Blood From Stone

by Frances Fyfield

  Frank Shearer did not even like motors and yet he was forced to tend them like babies. Should they require to be bathed in milk, he would have to oblige. It was still half dark outside, and cold. At least he was out of the rain, and the location alone saved him from car salesman ignominy.

  He told himself, often, that there were plenty of men out there who would love this job or at least that was the sort of shit the manager came out with every day, and in one way it was true. Kids of all colours were always hanging round, sidling in, saying any chance of work in here, lingering to admire and inhale the smell of engine power, just wanting to be within touching distance of all that high octane image-enhancing, penis-extending stuff. Stars in their eyes, treasuring vicarious ownership. The distant cousins of the swaggering drug dealers and thieves who also ventured in, ready to buy for cash, but still overawed by the ambience. Not their kind of place, really; too upmarket and respectable looking, a small cathedral for sainted vehicles and at least it had that going for it. The harsh neon lights emphasised the shiny, high colours and gave him a headache.

  Frank replaced the kicked-over sign and looked for something else to hit, imagined burying his fist into something softer and fleshier than metal. Such as a mouth, or a sweet, yielding stomach. He drew in his paunch and stood upright.

  By his own reckoning, his sister’s estate was worth over a million quid; less if the insurance policies were fucked up by suicide clauses, but Thomas would fix all that. It was still a fortune; it was freedom; it was his right. He wanted that money so badly, he would happily have liberated the biggest car in the room and run over anyone who got in the way, reversing over the corpse to make absolutely sure. More than halfway there. He stood in a reverie of anticipated happiness.

  A man was knocking on the plate glass door of the showroom. It was too early for serious customers, so Frank ignored him. Waste of time to be here at eight thirty, but the manager said someone had to, just in case, as though anyone who could afford this merchandise ever got out of bed before noon, unless it was some city slicker ready to spend the obscene annual bonus on the way to work. Those buggers never slept. The knocking continued, scarcely loud enough to be heard in the silence of the showroom. The glass doors were armour plated; all the glossy stock and its salesman were well imprisoned.

  Outside, there was Berkeley Square, famous for plane trees and a song that insisted that nightingales sang there. Frank never noticed either the trees or the birds, not even the pigeons, but it was the West End, adjacent to Bond Street, an excellent address and to say that you worked there did no harm when it came to chatting up women. Frank’s never unfashionable Mayfair taunted him with money. Half the people he passed in the street round here would think that a million quid was loose change, while the other fifty per cent were like himself and knew it was a fortune in freedom. He could taste it in his mouth, like blood after a punch, and he curled the fingers of his fist.

  You’re a fucking loser, aren’t you, Frank, and there’s nothing more savage than that, is there?

  He unlocked the glass door, taking his time about it and looking officious for the benefit of the man outside, not making eye contact as he did the unbolting, first at the top, then at the bottom and only enough to release one of the doors. A sideways glance en route, taking in the frame of the person on the other side of the glass was enough to convince him this was not sales material. It was the coat that did it. Even Frank knew that no one wore an overcoat like that any more unless it was second-hand.

  This was a young man, younger than Frank, anyway, sporting the sort of out-of-date coat which might lend another man authority, shivering all the same. Frank’s instinct was to say, ‘We’re closed’, but he somehow warmed to the pretensions of that coat, swung back the door and ushered him in. Killing a little time with a bloke who would never buy one of these cars beat the shit out of polishing them. Buffing up bodywork was surely woman’s work. Talking was what Frank did best and he wanted company. Wanted to behave like he was already rich and invite whom he liked.

  ‘Come in, come in, what can we do for you?’ he said, breezily. ‘Just looking? Anything in mind? Or do you just want to browse?’

  He turned his back on the stranger and moved away to the office area at the far end of the showroom, indicating that he would leave the man alone if that was what he wanted. Always better not to pressure people in the early stages; it made them more forthcoming.

  ‘I was looking for Frank Shearer,’ the man said.

  Frank froze in his tracks. These were dreaded words. He did not like the idea of anyone looking for him, because those who had done so in the past had been debt collectors, tracking him down through his chain of employments in pursuit of unpaid rent, the credit card bills not quite resolved, the one time alimony, until she responded to threats, recovered her wits and never asked him any more; the expenses claimed when he had worked for a firm who had been vicious in pursuit of them, and on one occasion, a large man sent to locate a company car he had failed to return. He shook his head, racking his brain to think of anything still outstanding, but he had been clean of all that for a year in a job where the scope for the minor form of cheating he favoured was absolutely nil. All that was in the past, but still he froze, until he remembered that it was only a sense of déjà vu, because he was a man of substance now. Or almost. He turned, smiling.

  ‘That’s me. What can I do you for? Nothing personal, I hope.’

