by Fiona Mozley
A couple of years ago he watched a BBC Four documentary about sound. It talked about hearing. Teenagers’ ears are much more sensitive, it said. That’s why those high-pitched hummy things outside shops work. Young people can’t stand the buzzing so they don’t stand around on street corners drinking cider anymore. Or something like that.
Actually, Robert can’t remember if the government ever actually introduced those high-pitch hummy things or whether it was just a policy that was mooted to curb the rise of the hoodies, such as ASBOs or hugs, and he had just assumed it had happened and got one possible future that existed in the past confused with the actual future that actually happened in the past.
Anyway, the kinds of sounds that come out of a distorted guitar amp are—sonically speaking—a lot more complex than the sounds that come out of a piano. So—sonically speaking—punk music and heavy-metal music are actually lots more complicated than classical music.
Robert pulls himself into a sitting position and finishes the beer. It has become warm and tastes indistinct. Cold beer has all sorts of flavors, even cheap cold lager, but warm beer just tastes warm.
He crushes the can in his right hand and gets up from the sofa. He walks to the other side of the room and throws the can into the bin, then picks up his electric guitar which is sitting on a stand in the corner. It’s a 1962 Fender Telecaster in traditional butterscotch, though the nitro is now worn thin. It is probably worth a mint these days. He plugs it into his amp and starts to hash out some chords. He turns up the volume. He looks over to the clock on the wall to reassure himself that his neighbors are at work, then laughs at himself for being so un-punk these days that he gives a fuck.
He is trying to distract himself from thinking about Cheryl. Even he has enough self-awareness to recognize that.
“We think she’s been trafficked, forced into prostitution.” That’s what the policeman said. The top policeman who came in to question him in the interrogation room, the man he sees on the telly and on campaign posters all over the city. They thought Robert was involved. He wasn’t. But when they let him out, he got to thinking: the Archbishop’s cellar is beneath the brothel, and that’s where Cheryl lived. Robert tries to imagine the women he knows there mixed up in that kind of thing. He can’t. It doesn’t seem like them at all. That Karl, and his new associates, on the other hand …
There’s a knock at the door. He opens the door and sees a woman he hasn’t seen for nearly thirty years.
“Can I come in?” Anastasia asks.
Robert steps back to allow Don’s girl inside, only she is not a girl anymore and Don is dead.
Anastasia looks around Robert’s flat. It has hardly changed at all in nearly thirty years. She sees the same brown sofa, the same table and chairs in the corner, probably been used twice since she was last here, and only twice before that.
A new-looking television with an enormous screen has been placed on the sideboard. The picture is of footballers warming up before a match, but the sound has been muted.
There are unopened letters on the sideboard too, and a stack of takeaway menus.
“I don’t have visitors very often,” says Robert. “Never. And of all the people I thought it might be when I heard the knock, I think you might have been at the bottom of the list. You or your late husband, back from the dead.”
“It’s been a long time,” Anastasia agrees.
The weekend bag Anastasia was taking with her to Bythwaite Hall is slung over her shoulder. She lets it drop to the floor, and she places her small handbag on the table.
“I remember decorating it,” she says. “Well, I remember choosing colors and materials. It was very fashionable in here when it was first fitted out.”
“Oh aye,” says Robert. “It was always wasted on me. I’ve never had an eye for that sort of thing.”
“I never did ask Donski why he gave you the flat. Loyal service?”
“Something like that.”
Anastasia guessed at the time that Robert Kerr was one of her husband’s heavies; one of the men who sorted out problems that required a particular kind of sorting.
He offers Anastasia a drink. He hesitates at first. It has been so long since he has had guests, he has forgotten how these things are done, but he sees her eyes move around the flat and eventually to the kitchen and he asks her if she fancies a cup of tea. He has some old teabags in a cupboard, but no milk.
She accepts, more because it’s an automatic response than out of any desire for refreshment.
