No Cure for Love

by Peter Robinson

  In bed they would lie together naked and . . . But when he thought of the act itself he started to feel excited, confused and angry; waves of red surged in front of his eyeballs. It was the same way he felt when he watched the video: so disturbed and violent that he sometimes bruised his penis and made it sore when he masturbated. Well, that part of their relationship would take care of itself when the time came.

  If things didn’t go their way, though—and he could at least admit that might happen, as they had many rich and powerful enemies—then it might be necessary to forgo the earthly paradise and head straight for the heaven beyond the flesh.

  Sometimes that seemed like the best idea, anyway. He was sure there was no comparison between the world of the flesh and that of pure spirit. But when you pit the known against the unknown, usually the known has an edge. That was something for him to work on: learn to love the unknown more. Faith, that was what he needed. Faith was the key. And courage.

  For now, though, he had his images of her, and he would create more while she was away. With his computer, he could do anything he wanted to photographs or video images. He could play God with the arrangement of body parts and even put different heads and bodies together.

  He had experimented with several permutations: putting Sally’s head on the body of a porn image, for example, so that she smiled at him with her legs wide open, one hand holding herself and a finger inside her vagina. The bottom part wasn’t Sally, of course. Though she had appeared nude in some films—he had videos of them all—she had never done anything remotely as pornographic as that. She wouldn’t. He knew that. At heart, she was a decent, wholesome girl. But this was a part of his power; his ability to play God with images. And God had a sense of humor, too. Once he had put Sally’s head between the legs of the porn photo and it looked funny smiling at him from where the model’s pussy should be.

  But his crowning glory was the footage he had rearranged from an erotic video and several photographs of himself and Sally. As he ran it now and watched, he felt that familiar surge of excitement and anger. It was a simple scene: a man and woman in a bedroom. The man lay on his back, erect and ready, and the woman lowered herself onto him, taking his penis in her hand and guiding it into her. Then she began to rock back and forth, gently at first, and then more wildly.

  The woman had Sally’s face; the man had his.

  It was still rather primitive, of course. Their faces were both grafted from photographs, so their expressions didn’t change. Throughout the whole five minutes or so, she retained her sweet smile and he looked far too serious.

  You could also see a faint line where the heads had been joined to the bodies, as if someone had slit their throats.

  Their heads looked a little fuzzy, and the skin tones were slightly different. Though he had added a soundtrack of moans, cries and grunts from another porn video, they weren’t well enough synchronized. The whole thing sounded dubbed. Which is exactly what it was.

  But the more he concentrated, the more he was able to forget the imperfections and lose himself in her smile, her body, her cries, her love. Sometimes he felt a little guilty about what he was doing with the images and all, just a little naughty. But it was all he had of her flesh while they were being kept apart. He knew she would understand and forgive him. Besides, she was his, after all, wasn’t she?

  And the best thing of all was that, afterwards, she talked to him, told him her most intimate secrets. And, more important still, if he listened very closely, she told him what he had to do to win her love. She was telling him to do something right now. It wasn’t clear exactly what yet, but it would be soon.

  19

  EARLY ON CHRISTMAS EVE, ARVO WENT OUT TO A watering-hole on Wilshire with Maria, Kelly Norris, Mike Glover and Larry Matsuoka from the unit.

  As they wedged themselves into the only semicircular booth left, Arvo couldn’t help but smile at the bizarre twist the Sandi Gaines case had taken that day. After everything that had happened, Sandi had come by the office that morning saying she didn’t want to press charges; she was willing to give Chuck a second chance; maybe she’d been wrong about him.

  But Chucky was facing charges, all right. Plenty of them. Arvo had suggested counselling for Sandi. A relationship like theirs could only end in violence, and it was a good idea to try to save the department more work down the line. A good idea, but almost impossible. In the centuries-old war between reason and passion, who ever listened to reason?

  Green and red streamers hung across the ceiling and walls, a small Christmas tree covered with lights and tinsel stood near the door and Elvis was singing “Blue Christmas’ on the jukebox. It took nearly ten minutes to get a round of drinks.

