Free Nightspawn by John Banville

the disembowelled wardrobe. From its top shelf he took down a battered briefcase, and, sitting with it in the middle of the floor, he began to sort his papers into it. Silence lay around him, and,beyond the window, the day was filled with little sighs and shouts. He worked steadily, smoothing out the sheets and lining up the edges, pinning them together, weeping silently, unconsciously , lugubrious great tears falling in torrents around him. When the last papers were retrieved, and the last cutting gathered, he slipped his passport into a side pocket of the case. There was also a cheque book from a Swiss bank, an official form of some kind, and a packet of musty fruit sweets. Satisfied, he took the lot under his arm and went past me into the corridor. I followed him. He carefully closed and locked the door, and then, as an afterthought, drew back his foot and kicked a gaping hole in the flimsy panels. He limped out into the street, wiping his eyes.
    ‘Erik.’
    He would not listen. We raced through the streets, Erik bounding along on his long legs with me trotting in his wake. People turned to stare at us. A yacht lay at anchor by the end of the pier. We made toward it. For one fearful moment, I thought that it was Julian’s, but it was smaller and grubbier than that magnificent craft. In the stern, a sailor with a peaked cap was sprawled on the deck, a bottle of beer in his paw. Erik halted at the top of the landing stage, and the sailor gave us both a look. My mouth was open. The sailor was quite calm.
    ‘Erik,’ I whispered frantically. ‘That’s the one, that …’
    He was not listening to me. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and called,
    ‘Where is he?’
    The sailor squinted at him, at the teeth and the grey eyes burning behind the spectacles. He transferred a cigarette stub from behind his ear to his mean mouth, and with leisurely contempt he asked,
    ‘Who?’
    Erik sighed. The sailor’s gaze wavered, and he shouted,
    ‘Boss.’
    The cabin door opened, and an elderly man in a loose white shirt and fisherman’s blue trousers came out on deck.
    ‘Erik,’ he cried, opening his arms. ‘My dear Erik.’
    Thin grey hair, dark in streaks from too much oil, plastereddown on a rapidly balding skull, a fine face with features sharp as a hawk’s, and a tall, once well-made frame now going to seed, with an incongruous paunch bulging from the middle of it.
    ‘Aristotle,’ said Erik, and smiled bleakly.
    He went down the steps to the deck, and Aristotle took his hands and pressed them warmly.
    ‘It’s good to see you, Erik, truly it is.’
    In the stern, the sailor began to pick his teeth with a broken matchstick. I could feel his eyes on me, lazily curious. He seemed to take no interest in the sentimental reunion. Aristotle turned to him.
    ‘Fang, we won’t be disturbed.’
    Fang, that fearful sailor, spat out a sliver of matchwood. His wedge-shaped face formed the faintest grin.
    ‘Aye aye,’ he said softly.
    Erik caught sight of me where I hovered on the steps.
    ‘Aristotle, this is my friend Mr White,’ he said. ‘Colonel Aristotle Sesosteris, of the Royal Greek Army.’
    The Colonel gave Erik a look, of reproach, it seemed, and turned to me with his cold smile.
    ‘I am always delighted, Mr …’
    ‘White.’
    ‘… Mr White, to meet any friend of Erik’s. Erik and I have known each other for a long time. But come now and have a drink, both of you.’
    We went down into the cabin, a rich little room washed by the soft sea light. Erik sat on a low couch, and I shuffled my feet near the hatchway, while Aristotle unfolded a card table and placed upon it three glasses and a bottle. A miniature refrigerator on the wall supplied him with a tray of crackling ice. He asked over his shoulder,
    ‘How did you know I was here?’
    Erik was looking dreamily at his hands.
    ‘Oh, there were signs,’ he murmured.
    ‘I meant to come a week ago, but that storm took most of my rigging, and I had