Windsong – Breath of Being (Chapter 17 – Haunting)

CHAPTER DATE

Being The Beginning Sunday, January 23, 2011

Mistral

1 The Exchange Sunday, January 30, 2011
2 bildende Kraft Saturday, February 5, 2011
3 Gossamer Wings Friday, February 11, 2011
4 Nemesis Saturday, February 19, 2011
5 Odd Shoes Friday, February 25, 2011
6 al-Rûh Friday, March 4, 2011
7 A Love Supreme Thursday, March 10, 2011
8 The Three-Cornered Light Thursday, March 24, 2011
9 Serendipity Tuesday, April 5, 2011
10 The Watchman Friday, April 15, 2011
11 The Upright Way Sunday, April 25, 2011
12 Angels Wednesday, May 4, 2011
13 The Cave of Montesinos Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Meltimi

14 Idols Tuesday, May 10, 2011
15 Nightingale Sunday, May 15, 2011
16 The Perfect Square Sunday, May 22, 2011
17 Haunting Thursday, May 26, 2011
18 The Uncontainable
19 The Ear of Malchus
20 Mauvais Pas
21 Sinan Qua Non
22 Spirit-Level

Sirocco

23 Witness
24 Alcibiades
25 Ney
26 Birdsong
27 The Vanishing Point
28 The Cat Walks
29 The Approximate Likeness of Being

Becalming Unscientific Postscript

Chapter 17

Haunting

“You reach a zenith of torment that is an extreme misfortune,

poisoned with some remaining hope.”

Stendhal

De l’amour

‘I needed that,’ Rio said, coming through the adjoining door between their rooms.

Jack Dawson looked up. Rio’s head is covered with a white towel, turban-wrapped, and wet patches of her dark skin shone like patent leather through the silk of a sheer kimono. He watched as she flopped into the chair opposite him, one leg dangling over the armrest. The kimono fell away to partially reveal her upper thighs and almost fully reveal her left breast.

‘What’s bothering you, Jack,’ she asked, filing her nails.

Jack Dawson wanted to tell her, he wants it to be like it was before. He remained silent and the silence irritated her; unnerved her. He sensed her become more and more uncomfortable and in response cover over the fleeting breast and unravel the towel from her head to place it across her knees, pretending that she needed it as a base for her manicure.

‘I just don’t trust him, Rosalind,’ he finally said.

‘Or any man,’ she laughed but then regretted the invitation. ‘What should we do?’

‘Be careful not to get out our depth . . . or into his.’ Jack Dawson hesitated for a moment, realising what he had just said. ‘Flanagan knows Istanbul and could be leading us a merry dance. Don’t get too close to him.’

‘I won’t. But I would like to recover the bloody Book, and shove it up FitzHenry’s ass.’

Jack laughed with an understanding acknowledgement. He thought for a moment and then spoke in a serious tone, ‘I understand the nature of men’s obsessions and that Book is Flanagan’s! Little else will fill that need. Even you Rosalind!’

‘Of course you understand, Jack. You are a serial obsessionist.’ Rio laughed back at him, holding up five fingers. ‘Anyway I’ve told you. I’ve no intention of going down that road.’

Only one real obsession, Jack Dawson said inwardly, only one.

Rio got up from the chair, one long leg trailing after the other. ‘Did you notice how Jerome’s hand shook, after you hit him,’ she questioned.

‘Yes.’

‘Fear?’

‘Perhaps. Don’t know.’

‘Strange. Wouldn’t have expected him to react like that . . . anyway, I’m off to bed. I want to see if I can contact Joyce Holden before I go to sleep. See how she is.’ She leant down and kissed him on the forehead.

All he saw were her breasts.

‘Good night, Jack,’ she smiled.

‘Good night, Rosalind.’ He watched her open the door. ‘Rosalind?’

She turned. ‘Yes Jack.’

‘You look so like Nan Greta sometimes,’ he whispered.