  The man smiled back, keeping his hands in the pocket of his coat. It was a pleasant, boyish smile which bore no resemblance to any debt collector Frank had ever encountered, but still it put him at a disadvantage, somehow. His own smile was a legend in the business, famous for catching the halfway-there buyer and freezing him in the headlamps like a cat on a dark road, also famous with women who rued the day Frank Shearer made them laugh before really showing his teeth.

  ‘It was, actually. Personal, I mean, but it can wait. Lovely motors. Don’t suppose you’ve got anything cheap.’

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter. Frank couldn’t see what was so funny, but in the silence of the place it was strangely infectious and he found himself giggling.

  ‘Don’t do cheap. Don’t even do halfway cheap. Have a look anyway, make yourself at home. You won’t be the first to turn up on a bike looking for something a bit better, so dream on. They’re all yours for five minutes.’

  The nervousness was gone. Here was a fellow with the story of his life written all over him. Another chancer, surely, still in the league he was about to leave. He, Frank, could afford to be generous and was on his way to make the beggar a cup of tea, advise him, maybe, that the coat was a giveaway, until he stopped in his tracks and remembered that word, ‘personal’. Oh dear. On his way to the back room cupboard which was otherwise known as his office, he let his leather-soled shoes sound noisy on the faux-wood floor, spun on his heel and came back.

  ‘So what’s personal?’

  The man shrugged, nicely. ‘Your sister,’ he said. ‘Your divine and lovely sister. I came to offer my commiserations on her untimely death. So sad. She was my greatest friend. My name’s Rick, Rick Boyd.’

  Frank had a feather duster in his hand, and he let it drop on the floor with a small clatter, stopped, picked it up with a flourish and waved it playfully. He’d have liked to have stuck it down the bloke’s throat, for a moment. Shocks like this he did not need. Made him say what he meant. He shook his head.

  ‘Sorry? I didn’t know my sis had greatest friends. Or any friends. Unless faggots, and I don’t see you as one of those. No disrespect intended, not that you can tell.’

  The man advanced towards him and it was all he could do not to run away, but he did not, until his hand was grasped in the biggest paw he had ever felt, and he was gazing into Rick Boyd’s eyes and watching those eyes fill with tears. Then the handshake turned itself into a hug that left him paralysed, as if someone had thrown a blanket over him in such a way it was impossible to shrug free. The
y detached, quickly and simultaneously, with the imprint of Rick’s hand, removed from the small of his back, now burning a hole in the elbow of Frank’s suit. At least he had not been required to kiss.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ Frank muttered. ‘Thanks a lot. She was a great lady.’

  ‘Come off it, Frank, she was the biggest bitch unhung. Mind you, there’s always competition for a title like that.’

  They stood, staring at one another, until a grin passed first over Rick’s handsome face and then over Frank’s.

  ‘I can’t shut up shop, Rick, honest I can’t.’

  ‘I know that, Frank, really I do. Just wanted to talk to you, you know? We got such a lot in common. Mind if I look at these cars? You make the tea. Look, mate, I’ve got something to tell you which might be of interest when it comes to your inheritance and all that, but I promise you, mate, there’s nothing I want in return. Just a bit of info, like where the hell did she keep her stuff?’

  He was perched on the bonnet of a Mercedes, not splayed on it like some model at a car show, but like another kind of sweet, wild animal, resting for an elegant minute before flight. This one would not leave a scratch. He was a heavyweight delicacy, nothing clumsy about him. His claws were clipped and his hands were clean.

  ‘She got me off a murder charge, you see, quite rightly, too, since I didn’t do it, but we had lots of time together, if you see what I mean. She told me things I’d like to share with you. And, she promised to leave me papers that might get me out of a future hole, only she didn’t. I wondered if you had them? Nobody else has her mobile phone, her notes, her anything. Quite frankly, Frank, I could be a bit compromised without these notes and things, and I don’t like being in this position. It’s like waiting for someone to call in the debts, if you know what I mean. So if you can tell me where this stuff is, I mean the useless crap like Thomas Noble’s looking for all over town, I’d be ever so grateful. And, course, there’s the other side of the coin. Like another piece of news for you which could really bugger up this inheritance malarkey, but if you don’t want to know, I well understand. We can work on it together, OK? Women, eh? Aren’t they the limit? The way they worm themselves in and get you in the end. Can’t have them winning, can we?’

  ‘A murder charge?’ Frank said, ready to faint.

  Marianne got people off murder charges, rape charges, theft charges, that was what she did and he’d read about it, but to meet one . . . well. Nothing scared Marianne, but he was a different matter. Frank could scare women, but men scared him.

  ‘Complete fiction, mate, don’t worry. I was a police informant at the time and it just got implicated, no worries, I can’t even swat flies, just got implicated. Did she ever talk about me?’

  He had a soft but demanding voice and a face ready to laugh, and he had already said far more than he needed to say. It was making Frank think of what he regretted, such as never really talking to his sister since they were kids. He did have a pang of sentiment about a person who had bailed him out a few times and then left him all the yummy money, even if it was by mistake. A teeny-weeny niggle of regret for not having known her better.