  Arvo found himself crushed next to Maria, a very enjoyable sensation. Her thigh pressed against his, and sometimes when she moved he could feel the warmth and softness of her breast against his arm.

  “What do you make of it?” he asked her about Sandi Gaines. The bar was so crowded and noisy he had to lean close to her ear to be heard. Close enough to smell her musky perfume.

  Maria took a sip from a tall frosted glass full of colored liquid and chunks of fruit topped with an umbrella and shook her head. The bartender called it a Santa Special because it was mostly green, white and red. “I think she’s crazy,” she said with a slight shrug. “But half the world’s crazy and the other half’s working on it. I don’t know.”

  “She said he made her feel wanted.”

  “I suppose if a guy walked in a restaurant and threatened to blow my head off he’d make me feel wanted, too,” said Maria.

  Arvo laughed. “She said she hadn’t realized he was such a man, hadn’t thought he had it in him.”

  Maria rolled her eyes. “Give me a break, Arvo.”

  “Haven’t you ever felt that way? Liked a guy because he felt so passionately about you he’d do something like that?”

  “Nope.”

  “How about someone who was willing to get violent because of you, like fight for you?”

  Maria thought for a moment, then said, “It’s not the same. Chuck didn’t fight for Sandi, he didn’t defend her honour or anything, he threatened her. He’s a creep, and if she gets off on being scared, that’s her problem.” She took another sip of her drink.

  “Ms. Sensitivity,” he said.

  Maria grinned. “There was this guy in ninth grade once,” she went on, putting the glass down. “See, there was this asshole kept razzing me, calling me ‘wetback,’ ‘spic,’ ‘hot chili pepper’ and other real original shit like that. Only one guy stood up for me. Patrick O’Reilly, that was his name.” She smiled at the memory. “Knocked two of the asshole’s front teeth right down his throat and got himself suspended for it.”

  “You admired him for doing that?”

  “Sure did. We even dated for a while. You know, I once asked him why he did it, him being an Anglo and me a Mexican and all that. Only time I ever saw him get upset. He said he wasn’t Anglo, he was Irish, and his grandparents, or his great-grandparents, whatever, came over here after the potato famine. He told me hundreds of thousands of his people died in that famine and he was damned if he was going to stand by and watch someone made to suffer just because she came from another country for a better life, especially from a poor country.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. We lost touch.”

  Just then, Mike Glover caught Maria’s attention and Arvo found himself leaning over the table trying to carry on a conversation about the prospects for the Rosebowl with Larry and Kelly. The din in the bar made it difficult. One particularly noisy group kept popping champagne corks and squealing with delight every time they sprayed half a bottle all over themselves. Elvis’s “Why Can’t Every Day Be Like Christmas?” gave way to John Lennon singing “Happy Xmas (War Is Over).”

  For a moment, Arvo drifted away from the conversation, thinking about John Lennon, shot by the kind of person the TMU was trying to get some insight into.
December 8, 1980. Arvo had been barely out his teens himself back then, but he had cried for John Lennon, listened to all those oldies they played on the radio all day: “In My Life,” “Working Class Hero,” “Mother.” Just a fucked-up working-class kid from Liverpool, or so Arvo’s Welsh father said, but a hell of a talent.

  That December day in Detroit was wet, gray and chilling to the bone. Arvo remembered passing an empty playground where one of the swings was rocking gently back and forth in the wind, as if occupied by a ghost. He had his Walkman on and the radio station was playing “Jealous Guy.” It made Arvo feel inexplicably sad, that empty swing rocking back and forth on the gray day after John Lennon got shot. If Arvo had known then that one day he would be working on a special unit . . .

  “Arvo?”

  “Oh, sorry. What?”

  It was Maria again, slipping on her herringbone jacket. “I’ve got to go now,” she said. “Long drive ahead.”

  “Okay. Drive carefully and have a great time.” He knew she was going to spend Christmas with her family in San Diego.

