Conman

by Richard Asplin

  So we did it.

  Andrew booted up my laptop and opened up a new email account under a false name while I paced, chewing the inside of my cheek and watching Elvis on the wall backcomb his quiff with the long hand. It was twenty to five. I knew from his black book that Christopher checked eBay for likely marks daily at 5pm and, time being of the essence, every passing day potentially taking Lana’s financial future further and further from me, I was keen to get our worm on the hook.

  Our phoney seller now born – superfan36@hotmail.com – we scanned in the Action Comics photograph Sotheby’s had returned to me, downloaded it onto eBay hastily, Andrew typing while I paced, dictating a snappy, no-nonsense, business-like description of this once-in-a-lifetime collectable. To avoid it being snapped up by a genuine buyer, we instructed a three-hour window and added a ludicrous reserve price, thus insuring the comic would stay unbought, on-screen and alluring until 8pm. Hopefully long enough.

  Hopefully.

  I was just having a final jittery pace, Andrew reading the copy back to me, when we both jumped at the sound of the phone.

  “Heroes Incorporated?”

  “God, there you are,” Jane said. “I’ve tried you four times.”

  I could hear Lana gurgling in the background.

  “Sorry, it’s been busy,” I said with a throat-clearing, no-honest-really cough. Andrew spun around on the office chair, eyebrows aloft. In my ear, the line went quiet. I knew that quiet.

  Jane, it seemed, had decided to fling open a window for apology re: my performance at Thursday’s dinner. Last night had offered a small opportunity but between me locking myself in the study to Google prison visiting hours Selmeade and Jane consequently locking herself in the bathroom with Lana, I’d missed the window completely.

  So I seized the frame and threw myself through it.

  “It’s all right,” she said, interrupting my grovelling. “I’ve spoken to Jack and Catherine. They forgive you. I forgive you. Old friends are old friends. So how was Benno after all this time? Still got the big beard and jumper? On shore leave from the SS Activist?”

  “Uhm, not quite, no –”

  “Did he tell you why he didn’t come to our wedding?”

  “Er, he’s here now as it happens. In the shop.” Andrew looked up at me. “He dropped in to see me.”

  “You want to invite him over for supper?”

  “Uhm, you sure?” I said, although I wasn’t sure why. Niggling thoughts breaking the surface. Andrew’s little red notebook of poetry. The three of us then. The three of us now.

  “Why not?” Jane said. “You’re cooking.”

  “I’ll ask him. See you ladies a little later.”

  “Love you.”

  I hung up.

  “Ask me what?” Andrew said. I extended the offer. “Marvellous,” he said, eyes bright. “The old gang,” and with a small smile, he spun on the office chair to face the laptop. “Here we go,” and he crossed his fingers and jabbed the return key, sending the bait down the line.

  We both looked up at the clock. It was four minutes to five.

  “That’s it,” Andrew said. “Nothing to do now but wait.”

  I nodded, queasily.

  “What do we do if he doesn’t respond?” I asked, grabbing my keys from the desk.

  “I think our big worry old friend is what the hell we’re going to do if he does.”

  “Benno? More spaghetti?”

  “Huh? N-no, I’m fine old chap,” Andrew chomped with a tomatoey chin, mouth full. He waved a fork. “This is grand tuck. A treat. Your skills have improved in the last ten years.”

  “God don’t,” Jane said, head on one side, smiling. “I can’t believe what we used to eat back then. What was your speciality sweetheart?”

  “Me? White sliced with marge’, wasn’t it?” I said.

  I scuttled to the kitchen, sliding the large serving bowl onto the cluttered counter top among the spills and onion peel, snapping off the light and returning to the warmth of the lounge. I eased myself to floor level with the others.

  “No no, you were always Bovril and Super Noodles,” Andrew was saying with a chuckle. “Often on the same plate. Don’t you remember? You bought shelves of the stuff. From Mad Jackie in the Spar on Queen Street.”

  “Christ,” I said, my head tumbling through wine-misted recollection, down dusty corridors of forgotten years. “Mad Jackie. How do you remember this stuff. We’re going back a decade.”

