The seams nearly burst.
‘What I think? I think we should give you a blood test and then talk about professional ethics, Dr Engelsohn. I think we should talk about how many people can testify that you were rat-arsed when you carried out the autopsy on Inger Holter. Then I think we should talk about someone who can give you the boot, not just from this job but any job that requires medical qualifications. What do you think, Dr Engelsohn? What do you think about my English now?’
Dr Engelsohn thought Harry’s English was just perfect, and upon mature reflection took the view that just this once the report could perhaps go through non-official channels.
34
Frogner Lido’s Top Board
McCORMACK WAS SITTING with his back to Harry again and looking out of the window. The sun was going down, but still you could catch a glimpse of the temptingly blue sea between the skyscrapers and the dark green Royal Botanic Gardens. Harry’s mouth was dry and he had a headache coming on. He had delivered a reasoned and almost unbroken monologue for over three-quarters of an hour. About Otto Rechtnagel, Andrew Kensington, heroin, the Cricket, the lighting engineer, Engelsohn; in brief, everything that had happened.
McCormack sat with his fingertips pressed together. He hadn’t said anything for a long while.
‘Did you know that way out there, in New Zealand, live the most stupid people in the world? They live alone on an island, with no neighbours to bother them, just a load of water. Yet that nation has participated in just about all the major wars there have been in the twentieth century. No other country, not even Russia during the Second World War, has lost so many young men proportionate to the population. The surplus of women is legendary. And why all this fighting? To help. To stand up for others. These simpletons didn’t even fight on their own battlefields, no sir, they boarded boats and planes to travel as far as possible to die. They helped the Allies against the Germans and the Italians, the South Koreans against the North Koreans and the Americans against the Japanese and the North Vietnamese. My father was one of those simpletons.’
He turned from the window and faced Harry.
‘My father told me a story about an artillery gunner on his boat during the Battle of Okinawa against the Japanese in 1945. The Japanese had mobilised kamikaze pilots, and they attacked in formation using tactics they called “falling like walnut-tree leaves over water”. And that was exactly what they did. First came one plane, and if it was shot down, two others appeared behind it, then four and so on in an apparently endless pyramid of diving planes. Everyone on board my father’s boat was scared out of their wits. It was total insanity, pilots willing to die to make sure their bombs landed where they were intended. The only way they could be stopped was by mounting the densest possible flak, a wall of anti-aircraft missiles. A tiny hole in the wall and the Japanese were on top of them. It was calculated that if a plane wasn’t shot down within twenty seconds after it had appeared within shooting range it was too late. In all probability it would succeed in crashing into the ship. The gunners knew they had to hit every time, and sometimes the aerial assaults could last all day. My father described the regular pom-pom-pom of the cannons and the increasingly high-pitched wails of the planes as they dived. He said he’d heard them every night since.
‘The last day of the battle he was standing on the bridge when they saw a plane emerging from the barrage and heading straight for their ship. The artillery hammered away as the plane closed in, looming larger from second to second. At the end they could clearly see the cockpit and the outline of the pilot inside. The shells from the plane began to strafe the deck. Then the anti-aircraft shells hit home and the guns raked the wings and fuselage. The tail broke off, and gradually, in slow motion, the plane disintegrated into its basic parts and in the end all that was left was a small chunk attached to the propeller, which struck the deck with a trail of fire and black smoke. The other gunners were already swinging into action against new targets when a bloke in the turret directly below the bridge, a young corporal my father knew because they both came from Wellington, clambered out, waved to Dad with a smile and said: “It’s hot today.” Then he jumped overboard and was gone.’
Perhaps it was the light, but Harry suddenly had the impression McCormack looked old.
‘It’s hot today,’ McCormack repeated.
‘Human nature is a vast, dark forest, sir.’
McCormack nodded. ‘So I’ve heard, Holy, and it may be true. I saw you had time to get to know each other, you and Kensington. I’ve also heard that Andrew Kensington’s doings on this case ought to be investigated. What’s your opinion, Holy?’