by John Moralee
“Antonio, I was thinking about the movie. I don’t think twenty million is really enough.”
“You don’t?” Antonio said, Marisa watching over his shoulder.
“No. When I think about the cost of Hollywood movies these days - a hundred million is barely enough. So ... I’ve been thinking ... what if I can find fifty million?”
Antonio’s eyes lit up. Marisa was watching him warily, though. She didn’t know what he was up to. Good, he thought. I want to enjoy this.
“Fifty million is lot of money,” the fake Antonio said.
“Would it make the film better?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Fifty million it is then.”
Marisa said, “Can you afford that, Griffin?”
“Come to think of it,” he continued, “why not make it a hundred million?”
“What?” she said.
“You’re joking!” Antonio spurted.
“Yes!” Griffin cried. And he fired three rounds into Steve’s heart, sending the wheelchair skidding backwards. Steve was dead when he toppled from the chair. Marisa stood up, knocking over her chair. She was making strange mewling sounds. She looked at the dead body, then at Griffin. He had put the gun on the table, and was staring at her with amusement.
“Do you want to live?” he said calmly.
He assumed her muffled reply was a yes.
“Then I want you to call Dr Hanson ...”
*
After Dr Hanson was dead and buried in the gardens beside Steve and the wheelchair, Griffin made himself presentable before he went into his study. He had removed his security equipment and everything else from the room except for the hidden cameras, which he required in order to keep a watch on the occupant. Now there was just a mattress in the room - nothing breakable or sharp. When the door was closed nobody could hear a noise from inside.
Marisa was huddled in one corner, rocking side to side. She was naked. He would give her clothes when she behaved.
“You ... said ... you wouldn’t kill me.”
“I won’t,” he said.
“Then let me leave.”
“No.” He walked towards her and pulled her arms from her face. She had such a beautiful face. He didn’t like to see her hide it. “I want to thank you first. I used to be scared of the outside world, but you cured me.”
“I did?”
“Oh, yes. You certainly did. I have no reason to go out, not now, not ever. I have you. We can be together forever. Isn’t that great?”
She was sobbing. He liked to think it was for joy.
The Kidnapping
Entering the shed and seeing the conspirators crowded under a flickering bulb, I said, “Include me out.” I noted dark corners where spades and shovels lurked: tools good for burying evidence ... bodies. Charles, George and Vincent eyed me with suspicion. Charles leaned across the table, his mouth a slit.
“Where have you been?”
“I had to stop for petrol,” I lied. I was late because I didn’t want to be involved.
“Do you want part of this?” Vincent said.
“You haven’t told me what this is yet.”
“We’ve already selected the target,” Charles said.
“Tonight,” Vincent added. “It’s going to happen.”
George said nothing. He was smoking his pipe, a sign he approved the action.
Charles showed a colour photograph cut from a newspaper. The picture showed four men, smiling. One was holding a trophy. The story was titled: JASPER SMYTHE’S QUIZ TEAM WINS AGAIN!
“Him?” I said. “But that would be kidnapping.”
Charles ripped the picture from my grasp and pointed. “Not him - it!”
He pointed at another picture below the main one, showing the quiz team’s mascot, which was a green and white bunny.
I read the text below the picture.
Yesterday the Fox and Hare Teamsters won again, thanks to their lucky bunny, said team leader Jasper Smythe, 46. “We’re not superstitious,” he said, “but the bunny brings us luck.”
Luck or not, Smythe and his team have won sixty competitions in the last year to reach the final of the Super Pub Trivial Challenge, worth £20,000. Cup-holders The Intellectuals face a formidable opponent and that opponent has buttons for eyes.
“You believe this stuff?” I said.
“All I know is that we have to win,” Charles said, “and kidnapping the bunny would give us a tactical advantage.”
“You’re crazy.”
Charles gritted his teeth. “Jasper Smythe is not getting my - our - trophy.” He looked at Vincent and George for support. The sycophants nodded. “George has already volunteered to plan the kidnap. We all voted on who should do the actual deed before you arrived.”
“I have a question,” I said. “Why are you all looking at me?”
*
George’s orange Citroen smelled of Christmas tree air-fresheners, spilled coffee and Vicks Vapour rub. The combination was narcotic. The windscreen wipers wap-wapped the same speed as my heart: I felt sleepy and realised I was becoming one of George’s car accessories, like the furry dice and Smurf stick-ons. I moved a stuffed Garfield from my side window and peered through the rain. Smythe’s house was on a suburban estate in an area heavily infiltrated by the Neighbourhood Watch, and it was the fourth time we’d driven by at suspicious 4 mph. The curtains of the house next door billowed and I ducked, too late. I felt like CRIMINAL was tattooed on my forehead.
“Someone will call the police,” I said. “A woman just watched us go past.”