Robert fumbles with the kettle. He maintains a basic level of cleanliness in the flat. He wipes surfaces and occasionally hoovers, but it is only him living here and there seems little point going above and beyond. The kettle is covered in fingerprints and is full of lime-scale. He fills it with water and switches it on, and a couple of minutes later he hands Anastasia a mug of just-boiled water poured over a teabag, which floats on the gently steaming surface.
“My daughter pays you a monthly allowance, yes?”
“If it’s your daughter who is in charge of your late husband’s estate, then yes, your daughter pays me a monthly stipend.”
Anastasia takes this in. The evasion, then the admission. He is sensitive about receiving this money, she can tell. It is natural for him to be sensitive about it. He needs the money but, equally, it connects him to a past which he would, perhaps, rather not be connected to. They all share this same heritage; the funds its legacy produces. With interest.
Up at the Big House
An old-time rails bookie stands between Agatha and the object of her desire. She is in the members’ enclosure with the other owners, trainers, and well-to-do people. The racecourse is stratified according to price but not only according to price. There are cheap sections and expensive sections, but to enter the members’ enclosure you have to be invited. Gambling outlets are forbidden, so exclusive bookmakers set up stalls along the rails and lean over to serve the affluent customers within.
Agatha is placing a bet at one of these outlets when she sees a young man across the paddock wrestling a spooked colt. He is tall, with a slight but athletic build—the kind boys have in adolescence before they go on to be powerfully built men: soft muscles tucked inside a skin that hasn’t yet hardened and grown coarse.
Agatha watches the races from an upper level with a group of acquaintances who have heard something of her net worth. She courts their advances and drinks their expensive champagne. The waiter has put liqueur in the bottom of her flute. It isn’t cassis but something similarly fruity. What a bloody stupid thing to do with first-class brut. Another waiter arrives with a tray of canapés, and Agatha tries a few. They are all disgusting. The racecourse obviously employs a chef with a higher opinion of himself than is merited.
Agatha’s horse is running in the second-to-last race. His name is Albert’s Rule, but she doesn’t know why. She let Roster pick the name, and in explanation he mentioned something mysterious about a man he used to know. The horse was a birthday present to him, though he prefers betting on the dogs. Roster has gone to watch the races from the main stand, but before they parted ways in the car park, Agatha secretly tucked an expensive cigar into his jacket pocket. He’ll find it when he reaches for his wallet. He likes to smoke when he wins a bet, which is often.
Albert’s Rule refuses the starting stalls. The jockey tries all the usual tricks but he won’t budge and the referee disqualifies him. What a fucking embarrassment. Agatha has had a lot to drink by this point and she says this out loud. “What a fucking embarrassment.” She isn’t joking but her comment is taken as such by the assembled crowd. They laugh sycophantically.
Agatha has had enough. She leaves abruptly without saying goodbye to anyone. She pushes her way through the crowds on the lower levels and on the terraces outside the enclosure. People are making their way to bookies to place their bets on the last race of the day. She steps over discarded plastic pint glasses and dropped betting slips. Moments ago these pieces of paper contai
ned a world of possible futures, clenched feverishly in expectant fists. Now they are as worthless as Weimar banknotes.
She has half a mind to shout at somebody about Albert’s Rule. His shoddy performance was surely the fault of the handler or the jockey or trainer. If she can find any of them she will let them know how she feels. She goes over to the stables. Instead she sees the young lad from earlier.
He is wearing a matching Adidas set of soft jersey joggers and sweater which subtly hug his figure. He has broad shoulders and a skinny waist and strong but slim arms and legs. His neck is lean and long and his Adam’s apple protrudes just above his collar. His lips are full and red in the cold, and his cheeks are flushed with exertion.
The horses in the stable are still pumped with adrenaline from their races. They neigh and stamp and dance about in their stalls. The lad is leaning over one of the open half-stalls to reach in and check something on the inside of the door.
Agatha approaches but does not speak. It takes him a while to register her presence. Then he turns around.
“You all right there, love?”
“Fine, thank you.”
He blinks rapidly and smiles. She can tell that he finds her attractive, and also that he is shy.
