Maid of the Mist Read online

  COLIN BATEMAN

  Maid of the Mist

  Copyright © 1999, Colin Bateman

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

  The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  For Andrea and Matthew

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  Death came to the village set on the banks of the great Niagara. It arrived with the autumn and liked it, so it stayed on into winter.

  The Indians prayed and they made offerings to appease the great God Hinum, but the deaths continued. The witch doctors were summoned. They put on their masks and rolled their bones and after many hours cried in one voice: 'A great sacrifice must be made!' Although in Indian.

  And so it was that on the eve of her marriage to Sahonwadi, the beautiful princess Lelewala, daughter of Chief Eagle Eye and Najaka, agreed, eventually, to sacrifice herself.

  Her betrothed, Sahonwadi, bravest of the braves, labouring over his wedding canoe on the edge of the village, was not told.

  Lelewala, her heart heavy, could not even say farewell to him.

  But he saw her setting out into the current in her canoe. He raced into the village and only then discovered the awful truth. She looked back and saw him climb into another canoe and paddle after her. She screamed at him to stay, but he would not. He was in love.

  He was strong and soon drew level with her. But it was too late. They were in the grip of the great Niagara. Even as the river sucked them over the edge of the Falls he reached out to her and she to him and their fingers almost, almost touched.

  And then they were gone.

  1

  The Artist Formerly Known as Pongo was off his head on coke again. He lolled in the rear of the white Cadillac as it embarked on its third trawl through the backstreets of Niagara Falls, occasionally breaking into backing vocals on one of his own songs as it rattled out of the speakers, but soon trailing off, bored. It had been a quiet and unsuccessful night, and his driver, 'Uneasy' Rawlins, was hoping it would stay that way. His eyes flitted occasionally to the sad wreck in the back and not for the first time he regretted the fact that there were no weekends in rock'n'roll. He was still waiting for his day off. Even God rested on the Sabbath, although he probably didn't have an album to finish.

  'Here,' Pongo yelled from the back, 'stop here! This is the place. I can smell it.'

  Rawlins muttered to himself as he pulled the car off the road into the car park of a rundown-looking diner. They'd exhausted the regular bars already. Now they were reduced to diners. As a last resort it would be the brothels. Rawlins would do the paperwork, credit cards and confidentiality agreements, Pongo the screwing. It was satisfactory for neither of them. In the bars he couldn't drink because he was driving, in the brothels he couldn't screw because he was married and loved his wife. At least in Texas Slims he could maybe get something to eat while he checked the place out.

  Rawlins, as per usual, parked the Cadillac far enough from the main window to ensure that everyone inside had a good view of it. While Pongo set about organizing another line, Rawlins hurried across the car park.

  It was a little after midnight. There were a dozen customers in the place. On first look, none of them appeared to be in the required range. Four fat bikers squeezed into a single booth. Three elderly black women at separate tables. A young guy asleep beside some school textbooks. Another booth with two couples, holding hands, laughing. Rawlins took a seat and ordered a coffee, glanced back at the Cadillac, then added a hamburger to the order.

  As the waitress finished writing, she nodded through the window at the car. 'Who's the bigshot?' she said.

  Rawlins's eyes narrowed. Maybe. . . she was stick-thin; she was chewing gum; her hair was short and dark; her complexion pale; the only make-up she wore was some badly applied eyeliner.

  'Can't say, miss.'

  She looked back to the vehicle, then turned and passed the order through to the kitchen. She returned a moment later with his coffee. 'Somebody famous?' she asked. Rawlins gave a little nod. 'Like, rilly famous, or just slightly famous . . . ?'

  He shrugged. 'Depends, miss . . . y'know, on what kind of music you like.'

  'Music? Hey, is he a . . . I like all types . . . gimme a clue? Is he, like, on MTV or something?'

  Rawlins nodded again. 'All the time.'

  'Jeez.'

  Not that he was, not for a few years, but people presume, once you get that household name.

  Her eyes were wide now, the starry look he'd seen a thousand times. She wasn't far off being hooked. A cute kid. Working late in a diner to keep her in cheap clothes or to pay school fees. Smart enough to serve hamburgers, not smart enough to ask herself why the hell a rock'n'roll superstar needed to trawl second-rate diners for dates. Dates. Jesus, that was the word Pongo used. It was quaint and old-fashioned and totally inappropriate. He shook his head. He shouldn't even bother. Say there was no one suitable. Throw her back in the river.

  'How's that burger doin'?' Rawlins asked.

  'Few minutes. Go on, who is he?'

  'He doesn't like to cause a fuss. Hates crowds.'

  She crept closer. 'Won't say a word,' she whispered.

  'Look, miss, I really . . .'

  'Please!'

  She virtually squealed it. The bikers looked round. Rawlins summoned a pained expression. Hell, it was what he was paid for. Part of it, anyhow. 'Shhhh now. . .' he said, all cute and folksy, 'what did I say? Hates a fuss. OK, if I tell you, you won't shout and scream?'

