IX

From the verandah of what had once been the Portuguese commander’s residence in Suhar, in Oman, Jacob had a magnificent view across the Gulf to Jask, and up the coast to the Strait of Hormuz. It was many centuries since the occupiers had vacated the country. and the modest mansion had fallen into grievous decay. Nevertheless, he and Rosa had been very comfortable here for the last twenty two days. Though the town had dwindled into dusty obscurity since imperialist days, it was notable for one peculiarity: A band of transvestites, locally known as Xanith and claiming to be possessed by the spirits of minor female divinities, wandered its streets. As ever, Rosa was happiest in the presence of men who pretended her sex, and hearing of this extraordinary tribe had demanded Steep accompany her in search of them, given that she’d been at his side on a number of successful killing sprees of late. He had plenty of work to do on his journals, transposing the notes he’d taken at the extinction sites into a final form, so he agreed to go along with her, though he emphasized that when his work resumed he would be stepping up the scale of his endeavours and would expect her full cooperation. Things had gone well for him of late. A dozen near certain extinctions in the last seven months, eight of them, it was true, minor forms of South American insect life, but all grist to the fatal mill. And now, all guided into legend by his careful hand.

Today, however, those triumphs seemed very remote. Today his ink and pen lay untouched, because his hands trembled too much. Today all he could do was think about Will Rabjohns.

“What on earth are you obsessing on him for?” Rosa wanted to know when she came upon Jacob, sitting mournfully on the verandah.

“It was the other way about,” he said. “I hadn’t given a thought to him in a very long time. But he’s been giving some thoughts to me, apparently.”

“I thought you read me something about him being murdered?” she said, picking up a sliver of tangerine from his abandoned plate and chewing on the bitter rind.

“No, not murdered. Attacked. By a bear.”

“Oh, that’s right,” she said. “He takes pictures of dead animals. You had that book of his.” She tossed the nibbled rind aside and selected a fresh one. “That’s your influence, I daresay.”

“I’m sure,” Jacob said. Clearly the thought gave him no pleasure. “The trouble is, influence works both ways.”

“Oh, so you’re thinking of becoming a photographer?” Rosa said with a chuckle.

The look Jacob gave her made the rind seem sweet. “I don’t want him in my thoughts,” he said. “And he’s there. Believe me.”

“I believe you,” she said. Then, after a pause, “May I . . . ask how he got there?”

“There are things between him and me I never told you,” Steep replied.

“The night on the hill,” she said flatly.

“Yes.”

“What did you do to him?”

“It’s what he did to me—”

“And what was that? Do tell.”

“He’s a psychic, Rosa. He saw deep into me. Deeper than I care to look myself. He took me to Thomas—”

“Oh Lord,” said Rosa wearily.

“Don’t roll your fucking eyes at me!”

“All right, all right, calm down. We can deal with the kid very easily—”

“He’s not a kid anymore.”

“In our scale of things, he’s an infant,” Rosa said, putting on her best placating tone. She crossed to Jacob’s chair, gently parted his knees, and went down on her haunches between them, looking up at him fondly. “Sometimes you let things get out of all proportion,” she said. “So he’s been rummaging around in your head—”

“St. Petersburg,” Jacob said. “He was remembering St. Petersburg. Us in the palace. And it was more than just memory. It was as though he was looking for some weakness in me.”

“I don’t remember your being weak that night,” Rosa cooed.

Jacob didn’t warm to her flattery. “I don’t want him prying anymore,” he said.

“So we’ll kill him,” Rosa replied. “Do you know where he is right now?” Jacob shook his head, his expression almost superstitious. “Well, he shouldn’t be hard to find, for God’s sake. We should simply go back to England, and start looking where we first found him. What was that little shithole called?”

“Burnt Yarley.”

“Oh, of course. That’s where Bartholomeus built that ridiculous courthouse of his.” She gazed off into middle distance, glassy-eyed. “That hawk of a nose he had. Oh my Lord.”

“It was grotesque,” Jacob said.

“But he was so tender about living things. Like the boy.”

“There’s nothing tender about Will Rabjohns,” Steep muttered.

“Really? What about the pictures in his book?”

“That’s not tenderness, it’s guilt. And a touch of morbidity. There’s a hard heart in that man. And I want it stilled.”

“I’ll do it myself,” Rosa said. “Gladly.”

“No. It falls to me.”

“Whatever you want, love. Let’s just do it and forget him.

You can put him in one of your little books when he’d dead and gone.” She picked up the most recent journal and flipped through it until she reached a blank page. “Right here,” she said.

“Will Rabjohns. Extinct.”

“Extinct,” Steep murmured. “Yes.” He smiled. “Extinct, extinct, extinct.” It was like a mantra: a void where thought would go, where life would go.

“I’d better make my farewells,” Rosa said and, leaving him on the verandah, went back down into the town for a last hour in the company of the Xanith.

She arrived back at the mansion, fully expecting to find Jacob still sitting in his chair, brooding. But not so. In her absence, he had not only packed all their belongings, but had a vehicle waiting at the front gate to carry them down the coast to Masquat on the first leg of their trek back to Burnt Yarley.