“Do you work with Thomas Waugh?” Thomas Waugh is the name of the racehorse trainer she employs.
“That I do.”
“He trains several of mine. Albert’s Rule was running today.”
The lad’s face relaxes at the mention of a horse he knows.
“He’s a lovely lad. I take him out on the gallops every morning. He handles like a dream. None of us expected what happened up at the start just now. It’s not like him.”
“Yes, well, it was very disappointing, to say the least. But, look, when do you finish up here? I’d like someone to come to the Hall and inspect the stables. I currently don’t have any animals at the house itself but I’d like to. Only, the facilities need to be safe. Perhaps you could cast an eye over it.”
“Oh. Er, I guess I could do that for you. Wouldn’t you rather it were Mr. Waugh?”
“You’ll do fine.” Agatha waits.
He says, “Oh, you mean now?”
“Yes, that would be best.”
“Ah, okay. Well, I’ll just ask Mr. Waugh.”
“I’ve already seen him. He said it was fine and that you’d be a good person for the task, that you just needed to finish up a couple of your jobs and then you’d be free to come with me.”
“Right then. Well then. I’ll just sort out these last two stalls.”
“I’ll wait in my car. It’s the Rolls Royce in the members’ car park. The blue one. Not the hideous gold one.”
“Okay.”
The flirtation is subtle but effective. He asks for fifteen minutes to finish his work, and Agatha goes and waits by the car. He seems flustered but the decision has been made.
Agatha sends Roster a message, and he arrives in the car park soon after she does. He makes no response to the news they will be waiting for an additional passenger but tucks his copy of the Racing Post inside his coat and climbs into the driver’s seat. Agatha gets in the back and arranges a cashmere blanket over her knees. The car has been sitting cold, so needs warming. Roster starts the engine, turns up the heating and opens all the vents. He also presses the electric lighter, which is set into the driver’s console, and pulls the cigar from his pocket. Agatha watches from the back seat as the node begins to glow, as Roster releases it from its socket and holds the hot tip to the end of the cigar. The dried leaves kindle. Roster wets his lips and sucks on the other end, pulling the first rush of air through the chamber and drawing smoke into his lungs. When he exhales, the car is filled with a thick smog that rises and hangs around his head.
Agatha doesn’t mind. He isn’t a regular smoker but has enjoyed the occasional cigar for as long as she can remember. She likes the smell, and the way Roster breathes it in and blows it out. When she was a child he used to entertain her with smoke rings, or by exhaling through his long nose.
“You won, then?”
“Two out of the six. I placed in all but one. Up on the day.”
“Congratulations.”
When the lad arrives, Agatha opens the back door, then shuffles across to let him sit next to her. Roster turns on the radio to give them privacy.
Roster finds first gear. The wheels grip the gravel and begin to roll. It is a twenty-minute drive back to Bythwaite Hall, along narrow roads then winding lanes. The hedgerows are frozen bare. The fields were plowed after the harvest, before the soil became too stiff and turgid, and the lines of orderly furrows have frozen hard, preserved until spring.
They reach the gatehouse, which sits at the edge of the grounds. The lights are on, meaning her sister is at home. Roster took Fedor to Valerie before they left for the races, but Agatha hasn’t been to see her yet.
There is a long driveway, edged with beech. Bythwaite Hall can be seen at the end: a Tudor manor, with a large Victorian extension, and a vast climbing hydrangea.
The car stops by the front door. As Agatha steps out, Roster opens his window and whispers, “poor chap.” Agatha ignores him. She climbs the steps and the lad follows her in. His rubber-soled boots are still wet from stepping on frosty grass. They squeak on the stone floor. Agatha looks down at his feet as he shuffles, awkwardly.
“It’s probably best to take those off,” she says.
He does as he’s told and places the boots side-by-side next to the doormat. Agatha offers him a drink.
“A glass of water would be great, thanks.”
“I was going to have something stronger. A whiskey?”
“That sounds nice. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
Agatha leads him into a sitting room and guides him to a chair. Then she goes over to the drinks cabinet and pours Balvenie from a decanter into heavy tumblers. She holds one out for him, and he gets up again, comes over to her and takes it, then sits back down.
