Penelope regarded her quizzically. “Why don’t you go and kill the bastard, then?” She giggled and took another gulp of whisky. “We live in a disposable age, so we ought to be able to dispose of our husbands. I think a new consumer service could be created. PEs — Partner Exterminators. You pay a deposit and the rest on completion.”
Anne smiled mechanically, but inside she felt like laughing wildly. Penelope had certainly hit the nail on the head, but her PE was a joke. Wasn’t it?
“Do you want another drink?” she asked, and Penelope nodded.
She levered herself up, still incredulous.
“All men are bastards,” said Penelope. Then she raised her glass and repeated loudly, and with considerable pleasure, “All men are bastards.”
“I wouldn’t say all.” The young man was walking unsteadily towards them from an adjoining table, his all-male companions grinning expectantly.
Anne tried to ignore him, to make her way to the bar, but he was blocking her path, his designer stubble moist in the murky light, his eyes alight with an unfortunate combination of mischief and desire. God, she thought, there’s going to be a scene, and knew there was nothing she could do to prevent it as the young man belligerently grabbed her arm.
“Not walking out on me?”
“Let go.”
Anne could see the barman was watching the situation, hoping it would go away, knowing it wouldn’t.
Penelope was on her feet now, as unsteady as the young man, whose face was flushed. Anne could detect the first traces of anxiety and almost felt sorry for him, for he had gone too far, as she had just done with Penelope. In vino veritas, she thought.
“Please,” she said less audibly. “You’re hurting me. Go and sit down.”
“Don’t fucking patronize me, you bitch.” Her command had alienated him again and his bravado swept back.
Anne realized she had said exactly the wrong thing, but what would have been the right one?
“Lower your voice,” she ploughed on, making it worse, conscious of everyone’s eyes on her in eager anticipation of an interesting public scene.
“Don’t fucking patronize me,” he repeated, and Anne saw the barman had disappeared, no doubt to fetch the landlord or the police or both. “Just want a good poke, don’t you? The both of you.”
“All right, then,” said Penelope. The atmosphere in the pub was expectant, and she looked round with a welcoming smile. Slowly she drained what was left in her glass, and then suddenly pulled her dress up and her knickers down. “Give us a bang,” Penelope yelled in her strangled upper class voice. “What are you waiting for, dick-head?”
* * *
The silence in the bar was absolute, broken by an embarrassed giggle, and Anne felt as if she were floating, quite detached from what was happening.
“Are you making a statement?” asked an anonymous voice from the back, and there was more smothered laughter.
The young man looked as if someone had hit him.
“Gobsmacked, aren’t you?” said Penelope truculently. Her face was pale and there was a fixed smile on her lips. “Now, piss off!” She pulled up her knickers and slowly lowered her dress.
“Whore,” pronounced a woman at a table just behind them.
Penelope nodded, as if to acknowledge the description. Then her grin became narrow and unfocused as the landlord arrived, heavily paunched and boiling over with moral indignation.
“Sorry, ladies. When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go.”
Anne stood her ground. “He assaulted me.” She pointed to the young man who had now returned to his table.
“I only saw what your friend did, and I won’t have that here.” He was impassive, expressionless. “If you don’t leave I’ll call the police.”
“We’re leaving,” said Anne. “But you should make sure your customers are better protected.”
The landlord said nothing, gazing steadily at her as if he hadn’t heard.
“I’ll have you know my husband’s a barrister,” said Penelope. It was unfortunate that her voice now sounded badly slurred.
Anne gazed at the landlord and her sudden laughter rang out, richly coarse and unseemly. Well, she thought, if this is a scene, then by God it’d better be a big one; the very thought made her laugh even harder, especially when Penelope joined in, the sound thin and cracked, piercing the smoke-laden air.
“That’ll do, ladies,” admonished the landlord. He took each of them by the arm and they all three seemed to glide across the floor.
“Whore,” repeated the woman.
“Screw you,” said Penelope.
Once they were both out on the street, their laughter began again, peal after peal, pedestrians turning to stare benignly or disapprovingly, depending on their mood and outlook.
“I’ll never be able to walk these mean streets again. I’ll have to wear a false beard, or padlocked knickers.”
For some reason, Anne found this incredibly funny and they staggered along, shaking with wild laughter until they reached their cars, still parked outside the school.
“Do you know,” gasped Anne. “Do you know what I’m going to do?”
“Take a piss?”
“Take a taxi.” She ran into the phone box, still laughing.
“Where’s the car, Mum?” asked Peter from the sofa, still staring at the TV screen.
“We came home by taxi.”
“We?”
“Penelope and I.”
“You stayed out with her?” His voice was as flat as the landlord’s had been.
“We just went for a drink and a talk.”
“You mean you got pissed and had to take a taxi.”
“Nonsense.” But Anne couldn’t seem to get her tongue round the word.
“You are pissed.”
“Just a bit over the Breathalyser.”
“You don’t want to get worse.” Peter sounded like a cross between an evangelist and an over-earnest social worker.
“I’m not.”
“That man said you should go to the AA.”
