Instruments Of Darkness by Robert Wilson

found, hanging upside down from the ceiling, a single grey parrot. He looked at me and slowly showed me his grey tongue as if encouraging me to show him mine. He wouldn't have wanted to see it.
        By the garden wall which butted on to the wasteland was a ten-metre long swimming pool which was covered with a scum of green algae and next to it, against the wall, a stone bench with a Small patio and stone urns at each corner except one. There were some very tall palm trees around the garden.
        The back of the house had the single twisted trunk of something dead crawling up the middle of it, like a subsidence crack. It was a secluded garden, quite dark even on a day like this and, like the house, melancholy.
        By the wall that gave on to the abandoned house was the garage and maid's quarters. The maid's door led out on to the garden. There was nobody in the maid's room, but the door opened. In the room was a bed with a Bible on it. There was a dent in the pillow and the bedclothes were pulled back and hanging off the end of the floor.
        A set of keys hung out of the lock of the side door to the main house and the door was open an inch, which made me wary. I walked down a corridor between the large kitchen and the staircase into a living room with a wooden floor like a squash court. To the left, was a set of french windows to the garden, two sofas, an armchair next to a table with a phone/fax on it and, in a gloomy corner, a wood carving. The living room occupied most of the ground floor, and the ceiling was made by the wooden beams of the roof of the house.
        A floorboard creaked in the long and unrestrained way that puts five years on a burglar's life. Standing at the top of the stairs was a man in the office worker's uniform of a worsted short-sleeved suit, buttoned up to short, sharp lapels above the sternum with no shirt or tie. A handbag hung from a loop around his wrist so that he didn't have to carry anything in the four pockets of his suit and ruin the cut, which wasn't one that Chanel would have been proud of.
        'Who are you?' I asked in French.
        'Yao,' he said, as if he'd just barked his shins on a low table.
        'What are you doing here, M. Yao?'
        'And you are?'
        'Bruce Medway.'
        'Doing what, M. Medway?'
        'I thought I just asked you that question.'
        'That's true.'
        'And?'
        'I'm looking for M. Kershaw.'
        'So am I.'
        'He's not here,' he said, walking down the stairs and turning into the corridor.
        'Any reason why you're looking for him, M. Medway?'
        'His patron wants to speak to him.'
        'So does mine. Bonjour,' he said, and was gone.
        I ran up the stairs into the master bedroom which overlooked the street and watched from the window as Yao climbed over the gate, straightened his suit, opened his bag and took a pen and paper out; he then wrote down my registration number. This shouldn't have concerned me too much, except that on one of Yao's lapels I'd noticed a small badge of the Togolese flag, which meant that he was a civil servant and that his patron was likely to be a grand fromage - a whole gruyere to my little crottin.
        I paced out of the bedroom with a thumbnail between my teeth and looked at the gallery which ran along the alley side of the house. The walls along the gallery were completely covered in a primitive jungle painting. The green rainforest flashed with exotic flowers was the background for leopard, monkey, antelope, a variety of punky tropical birds and a large life-size baboon. The walls were ten-foot high and ran for forty feet. It looked like something Henri Rousseau would have done.
        There were figures in the forest, smaller than the animals. Some were standing amongst the trees, some moving with spears in their hands and over their shoulders, others drinking at a pool into which a waterfall cascaded down one of the door jambs of