  “Being so far from home,” Andrew said. “Makes remembering more … I don’t know. Important?”

  It was getting on for eight o’clock. Tired and smiling, woozy on nostalgia, the three of us were spread, legs out, shoes off, on cushions about the rug in the lounge talking in hushed terrace voices. An 80s Best Of … CD was playing, succeeding in adding to the reunion atmos’. On shelves and sills, tea-lights cast long dancing figures on the dark walls, light winking on mineral water bottles and smeary wine glasses. Lana slept blissfully throughout in her carry-cot, Jane’s left hand set on auto-baby-entertain, bobbing and stroking and wiping and stroking some more, almost of its own accord. In fact, watching it as I scraped a chunk of warm ciabatta about my bowl, I was confident we could have all moved into the kitchen and her hand would have stayed – Addams Family style – amusing Lana beneath her blanket for the rest of the evening.

  “New York sounds amazing,” Jane gushed. “We should come out and visit. Neil? We should visit?”

  “Huh? Yes, yes absolutely.”

  “Maybe when Dad’s accountant has gone through the books next week? We’ll see if we can’t scrape together a cheap fare, yeah?”

  The room went a bit quiet. I could sense Andrew looking at me over his wine glass.

  The stereo twiddled Spandau Ballet inappropriately.

  “Well . . I guess we’ll see,” I said. Why hadn’t I told her? Why hadn’t I told her everything? What was I doing? What was I doing?

  “Well. Old Benno,” Jane said for the fifteenth time. “Who’d have thought it. I still can’t get over how much you’ve changed. You look better without the beard.”

  Andrew shrugged a manly shrug and smiled a rakish smile. I looked across at Jane who was looking at him. I watched them watch each other, feeling altogether odd about the whole thing. Partly the wine, perhaps. Partly that book of moony romantic poetry I found in Andrew’s room at the start of the third year. Partly his New York expense account and his broad manly shoulders.

  Partly knowing that somewhere Christopher could be on eBay, bidding on Lana’s future.

  Mostly the wine though I think.

  “I was telling our Neil here,” Andrew was saying, “I was sorry I missed the wedding. I bet …” and he began to fuss with his bowl, avoiding our look. “I bet you looked beautiful. As always, I mean,” and he blushed a little, covering it with a wink at me. “You’re a lucky fellow. I always thought –”

  “Uhm, y-you having more bread sweetheart?” I said suddenly, getting up with a clatter of bowls and spoons.

  “Huh? No, no, not for me,” she said.

  I moved into the kitchen, stomach tumbling, chewing the inside of my cheek.

  What was going on in there? Was Andrew flirting with my wife? Had he spent the last decade thinking about the one that got away? Was all this just –

  The cooker clock said 20:04.

  Shit. eBay. It would be all over by now. Anything Christopher was going to do, he’d have done.

  I splashed a little cold water from the sink onto my face to sober up a bit and, with a deep breath, returned to the lounge making concluding ah-well and right-then sorts of gestures.

  “You trying to break up the party?” Jane said. She looked up at me from her bean bag. Her skin was pale and soft in the candle light, eyes big and shining. Her whole face, her hair, her whole beautiful body reminding me why I loved her so much.

  And of course, proportionately, reminding me of what an utter shit I was keeping everything from her.

 
“Not at all,” I fibbed. “It’s just, Benno’s probably got work, and –”

  “C’mon then sweetheart,” Jane whispered and slid up, onto her haunches. Andrew and I watched as she gazed lovingly at our baby for a long moment. Leaning forward to kiss the dozing bundle, her violin back bowing, Jane’s perfect skin peaked as her shirt rode above her jean tops. She hoisted herself up, lifting the cot.

  “Do you want to see the nursery?” Jane asked Andrew. “Not quite your Hamptons summer house I know, but …”

  “It’s getting late maybe?” I said, pulling the plug on the mood quickly. I snapped on the main light, causing everyone to squint and moan.

  “Do you not want another drink? There’s plenty.” Jane said.

  “Uhmm …” Andrew said, looking at me.

  “Er …” I countered.

