by John Harvey
“You’re not fat,” said Lorraine politely.
“No,” Resnick smiled, “just overweight.”
“Anyway,” Lorraine returned his smile, “this omelet, I’ve never tasted anything like it. It’s wonderful.” And speaking through another helping, a habit of which her mother would most certainly have disapproved, added, “Thank you very much.”
For a few seconds, Resnick caught himself thinking maybe his life would be better if there were somebody else to provide for, look after, someone other than his cats.
Jacqueline Verdon had shut up shop. It had not taken her long to convince Patel that she and Diana Wills were close friends or that, at that particular time, she did not know where Diana was.
“She was to have been here this weekend. The arrangements were the same as usual. Except that when I went down to the station to meet the train, no Diana. I met every train until eleven o’clock. I tried to contact her, for her to ring. By midday Saturday, I’d managed to convince myself she wasn’t coming.” The eyes held Patel fast and he knew she was telling the truth. “I haven’t heard from Diana since she was here a little over a fortnight ago. I have no idea where she is. I wish I had.”
The truth or something very close.
The hospital rang to say they were sending Michael Morrison home in an ambulance within the next half-hour. Lorraine had fallen asleep almost as soon as the last mouthful had passed her lips. Resnick lifted the plate away before it slid from her fingers. At six, Michael still not returned, he switched on the TV news, volume set to a whisper. There was a photograph of Emily, some footage of the house and neighborhood, mention of a woman the police were anxious to interview. Outside in the hall he called the station, letting them know he would be there within the hour. He took a coat from the hall cupboard and spread it across Lorraine’s knees. If he and Elaine had had a child straight off, she wouldn’t have been a lot younger than her. As he clicked the living-room door gently closed, he heard the ambulance draw up outside.
Twenty-five
Naylor had been in and out of schools the entire day. Cups of tea with harassed secretaries while he waited to sit across the desk from even more hard-worked and harassed head teachers; more tea in the furthest corners of staff rooms, where he was regarded with deep suspicion and the Bourbon biscuits were shielded from his sight Although everyone was genuinely shocked by what had happened, they could offer very little that was helpful; some even seeming to begrudge the hasty conversations in cloakrooms that smelled faintly of urine and were constantly interrupted by a litany of “Miss! Miss! Miss! Sir! Sir! Sir!”
Emily had two class teachers, not a perfect state of affairs as the head teacher explained, but the authority was quite committed to maternity leave, whatever its drawbacks. So that morning Naylor talked to a probationer with skin problems and a voice that was designed for singing hymns and telling stories in the book corner. She could shed no light on Emily’s disappearance-a friendly girl, quite bright, not the sort, she thought, to go willingly to strangers. And no, she hadn’t seen anyone loitering around the school, nor Emily with anyone aside from her mother-by that she meant Lorraine. If Diana had been skulking by the gates, she had not been noticed. Naylor thanked her and arranged to return the following afternoon and speak to the supply teacher who took over after lunch.
In the hope that the more recent incident might have jogged something loose in their memories, he traveled the short distance to Gloria Summers’s school, there in the shadow of the high-rises where her brief life had been lived. But it had not.
By three-thirty Naylor was exhausted and thought he now knew why so many teachers had the appearance of marathon runners. Losers, at that. More than anything else, it had to be the kids, the sheer numbers, the noise of which they were capable. Racing across the playground or tumbling over the apparatus, sitting cross-legged close to the piano, heads thrown back and mouths wide open. Another thing Naylor had noticed: if there was one white face among every twenty Asian or black-every thirty in Gloria’s school-it was a surprise.
Naylor tried not to feel that it was wrong, remembering a film set in the States, the South, Mississippi Burning. The racist deputy looking at a black child in his wife’s arms, their maid’s child. Isn’t it amazing, he says, how they can look so cute when they’re little and grow into such animals. Naylor knew that wasn’t what he thought. Animals. Though there were those he worked with that did. Even so-leaving the single-story building with its copperplate signs in English and Urdu, crossing towards the gate where the mothers in richly colored saris waited for their children-was this the sort of school he would want his child to come to? His and Debbie’s? The only white girl in her class. He didn’t see how that could be right.
