," he says, blood swimming in his eyes and his temple throbbing. "I swear to God." His voice is thick, he is incapable of lying, of withholding the truth. At least, this is what his number two captor believes. "Look T.... Look, perhaps he’s telling the truth." His voice is a whine, like the dog’s. Visconti knows he has no powers of persuasion. "Shut up! We know he’s lying. The money’s in here, we’re inches from it, I can feel it." Visconti wonders how they know so much. He has told no one where his fortune is hidden but he has told many of his mistrust of banks and fear of being robbed. He tries to remember in whom he has confided most recently and the truth hits him like a slab. Pillow talk, how stupid of him, letting his tongue walk away with his cock. He knows then that he is not the only one absent from the office that morning. Will it make them even more suspicious or will they think the obvious? He shakes his head: they will think the obvious.
Ted’s friend, intimidated by his partner, but anxious not to show it, gets up from his chair and looks out of the window. The iron bars, intended to keep people like himself on the outside, remind him, though gold-painted, of his days in the Scrubs. He peers closer so that they will not interrupt his view. "Get away from that fucking window!" Ted screams at him, and the man does as he is told, jumping back as though scorched. Ted looks at the window with its bars and then back at Visconti. "They’re a fucking joke way up here ain’t they? Who’d you think’s going to break in, fucking Spiderman?"
The postman rings the bell marked Visconti. He is later than usual because, due to cut-backs, his round has been increased. He rings again, certain that a few moments earlier he has seen a shadow at the window. Mr. Visconti is a gentleman, he always answers his own bell, signs for his own deliveries; no valets, no au pairs for him. He rings again and looks up in surprise at the stranger suddenly confronting him. "Mr. Visconti?" He asks, knowing that it isn’t. "Yes." "No, I mean, where is Mr. Visconti? I have a recorded delivery for him." The man in front of him rubs an unshaven chin, it is as though he does not understand what has been said. As the postman decides to repeat his message slowly, and with signs, the man speaks. "I’ll take it for him." "I need a signature." The postman tells him. He does not like this man. There is a smell coming from him. It is not a Belgravia sort of smell. It is the sort of smell that comes from the white people on his estate. "Mr. Visconti usually signs for himself." He adds. "He’s away." "Away?" "Abroad." "Oh, I see, in that case I will go back to Mrs. Haviland’s for the dog. It is funny she did not mention it to me...." "He’s taken it with him." The man blurts out. "With him?" The postman creases his face, but before he can say anything the man has taken the letter, signed the clipboard, and closed the door in his face. Taken it with him? He asks himself as he continues his round. That is very strange. What about the quarantine?
It is eleven-thirty, the thieves have been in the house twenty-four hours. The floorboards in every room have been ripped up. There is soot from the chimney inches thick in the grate. Visconti’s mattress, his chairs and his cushions have all been slashed to pieces with a Stanley knife; horsehair and goose feathers float in the air and block his nostrils. The same stale sock has been placed once again in his mouth. He doesn’t think he will be able to breathe much longer. He has lost all feeling in his arms and legs. There are spots before his eyes and he flits in and out of consciousness with frightening ease. The sock has grown with his spittle, it toes its way down his throat. The thought of it makes him heave and gag, and he sees himself choking to death on his own vomit. Suddenly, in a frantic, uncontrollable desire to live, he nods his head toward the window and makes what noises he can. Both his captors misinterpret the sign. "There’s someone out there!" cries Ted’s partner, "It’ll be the law!" "Shut up, you great fairy, he just wants some fresh air is all. Well," Ted tells him, tilting Visconti’s head back and jamming the sock further down his throat. "He ain’t getting none." "Careful! You’ll kill him if you don’t watch out!" "So?" "You never said nothing about killing," the man is in a panic now, "I’ve had enough, I’m getting out of here." "You ain’t going nowhere," says Ted, barring the door and grabbing his partner’s throat. And then, in the distance, the sound of a siren. "Bastard!" he spits, releasing his grip and looking at Visconti. "Bastard! Bastard!" And with that they are gone, racing down the stairs and into the street. Michael Visconti listens as the noise of the siren rises and falls. He wonders briefly if the men will realise their mistake and return, but then he slips out of consciousness once more and never thinks of anything ever again.
After what seemed an inordinately long period of time, Michael Visconti choked to death on his sock. This was only a marginally better death than he had earlier envisaged. He died facing, but unable to touch, his lifetime’s accumulated wealth. He had not lied when he’d told his captors that his fortune was not concealed in his flat. But it was very close, so close they could have touched it, if only they’d opened the window and allowed him some fresh air. Intellectually, they had come close to it also: laughing at him for having bars on the window of a third floor flat. Golden ones at that. If only they had been capable of thinking a bit more laterally. But they hadn’t and so Visconti, though dead, was victorious. He had done what he had always wanted to do, he’d taken his money with him.
His body was found four days later, when the howls of Columbus finally alerted the porter that something in the top flat required his attention. By this time the animal had chewed his way through most of his owner’s feet and was, mercifully, a few centimetres from the live flex. For a day he became a tabloid hero, better known than his namesake. The woman in the lido, after reading the account in the paper, never did put the name to the face. (She did not read the tabloids.) The chauffeur was fired for gross negligence, while Visconti’s deputy slipped readily into the dead man’s shoes. The postman, a Muslim from birth, turned to drink.
Ted and his friend are still free. So too, if you’re passing that way, are the golden railings.
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© 1999 Westminster Writers' Group. Last updated 02/07/99.