George parked at the end of the street. “We’ll stay here until the target arrives.” He offered a mint drawn from his anorak pocket. Obviously, I refused. George tuned the radio to Classic FM, turned it up so loud my ears felt molested by violins. “Music will cover what we talk about, in case someone has a listening device.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“That’s how they caught Nixon,” George said. He told me he had followed Jasper Smythe over the period of a week, collecting ‘valuable’ data. He had used his experience as a train-spotter for the covert operation. He handed over a coffee stained notepad. I flipped through the pages of microscopic handwriting, amazed at the detail, he had timetabled Smythe’s daily activities from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m., including visits to the toilet and the number of times he picked his nose (three).
“George, how come you have all this free time to spend? I thought you had a job.”
“They owed me a week’s holiday,” George said. “And Charles asked me to do him a favour.”
“I never realised you took winning the championship so seriously.”
He frowned. “Don’t you?”
“I’m doing this so you guys don’t nag me for the rest of my life. Plus my cut of the £20,000.”
George had devised the plan. Jasper Smythe kept the bunny locked in the boot of his Volvo and George wanted me jimmy the lock. I said I wasn’t going to damage his car for the sake of a silly quiz.
“Jim, I sense a lack of commitment to the team effort.”
“You’re right, George. I’ll kidnap the bunny only if nothing gets hurt in the process.”
George flicked through the notepad. “I observed through my Gulf War Night Vision binoculars that the subject does not lock his car door when it is in the garage ... You’d just have to get inside.”
“Great plan, George. Does it involve breaking a window or smashing Smythe over the head with a length of iron piping?”
George raised an eyebrow. He told me I could sneak inside the garage during the time it took Smythe to return to his car after opening the doors. Once inside I could slip inside the house and creep back in after the subject left the garage. Simple - for the Invisible Man.
“How will I know where Smythe is?”
“I’ll give you a radio we use in my CB enthusiasts club and tell you when to move.”
“Trespassing. Illegal entry. Should I top it with a murder or two?”
The rain got worse, so I was forced to stay and listen to George or die of pneumonia. I chose badly.George discussed (alone) the joys of spotting trains and the importance of accurate timetables, dwelling on the demise of British Rail.
“You’ve got a disease, George,” I said.
“If you mean Asperger’s Syndrome - commonly known as train spotters’ disease - you are wrong. Many normal people like myself appreciate the delights of observing a rare train. Besides I am an enthusiast ... not a ‘spotter’ as you insinuate. But my hobby is not limited to trains. Consider airplanes. Why do you think there are so many people standing around watching the planes at airports?”
“Waiting for a crash?”
“Heathen,” he said. “It’s really rather interesting.”
I could not argue with George because he was a military veteran (well - he certainly had experience in the “Bore” War.) Eventually Smythe’s car appeared and I was eager to get the sordid mission completed. George’s radio felt heavy in my hands - it was large enough for NASA to contact Pluto, with an extendible aerial having no apparent end - and I hid it under my coat before running across the road and into the bushes near the garage’s entrance. Smythe stopped the car in the drive and opened the doors.
“Go!” urged the radio.
I sneaked inside and shook off the rain. The house was dark. My footprints left wet marks on the linoleum I hoped Smythe would not notice. The car entered the garage and I hastened into a room, the lounge.
The radio crackled like thunder.
“Subject is closing garage doors ... Over.”
I stabbed the volume downwards. “Roger, George. Charlie. Tango. Pepsi. Over.”
“Uh?” George said.
“Never mind. Tell me when it’s safe to return.”
In the lounge there was a comfortable sofa facing the TV, hunting magazines in a rack, a drinks cabinet that looked shiny and unused and a bay window through which I could see the orange blur containing George. George began flashing his headlights. Dumb! Why would he -
Then I saw the woman sleeping on the sofa. That was why.
I heard Smythe slam a car door. The woman on the sofa stirred, sleepily, yawning. “Jasper, is that you?” She looked at me, a drenched figure with a industrial CB radio, and I wondered how was I going to explain this to the police ... but then she started fumbling for glasses and I realised she hadn’t recognised me. I backed out into the hall and scurried into the kitchen.
“I’m home!” Smythe said.
“I’ve told you not to come into the lounge with your wet jacket!” she said.
Smythe went past the kitchen to the lounge saying he hadn’t been in the lounge. Now lights switched on. Smythe’s wife told him off for leaving muddy footprints on her best carpet. “But, darling, my shoes are clean!”
“Now they are - after you wiped them on the floor!”
Smythe moaned his innocence and countered with a call for food. I peeked around the kitchen door and saw them both coming towards the kitchen. There was another door and I went through to the dining room. A quarrel started in the kitchen and the noise allowed me to creep back into the hall, and then the garage. George was having a verbal fit in the van and I told him to shut up.
I tried the car doors.
Locked! Locked! Locked! Locked!
The bunny was a foot away and I was unable to reach it. “George, I can’t get the car open.”
“Find the keys.”
“I’m not going back in the house.”
“He keeps his jacket on the hooks in the hall.”
“So?”
“Keys. Right pocket. Uh-oh, I’m in trouble. Over and out.”