Rio at that point felt her chest suddenly tighten and she looked at him with suspicion. Had Jack forgotten so conveniently, she wondered, how he had . . . how they both had betrayed that love? How, after her mother’s death and Grandpa Dawson’s breakdown, Nan Greta had arranged for her to stay with Jack in Eleuthera, at a wrong moment in time for all of them. Jack’s first marriage had just ended and he needed love; she also needed love, reassurance; a seven-year-old girl and a thirty-seven-year-old man holding each other together. And each summer after that first she could not wait to be with him again, when they would have each other to each other for a month; Jack always careful to have his current wife stay away. And each summer the sexuality between them developed further, never to intercourse, but she learned to make him happy, make him come, taste and breathe in the smell of him after he came. So much so she wanted more and more, never wanted it to end. ‘Don’t tell Nan Greta,’ he had always begged when she eventually had to go home. ‘Keep it our secret, Rosalind.’

Rio remembered the summer she was twelve, around the same time that she had her first period. She had showed him the sheet from their bed and he suddenly looked frightened. Later, he’d said they should stop sleeping together. She was a woman now, no longer a child. He’d said he was afraid of her touch, her hunger, and her need to have him. She didn’t understand then why she’d felt so dirty at his rejection. She in turn had rejected him after that until years later when her need surfaced again . . . his had never gone away.

Rio looked down at him. ‘I never told her, Jack.’

His face flickered. ‘I know,’ he whispered. His voice was brittle and tears were welling up in his eyes. ‘I’m always here for you, Rosalind. Forever!’

‘I realise that Jack and I love you for it. Goodnight.’

The door closed. Jack Dawson got up and listened against it for a moment. He heard her voice, muffled in the distance. ‘Joyce. Thank God I got you. How are . . .’ He moved away from the door and checked his watch. It was 8.00 pm in Dublin. He lifted the receiver and dialled...

‘Hello,’ a familiar voice answered.

‘Gerry? It’s Jack Dawson.’ He kept his voice low.

‘Jack. Hi. How’s it going in Istanbul?’

‘Flanagan turned up tonight. Came to see us at the hotel.’

‘Jesus!’

‘Yeah. Cocky bastard. I hit him.’

‘Did you call the police? Do you want me to do it?’

‘No. I . . . I don’t think he had anything to do with the robbery, Gerry. He’s just after that stupid book. I think you should call off the bulletin on him.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Blood group B Pos. I checked. Much as I’d like to see him locked up I don’t want to have it on my conscience.’

‘Thanks for that. I’ll do that right away. How’s Rio taking it?’

‘Fine.’

There was silence for a moment, each man stuck in his own thoughts. Gerrit Flatley was the first to break it, ‘Jack?’

‘Yes.’

‘About Rio! This is very old-fashioned . . . I was wondering . . .’

‘About what?’ Jack was instantly alert.

‘Do you think she would go out with me . . . on a date.’

‘Jeez. I don’t know Gerry. She’s just come out of a bad relationship and with all that has happened . . . perhaps it’s not a good time.’

‘You’re probably right. Anyway I’ll be able to judge for myself soon-enough.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll be in Istanbul myself tomorrow.’

‘What?’ Jack shouted but then after looking towards the inter-connecting door quietened to continue, ‘What do you mean you are coming to Istanbul?’

‘Everybody is on edge, Jack. Al-Qaeda is on the march again and the Brits are worried about Ahmed Al-Akrash. Seems he might have a significant past. On a tip-off from the Israelis the Turkish police picked up two passengers, a man and a woman, off the ferry from Izmir. My contact in Istanbul thinks that the man answers to our friend Ahmed’s description. They want me to go and check him out from our end.’

‘What type of past?’

‘I don’t know. Terrorism most likely. What type of past do any of us have?’

‘Yeah,’ Jack answered tiredly.

‘I have your mobile number, Jack. I’ll give you call when I get in. Meet up for dinner perhaps, you, me and Rio.’

‘Right. That’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, Gerry.’

‘Goodnight Jack.’

He replaced the receiver, walked to the door and thought about knocking. Rio was still talking, so he decided against it. Time enough in the morning, he thought.