  “Maybe a … a coffee?” Andrew said.

  “Yes, yes. Coffee,” I said, all too eagerly.

  Jane looked at us both.

  “Then … then I’ll show you that thing,” I said.

  “The thing.”

  “The thing,” I said, clearing my throat conspicuously.

  “Thing?” Jane said.

  “Neil wanted to show me something.”

  “Right. On the er …”

  “Computer.”

  “Web site.”

  “Right. In fact why don’t I put Lana down,” I said quickly, lifting the cot from Jane. “And Benno can look at the computer while I get her sorted.”

  “And I’ll do the coffee?” Jane said. She looked a little bewildered by the Abbott & Costello back and forth.

  “Great. Perfect. Lovely,” I said. I pecked her on the cheek and led Andrew down the hall to the nursery.

  “Jane hasn’t aged a day,” Andrew said as the computer stuttered into life in the study. He pushed the door closed and began to pick through the plush nick-nackery and soft-toy clutter as I gently laid Lana down in her cot. “Not a day.”

  “God, my heart’s going, I tell you,” I hushed. Kissing Lana gently on her milky soft skin, I crept whispering to the computer chair and eased myself in, jittery fingers slipping over the keys. I double-clicked and dragged the stubborn mouse from its sticky slumber. “C’mon, c’mon. God, if Edward or Jane had any idea what I was doing …”

  “Seeing her again. It reminds me of the impact she had when she first appeared in halls. How everyone stopped what they were doing, just to stare … Long time ago now. And hey, don’t worry. Neither Edward nor Jane could trace this to you, even if they happened to see it. Which they won’t. So relax.”

  The homepage tinkled into life.

  “What you do need to worry about though,” and Andrew motioned at the chunky gold on my wrist. “Is that ugly fake monstrosity. Why are you still wearing it?”

  “I know, I know,” I said. I typed in eBay’s address and double-clicked GO anxiously. “I told Jane it was a freebie from work. I figure if I take it off now, it’ll start another conversation about why I’m now not wearing it. I figured I’d just let the whole thing … ah, here we go,” I said, sitting up a bit, nervousness running her long painted fingernail between my shoulder blades. The eBay homepage appeared, winking and flashing in stuttery animation.

  “There. Vintage comic books,” Andrew whispered, and I felt him scuttle up behind me. I click-drag-double clicked. The page wiped and the blue timer-bar began to fill across the bottom of the screen. 12% … 23% …

  “What if he hasn’t seen it?” I said softly, quickly checking that the nursery door was properly closed.

  “Every day at five, you said. He’ll have seen it.”

  38% … 46% …

  “He won’t. He won’t, I just know it. Today will be the one day he won’t have checked. He’ll be on holiday. Spending my fifty thousand pounds. He’ll have taken a year off. A sabbatical. To study pick-pocketing at the Sorbonne.”

  “He’ll have made a bid, don’t worry. It’s like your father said. Just wait.”

  78% … 86% …

  “And if he hasn’t?” I began to squirm in my cheap office chair, threatening to have it collapse beneath me in a tangle of foam and bolts. “This is it. Our one idea. If we can’t find him with this, then I –”

  94% … 97%

  “He’ll be there, he’ll be there …”

  100%

  He wasn’t there.

  My heart sank. Andrew shoved me aside and, rattling off some colourfully well-spoken curses, scrolled hopefully up and down, up and down, but nothing. Not a single bid.

  “P’raps we didn’t leave enough time,” he pondered, biting his lip. “P’raps if we try again –”

  “That’s it. We’re done,” I sighed, my throat fat and full. “Fifty grand. Lana’s whole …”

  “Wait, wait, wait. Perhaps …” Andrew said slowly, hands hovering over the keys, but there was an uneasy desperation in his voice. “Perhaps, er …”

  “That’s it,” I said, teeth angry. “That’s it,” and I reached forward and signed off the internet.

  There was a light tap on the door. Jane.

  “Coffee’s in the lounge.”

  Andrew and I sat in silence for what felt like an age, illuminated only by the faint glow of the screen. Neither of us wanted to speak because only one thing remained to be said and it didn’t need saying.

