by Daisy Waugh
‘Upstairs,’ Murray says. ‘Something about washing machines. Maude said the washing machine was broken. They’ll be down in a sec.’
‘They know something’s up,’ Skid says. ‘God knows what they’re doing up there, but they’ll be trying something. It doesn’t matter. As long as we’re down here they’re not going anywhere, are they?’ He grins, pulls a set of car keys out of his pocket, dangles them between finger and thumb. ‘And not without these, either. They are going to have to confront us at some point.’
Murray thinks about the €10,000. He thinks about Maude and Horatio upstairs, panicking, and of their children – sweet children, really; he’s grown almost fond of them. They’re a nice family. He likes them. Part of him wishes Len had never thumped that extractor fan. If he’d not thumped the extractor fan, they would never have found the phone, Skid would never have insisted on listening to the messages, he would never have ventured upstairs to their secret room, and right now Murray and Len would be wrapping up their pancake scene, musing happily on the week’s rest they have planned, down on the Costa Del Sunshine. Everything would have been so different…‘I think,’ he says, much louder than he needs to, loud enough to drown out the doubts in his head, ‘if we’re going to do this, we should do it properly. I mean, if we’re going to ruin these people’s lives, we should at least make it worth our while…’
Skid raises an eyebrow. ‘Oh yes?’
‘I think we should ask for more. There’s a lot of money in this business. I’ve read about it in the newspapers.’
‘It’s a cottage industry.’
‘I think we should ask for thirty thousand euros each. Don’t you, Len?’
Slowly, obediently, Len nods his stupid head. ‘Ooh, definitely,’ he says. ‘How much are we saying that is in English money then, more or less?’
Skid looks from one to the other. ‘They might not have it.’
‘They can get it,’ Murray says. ‘We’re asking for thirty thousand euros each, Skid. Frankly, for ten thousand it’s not worth the hassle.’
‘You sound like Naomi Campbell, Murray dear,’ drawls Skid. ‘I’m delighted that ten thousand isn’t worth any hassle. You’re obviously earning more than I thought.’
Murray shakes his head. ‘Thirty thousand, or I’m not doing it. Yes or no?’
‘…Wwwellll,’ Skid pretends to consider it. Slowly, he nods his head.
UPSTAIRS
‘We’ll find a way,’ Maude says. She’s kneeling in front of the children, an arm around each one. ‘Somehow or another, we’ll make sure you see your friends.’
‘But Mum,’ Tiffany explains patiently, ‘people who disappear can’t just reappear to see their friends, can they? That’s not how it works.’
‘Yes they can,’ Maude says, ‘if they really want to. They can do anything if they really want to, and I promise you, you will see your friends again.’
‘I’m going to write to them. Just to let them know I haven’t died or anything.’
‘That’s a great idea. You can write to them as often as you like, my darling…But they won’t be able to write to you. Not straight away.’
‘I know that.’
‘Not until we’ve sorted ourselves out. All right? All right, my darling?’
Superman says, ‘Of course we’re all right. Can’t you remember? We said we wanted an adventure!’
Tiffany grins. ‘We’ve just been waiting for the adventure to begin.’
‘Well,’ Maude says, ‘consider it begun. It’s going to be a fantastic adventure. And we’re all going to stick together and –’ She stops, glances at Horatio. ‘I mean, you two, me…We…But we’ve got to leave – Heck. How’s it going? Are you done?’
‘Two minutes –’
She turns back to the children. ‘Have you got your bears and giraffes and so on? Tiffie, have you packed your green corduroy trousers. You’d be sorry to leave them behind –’
‘Of course I have,’ Tiffie says.
‘You’ve said goodbye to your room?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because you understand, don’t you? We won’t be coming back here. Not to this house. Not ever again.’
‘We know, Mum,’ sighs Superman. ‘D’you think we’re thick or something?’