  She smiled, then leaned over suddenly and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. He could taste grapefruit juice, orange, salt, tequila and something else, maybe Maria herself. From the corner of his eye, he saw Kelly Norris raise her eyebrows. Maria gave his arm a squeeze and said, “Merry Christmas. Take care of yourself, Arvo,” then she turned to the group at large and waved. “Have a good one!” And before they knew it, she was gone.

  “So what do you think?” Larry asked.

  “What do I think about what?”

  “Michigan. The Rosebowl. You got a bet on?”

  “Oh . . . right . . .”

  Arvo chatted for as long as it took to drink a second beer then headed out himself, once again thanking Mike Glover for inviting him to Christmas dinner but pleading a prior engagement. A white lie.

  As he drove home bumper to bumper in the constellation of lights along the Santa Monica Freeway, he could still taste Maria’s kiss, smell her perfume, and the memory of it stirred his loins. He turned off the freeway at Cloverfield and pulled up in the street outside his house around seven o’clock.

  In his mailbox he found a card and small package postmarked Palo Alto. Inside, he first checked the answering machine for messages—none—then he kicked off his shoes and took off his gun and nylon holster. After pouring himself a stiff Scotch, he flipped on the television news, then he sat down, put his feet up and opened the card.

  It showed a Breughel village scene. Tiny figures lost in the whiteness. Not a mention of Christmas. Typical Nyreen. Very politically correct when it came to religious sensitivity. So much so that she didn’t have any religion at all. The greeting read, “Sorry I’ve screwed things up. You know I’ll love you forever.” Arvo ripped up the card and put it in the garbage.

  Just as he was on his way to the fridge to see if there was anything for dinner, his beeper went off. That could only mean work. He checked the number, saw it was Parker Center and went to the phone.

  Joe Westinghouse picked it up at the other end on the third ring. “Arvo,” he said. “Merry Christmas. We put a rush on the John Heimar toxicology. Only way to get it done before the holiday. I just got the results back and I thought you might like to know that the kid had enough barbiturates in his system to kill half the state of California.”

  “Come again?”

  “I’m not just talking recreational drugs here, Arvo. Far too much for that. The kid was poisoned before he was chopped up.”

  20

  ON CHRISTMAS DAY, A COLD WIND BUFFETED Robin Hood’s Bay, smashing the sea in a frenzy of foam hard against the old stone wall and churning the dawn sky into a shifting pattern of ashes. Everyone woke early, and in no time, it seemed, Cathy and Jason were dashing down to open their presents and the day had begun.

  Jason loved his Mighty Ducks jacket, and Cathy was ecstatic over the sweatshirt with Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Sylvester the Cat, Tweety Pie and other Warner Brothers cartoon characters on the front.

  The Rodeo Drive blouse left Paula almost speechless (only almost: what she actually said was, “You shouldn’t have. When will I ever get a chance to wear something like this?”).

  Sarah’s father thanked her for the watch, but she felt she had misjudged there. She noticed him fiddling unconsciously with the gold band all day, as if it were too tight. She had been cautious enough to avoid buying him something too ostentatiously expensive, like a Rolex, but it still seemed she was wrong. Perhaps it reminded him, too, of how quickly his time was ticking away? Sarah thought it might be a good idea at least to replace the band with a simple leather strap.

  Most of the presents Sarah received consisted of some form of warm clothing—a scarf, gloves, a pullover—as if her family had expected her to come over from sunny California in a T-shirt and shorts. Paula had bought her a nice pair of earrings, though: hand-crafted silver inlaid with what looked like lapis lazuli.

  While the children played with their toys and filled themselves with chocolates, Sarah helped Paula stuff the turkey and prepare the dressings.

  They ate at three o’clock, and after dinner the children, who could contain themselves no longer, dashed off to show their American presents to their friends in the village. Arthur Bolton fell asleep in his wheelchair, wheezing and snoring, and Sarah and Paula shared the washing-up.

