Why did you do it? her god challenges. You knew you’d be caught.
Why me? she questions, demanding an individual answer to a universal question. But her god has no answer; has never had an answer. The answers have always come from outside, even in childhood. If she’d never actually heard anyone say, “Poor little devil. She doesn’t stand a chance,” she’d seen it in their faces as she’d lined up with her mother at food banks and welfare offices. And she’d seen it in the faces of relatives and friends as her mother used her as a bargaining chip for a bed. And, most often, she’d seen it in the angered faces of her cohorts at school as they’d punched and kicked; “fat ugly people wearing glasses deserve to be squashed like slugs,” their prissy, perfect little faces had sneered.
Why me? she continues to ask as her mind spins in a turmoil of anguish. Why does everything go wrong for me?
What about Jordan, bitch? Do you think he’s enjoying this?
What’s happened to him? Where is he?
Don’t pretend you don’t know.
He’s slunk away to die like a wounded cat.
You know that’s not true. Who are you trying to kid? Think; when did you last see him?
I can’t remember. You’re confusing me.
He wasn’t there in the apartment, was he?
Yes. He was.
So when did you last touch him; feel him; make love to him?
I can’t remember.
“Jackson. Are you all right, Jackson?” A voice from outside tries breaking through, but Ruth blots it out as her mind whirls with a notion that finally threatens to drag her under.
Had he been there? she asks herself, as hands gently prod and a voice calls, “Mrs. Jackson—Ruth. Are you all right?”
What if he had been merely a mirage? An apparition of his former self still lingering in his room? His spirit still haunting me?
“Ruth. Come on. Wake up, Ruth,” continues the voice, worriedly.
Nobody else ever saw him—in three months.
He always went out the back door to the taxi.
Did you see him?
No ...
Neither did the taxi driver. Don’t you find that strange?
He was going for treatment.
“Mrs. Jackson. Wake up now!” shouts another voice.
What treatment? Which doctor? Which hospital?
I don’t know. You’re confusing me.
Do you see him now?
No.
Are you sure? Look deep; look really deep in the darkest corner. What do you see?
“Quick. Call an ambulance. I think she’s having a seizure.”
chapter nine
The drizzle has stopped overnight in Liverpool, but the pain in Bliss’s leg is still dragging him down as he and Daphne head to the Beatles museum from their hotel in the morning. They had been late to bed and late rising, thanks to Daphne’s desire to visit the hotel’s nightclub, where a Beatles tribute band had knocked out passable impressions of Fab-Four favourites. Daphne, showing more knee than most, had bopped her way through “Twist and Shout,” “Hippy Hippy Shake,” and most of the other chart-toppers until after one a.m., while Bliss had been forced to sit on the sidelines nursing his throbbing leg.
“A good walk should get the knots out,” Bliss had told Daphne as they’d left the hotel after breakfast, although he’d added, “This is probably a complete waste of time. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.”
“We won’t know unless we try,” says Daphne, picking up the pace and gaily swinging her pink, plastic “I love the Beatles” handbag that she’d insisted on digging out of the attic for the occasion. “I was thinking of wearing my ‘Love Me Do’ baseball cap,” she’d had told him before they’d left Westchester. “But the bloomin’ moths have got at it.”
“Oh dear. What a shame,” he’d said, stone-faced.
The foyer of the Beatles museum, a pasty recreation of the Cavern club, is packed by a flock of elderly Japanese tourists, all topped with pudding-basin haircuts and tagged with huge nameplates, emblazoned “Kyoto’s 40th Anniversary Worship the Beatles Tour.” However, there is clearly consternation amongst the congregation and, as Bliss and Daphne join the crush, the young attendant from the tiny souvenir shop polishes his English to loudly apologize for the fact that the museum, and the archives, are being refurbished, and won’t be reopening until mid-January. “But,” he carries on, as if it’s an accomplishment, “we have managed to keep the Beatles souvenir and memorabilia shop open for your enjoyment today.”
“Show them your badge and tell them it’s official,” suggests Daphne, giving Bliss a dig.