Not that, if things carried on the way they were, he was going to have a lot of say. Getting into the car, he made up his mind to phone Debbie once he’d finished his report. If it meant he had to speak to her cow of a mother, well and good.
“You mean she’s a lezzie,” Alison said with a laugh.
Patel gestured awkwardly. “Possibly.”
“Well, from what she said. And if this Diana’s been going up there every weekend, there’s obviously something going on.”
“Perhaps …” Patel began.
“Yes?” Alison smirking at him across the top of her glass. They were sitting in the Penthouse Bar of the Royal Hotel; as Patel had put it, an extra ten pence a pint for every floor.
“Perhaps they are simply good friends.”
“Like us?”
“Oh, no. I don’t think we’re such good friends yet.”
“Maybe we never will be.”
“Oh?”
“Maybe I’m gay, too.”
“I don’t think so.”
“How do you know?”
Patel smiled and sipped his lager; he was thinking of the way she had kissed him the moment they had stepped into the lift, not even waiting for the doors to slide shut at their backs.
“What’s the matter with you tonight?”
Raymond scuffed his trainers along the edge of the curb. “Nothing.”
“Well, something’s got into you. You’ve hardly said two words the whole evening.”
“It’s not the whole evening, stupid!”
“Don’t call me stupid.”
“Don’t act like it then. It’s only half-eight, if that.”
“Yeh, well,” Sara scowled, “it feels a lot longer, that’s all I know. Hour with you when you’re in this mood and it’s like forever.”
“Yeh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there’s one way of sorting that then, isn’t there?” And Raymond turned on his heels and stalked off across the square, hands in his jeans pockets, ignoring Sara’s belated cry of “Ray-o!” as he kicked out with his foot and sent a score of grubby pigeons into flight over the fountain.
Changing gear as he neared the brow of the hill, Naylor was close to changing his mind as well. Accelerate past the house, drive on round the roundabout, back the way he had come. Back to the place he and Debbie had fixed on together, a starter home on a snug estate, walls so thin there was never the need to feel lonely. Which was what Kevin Naylor had used to think.
He glanced at the mirror, indicated, pulled over. A movement of the curtain as he set the handbrake, released the seat belt, switched off the lights.
Debbie’s mother kept him waiting and then greeted him with a face like vinegar. Was it his imagination or did the interior always smell of disinfectant?
“She’s in there.”
There was the middle room, a dining room, although Naylor couldn’t imagine Debbie’s mother ever inviting anyone to dinner. Unless it was the local undertaker.
Debbie was sitting in the far corner, close to the drawn curtains of the window, upright in a Parker Knoll chair with polished wooden arms that had been in the family since before Debbie was born. The table, both leaves extended, stretched almost the length of the room between them, walnut ven
eer. A pot plant with oval green leaves leaned to the left in a vain search for light.
Debbie was wearing a black cardigan over a black jumper, a shapeless black skirt that covered her knees. No discernible makeup. Naylor wondered if she had taken vows and if so which ones.
“Hi,” he said, his voice oddly loud in the room, loud enough to have been heard by her mother if she were standing outside the door-which almost certainly she was. “Debbie. How you feeling?”
She glanced up at his face and then allowed her head to fall.
“How’s the baby?”
Now she was looking past Naylor’s left shoulder, unblinking.
“Debbie, the baby …”
“She’s fine.”
“So can I see her?”
“No.”
“Debbie, for Christ’s sake …”
“I said, no.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Because.”
“What kind of an answer is that?”
“The only kind you’re going to get.”
He was round the table then, seeing her fingers grip the arms of the chair tight, squeezing her body back, making herself small as possible. Looking at him now, fear in her eyes.
