Soul

‘As you wish, but I have an appointment later.’

Inside the coach, the girl appeared even taller and more awkward. She lifted her black net veil embellished with sequins and sat back against the leather as if she were accustomed to such luxury, her long gloved arms draped elegantly across the back of the seat, her limbs arranged with a self-conscious air. Her perfume was a strong musk laced with lilac; it filled the carriage and seemed an extension of the dramatic face paint and clothing. There was something about the severe angles of her face that reminded Lavinia of her husband’s Amazonian masks. Was this what James had been attracted to, these unabashedly sensual planes? Watching the whore, Lavinia tried to imagine her husband making love to such a being. It was all too easy.

‘I want you to tell me what my husband likes,’ Lavinia said, hoping the whore would not be able to read her expression in the half-light. The girl laughed, taking care to cover her flawed teeth with her hand.

>

‘My brave friend, I know many husbands. Which is yours?’

Again, Lavinia had the uncomfortable impression that the girl, who appeared no older than herself, was superior in both experience and years.

‘Colonel Huntington. I saw you both together several weeks ago.’

‘Ahh, so the Colonel has finally married, and one so young and pretty.’

‘You have known him for a long time then?’

‘Indeed, several years. He is a good and kind patron. But you look unhappy—really, there is no need.’

‘Surely a philandering husband is a source of unhappiness.’

‘Ah, so this is why you have sought me out. To discover why he makes love to me and not you?’

Lavinia, unable to speak, nodded. The young woman smiled enigmatically and then, without a word, pulled her wig off. It was then that the masculine angularity of her countenance was explained. Amazed, Lavinia cried out.

‘Do not distress yourself, my dear. I am sure he cares for you in his way. Besides, I have not seen him for a good month. No doubt he has become one of those “reformed” gentlemen.’

The transvestite pulled out an elegant pocket watch attached to his waist by a gold chain. As he opened it to read the time, Lavinia noticed it was engraved with the initials AC.

‘Now that your question has been answered, I will have to leave you. But first I have a question for you.’

‘What could that possibly be? Unless you wish to question my intelligence?’ Lavinia replied angrily.

Smiling gently, the youth placed his hand over Lavinia’s, as concerned as any gentlewoman might be in the circumstances. ‘You mistake me. I do not pass judgement; I merely wish to make an enquiry of my own. Do you have an older sister, or an aunt perhaps? You bear a remarkable resemblance to an old employer of mine, also an Irishwoman.’

‘I have neither sister nor aunt.’

‘Your mother?’

‘My mother died when I was two.’

The youth pocketed the five guineas Lavinia gave him, then peered closer at her face, searching her features. He sighed. ‘Remarkable.’

Replacing his wig, he opened the carriage door and climbed down. ‘You may remember me to the Colonel. I am known as Polly Kirkshore.’ Then, smiling whimsically, he slipped away into the night’s embrace.

36

Los Angeles, 2002

A BUTTERFLY HOVERED AND skipped over the surface of the swimming pool, incongruous against the background of telegraph poles reaching up beyond the wire fencing, its multi-hued wings catching the sunlight, the long tips of its wings trailing behind—a winged messenger of the natural world.

Julia sat marooned in a cane reclining chair, the blood sample she’d come for safely stored in the briefcase at her feet. Lieutenant Colonel Axel Jensen, a bulky sixty year old whose leathery tanned stomach fell in gentle ripples over his loose swimming trunks, sat beside her, ice clinking in his glass. He smiled, revealing immaculately capped teeth. Julia knew they were capped because the day before she’d met his identical twin, whose teeth were comparatively decayed.

The house, located in a quiet street in Van Nuys, was a collision of painted steel and stucco. The concrete and grass patio curved around the pool, and sliding glass doors revealed an open plan kitchen with a sunken seating area furnished with leather sofas. There was even a bar with a bamboo canopy. It was the ultimate playboy’s den circa 1972, and, judging by the peeling paint and chipped pool tiles, it had not been renovated since then. Axel Jensen, the personification of old-world masculinity, appeared a natural extension of his environment.

After glancing down to tcheck that the tape recorder was working, Julia peered into his mirrored sunglasses. ‘So, tell me about what happened in the Gulf.’

‘Well, I was in command of an airborne ranger unit, professor. People like us—soldiers who are sent in behind enemy lines to locate and eliminate the brains of the beast—we’re the elite. We’re there because we want to be. We’re trained hunters.’ ‘All the other survivors from your unit developed PTSD, except you.’