The lad looks around. The walls of Bythwaite Hall are lined with portraits of the previous owners. Before her father bought it, the manor had been in the same family since the fifteenth century. There are hunting scenes with lusty men, muskets and spaniels. There are gilded portraits with neoclassical backdrops, presenting their subjects as paragons of learning; men with torrents of borrowed curls. Then there are vases, coats of armor, coats of arms, hunting trophies.
She can’t remember the name of the family who owned the estate. They won the land by making good choices during the Wars of the Roses. Before that, who knows what they’d been. Mercenaries, butchers, peasants. They must have felt very smug by the end, Agatha supposes. They must have thought it would all last forever. She imagines their descendants living in three-bedroom semis on the outskirts of shitty towns. She imagines them driving Vauxhall Astras and buying lottery tickets in the hope of better times.
She looks over at the lad, as out of place as her, or them.
Why is it she can only feel attraction towards men like this? Younger, less powerful, less experienced. She needs to catch them before they become confidently aware of their place in society.
“How old are you?” Agatha asks.
“Eighteen.”
Good, she thinks. Old enough. The last thing she needs is trouble of that kind.
The lad drinks his whiskey in a single gulp. The alcohol makes his eyes water. Clearly, his only experience of spirits comes from drinking shots on a Friday night.
“Would you like some more?” Agatha asks. She sips her own whiskey delicately.
“Er, yeah.”
She pours again, and he consumes it in the same manner.
“How are you feeling?” Agatha asks.
“All right, thanks. Only, I’ve been working in the yard all day and I feel a bit minging. Is there anywhere I can get a quick shower? Sorry to ask.”
“It’s fine. I’ll run you a bath.”
As Agatha and the lad climb the wide staircase upstairs, the
last of the natural light is dragged from the Hall and spread to a different part of the world. The place is eerie in the dark. The stairs and wooden floorboards creak as they’re trodden, and Agatha can hear the lad breathe loudly and deeply.
The light in the bathroom is bright and reflects against the white tiles. In the center of the room, there is a bath standing on brass lion’s feet. She releases water from the taps and it splashes on the pit of the basin. The sound rings around the room, bouncing off the hard surfaces. Agatha goes to the cupboard and pulls out some expensive bath oils, and she drips them into the running water.
“I’ve never used owt like that before,” says the lad.
She smiles. There’s a chair at the side of the room, facing the bath. Agatha sits on the chair. The lad stands by the heated towel rail.
“Do you know why I brought you here?” Agatha asks.
“I’ve got a couple of ideas. I’m not sure it’s got owt to do with stables.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“I was thinking, maybe, you wanted to get to know me better.” He’s not looking at her as he says this but at the running water coming from the taps.
She crosses a leg over the other. “Do you find me attractive?” she asks.
He seems startled by the question. “Yeah, obviously. You’re like a model.”
Agatha smiles, and feigns bashfulness. She could have been a model, and maybe would have been if it wasn’t such a demeaning profession.
Agatha takes a deep breath. The lad is sporting a stupid grin. He seems pleased with himself. She can’t decide whether she finds this obnoxious or alluring. “The bath’s ready. Are you going to get in?”
“Sure.” He begins to take off his clothes. He pulls off his socks and tosses them aside. Then he lifts his sweatshirt over his head, and then his T-shirt. He is tensing his muscles and pulling in his waist, to show his body at its best. She likes this. She likes that he’s trying to please her.
He loops his thumbs over the elastic of his joggers and pulls them down. He steps out of them and kicks them over to the corner of the bathroom where the rest of his clothes are now piled. He is wearing a pair of old, off-white boxer shorts. He pauses before taking them off. He pulls at the front to make himself more comfortable, then apparently realizes that the pants are his only remaining item of clothing, but also that he has agreed to get into the bath, and that obviously he can’t back out now, and obviously he wants to fuck this hot woman because what lad wouldn’t, and what kind of lad would he be if he didn’t?