She looked at the back of his cropped head and depression swept over her. She closed her eyes against the terrible farce of what had occurred in the pub, knowing it would soon be all over the leafy suburbs — and the leafy school that Paul paid such high fees for Peter to attend.
“Dad rang.” Peter’s voice broke harshly into her thoughts.
“What did he want?”
“Me,” he replied truculently.
“An outing?” she enquired.
“A holiday. A weekend in France with the two of them.”
He made it sound as if he had been asked to consort with the enemy.
“Do you want to go?”
“Don’t know.” He was obviously trying to wind her up and Anne felt like hitting him.
“You shouldn’t be so negative,” she said, making coffee and wishing she could sober up faster. “Why don’t you want to go?”
“It’s Dad’s getting-to-know-me time,” sneered Peter. “Isn’t it?”
“Or getting-to-know-you-again time.”
“Should I go?” He was suddenly a little boy again.
“I think you should try.” A feeling of false well-being, which Anne soon recognized as the familiar martyrdom, stole over her. “Don’t you?”
“It’s only a weekend.”
“So you are going.”
He’d obviously made up his mind and just wanted to see her suffer. Tears pricked at the back of her eyelids and he looked round, his gaze acute, as if he had already sensed them. “What’s the matter?”
“You’d already made your mind up.”
“I won’t go if you don’t want me to.”
“When is it?”
“After Christmas.”
“Go.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He got up and lumbered over to her, an irritable bear. “I want to look after you. See you’re all right.”
“I’ll
be all right,” she snapped, deeply irritated by his precocious patronage. “Do you want a sandwich? I’m afraid we’re out of pickle.”
Anne went into the bedroom, picked up the phone and dialled Eamonn Coyd’s number. It rang for a long time.
“Yes.” He sounded muffled and distant when he answered at last.
“Anne Lucas.”
“It’s not a good idea to ring me.”
“I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time. I was overwrought.” She was stiffly formal, the relief flooding her.
“Were you?” He sounded thrown. Could the little man really have been capable of pulling it off, she wondered academically.
“I’ve had a breakdown and — and I get upset,” she said glibly.
“Have you been drinking?” He was as censorious as Peter.
“You must forgive me. I’ve behaved very badly and I must pay you for the interviews.”
“It’ll cost you thirty grand,” Eamonn Coyd said quietly. “Half now. Half on completion. It’s all set up.”
“I’ve just told you I don’t want to go ahead.” She was desperate to make him understand yet aware that she mustn’t say too much. Could he go to the police? Had she committed an offence? “Let’s not play games,” she said. Suddenly Anne had sobered up.
“I assure you I’m not.” He sounded more confident, as if he knew how bad she felt. “I taped our interview, Mrs Lucas.”
A chill crept over her. Suddenly Coyd wasn’t a little man any longer. Coyd was powerful.
“This is absurd. I’ll phone the police.”
“Shall I play it back?”
There was an impasse between them now. Anne tried to think quickly and failed completely, her mind blank as the panic rose in her like a sheet of flame. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean what I said.” She felt like a terrified child, begging understanding from an unyielding parent. From an unyielding father.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” said Coyd more gently.
“I was drunk. I’m drunk now.” She wanted him to pity her, to be reassuring, to say he’d let her go.
“Everyone has accidents, you know. Right out of the blue.”
Anne said nothing and Coyd seized his opportunity, realising she had lost her grip.
“A road accident. What are the statistics? He’d be safer on a plane.”
Anne began to shake. WANTED. PAUL LUCAS. DEAD OR ALIVE. The words echoed in her mind.
“I’ll ring you tomorrow,” she said. She wanted to get away from him. To think.
“You mustn’t ring.” He was slightly rattled, but Anne was too preoccupied to notice. “This conversation has been extremely ill-advised. We must complete the interviews. Do you understand?”
She crashed the telephone down, wondering if by some terrible chance Peter might have picked up the extension downstairs.
Anne stood up and quietly opened the door, but the television was blaring and she went and lay down on her bed. Suppose he had taped their conversation? So what? She lived in Wimbledon, she had suffered a breakdown and she had been incredibly stupid. Why couldn’t Eamonn Coyd understand? Why couldn’t he accept she had made a terrible mistake? She hadn’t willed her father’s death. His stroke had been — what — an act of God? You couldn’t will someone to death. You couldn’t pay money to have someone dead. Anne turned over on her face, trying to shut out the clamour.
Chapter 6
“What are you doing?” accused Freda from the head of the stairs. “You’re never in the shop at this hour.”
“I was looking for something,” said Eamonn.
“Looking for what?”
“Letter from my brother.”
Freda withdrew. She was not interested in brothers.
Left alone, Eamonn thought furiously, wondering what he was going to do next. Could Anne Lucas just walk away from all this?
Later, when he knew Freda was in bed, Eamonn locked his door, went to the suitcase and dragged out Mam’s clothes, cast-offs from a box in the garage behind their burnt-out house. They were largely outdated summer prints but he had one favourite which was a plain cornflower blue. Slowly he took off his clothes, pulled the dress on and lay under the duvet.
