Corpsing

by Toby Litt

  ‘This one looks good,’ she said.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘He’s the right age.’

  ‘Experience?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  We’ll put him in. Maybe get him out of the way early.’

  It amused me to think how differendy this conversation would have gone had Anne-Marie flicked quickly past his photo.

  We narrowed it down to twenty, ten, then six. Anne-Marie was able to persuade me round to having a look at Laurence. But not without some difficulty.

  ‘Okay, we’ll forget the others for the moment – start with the male lead.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Could you phone them up and arrange for them to come round on Friday? Your flat, alright? I don’t want to do it here. In case the press –’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And in… this order.’

  ‘Yep.’

  Laurence was last.

  What I’m going to do is get them to do a really difficult scene, one where they really have to act. Make them really give it loads. Here’s the speech I thought I might use.’

  Anne-Marie read it through.

  ‘It’s great,’ she said. ‘Really convincing.’

  I hadn’t expected anything less.

  71

  In the morning I waited until Anne-Marie had gone back home before having James take me into town.

  First, I went shopping: to a cycle-equipment place just south of Sloane Square. Inside, it smelt freshly and wonderfully of rubber. Without wasting any time, I bought myself a very expensive bike – a Trek Death-Raider. (Everything was to be fitting: Synecdoche City.) I also bought a cycling top, shorts and shoes that were as close to the hitman’s as possible, mirrored shades, a Day-Glo helmet, a pack of three pollution masks and a large courier bag.

  In the shop’s covered-in-decals changing room, I tried all of it on. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I was – for the first time in months – delighted with what I saw. The thing I liked most about these clothes was how modern and efficient they made me feel. Lycra. Nylon. Viscose. None of these fabrics had existed before this century. Christ, even bikes had hardly been invented back then.

  I couldn’t help comparing my half-wasted legs to the solid bike-powering machines of the hitman. But that didn’t matter. By assuming this costume, I was drawing closer to something: closer to the man who had turned me into what I had become. He’d done this almost entirely, but not single-handedly. Really, it had been a team effort: Lily in life and death had contributed just as much: Lily and her deadborn, deathborn baby.

  Looking at myself, I felt the kind of power that the hitman must have felt – sexing himself up for the kill.

  His plan was obvious now. He could become just one among a dozen bike couriers, nipping between film companies in Soho. He would blend in, morph out, kill someone, kill another person, morph back in again, blend.

  His plan – his failed plan.

  After getting changed back into my normal clothes, I went up to the counter and paid. I put it all on my credit card. Next month’s bill was going to be fun. Not my problem, though – by then I intended to be living on the state: prison food, prison wages. Either that or dead.

  ‘Don’t you want a bike lock?’ the grungy assistant said.

  ‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Don’t need one.’

  I left the bike behind. I would pick it up on Friday, the day I needed it. They’d have it ready, fine-tuned.

  From a phonebox, I called the Mirror and asked for Sheila Burroughs. With Asif, Robert and Josephine all ruled out, the press was my last chance to find out about Lily’s pregnancy. When I got through, Sheila was – to say the very least – surprised to hear from me.

  ‘What’s up? Have you decided to talk?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Something.’

  ‘I’m interested,’ she said. ‘In anything.’

  We arranged to meet in an hour.

  Next, I took a cab to Le Corbusier and made the booking for Friday evening – in person. Nothing substantial had changed: nothing that would destroy the symmetry of my revenge. The layout of the tables was identical. The maître d’ wasn’t around, but my favourite waiter was.

  ‘You remember,’ I said. ‘I wanted a booking.’

  ‘Of course,’ Michael said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘A lot better, thanks.’

  ‘When for?’

  ‘Friday evening. Eight o’clock. And I’d like… my usual table.’

  ‘The reservation…’

  ‘Isn’t in my name. It’s Pale, Dorothy Pale.’

  I wasn’t risking Alun’s name: and Dorothy was the one I wanted the police to identify, straight off. Dorothy was to make the first editions and the mid-evening news.

  ‘For two?’

  ‘For two.’

  ‘She’s the actress, isn’t she?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Yes.’ I said. ‘A close friend.’

  As he wrote her name in the reservations book, I was conscious of his being unusually conscious of me. An idea occurred: he might be useful. I decided to chance it.

  ‘I’m busy for the next couple of days, but how would you like to go out sometime – for a drink?’

  He looked at me – our relationship changing in a way he seemed to have hoped for. His eyes were twinkling and his voice went up a couple of notes.

  ‘That’d be lovely.’

  ‘I’ll give you a call.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He pulled a card out of his back pocket and gave it to me. Beneath his name was the single word ACTOR.

  ‘See ya soon.’

  I hated being cruel. It had just been an experiment. After it all went down, he’d probably understand.

  Ah, his little face!

  I felt like a very minor celebrity, hitting on groupies – obvious but sometimes fun. And, god, the guy had seen me being shot. He’d been around for the blood. In fact, actually, he’d saved my life. I owed him a drink if nothing else.