“I’m not going to hit you,” he said quietly.
“You better not. You …”
“You knew I was coming. You must’ve known I’d want to see her.”
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning when was the last time you came round here? When was the last time you as much as tried to see your daughter?”
“That’s because if ever I do, that bloody mother of yours …”
“Leave my mother out of this!”
“Gladly.”
“If it hadn’t been for my mother …”
“We’d’ve still been back home together, the three of us …”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, we wouldn’t, Kevin.”
“Yes.”
“We wouldn’t, cause another couple of months of that and I’d have been in Mapperley and the baby’d’ve been taken into care.”
Naylor stepped back across the room, banging his hip against the table hard. “Now you’re talking bloody daft!”
“Am I?”
“You know full well you are.”
“Well, ask the doctor, Kevin. Ask her. It’s not an unknown thing for mothers to be depressed after a baby, you know.”
“Depressed? You were …”
“See what I mean? I was ill and all you could do was stay out late drinking, come home and slam around the house before falling asleep downstairs, going off to work in the same clothes you’d come home in. You never did a thing to help me, you never tried to understand …”
“Understand? You’d need to be sodding Einstein to understand you when you’re in one of your moods.”
“Oh, God, Kevin! You don’t even understand now, do you? You really don’t. Moods. That’s all it ever was to you, moods. What’s the matter, Kevin? If there isn’t something I can hold up and show, something like a wound, to show that I’m bleeding, why can’t you understand that I’ve been ill?” She wound her arms tightly about her waist and for the first time Naylor could see how thin she had become. “I still am ill.”
He pulled one of the dining-table chairs awkwardly out and sat down. Inside the wooden clock on the sideboard, time clicked noisily by. What was the point, Kevin Naylor was thinking? I should never have bloody come.
“The baby …”
“She’s sleeping, Kevin. She only just went off before you came.”
“Convenient.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
“She had me up four times in the night, fretted all day. I daren’t wake her now.”
“So I’ll come back later.”
“Kevin, Mum says …”
“Yes?”
“She says I ought to see a solicitor.”
Naylor snorted. What had he come to say? Come back home, Debbie. A few days at a time first, if you want. We can make it work, you see. Debbie sitting there, looking at him helplessly. Well, now it was never going to work and that was the end of it. So what were those tears doing, pricking at his eyes?
“Kevin?”
He wrenched open the door and there she was, her precious bloody mother, gloating from the other end of the hall. Naylor knew the only thing to stop him punching her sanctimonious face was to get out of there fast. He left the front door open wide, had the key turned in the ignition before he was properly in the seat; he was a couple of hundred yards along the road before he realized he hadn’t even switched on his lights.
Twenty-six
When Michael Morrison’s brother, Geoffrey, was not so many days short of his third birthday, he came across a large animal living in the back of his parents’ wardrobe. It was made from soft, white, cuddly material and had yellow beads for eyes and pieces of black thread to mark its mouth and nose and paws. Geoffrey tugged it from the plastic bag in which it had been nestling, through the jumble of his mother’s shoes and out into the light. It reminded him of the big white dog their friends, the Palmers, used to take for walks and which they had encouraged him to sit on when he was even younger. At first, little Geoffrey had been terrified, insisting on clinging to his father’s hand; the animal twisting and barking beneath him, struggling out from under his weight. But as Geoffrey grew bigger, the dog got smaller and Geoffrey started to enjoy it more, balancing on the dog’s back with his toes scraping the ground, striking the dog with his little fists, shouting and screaming with excitement.
It had been then that the Palmers had lifted him off and refused to allow him back on. “Sorry, old sport, too big for that now.” Just when it had been fun.
So now Geoffrey hurried down the stairs, traveling backwards, bouncing the new toy after him.
“Oh, Geoffrey,” his mother said, looking up from the book she was reading, “wherever did you get that? Darling, look what he’s been into now.”
“Hmm, Geoff,” said his father, coming through from the adjoining room, glass in hand, “up to a bit of exploring, eh?”