  'I promise!'

  'OK. OK. A clue. OK?'

  'OK.'

  'His last album was called Sincerity.'

  Her brow furrowed. She glanced out at the car. 'Michael Jackson?'

  Rawlins shook his head, grinned over the rim of his coffee cup.

  'Bon Jovi? Bruce . . . ? Michael Bolton?'

  He kept shaking. He set the cup down. Here we go. He began to sing, his voice poor, the volume low, but the chorus virtually a national treasure: 'I got the ice/Yo
u got the heat/I got the groove/ You got the meat. . .'

  'Pongo!'

  'Shhhh! Jesus, girl . . . I told you to keep it. . .'

  'Pongo! At our diner!' She slipped into the seat opposite him and pressed her face to the window. 'He's in there? God!' She put her soft white hand on his arm. 'Could I meet him?'

  'Absolutely not.'

  'Oh please, please . . . just for one minute . . . please. Just let me say hello. Get his autograph. I have all his records. Please. I'm his biggest fan! Please!'

  Rawlins rolled his eyes. 'Well. . .'

  'Please!'

  'He really doesn't like . . .'

  'Please!'

  He hunched forward conspiratorially. 'I tell you what. You bring me the burger. If it's good I'll go out and have a word with him. If, and I mean if, he says it's OK, I'll bring you out to see him, OK?'

  'Oh God . . . would you!' She was half laughing, half crying. 'Oh God.'

  'What's your name, miss?'

  'Katharine, Katharine Stewart.'

  'How old are you, Katharine?'

  'Uh . . . fift . . . seventeen.'

  'OK, I'll see what I can do. The burger?'

  'Comin' right up! God, I can't believe I'm going to meet Pongo.'

  He stuck a finger out at her, cute folksy to stern uncle. 'One thing, Katharine. You must never refer to him as Pongo. If you have to use a name at all, you call him The Artist, OK?'

  'The Artist? What's the . . . ?'

  'Just do as I say, OK?'

  'OK!' She slipped out of the seat and hurried towards the kitchen. 'God,' she whispered dreamily, 'I'm going to meet Pongo.'

  Katharine had her top off and Pongo's cock in her mouth.

  As he drove Rawlins had one eye on the road, one on the mirror. She was stoned, of course. A couple of lines of the finest Colombian did that to most of the little ones; if they'd used drugs before, and most of them had, they certainly weren't of such quality. Usually they didn't take much persuasion. Katharine certainly hadn't, which was a good thing as Pongo was well beyond using his communication skills. He'd barely grunted at her awed hi, merely sat her down, pulled down his zip and shaken his penis at her like it was the polite way of saying hello. And there she was, working away at it like it was an honour to be asked. Rawlins shook his head. Maybe it was.

  He mouthed at Pongo in the mirror. 'Home?'

  Pongo shook his head and thumbed out the door.

  Rawlins nodded. Back to the diner within thirty minutes and just a bad taste in her mouth to remember him by. Not even an autograph. Usually they didn't remember until they were out of the car. Other times he signed with the disappearing ink he had shipped in from a joke shop in Brooklyn.

  There was a low groan from the rear. Then the customary awkward silence. Pongo was looking out of the window, bored, not even bothering to zip himself up. The girl was deciding whether it was love or lust: swallow or spit. She decided on love. She looked up at him, still star-struck.

  'Gee,' Katharine said, sitting back, wiping her lips, 'I sucked Pongo's cock!'

  Pongo's head rolled towards her. His eyes were bloodshot, his nostrils flared. 'I'm not fucking . . . Pongo any more!'

  She giggled, not sure if he was serious or acting. Rawlins had seen his one movie effort, Dance Little Sister, and wasn't sure either. She squeezed his knee, then moved to rest her head on it with the undoubted intention of looking lovingly up into his eyes. Except, she said: 'You'll always be Pongo to me,' as she brought her face down.

  Pongo screamed: 'I'm not fucking Pongo!' and brought his knee up, catching her under the chin, ramming her jaw closed and forcing her teeth into her tongue. She leapt backwards, hitting the passenger door with force.

  The door shot open. Rawlins yelled as the girl disappeared. He turned, could see just her legs on the back seat. She hung precariously out of the door, her head just a couple of inches off the road. Pongo just looked at her, a half-vacant grin on his lips.

  Rawlins slammed on the brakes, but knew immediately it was the wrong action. The girl's legs bounced off the seat and out. As the wheels locked her head crashed off the asphalt with a sickening thud. Pongo's head rebounded off the front passenger headrest. He sat back as the car came to a halt, peering forward to check his face for damage in the driver's mirror.

  'What the fuck you doing, man?' Pongo shouted, hand to his nose. There was a drop of blood on his hand. Just one.

  Rawlins looked to his mirror, just in time to see a Coca-Cola delivery truck round the bend and crush the rest of the poor little waitress to pulp.

  'Oh shit,' Rawlins said.

  'Rawlins, shit! Get back in the fuckin' car!'