‘Right. Fine.’ Maude finally straightens up. ‘Right, then. Well – perhaps you should both go to the loo before we leave? And put some long socks on. We’ve got to cross the corn field and you’ll both be cut to pieces…’
She’s packed her own stuff; just the photographs, the new identities, a few clothes. Some moisturiser. Then, while Horatio adds the finishing touches, by hand, to the Islam family’s papers, Maude has copied and wiped the hard drive from her own and Horatio’s computers, and packed up the copies along with the moisturiser. She’s made a few notes, shredded what needed to be shredded…
Alone together again, she looks across at her husband…
He’s stuffing the Islams’ papers into an envelope, standing up, feeding things through the shredder with his third hand – but he can feel Maude’s eyes on him, and he knows what she’s thinking. Slowly, he looks up to meet her gaze.
She’s crying.
‘…It doesn’t have to be like this, Maude,’ he says. ‘We can get through this.’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t think we can…If it’s not Emma –’
‘It won’t be Emma. It never was Emma.’
‘If it’s not Emma it’ll be someone else…And I can’t – I’d prefer to have nothing than a half of you, with the other half always looking over my shoulder, always yearning to be somewhere else. I can’t live with that. I can’t.’
‘Hey – I’m not the one who spent the night before last screwing my ex-lover. Don’t lecture me about yearning…’
She shakes her head. Doesn’t have the strength to argue.
A long silence. They hear the children flushing the loo next door, talking in urgent, serious whispers – and she wishes Horatio would say something – something, anything – if he could only say ‘Please, please don’t leave me’, she wouldn’t.
But he doesn’t. And she knows him well enough to know that he won’t.
‘We’ll have to be close. For the children,’ she says at last.
‘Obviously,’ he says coldly.
‘I mean the same town – wherever we go. Very close.’
‘Well, obviously. We’ve fucked up their lives well enough already, without this. You’re a selfish bitch, you know, Maude. Wrap it up in all that female martyrdom bullshit if it makes you feel better. But, for the record – I’m not convinced. You’re a hypocritical, selfish –’
The COOP door slides open, and in skip Tiffany and Superman, full of the joys of all that lies ahead. Maude and Horatio’s faces crack into brittle grins.
‘Right, then!’ Horatio says. ‘Are we ready?’
Tiffie looks at them both. ‘Why are you pulling those faces?’
‘What faces?’ Maude asks.
‘Mum, have you been crying?’
‘Me? Certainly not!’
‘Actually,’ says Superman, peering at his father. ‘Looks like even Dad’s got blubby eyes.’
‘Don’t be fatuous,’ snaps Horatio. ‘Right, then. Are we ready? Now remember – Superman, Tiffany – no talking once we get outside of this room. We’ve got to run as quickly and quietly as we can.’ He looks up at the skylight just above his head. ‘Maude – I suggest you get out first. I’ll lift Superman up to you, then Tiffany –’
‘Dad!’ Superman scowls. ‘We can do it ourselves!’
Tiffany says nothing. She goes up to her mother, then her father, gives each of them a hug. ‘Don’t be sad,’ she says. ‘We all had a lovely time in France. But now we’re going to have a lovely time somewhere else…Superman and me –’
‘Superman and I.’
‘– we thought it’d be fun to live in Africa, maybe. Can we maybe live in Africa this time?’
DOWNSTAIRS
&
nbsp; ‘It’s very quiet up there,’ Len observes.
‘They’ve been up there half an hour,’ Murray nods. ‘I think one of us should go up and get them down.’
Skid, sprawled out at the kitchen table, having just helped himself to a bottle of pineau, shakes his head. Emma Rankin may well be wondering where he’s got to, but if this little trick comes off she can wonder for the rest of her life, for all he cares. He groans slightly, remembering the assault course she put him through the previous evening. Exhausting bloody woman. ‘Nonsense!’ he declares. ‘Leave them to sweat. The longer we leave them, the longer they have to panic, the more we’re going to get out of them in the end, my friends. Worry not. Have no fear!’ He chortles, feeling suddenly extraordinarily light-hearted. ‘For Skid is here.’
‘They could be destroying evidence,’ Murray suggests.
‘They could indeed. But they can’t destroy this, you see.’ He dangles the piece of paper he stole from the COOP. ‘And, remember, I have Horatio’s telephone. So far as they’re concerned, Maude’s outrageously incriminating messages are still on it. We have them, my friends, by the proverbial short-and-gruesomes. So sit down. Relax. Have a drink. And tell me how you plan to spend all the lovely money that’s about to be coming your way.’