  ‘We didn’t talk, Rick. We never did. You know.’

  He went into the straight-talking mode he enforced with a customer, only this time he meant it and hoped it was obvious.

  ‘She wanted nothing to do with me, Rick. She’d have crossed the road if she’d seen me first, she really would. She might just stop by to give me a kick if I was down, and I have been down, I tell you. She thought I was a loser, which I’m not, and she didn’t want to know.’

  Rick got off the bonnet of the car and stuck his hand in the pockets of the coat, nodding ‘yes’ with his head, and looking at his feet. Good shoes.

  ‘You too, Frank? You too? I knew her really well, and then she went and pissed on my head. Best friends, followed by total reject. Are you sure she didn’t mention me? Didn’t leave anything with you?’

  ‘Did she buggery. We did Christmas cards, like I was one of her customers. She didn’t even know where I lived. I never went to hers. I knew she’d died because I saw a photo.’

  ‘All of them bitches, aren’t they, Frank? The only thing that ever turns a man into a loser is a woman. They get you, every time.’

  Frank’s head was reeling. This was a sudden intimacy, an onslaught on his sensitivities, making him truthful even as he backed away. His first instinct was right and this man was the bearer of bad news, another kind of debt collector. This was the only person he had ever met, apart from long-deceased parents and Thomas Noble, who had known his sister; it confused him and reminded him how she had never included him in her life, always wanted to avoid her baby brother, always shone the bright light of her success on his failures, had always been the irritating example of naked ambition made good. Only bitch he knew who had even made crime pay, made a fortune on the back of it. He recalled snippets of insults, like when he got engaged and she consented to meet the fiancée for a quick drink, leaving only enough time to tell the woman she was a fool to marry her brother and perhaps she should think twice about it if she wanted to keep her looks. The nerve, when it was he who needed that advice. Big sister, always looking down on him, even though she was so small she should have been looking up. Resentment swelled in him and whether he liked it or not, Rick Boyd was bringing it back, making him realise that whatever else she had intended, his sister had never meant to make him rich and might still, yet, take it away.

  The darkness outside had lifted, revealing a watery winter sun in Berkeley Square and a day that had been slow to start now meaning business. Another person stood with his face pressed to the glass. The bright light inside seemed bleak and artificial, revealing too much. Frank Shearer wanted to pour out all his wounded feelings about his sister, and bearer of bad news or not, Rick Boyd seemed ready to share.

  Boyd had moved from lounging on the Mercedes, stood with his back to Frank, looking out of the window. A woman in a red coat twirled by in shiny boots, looking as if she owned the world, not pausing to look sideways to see who might be looking at her.

  ‘Get a load of that,’ Rick murmured. ‘I wonder who’s paying for her?’

  ‘What do you want?’ Frank asked, humbly this time, wanting the man to go, and then wanting him to stay.

  ‘I wanted to buy you a drink, that’s all. Commiserate, chew the fat. Share memories. Maybe you can tell why she was the way she was with both of us. Frank, my man, I’m sorry, I’ve upset you. When do you get off work? I’m so sorry.’

  Frank was crying. Couldn’t bloody help it.

  ‘I never saw her, you know? Never saw her in action. Never saw her winning. You know?’

  ‘Lets talk about it, Frank. I’ve got all the time in the world.’

  Continuation of cross-examination of Angel Joyce by Marianne Shearer, QC

  MS. Before you met my client, Mr Boyd, you didn’t have much experience of life, did you, Angel?

  AJ. Not a lot. No.

  MS. You were naive, then.

  AJ. No, I don’t think so.

  MS. You’d been a bit spoiled, hadn’t you Angel? Never forced to do anything you didn’t want?

  AJ. I think I might have been, to be honest.

  MS. And you were bored?

  AJ. Yes – no. I just didn’t know what to do.

  MS. Come on, Angel, you were bored out of your skull. Small seaside town, boring parents who spoiled you. A dad who would always give you a job in his office. What is it he does? Ah, runs a self-storage unit. Very exciting. Didn’t you used to daydream a bit?

  AJ. I suppose I did.

  MS. You were a failure, weren’t you Angel? A stay-at-home loser.

  AJ. No. I kept trying . . .

  MS. And failing, and running home? High spots visiting your sister in her squat in London? Or so you told my client, didn’t you? Not much glamour and sex in your family, was there, Angel?

  AJ. No.

  MS. Rick Boyd was a way out of failure, wasn’t he,
Angel? Everyone wanted Rick. He turned you into a winner, didn’t he?

  AJ. Quietly. I didn’t want to be a loser.

  MS. You didn’t want to lose him. You never won a single prize for anything, did you, Angel? Then you got Rick. A man your parents liked, which was more than your sister ever had. A real win, wasn’t it? You couldn’t bear to let him go.

  A day of rest. It was dark by the time he finished reading.