  “It was worth a –”

  “No no, absolutely,” we both began together awkwardly. “Thanks,” I said.

  “You never know …”

  “Right, right,” I nodded with a half-hearted shrug, but I knew. Christopher’s five o’clock eBay scan was the only thing I could recall from his little black book. A man as elusive as he would find the nano-sized shadowy half-life between winking electrons in space about the only place safe enough to stick his head out.

  “Fuck,” Andrew spat, shaking his head, his one opportunity for vengeance dashed.

  “Coffee?”

  “I should go mate,” Andrew said. “Pick up a taxi. I’ve got to be wide awake enough to lose a game of Sunday golf halfway convincingly in the morning.”

  “O’Shea again?”

  “Me, him and the Holborn team are making up an awkward fivesome. But … hey we’ll talk Monday?”

  We moved into the hall where Jane met us. He made his apologies and kissed Jane gently on the cheek, lifting his woollen overcoat from the bulging hall pegs. They swapped must-catch-ups and must-make-plans, leaving me to take in the serenity for a moment – the smell of fresh coffee, the candlelight dancing through the door on the lounge wall, a man and wife, their beautiful daughter dozing contentedly, seeing off an old dear friend after dinner.

  I had a small pang, wishing Andrew would stay where he was, making plans, recreating the good old days, to freeze the moment for a little longer. Say, I don’t know, the next seventy years or so.

  Andrew left.

  Mind a million miles away, I followed Jane about the flat for a while as we cleared dishes and blew out candles. She asked about our computer dealings, the details of which I naturally fudged and fumbled with an idle wave.

  “Any emails from Dad?” she said, stacking plates in the sink.

  “Huh? No, no. You expecting something?”

  “Just checking he’s still on for Tuesday’s train.”

  “Well I’ll have another look tomorrow. I’ve got to … wait.”

  “Got to … ? Neil?”

  “Huh?” I’d had a thought. Could it be …

  “Neil?”

  “Uhm, wait. Er, yeah, yeah actually, I’d better do that,” I said excitedly, a light feeling growing in my chest, expanding, filling my heart with helium, lifting me like a fairground balloon.

  I scurried down the hall quickly.

  Maybe, maybe …

  Door shut behind me, the computer sluggishly woke from its daze and dragged itself to life, ignoring my bouncy urges and clicking fingers. Behind me, in the dark, my daughter slept.

  Down the hall, in the bedroom, my wife undress
ed.

  Of course? Why didn’t I think to check while Andrew was here? I flashed a look at my chunky watch. How long before he was back at his hotel? A cab to the West End? Or wait, his mobile …

  I crept quickly out of the nursery, down the hall to the coats, flapping through my jacket until I found Andrew’s number.

  “You all right?” Jane asked, appearing from the bedroom. She was in a big Strontium Dog T-shirt, loose-necked and bare legged. “Is Lana asleep?”

  “I’ll be in in a second,” I said. “I-I mean yes, yes I’m fine. And yes. She’s out light like a light. You all right?” but I was back in the study, heart pounding, before Jane could answer.

  I closed the door and sat down, opening up the computer. I skidded the mouse about and clicked onto the internet, left hand all fingers and thumbs, putting down the greasy slip of paper with the number on it, and snatching up the telephone extension.

  I logged onto Hotmail with one hand, dialling Andrew with the other.

  My chest thudded, knee bouncing on the ball of my foot.

  “Hello?” Andrew crackled.

  “Benno, it’s me,” I said breathlessly. I shoved the phone under my chin and clicked open a link. “What was the email address you gave our phoney seller? I just had a thought.”

  Andrew spelled out the details.

  “And password?” I typed them in hurriedly.

  “What are you thinking?” he said, his voice thick and muddy inside the cab.

  “When you use your email address as your name on eBay,” I said, clicking away, mouse skidding and squeaking, “buyers sometimes contact you direct at the end of an unsuccessful auction to see if they can do a deal on the side. I had a couple for my Siegel and Shuster photograph so I thought, if people didn’t want to pay top whack, then they might … fucking hell.”

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