‘I think we should go up,’ Murray says again.
‘They can’t go anywhere,’ Skid says more irritably. ‘They’ll be down in a minute. And when they come down, believe me, they’ll be ready to negotiate…You forget,’ he says, with an evil smile, ‘Mr and Mrs Nuclear Family up there have two little kiddies to protect. They’ll give us anything we want.’
Len clears his throat. ‘No offence, Skid,’ he says nervously, ‘but I think Murray’s got a point. I think we should go up.’
‘Len! Rest assured. You’re not expected to think. Trust me. I’ve done this sort of thing hundreds of times before.’
‘Cos, see, the thing is…’ Len glances at the two men as if waiting for permission to continue.
‘Spit it out, Len,’ snarls Skid. ‘Either say it or don’t, but please – don’t stand there with your mouth open.’
‘Well, cos – no offence or anything. But – the way I see it – they might not be up there any more.’
Skid laughs. So does Murray. ‘And how, pray,’ drawls Skid, ‘would you suggest that they have stopped being up there any more? We are sitting here, beside the only two exits, left and right, at the foot of the only staircase, and with their car keys right here in my pocket. Explain to me, if you will, exactly how a family of four would have succeeded in getting out of this house without our noticing it?’
‘Well – through the skylight,’ he says blandly. ‘They could have climbed out of the skylight outside Maude and Horatio’s room, and then onto the flat roof by the terrace. They could climb down the vine thingy – and they’re away. Easy. I’ve seen the kids doing it loads of times. Looks like fun.’
Skid says not another word. He puts the pineau bottle down mid-pouring and stands up, allowing his kitchen chair to tumble noisily onto the floor behind him.
BUTTERFLY WOOD
Jean Baptiste looks at his watch. Scans the horizon, searching, as he has been for half an hour, for the silhouette of a Haunt, any Haunt, most probably a small Haunt riding a small bicycle. But nothing. They’re running late. He begins to wonder if something may have happened, wonders if it would be safe to call Horatio’s mobile. Behind him, half hidden by trees and surrounded by a host of butterflies, he has his van, with a sweltering family inside, awaiting their papers. He plans to take them directly to the train station at Bordeaux and leave them there to make their own way. They say they will head for Rome.
Beside him stands Daffy, grim with newfound determination, clutching her son’s hand as he dances around her. ‘You think something’s happened?’ she asks for the fifteenth time. ‘I think we should call.’
Jean Baptiste shakes his head. ‘It’s too dangerous. I think we should wait.’
‘I’m worried about Timothy –’
‘Timothy will be fine. He’s quite safe.’
‘Has he gone?’ asks James suddenly. He’s not asked about his father all morning.
‘Darling, you must be so hot, dancing about in this hot weather. Are you sure you don’t want to find some shade somewhere?’
‘Has my father gone?’ James asks again.
‘From where?’ Jean Baptiste smiles at him. ‘Can you see him? I can’t see him. He’s not here. So I think he must be gone.’
James’s shoulders sag with relief. He takes up his dancing again. ‘He’s not here! He’s not here! He’s not here!’ he sings tunelessly.
‘Shhh! Darling, we have to be quiet –’
‘How long are we going to be here?’ James asks.
Again, Jean Baptiste looks at his watch. Scans the horizon – scans the maize field. He pulls out his mobile. ‘OK, Daffy,’ he says. ‘But I don’t want to telephone the house. And Horatio’s lost his mobile.’
‘Try Maude, then.’
‘I don’t have her number.’
‘Then call Horatio. He may have found it by now. Call him.’
‘Don’t! For God’s sake, don’t do that!’ They both look up. To see Horatio emerging from the tall maize just behind them, pouring with sweat, carrying a rucksack, and followed closely behind by –
‘Maude! Superman! Tiffie! But you’ve all come!’ Daffy cries. ‘And you look so hot! Horatio, Maude –’ She crouches automatically, puts out protective arms, one around Superman, panting like a little dog, one around Tiffany, so tired she can hardly stand. ‘What’s happened? What’s happened?’