“Are you trying to get me sacked, Daphne? I’m off duty, on foreign turf, with a personal inquiry. I can’t do that.”
“Leave it to me then,” she says slipping his grasp, and she elbows her way to the inquiry desk before he can stop her.
“Hello young man,” Daphne starts, dragging the attendant away from a furious interpreter who is loudly complaining that they had come all the way from Japan. Then she seemingly spots his souvenir Beatles tie. “Is that the Rolling Stones?” she queries, straight-faced.
“No ... It’s the Beatles, ma’am,” he says in nasal Liverpudlian. “This here’s the Beatles museum.”
Daphne laughs, “I know. I was just pulling your leg. You can do that when you’re my age—I’m eighty-five you know.”
“Well, congratulations madam. Now how ...”
A Yoko Ono doppelganger forces her way to the front, pulls out a tuning fork, and announces, “My swee’ lor’,” and, as the ensemble bursts into their protest song, a coach load of German fans pour through the doors and line up behind Daphne.
“Is that your real name?” Daphne asks, poking the attendant’s name tag.
“Ringo—yeah. Me pa was a great fan of his.”
“Fascinating,” says Daphne, well aware of the Teutonic tension building behind her. “I was in the war, you know,” she says, leaning forward a notch.
“Yes. Good. But ...”
“We won.”
“I know. But, how can ...”
“Oh, sorry. Silly of me, rabbitting on like that. Well, to cut a long story short, my neighbour and very good friend, Mavis Longbottom—you probably don’t know her—she used to be the cook at the Mitre hotel.” Daphne catches the end of Ringo’s tie and pulls him gently down to her level. “Terrible food. I’d stay at the Westway if I were you. Anyway ... Have you ever been to Westchester?”
“No, madam ... but there’s a queue ...”
“Oh. I know, you’re so busy, and this close to Christmas. Anyway—did I tell you I was eighty-five?”
“Yes, I think ...”
“Thought so.” Daphne grabs his tie again, wrenches a little harder, and whispers, “I lied. I’m actually eighty-nine. Wouldn’t think so, would you?”
“No ...” he replies, easing his tie from her grasp with an eye on the increasingly restless lineup. “But what exactly did you want, madam?”
Daphne straightens herself up and pronounces, “That’s what I like in a young man. Decisiveness.” Then she leans in, really tight. “The thing is, Mavis Longbottom’s husband was a Scouser from around here somewhere, and he always reckoned he was a close friend of your boys, even went on tour with them. Now Freddie died a few weeks ago, and poor old Mavis thought it would nice to get all his old pals together ...”
It works, and two minutes later Daphne and Bliss are alone in the archives with Ringo telling them to take all the time they want while he fends off the onslaught at the front desk.
“1964 North American tour,” says Bliss as he opens a battered steel filing cabinet. “This is it Daphne,” he calls, and quickly finds a group photograph.
“Did you know Ringo’s real name was Richard Starkey?” inquires Daphne as she glances at the posed picture. “OK, next stop the newspaper office,” she adds, opening her gargantuan handbag and popping the photograph in.
“Daphne—that’s theft!”
exclaims Bliss.
Daphne hesitates for a second then snaps shut her bag. “Yes, David. I do believe you’re right.” Then she marches to the door, saying, “We’ll mail it back anonymously. Anyway, what are you going to do, arrest an eighty-nine-year-old spinster?”
“You’re not eighty-nine,” he breathes, but she’s gone.
For Daphne, getting the picture printed in a newspaper is child’s play, as she re-runs her “Freddie Longbottom” routine with the features editor of the Merseyside Mail.
“I don’t know which was Mavis’s husband,” she prattles, concentrating deeply on the group of twenty or so musicians and staff in the picture, “but I’m sure that one of your readers will be able to put names to them.” Then her voice slowly grinds to a stop and a look of consternation comes over her face.
“What’s up, Daphne?” asks Bliss.
“Oh, nothing ... Just a shiver up the spine,” she says, adding, “Do you realize that half these people are probably dead already?”
“Scary, isn’t it,” says the editor. “Anyway, Miss Lovelace, let’s see if we can commune with the living ones—I do like a challenge.”