I swore at George and sneaked into the hall again. The argument in the kitchen was getting ugly. It sounded like mediaeval knights invading a castle. I pulled the keys from the coat - jingle - and returned to the car. I fumbled the passenger’s side open and knelt over the seats and grabbed the bunny. Its button eyes stared at me accusingly. I forced it inside my coat...
“Okay, I’ve got it. Now how do I get out of here?”
Static.
“George?”
More Static.
“GEORGE?”
*
The Intellectuals arrived at the quiz in plenty of time to stew over the dirty deed, all except George. George had been arrested for loitering. When the Teamsters phoned to say they would be late Charles controlled his laughter, barely.
But at quarter past nine they arrived.
Smythe had a black eye.
We sat at opposing tables - three against four - and the quiz master introduced us. The quiz master detected the animosity from the Teamsters. “Smythe, is something wrong?”
“Unfortunately, our mascot seems to have gone missing,” Smythe said. “I think the trio opposite may know something about it, like the arrest of their fourth member?”
We shrugged.
“However,” he continued, “we are bringing in a reserve.” He produced a Basil Brush glove puppet and put it on the table. “It’s even luckier.”
The fox glowered with its little plastic eyes.
Then I knew - we hadn’t a chance.
Deal Breaker
“Jeff, there’s a cute little girl in the outer office asking for a lawyer.”
“She’s alone?”
Melanie nodded. “You want me to send her away?”
“She say why she’s here?”
“Only she wants to see you. She had a copy of our ad cut out of the Yellow Pages.”
“She’s got to be the first person who’s responded,” Jeff said, impressed. “Okay – I’ll give her a few minutes. Then buzz me so I can get rid of her without hurting her feelings.”
Melanie brought in the girl. She was wearing a blue school uniform and holding her book bag to her chest like it contained something very valuable. She looked nervous. She had wavy brown hair, chocolate-coloured eyes and a pouting lower lip that quivered with repressed emotion. She frowned at what she saw in his office like it didn’t live up to her expectations.
His office was a small with white-painted walls covered with his framed diplomas and certificates, a file cabinet and some cheap furniture. The most expensive thing was the PowerBook on his desk, but even that was five years out of date. Her disapproval made him feel like apologising for not having a big corner office like he once had before his breakdown.
“Hi,” Jeff said. “What’s your name?”
“Sarah Croft,” she said in a quiet voice. “You’re Jeffrey Swanson, attorney at law?”
“I am,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“I need a good lawyer,” she said. She stood in front of his desk, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She had to be five-foot nothing in her pink Nikes. She didn’t move until he told her she could sit down. She looked tiny in the chair; her feet didn’t touch the floor. Melanie asked her if she would like some milk and cookies. The girl shook her head.
“No, thank you,” she said primly. “I’m not a baby.”
Melanie left, mouthing, “Good luck.”
Jeff frowned at the girl. “How old are you?”
“I’m almost twelve – why? How old are you?”
“I’m 42,” he replied, grinning. “You know, I don’t have many clients your age. I normally have children come in with their parents. Why aren’t they here – if you need a lawyer for something?”
She hesitated. “They can’t come.”
“Why not?”
“They’re dead,” she said.
Dead. He could think of nothing to say. He felt stupid for patronising her. “I’m sorry,” he said lamely.
“I live with my Aunt Chloe, but she doesn’t know I’m here. She’d be angry and upset. She hates lawyers. Thinks you’re all leeches. But I need a lawyer, Mr Swanson.”
“Why me?”
“
Your office is the closest one on my bus route home.” That was an honest answer, he thought. “I looked you up in the Yellow Pages. You had the smallest advertisement ... so I figured you must be desperate for clients ... so you’ll try harder to win.” Her logic was impeccable and frighteningly accurate. “It also says in your advertisement you don’t charge a fee unless you win. I want to sue somebody, but I can’t pay you. I was hoping you could it for what do you call it, a percentage? Is ten percent fair?”
She seemed utterly serious. He decided to be, too.
“I normally take forty percent,” Jeff said.
“Oh. Okay. Forty. As long as you win.”
“I can’t guarantee that,” Jeff said. “Who exactly do you want to sue?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I was hoping you could tell me. You have to help me get justice.”
Her voice cracked when she said “justice” and tears filled her eyes. Jeff reached over his desk and pushed a Kleenex box towards her.
“Thank you,” she mumbled.
Jeff had found out early in his career as many people cried in his office as in a therapist’s. Some people visited a lawyer instead of a therapist because they were hurt and needed someone to listen to their problems, but he sensed Sarah wasn’t one of them. The girl wiped her eyes and blew her nose before continuing. She opened her bag and took out a box file filled with legal documents. Dry-eyed, she explained - in language he considered incredibly sophisticated for a girl aged eleven - why she was there.
When Melanie buzzed him, providing him with an excuse for getting the girl to leave, Jeff told Melanie to cancel his next scheduled appointment. What he had already heard had convinced him he would represent Sarah, but he could not do that without her legal guardian’s permission.