‘I’m not quite sure,’ Superman gasps. ‘But Skid got Dad’s phone and I think we’re going to live in Africa.’
KEEPING DATES (1)
Nobody thought about Sara. She returned to the Marronnier after her break, just as she did every day, only to find the place locked up.
She has her own key, which she keeps in a musical box beside her bed, and she returns to fetch it. It is unlike Daffy to disappear in the middle of the day. Often, by the time Sara arrives, she has already cleaned the rooms herself. Sara finds her sitting at the kitchen table, hard at work with her French books.
Not today. Daffy is nowhere to be seen, and the place is a mess. Kitchen chairs have been abandoned, knocked to the ground, and there is the residue of seven or eight people’s breakfasts on the table. Sara, pleased to feel useful, sets about clearing it up. She straightens the chairs, clears away bread, butter, jam, loads the coffee cups into the dishwasher, wipes the table, sweeps up the crumbs on the kitchen floor. She hears a thump from an upstairs room and frowns – the hotel was all locked up. She wonders if one of Daffy’s dogs has trapped themselves in a bedroom. It happens from time to time.
She stops at the bar to pick up the room keys, takes a handful of clean sheets from the linen cupboard and a bucket full of cleaning fluids, and, slowly, she makes her way upstairs.
THUMP!
It’s coming from the fourth bedroom, a room Sara didn’t think was being used.
THUMP!
A little nervous now – the noise sounds too heavy for either of the dogs. She stops outside the door and calls out their names.
THUMP!
She glances down. Both dogs are at her feet, tails wagging.
THUMP!
‘Allô?’ she calls out faintly. ‘Il y a quelqu’un?’ She tries the door. Locked. Glances down at her bunch of keys – she has the right one there, in her hand –
THUMP! – and then the muffled sound of a man’s voice. Someone in need of help. With damp, trembling hands, she unlocks then pushes open the door. Finds Timothy, imploring eyes wide open, staring up at her. Somehow, he’s managed to get himself off the bed. But he’s still bound, legs and hands, arms behind his back. His mouth is gagged and he reeks of alcohol.
Daffy has gone to town. She has left her husband’s trousers and underpants tangled around his ankles, and there are dried blotches
of Daffy’s paper glue smeared across his thighs; and lipstick marks – unmistakable bright orange lipstick marks – the length of his shrivelled cock. He is a monstrous sight; an image from an awful nightmare.
And yet it is Timothy, taking one look at Sara’s kindly face, her bright orange lips, who screams.
‘Mais qu’est-ce qui se passe là?’ mutters Sara, tutting slightly. She bends to undo his gag. ‘Ça va, Monsieur?’ she asks politely.
He screams at her to release him. Screams. He doesn’t know what’s happened. He doesn’t want to know. He only feels his head throbbing with pain, and rivers of hot, sickly shame dribbling thick over his dirty body, and still, beneath all that, as he watches her fumbling with the knots, an unmistakable hum of arousal. He can’t take his eyes off her mouth.
And he can’t stop thinking about Lucy. She gets so tetchy with him when he’s late. ‘J’ai un avion,’ he bawls at her, virtually crying. ‘J’ai un avion!’
He runs. Doesn’t stop to thank her. Pulls up his trousers and runs. It’s half past twelve. He’ll take a shower at the airport.
KEEPING DATES (2)
Skid is back upstairs, rifling through what’s left of the papers on Horatio’s desk, unable to speak through his disappointment. Murray and Len are on the point of wandering back to the kitchen, to fetch themselves some more beer.
‘I think,’ suggests Len, ‘we should all sit down and have a little think. I mean, to be serious for a moment. God knows what Simon’s going to say about all this…All the stuff we’ve got up until now – It’s going to seem pretty meaningless without the Mayor’s lunch…’
‘Oh,’ snarls Skid. ‘You think?’
‘There’s no need to be nasty,’ Len says. ‘You don’t have to deal with Simon. And Rosie.’
‘He’s right, Skid. This may not have turned out like we planned, but –’
Just then the telephone rings. Skid – to shut them up – snatches the receiver. ‘Yes?’ he says. ‘Haunts’ house. What do you want?’