“Daphne, you are outrageous,” laughs Bliss as they make their way back to the hotel.
“I am, aren’t I,” she admits, adding, “It all comes back, you know.”
Bliss knows well what she means; knows of her background with the special forces and French resistance during the war, and her exploits with the secret service afterwards. Then he stops in thought. “Wait a minute,” he says. “You weren’t in Vancouver in the sixties, were you, by any chance?”
“What makes you think that?” she says with a twinkle in her voice.
“You were!” he exclaims.
“Shh. It’s a secret. But not Vancouver. I went to the Beatles’ concert in Montreal.”
In Vancouver, it’s only three days to Christmas, and Ruth Jackson has slipped off the front page of the Sun and ended up at the bottom of page two, where she is easily missed. “Prisoner collapses in cell,” reads the column heading, and continues, “An unnamed prisoner was taken by ambulance ...” However, it’s the large, seasonally-correct photo of Trina Button on the front page, with snowflakes the size of poppy petals falling around her, that holds the attention of the crossword gang.
“I can’t believe she’d do that,” says Matt, shaking his head.
“I can,” jumps in Darcey without hesitation.
Maureen just snorts her disdain. “I don’t think we should let her do the crossword anymore.”
“We’ve never let her,” says Darcey. “Hasn’t stopped her though, has it? Oh, look out.”
“I’ve been arrested again,” roars Trina gleefully as she bursts into Donut Delight.
“We saw,” mutters Maureen under her breath.
“Look. Look,” says Trina grappling the paper from Matt. “I made the front page.”
The gang are forced to look again. Trina, wearing only the bottom half of a bright red, slinky bikini, together with a velvet Santa hat, is standing in the middle of the Lion’s Gate bridge with traffic at a standstill as two policemen try to wrestle away a huge placard that is just barely covering her breasts.
“Did they airbrush your nipples out?” queries Darcey, taking a close look.
“Don’t think so,” says Trina, peering at the picture.
“There was a time when they didn’t allow bare tits in the Sun,” Matt says nostalgically as he focuses on Trina’s placard.
“Jordan Jackson. Call 569-3425,” the sign pleads, and under the picture is a caption reading: “Woman bares all to get her man.”
Trina’s cellphone rings. “Hold on,” she calls as she presses it to her ear. “Trina Button, how can I help you?” she answers as if she’s working at a call centre, then she listens for a few seconds before saying, “Sorry, but no thanks.” Cutting off the caller, she turns triumphantly to the gang. “That’s thirty-nine already.”
“Thirty-nine sightings of Jordan?” asks Maureen hopefully.
“No. Only two were Jordan Jacksons,” replies Trina, “and neither of them the right one.” Though she neglects to add that the other thirty-seven were men offering a variety of dubious services and activities. The phone rings again. “Trina Button. How can I help you?” she says, and she listens intently for a few seconds before grabbing Darcey’s pen. Matt sees what’s coming and is a fraction too late as Trina makes a dive for the crossword. “Where?” she says, and fills in 27-, 28-, and 29-across with a seventeen-letter suburban address. “1465 Newport Avenue,” she muses as Maureen rolls her eyes.
“Oh, sorry,” says Trina, tearing a chunk out of the paper. “I mucked up your crossword. Hang on. I’ve got some more in the car.”
“More?” queries Matt.
“Yeah. I bought fifty copies. It’s not every day I get on the front page.”
Trina’s phone rings again as she heads out the door. “Trina Button ...”
By the time Trina has reached her car she has taken two more crank calls and has completely forgotten about the crossword as she heads to the police station, bursting with news.
“What do you want now?” demands Inspector Wilson after the desk officer has talked himself red trying to get someone to speak to Trina.
“What’s going on?” asks Trina. “I asked to see Ruth and anybody would think I’d trodden in dog poo from the look on his face.”
“Didn’t you see the paper this morning?”
“Yeah. I’m on the front page. Oh, is this about the arrest? I’m not complaining, I nearly froze my boobs off, but it worked. And your men didn’t hurt me, although one of them had very cold hands. Maybe they should wear gloves ...”