  He ignored Pongo. His legs were jelly, but he walked, walked like a zombie towards her, the crushed little girl. His fault. His fault. She was just some dumb waitress working late because she needed the money. Dammit, he knew she wasn't as old as she'd said. She didn't look no more than thirteen. Thirteen. And he'd killed her as surely as if he'd thrown her out of the Caddy himself.

  Pongo was out of the car now, yelling after his driver. He stamped his silk-slippered feet. Rawlins was walking up to the bitch like he could do something about it and with every step Pongo's career was disappearing down the plughole.

  Pongo turned back to the vehicle. The driver's door was open, and Godfuckit if Rawlins hadn't taken the keys as well. Pongo knew for sure he was fucked now. He climbed into the back and scrambled around locating every stash he could remember, then he walked to the side of the road and opened them up to the wind. Fuck it.

  He turned and looked back up towards where the body lay. He sniggered. At least she'd died happy. And he sniggered again, because the Coke lorry driver had been stupid enough to stop too; he wasn't laughing at that, but at the sign in huge letters on the side of his truck: COKE ADDS LIFE. Not in this fucking case it doesn't.

  The Coke man and Rawlins were standing together, a little to the side of the body, and looking up at the windscreen. Pongo giggled. They were examining the damage, they didn't care about the young thing squished across the road. Talking insurance.

  As Pongo started to walk towards them, with every intention of offering the Coke man cash to drive on, a police car pulled up. Maybe the Coke man had CB'd them. Maybe they were just passing; whatever, that plan was out the window. Pongo was still about a hundred yards off – cocaine certainly wasn't speed, he felt like he was walking uphill through snow, and in a sense he was – and he could see that there was just one cop. He'd joined Rawlins and the driver in looking up at the windscreen.

  Whatever happened to compassion? He would write a song about the death of compassion.

  Still, if even the cop was primarily interested in the damage to the vehicle, maybe he could be bought off too. Be more expensive. As much as a million, but shit, the Old Cripple could stump up that much, no problem.

  The cop didn't even turn as he drew level. Pongo gave a little smile: it was undoubtedly a tragic accident, but there was no reason why he shouldn't also enjoy the look of shocked recognition when the cop did finally realize whose presence he was in. The Artist Formerly Known as Pongo. He would probably ask for an autograph, and then pretend not to be disappointed when he scrawled 'The Artist'.

  Rawlins, the Coke driver, the cop: their eyes, their heads, were moving in tandem, mesmerized by the beat of the windscreen wipers. Pongo followed their gaze and for a bored moment didn't realize what he was seeing.

  And then he saw what they saw, and he screamed. Caught in the blades, moving left, right, left right, was the little girl's nose.

  2

  When Inspector Frank Corrigan called his grandfather to tell him he was going to settle in Niagara Falls, his grandfather shouted: 'What the hell do you want to live in Africa for?' down the line, his voice so strong and caustic that he sounded like he was guldering in the next room, not three thousand miles away in Ireland.

  This was way before Lela, of course. This was in the Nicola period, which started about six months a
fter he arrived in town, transferred up after getting shot in both legs dealing with a bank job in Toronto. There's no need to go into that too much beyond saying that it was not a good time for him. He was depressed. He drank. He went and wrote something stupid: his signature on the marriage licence, and that was the start of the Nicola period.

  Of course it didn't seem stupid at the time. It seemed wise and adult and romantic and the way it was meant to be, right up to the point where he was living alone in the darkest, dingiest apartment on Garner Road. Nicola had nailed him for some pretty good alimony, but they still got on OK. She gave him unlimited access to his daughter at weekends. All four of them – that's her new guy, Born Again Bobby, as well – even got together for dinner sometimes. Not too often, as Bobby didn't drink and Corrigan most certainly did. The table chat would invariably get heated, then plain angry, with Nicola somewhere in the middle trying to act as peacemaker even though she knew she should throw Corrigan out for doing it to her again.

  That's where he was, causing trouble, cradling the child, drinking a beer, half-watching Canada vs Team USA in the final of the Ice Hockey World Cup, the night Maynard Dunn, crewman on the Maid of the Mist and occasional drinking partner, called, all excited. Maynard's big voice boomed, 'Hey, Corrigan, we just pulled a woman from the water . . .'

  And then the line went dead and there was little Aimie grinning up with her finger on the button. 'Aw for Jesus . . .'

  Corrigan bundled her on to the ground and stared at the phone – Bobby smirking at him the whole time – waiting for Maynard to call back, but guessing he wouldn't because he'd be pissed at Corrigan hanging up on him. Nicola eventually got him the phone book, but by the time he tracked Maynard down it was too late; there was no reply.

  Bobby was pretending to watch the hockey but the supercilious smirk remained in place and Corrigan had a sudden urge to slap his fat face. He could think of better ways of spending a Saturday night than looking at something blue and bloated, though looking at Bobby wasn't that much less repellent and besides, he'd probably get more interesting conversation out of the corpse.