“Dog,” Geoffrey said, giving it a shake.
“Bear, actually. It’s a bear.”
“Dog.”
“No, bear.”
“Dog!”
“Darling, I do wish you wouldn’t argue with him.”
“Look, Geoff,” his father reaching down, “it’s a polar bear. You must have seen them, on the box. Those programs you watch. No? Mummy, we ought to take him to the zoo.”
Mummy winced and eased herself round in the chair. No matter what position she got herself into, she was uncomfortable within minutes. “Anyway,” she said, “better get it back from him before it gets filthy. Your mother will never forgive us if it isn’t squeaky clean for the cot.”
Cot? Geoffrey thought. Whatever would it be doing in a cot? He didn’t use his cot any more; he slept in a real bed with his favorite toys all around his head. That was where this new one was going to sleep too.
“You’re quite right,” his father said and took hold of the bear’s arm. Geoffrey ground his teeth and clung to its legs. “Come on Geoff. Don’t want to hurt him, do we? Not before the new baby’s even set eyes on him.”
Geoffrey still refused to let go of the bear. What new baby? There wasn’t any new baby. There wasn’t.
“You see, darling,” his father said, “we should have told him before.”
His mother groaned and swiveled slowly round to look at her son. “What does he think I’m doing, bless him, all puffed up like an ocean liner?”
Geoffrey’s father tutted and laughed and knelt down alongside his wife, stroking the swelling beneath her loose, gray dress. “Look, Geoffrey, come over here. Come and feel Mummy’s tummy. Come and feel where the baby lives.”
Biting down into the inside of his lower lip, Geoffrey walked to
where his mother was sitting. He didn’t believe it. He didn’t believe there was any baby living in there. How could it? Like a toy bear in a plastic bag at the back of a wardrobe. That was different. The bear wasn’t real. Babies were. Geoffrey swung the bear up and back and hit the mound of his mother’s stomach as hard as he could.
So it was that Geoffrey Morrison’s nose was first put firmly out of joint; dark-haired Geoffrey, well and truly three and relegated to the sidelines of adult activity and adoration.
“Who loves his baby brother, then?”
Not, Geoffrey would have been moved to answer, bloody me!
But time is a great healer and smoother; Geoffrey came to realize that younger brothers, like the large white dogs of family friends, do have their uses. And pleasures.
“Geoff’s so good with the baby,” his father would say, “He really is.”
And, the incident in their neighbor’s plastic paddling pool aside, Geoffrey did treat his younger brother with a great deal of care and consideration. One result of which was that baby Michael grew up worshipping his brother and would mope and cry forlornly whenever Geoffrey was taken from his sight.
“Michael Morrison,” Geoffrey would say, years later, in the course of an interview on Manx radio, “I love him like a brother!” And, once the laughter at his own joke had subsided, added, in all seriousness, “It was my brother, Michael, who was responsible for making me what I am today.”
Which was, at the then age of twenty-nine, a near-millionaire businessman with one fifth of the tear-off perforated plastic bag market in his pocket. “As it were,” he laughed to the mid-morning presenter, “I always was the kind of a man who had need of big pockets.”
The presenter pressed one corner of his mouth into a smile and cued up something by the Carpenters. Why was it always the biggest pillocks in the world who made the most money? And why did they always end up on his show?
“What I meant to say before,” Geoffrey said into the fuzzy end of the microphone, the last sighs of Karen Carpenter disappearing into the ether, “was that up until the day my brother was born, I thought the world owed me a living. I was an only child, idolized, waited on hand and foot. Suddenly-wham! — there’s this new model and I’m stuck on the back of the shelf, remaindered. Which was when, and I swear this, all of-what? — three and a bit years old, I realized if the world didn’t owe me a living, I was going to have to get up off my behind and make one for myself. And I’ll tell you,” winking at the man behind the console, who said the rest of it along with him, “I’ve never looked back since.”