Eamonn slept in Mam’s dress all night, dreaming that he and his mother were walking down a long path towards the sea. Joe was running in front of them, his towel round his shoulders, his sandals flip-flopping on the baked ground. The sun was high in the sky and the heat was intense, the sea glinting a few hundred metres away, waves curling at shingle, the sound loud and menacing.
“The sea’s hungry.” Mam wore a sun-hat and the dress that Eamonn was now wearing. “Joe won’t last, you know, Eamonn. Not with those waves.”
They both called his name, but he didn’t even turn round.
“He won’t listen,” she said.
“What shall I do?” Eamonn asked.
“You’re the one with the brains.”
“I don’t know what to do,” he repeated.
“You’ll know,” she said. “You’ll know at the right time.”
Joe turned round suddenly to wave at them and shouted, “I’m going in.”
“No you’re not,” yelled Eamonn. “You’ll wait for me.” He let go of his mother’s hand and she whispered, “Love him, Eamonn. Love him to death.” As she spoke, he woke to the grey light of dawn filtering through his bedroom curtains.
Anne woke to the same dull dawn, her head aching, but in her mock-Regency house facing the common it seemed less squalid and less leaden. For a few moments her mind was mercifully blank and she gazed across at the ragged poplars, the frost etched pristine white, the grass untrampled.
A woman walked a dog, a newspaper boy spun past on a bike and a vagrant of indeterminate sex pushed a supermarket trolley laden with belongings, peering into a refuse container. The scavenging life intrigued Anne for a few moments while she tried to make out what was in the trolley, but the contents largely seemed to consist of old newspapers.
The horror of last night’s conversation returned abruptly as Anne watched the postman come to the door, and to postpone any decision she went downstairs to pick up her mail, scanning it apathetically until she saw that one of the letters bore Paul’s handwriting.
She went into the kitchen and slowly opened it, feeling numb. He had not written her a letter since he left. In fact, he had not written her a letter in years. The contents were brutally to the point.
My dear Anne,
I am sorry to have procrastinated so long but I must now ask if you are in a position to divorce me. I realise that writing to you is a coward’s way out, but then you will remember that I’ve always been a coward. Besides, I see no point in another face-to-face confrontation — it can only bring us both more pain.
Rachel and I have decided to buy a house in France, in the Ardèche. We shall live there as much as we can, and if I can work up Cafferty Steele into rather more of a paying proposition then I’ll bring in a partner who can handle the day-to-day running. In some ways I feel I was a fool to have started this enterprise. It’s too late in my life. I should have retired.
I’d like Peter to spend some time with us when we get the house, and as he will have told you we’ve had a preliminary talk about it. If you would ever like to stay there with him when we are in London, please feel free to do so.
At present I’m in discussion with the lawyers over the question of my mother’s will, and I have to tell you that Graham Hardwick thinks he might be able to produce a more democratic situation that will also include Rachel. I expect you will have already realized that I want to try and make provision for her if I can.
I know you will be angry with me when you have read this letter, but I thought it better to put all the unpalatable facts down on paper — and make this at least a discussion document.
I do hope you’re feeling much better. Peter thinks you are. Sorry I couldn’t make the open day.
Love,
PAUL
Anne stood by th
e kitchen table, leaning over the letter, and then sat down abruptly, shaking with the fury that was boiling up inside her so painfully that she could hardly bear it. “Fuck him,” she said aloud. “Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him.”
Surely the will couldn’t be broken. It was all sewn up. There mustn’t be any loopholes and Paul was probably just flying one of his kites. God-damn him, she thought, bringing her fists down on the table so hard they hurt. God-damn him.
“What’s up, Mum?” bellowed Peter from his room. His bellow was anxious.
“I dropped the post,” she said unconvincingly, but he seemed to accept what she said.
Anne picked up Paul’s letter and tore it into very small pieces which she stuffed into the bottom of the refuse bin. Then she went to the phone and dialled Coyd’s number.
“Suppose we did go abroad?” Joe asked Carla as they lay in bed, watching the mist rise from the Thames and the frost begin to lose its grip on the window outside.
They never pulled the curtains — the view was too dramatic — and besides, it symbolised the value the stolen money had brought to their lives, a satisfyingly far cry from Glasgow and the desolation of rotting housing estates.
“Where to?”
“Australia.”
“What about a job?”
“Eamonn’s fixed me up.”
Carla didn’t reply, which meant that she neither believed in nor trusted anything that his brother said or promised. Now she was more desperately aware than ever of the information blackout that Joe had imposed, a vast no man’s land which she could never penetrate.
She knew he had taken money from McMarn, and Carla was also certain that, despite her original assurances to the contrary, the Candy Man would eventually catch up with them. What she couldn’t predict was when this would happen, and because of her grinding fear she had tried unsuccessfully to block her mind to the danger. She got on with her life, running her own department, not asking the questions that she knew would eventually drive her and Joe irreconcilably apart. But she suffered.
The thought that McMarn might have actually caught up with them was becoming more and more difficult to suppress. Over the last couple of days, Joe had been withdrawn, his irritability and tension increasing, but Carla had not dared to ask the obvious question.
I Want Him Dead Page 7