  I spent a few minutes looking over the back entrance to Le Corbusier. Nothing special. It would do.

  72

  Sheila Burroughs and I met up in Pâtisserie Valerie, Soho, as arranged. I walked in the door, squeezing between the glass shelves full of cakes and the customers waiting to pay. Sheila was there early, and had secured one of their rare tables for two. She recognized me, waving me over the moment I came in. She offered to pay for coffee, cake, whatever I wanted – a cappuccino was all. I felt like I’d drunk a couple of quintuple espressos already.

  Sheila was a frowzy blonde woman, with stained teeth and the general atmosphere of knowing how if not to dominate then at least to exist alongside men. She had been submerged in a tobacco cloud of masculinity for so long that her arms and legs had thickened, her voice deepened, her manner altered, her values adapted. Her earrings were as unfeminizing as those of a female body builder. She wore too many large gold rings upon her fingers – suggesting a sentimentality that might come in handy when interviewing the bereaved. Even at a supposedly left-wing paper like the Mirror these working-class talismans (like a lucky-charm bracelet clinking up against the Queen’s white satin gloves) would hold her back: she needed to minimalize her lifestyle to maximalize her potential. A career adviser would have told her these things. (A career adviser would probably have warned her off the news desk.)

  Sheila looked harassed but was trying to suppress any hint of impatience. She was clearly angry with me for not having chosen to speak to her at a time when the story was hot. Now that I’d changed my mind, she was flattered that I’d chosen her. (Even though, in print, the Mirror had offered me the chance to put my side of the story – blank cheque.) She was, however, or so I thought, angry at herself for even being flattered. She wanted to be hard and neutral, but couldn’t: this was her story – she’d been first to arrive on my doorstep and last to leave. Righteously did she deserve it; passionately (though not too deeply) did she desire
it.

  The waitress brought our orders. Sheila had capitulated in the face of Irish coffee and a large Danish.

  A Dictaphone sat on the table between us, half-covered by a copy of the Sun.

  ‘How much are you thinking of?’

  I hadn’t thought of money at all. However, the grander gesture, of not taking any or giving it all to charity, did – on the moment – appeal.

  ‘This isn’t an interview,’ I said. ‘You can quote me on it – but only on Monday. If you don’t agree to that, we stop talking now.’

  ‘I need to know what it is first.’ She offered me a cigarette; lit one for herself; ash flew over her Danish; she tutted; hips-lips, lips-hips.

  ‘It’s a story – a new story. A new spin on an old story.’

  ‘Listening,’ she said.

  And I told her as directly as possible: ‘When Lily was killed, she was six or seven weeks pregnant.’

  ‘Oh my god.’ She bit down upon her thumbnail.

  ‘I found this out from Asif. He didn’t tell you, which surprises me: I guess he thought there was still a chance he could keep his job.’

  ‘He’s lost it now, you know. From what I’ve heard he was very pissed off with you.’

  ‘I wonder, do pathologists have to respect confidentiality – no disclosure of what passed between doctor and corpse?’

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, smiling now she knew there was a story.

  ‘I wanted to find out if I was the father. It was a boy. You would want to know, wouldn’t you? Anyway, I don’t think Asif knows: the DNA stuff was done by the police forensic people. So the police do know – and they won’t tell me. I think a bit of pressure from you might speed them up.’

  ‘Well…’ Sheila said. ‘Don’t overestimate –’

  ‘I just want to know who to mourn, whether to mourn.’

  ‘You say you want to know who the father was. But why? Isn’t it certain it was you?’

  ‘No,’ I said, neutrally. ‘It’s not.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Lily was having an affair – several.’

  ‘With who?’

  ‘Alun Grey, and several more. But he’s the only real possibility – I’ve checked the others.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  Yes! Not tabloid-famous now, but he would be – soon.

  ‘The actor – Shakespeare.’

  ‘The one you kept going to see at the theatre?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Damn,’ she bit hard on her thumb. ‘I knew I should have checked that whole thing out. I suppose you were turning up just to piss him off?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Are you sure I can’t quote you?’

  ‘Not till after the weekend.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Do you think you’ll be able to find anything out?’

  ‘The Met can be a bit leaky, now and again. At worse, we might be able to force a press conference out of them – make them look shitty and mean. You might need to do a bit of crying for the cameras. If you really want to play the victim, that is.’

  ‘I don’t want to have to do anything. That’s your job.’

  ‘We’ll be back on your doorstep.’

  ‘I’ll only speak to you, Sheila.’

  She opened her handbag and pulled out a crumpled contract.

  ‘Sign this,’ she said.

  ‘In the politest possible way, fuck off.’

  ‘It was worth a try.’

  I took a sip of my cappuccino, then asked: ‘Where do you think you’ll start?’

  ‘Asif. The hospital. Then try and get the Met to spring a leak. Then I’ll publish.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘If no-one else gets it… this Thursday.’

  ‘Don’t worry, contract or not I won’t talk to anyone else.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, about to start flirting, but giving up the attempt as she wouldn’t have done a few years earlier. Now the next question came blankly, almost without interest: ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you’re a woman,’ I said. ‘And I didn’t see too many more of those outside my door.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Have you ever been pregnant?’ I asked.