  Most of the evening they sat around and watched television, sipping port and sherry until it was time for the children to go to bed. Arthur Bolton followed soon after.

  “Let’s have another drink,” Sarah suggested when she and Paula were alone. “It’s been a long time since we last got tiddly together.”

  A fire blazed in the hearth. It was only lava rocks heated by gas, but it looked and felt like a real fire, and it made Sarah remember the coal fire they used to have all winter when she was a child. With her father working at the pit, they got a coal allowance.

  “I don’t know,” Paula said. “I shouldn’t. There’ll still be so much to do tomorrow.”

  “Come on. It’s Christmas.”

  “We can’t all live your easygoing lifestyle, you know. The kids will be needing me just as much tomorrow as they did today. Then there’s Dad to look after. And work.”

  “Come on, let your hair down.”

  Paula chewed her lip for a moment, then said. “All right, you’ve twisted my arm. Maybe just one. A little one, mind you.”

  “Why don’t you try your new blouse on?”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  “Go on. I want to see if it fits.”

  “I can’t. I’ll feel silly.”

  “No you won’t. You’ll look gorgeous. Go on, Paula, do it for me.”

  “Well, I suppose it’ll go with my suit.” Muttering to herself, Paula disappeared upstairs and came down wearing the blouse. It was Thai silk, handmade, and a very delicate coral color. Paula wore it under a dull, off-the-peg cream suit. But that was Paula all over: Rodeo Drive blouse and C & A suit.

  “There you are,” said Sarah. “You look great.”

  Paula fingered the high collar. “It is nice . . .”

  “But?”

  “Well, I can hardly wear it to work, can I?”

  “I should hope not. It wasn’t meant for work. Don’t worry, there’ll be occasions. I just wanted to buy you something a bit frivolous, that’s all.”

  Paula gave a long-suffering sigh. “It’s all very well for some. We can’t all afford to be frivolous, though. Some of us have responsibilities.”

  “Oh, Paula, give it a rest.” Sarah felt squiffy enough to defy her big sister. She dug out the medicinal brandy and poured them each a healthy measure. “To family reunions,” she said, raising her glass.

  Paula snorted.

  Sarah slammed her glass down, breaking the stem and spilling brandy all over the coffee table. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” she demanded. “You don’t give a bloody inch, do you? Can’t you see I’m trying? I’m trying very hard. Do you
hate me so much?”

  “What do you mean?” said Paula, already wiping at the spill with a napkin. “Of course I don’t hate you. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Oh, leave it alone,” said Sarah, grasping Paula’s arm. Paula shook herself free and carried on mopping up. A spot of brandy stained the hem of her suit. Sarah got another glass from the cabinet and filled it close to the brim. “All the time I’ve been here you’ve done nothing but whine and moan,” she said. “I’m getting sick of it. If your life’s so bloody awful, do something about it.” The moment she had spoken, Sarah regretted the words, and her harsh tone, but it was already too late.

  “What do you mean ‘do something about it’?” Paula shot back, color flashing to her cheeks. “As easy as that, is it? What do you suggest I do? Pack in my job? Dump the kids? And what about Dad? Do I just let him die? Maybe you don’t realize it, but someone’s got to look after this family, and it bloody well isn’t you.”

  “You ungrateful bitch. I’ve offered you all the help I can and you just throw it all back in my face.”

  “Help? That’s a good one. Money, that’s what you’ve offered. That’s all. Money. You can’t buy everything with money, you know.”

  “If you weren’t so damn stubborn and proud you’d realize you can do a lot with money.”

  “Like send Dad to a home?”

  “Well let’s face it, that’d be one less burden for you, wouldn’t it?”

  Paula shook her head. “A burden? You just don’t bloody understand, do you, Sal? Has all this high living turned your head so much you don’t even understand your family any more? Has America done this to you? You didn’t used to be so heartless.”

  Sarah ran her hand over her hair. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean it. You just made me so angry.”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” Paula went on, “if you weren’t so obviously Dad’s favorite, no matter—”