“It is not about the arrest. It’s about Ruth,” cuts in Wilson, putting on a concerned mien, and Trina slumps in the chair listening in disbelief as he explains. “She confessed; then after she’d spoken to her lawyer, she had a kind of stroke.”
“Confessed ... ?”
“Yeah, ’fraid so, and I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but she took out a big life insurance policy on Jordan just about the time he disappeared.”
“Where is she?” demands Trina, already at the door.
Mike Phillips is on his way in and Trina barrels into him in the doorway.
“You’re Ruth’s friend aren’t you?” he says.
“Mike,” she howls. “Did you know about Ruth?”
“I heard,” he says. “I was just going to the hospital.”
In the parking lot outside the police station, Trina hops into Phillips’ car uninvited. “I’m too shaky to drive,” she explains, then babbles non-stop all the way to the hospital. “She didn’t do it, Mike. I don’t care what they say. She didn’t do it.”
Ruth lays inert at the centre of a web of life support paraphernalia as they are ushered into her room by the policeman guarding the door, and Trina pulls up short as tears threaten to overwhelm her. It’s not the deathly pallor of Ruth’s face that alarms her so much as the purple bruises. “Look what they did,” she cries softly as she tenderly reaches out to touch Ruth’s discoloured cheek.
Phillips is keeping very quiet as a young nurse arrives and bustles around.
“Malnutrition, dehydration, and she’s got some burst blood vessels in her brain that’ve given her stroke-like symptoms,” she tells them as she checks the monitors, adding, “Hypertension—probably caused by severe stress.”
“Having her head smacked on the floor probably didn’t help,” mutters Trina, but Phillips quickly steps in with a frown of concern. “Can she hear us?” he whispers.
“Possibly,” says the nurse. “It’s a job to know.” Then she leans in and gently takes Ruth’s hand. “Can you hear me, Ruth?”
Ruth can hear, but the individual words are lost in the gentle burbling of a pebbly stream as her brainwaves randomly race around.
Move your hand! a voice deep in Ruth’s mind tells her. Move your hand so they know you’re alive.
I’m m
oving it, I’m moving it, she tells herself, but the babble of unintelligible sounds continues, just beyond her reach.
“Has she moved at all?” Trina is asking the nurse, but the young woman shakes her head. “Have a try if you like. I certainly can’t feel anything.”
“How long?” asks Phillips quietly.
“You’d have to ask the doctors, but they won’t know the full extent of the damage for some time. By the way, would either of you know her next of kin? We haven’t been able to contact anyone.”
“Someone’s trying to find her father right now,” Phillips tells her, with his fingers crossed.
Bliss and Daphne have done their best, and, after priming the press, are returning to Westchester, but they’ve taken to the countryside rather than racing on the highway. “I prefer this,” Daphne had told him as they’d ambled along the gently weaving sideroads. “It reminds me of my courting days.”
Courting is the last thing on Bliss’s mind. His leg hasn’t stopped throbbing since leaving Westchester yesterday. Painkillers have helped, but he was wary of overdosing and blurring his judgment, so he talks to keep his mind occupied.
“I still have no idea how we’re going to get someone to admit the dirty deed,” he says. “Even if we get the names.”
“You’ll think of something, David. You always do,” replies Daphne, patting his good leg.
“Not if her father really was George Harrison,” he says. “It’s too late for him.”
“The tabloids would have fun with that,” laughs Daphne. “But how could you prove it?”
“DNA, I suppose. He had cancer for a long time; I bet there are some blood samples in a lab somewhere.”
“They are more likely in somebody’s safety deposit box waiting for a Sotheby’s memorabilia auction,” says Daphne, just as Bliss’s leg makes him grimace. “I’m going to have to stop and stretch again.”
Daphne fumbles in her giant “Beatles” bag for her driving glasses. “No problem,” she says. “I’ll take over.”
“I don’t know ...” Bliss starts, but takes a look at the near-deserted road and concedes. “Just for awhile, then.”
A Year Less a Day Page 13