  ‘I had an abortion about ten years ago.’ Courageously matter-of-fact.

  ‘Then you know how I feel. Oh, Lily was going to have the thing aborted anyway – but don’t print that.’

  ‘Wow,’ Sheila said. ‘Are you alright? You don’t look too well.’

  ‘You’re the first person I’ve told.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she smiled. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

  We stood up together.

  ‘Aren’t you going to have that?’ I asked, pointing to her untouched Danish.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not hungry any more.’

  73

  By the time I finished all my errands, it was early evening – grey and smoggy. As a change, I took the Underground home. For the first time in months, I was returning home with the rush-hour commuters. Even when I’d been editing sharks at the Discovery Channel, this had been a fairly rare occurrence. Usually, back then, I either finished early or worked late. There was always either too much work or too little – deadline or deadtime.

  As I stood there, holding on to a rail of stainless steel, I expected to feel some sort of connection with the people around me. All of us had gone out to do a day’s work, all of us were returning home more slowly and uncomfortably than we would have wished. Instead, I felt an almost total separation from, and – I have to say it – superiority to, every single person in the carriage. They merely had jobs; I had a mission.

  For the first time, I realized how real criminals felt. (Strict in my definition, I felt that I would only become a real criminal myself after I’d shot Dorothy. Buying the gun wasn’t enough.) It wasn’t just the fact they committed crimes – took something without paying for it, left someone permanently injured. It was also that they walked around, day to day, with the quiet knowledge of what they’d done. Of course, given this knowledge, they were always going to feel superior to all the tax-paying, law-abiding John and Jane Dohs surrounding them. Those with the knowledge were different. They had something extra. They had seen beneath the surface. They knew how the thing really worked. They were outlaws. And so was I.

  Standing there, among the dead-faced strap-hangers, I thought about my beautiful gun – and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.

  Something made me panic the moment I saw my front door – still covered in blood-red paint. I’d been planning to move out the following day. But now that I’d told Sheila about the baby, it was only a matter of time before the paparazzi were back on my doorstep. That was a rationalization, however. What really decided me was the paint. I couldn’t stay another night in this flat.

  Anne-Marie was in the living room, watching TV.

  ‘Pack up,’ I said. ‘We’re moving out.’

  ‘I’ve phoned all the actors,’ she said.

  ‘We’ve got to go.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’

  ‘You phoned all of them?’

  ‘Yes. They’re coming at the times you wanted.’

  ‘Great. Get packed.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you when we get in the car,’ I said.

  She didn’t oppose me – nurse-humouring a fractious patient. Of course, because she didn’t live with me, she hardly had any stuff to get together. And all I cared about was my gun.

  Still, packing up took me about an hour. I finished with a suitcase full of clothes, many of which I might never wear again. There were the other usual holiday things: alarm clock, shaving kit, medicines. I also fetched a length of good strong rope from the garden shed. Anything else I didn’t have but needed I would buy.

  We carried the bags out and stowed them in the boot of Anne-Marie’s car.

  Anne-Marie got in the driver’s seat.

  As I walked back towa
rds the flat, I looked around for any of the familiar following-me cars. They weren’t there – not on my street, anyway.

  I locked the front door.

  ‘Before we drive off,’ I said, after I’d sat down in the passenger seat, ‘I want to tell you that I think we’re going to be followed – and you’re going to have to get rid of them.’

  Anne-Marie looked round as obviously as any person could.

  ‘Don’t!’ I said.

  ‘Please don’t patronize me,’ she said. ‘What do you want me to do, then?’

  ‘Just drive off. We’ll see first.’

  It was nine o’clock already. One last time, I tried to think of anything I might have forgotten, anything I might have left behind. But there was nothing.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

  I was slightly disappointed not to see any of the parked cars pull out behind us.

  ‘Keep going,’ I said.

  ‘What else am I going to do?’

  Our tail joined us on Mortlake High Street.

  ‘Go left here,’ I said, to confirm – and confirmed it was.

  ‘That Mercedes is the one following us,’ I said.

  ‘No-it-isn’t,’ said Anne-Marie.

  ‘Try driving in circles for a bit,’ I said.

  Anne-Marie went twice round the next big roundabout. The Mercedes followed us all the way. Anne-Marie was convinced.

  ‘Who are they?’ she asked.

  ‘Friends of my friends from yesterday afternoon,’ I said. ‘Or the police. Or journalists. I don’t know any more – and I’m almost certain it doesn’t make any real difference. Now, do you think you can get rid of them?’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Notting Hill. Lily’s old flat.’

  Anne-Marie smiled. She liked the idea of being able to get in amongst all Lily’s old stuff.

  ‘Come on,’ I said.

  She tried a few tentative manœuvres – accelerating away from traffic lights, stopping to fill up on petrol. Nothing seemed to work. Then she said, ‘Who do you think they’re following, the car or you?’

  ‘Me, I’d say.’