by David Barry
Mary looked up from the cook book she was reading. ‘Dead cert, is it?’
Dave laughed. ‘Something like that.’
As soon as he had gone, she became restless. He had left his newspaper behind and she noticed he had marked at least six horses in three races. She thought he would probably be out of the house for a good hour, at least. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for. Time to satisfy her curiosity.
She went out into the hall, pulled open the hall table and rummaged around until she found the key to the third bedroom. She hurried upstairs and pushed the key into the lock, nervously enjoying the film-like drama of the situation, which was a welcome relief from what had become a boring day.
The key turned easily and she pushed open the door. It was dark. Heavy curtains were drawn closed. She felt for the light switch and clicked it on. The room, lit by a naked light bulb, blazed with synthetic brightness.
Mary stared, frowning, unable to fully comprehend what she was seeing. Then she felt a movement behind her. She swung round just as his hand reached out to grab her.
‘Dave!’
In his other hand he held the rolled-up newspaper that he had forgotten and come back for. How could she have been so stupid?
‘You just couldn’t keep your nose out of it, could you?’
He tightened his grip on her arm.
‘Dave!’ she cried. ‘You’re hurting me.’
Forty - Four
Seeing the fear on Mary’s face, Dave let go of her arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’
Now that his anger had drained away, she saw the wounded look in his eyes and she felt sorry for him.
‘It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have....’ she began, and faltered.
‘You were curious. Can’t say as I blame you. In your shoes, I’d probably have done the same.’
He walked over to the window and drew the curtains. Daylight flooded into the room and Mary blinked, trying to take in what she was seeing.
‘It’s some sort of shrine,’ she said slowly. ‘To her.’
Dozens of framed photographs covered the walls; they were all of the same woman, mostly glamorous ten-by-eights. On a table, carefully arranged, lay toiletries and make-up, covered in a thin layer of dust. In front of the table, silk dressing gown neatly draped the back of a bentwood chair. A bundle of scrap books and photograph albums were stacked in a tidy pile beside the table. But the dominating feature of the room stood in a corner to the left of the door - a sequined dress, in shimmering silver and blue, adorned a dressmaker’s dummy, crowned by a wig block with an auburn wig beneath a large floppy hat.
Mary stared at the faceless wig block and shivered, letting her breath out slowly. ‘My God! This is so weird. It’s like that film with - um - Anthony Hopkins. You know....’
Dave smiled thinly. ‘I think you mean Anthony Perkins. In Psycho. Unless you mean Silence of the Lambs. But I hope I’m harmless, even if I am a bit round the twist.’
Mary felt the tight knot in her stomach relax. She smiled at him, then peered carefully at one of the framed photographs.
‘She really beautiful, Dave. She must have been really special.’
‘Oh, she was special all right!’
Mary continued to stare at the photograph, missing the irony of his tone.
‘I couldn’t hope to compete with her. Look at those breasts. So perfect. They’ve just got to be silicone implants.’
Dave laughed gratingly. ‘Or hormone treatment.’
Mary stared at him, her eyes narrowing shrewdly as she began to suspect the truth.
‘You’d never guess the truth, Mary. Not in a million years. Oh well - I guess it’s confession time.’
He crossed to the pile of albums and selected a scrap book. He turned over a page as Mary peered over his shoulder. A newspaper cutting caught her eye.
‘I knew it! She’s a man! She’s had a sex change!’
Mary read from the cutting. ‘Yorkshire born civil servant Marilyn Whitby, previously known as John Whitby.’
Dave sank into the chair with a sigh. Mary bit her lip quickly as she tried to work it out.
‘John Whitby. But that means he’s your ... brother?’
Dave picked up a mascara stick and fiddled with it. Apart from a buzzing in his ears, everything seemed deathly quiet. Unreal.
Mary waited for him to speak.
‘I never really knew me dad. He left us when I were a nipper. Can’t have been more than two - two and a half, maybe. When I was older, I asked me mam about him, but all she’d say was that he’d gone away to another country. And she’d no idea where. So that seemed to be that.
‘Then, when I were about eleven - just about to start secondary school - Dad came home. Only I didn’t know it were me dad. He’d changed, you see. Completely.’
Mary could feel her heart beating against her ribs. ‘My God, Dave! This woman is your father.’
‘And Mam never told me. Not till after he died. It took me a long time to get used to calling him “Dad” after that. I’d always known him as Aunty Marilyn, this mysterious, glamorous, long-lost relation who came to stay with us.’
‘But ... why didn’t your mother tell you?’
‘I don’t know. How do you explain to a kid in his formative years that his old man’s changed into a ravishing redheaded woman that most of your schoolmates fancy?’
Quietly, Mary replaced the scrap book on top of the pile. There was something she needed to ask Dave. She had already made up her mind that she would become his lover, but now there was something she had to know. She stood close behind him, both hands massaging his shoulders.
‘Did you used to fancy your Aunty Marilyn?’
He nodded slightly. ‘She used to sit me on her lap, cuddle me, and tuck me in at night. I used to get turned on. Though I never let it show. But as soon as the lights were out....’
‘It’s not your fault, Dave. You weren’t to know.’
‘There I’d be, hoping one night me Aunty Marilyn would climb into bed with me; enjoying every schoolboy’s fantasy of being seduced by an attractive older woman. And all along it’s me dad. No wonder I became a comedian. With an upbringing like that, what else could I be?’
Mary leant forward and gently kissed the side of his head. ‘Try not to worry about it. You’ve got me to look after you now.’
Dave stood up and turned towards her, smiling. ‘Come here, gorgeous. Let me kiss you.’
He pulled her towards him and she let him kiss her briefly. Then she pulled away, and said, ‘Dave, just a minute. I want to hear the rest of it.’
‘I’ll tell you later. Right now, why don’t we consummate our relationship?’
Mary glanced at one of the photographs. ‘This is seriously weird. She still turns you on, doesn’t she?’
‘Does it bother you?’
Mary giggled and pressed herself closer to him. ‘This is the best sort of therapy I can think of for now.’
Forty - Five
Nicky and Savita decided to take full advantage of the situation with Malcolm, so instead of hurrying back to the office they window-shopped in the Victoria Centre for a while, then had a buffet lunch at a new Chinese restaurant. When they returned to the office in the afternoon, other staff members stared at them, and it was obvious they had been the subject of office gossip.
Savita didn’t care, without bothering to knock, she marched boldly into Malcolm’s office, followed by Nicky. Malcolm was on the telephone.
‘Er, listen, Roger, something important has just cropped up. As in crisis. Can I call you back in half-an-hour? OK. Speak to you later, mate.’
He hung up, then stared hard at Savita, his eyes glassy and remote, trying to conceal the hatred he felt for her. She let the silence st
retch excruciatingly before she spoke.
‘You’re off the hook,’ she said. ‘Nicky felt sorry for you. Though I can’t think why, you fat slug.’
Ignoring her insult, he looked towards Nicky, and mumbled, ‘Thanks, Nicky. So what happens now? Where do we go from here?’
Nicky pursed her lips and thought about it. ‘Well, we had a two hour lunch break.’ She giggled. ‘I expect we’ll be having a lot of those.’
Malcolm shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. He cleared his throat noisily. ‘I ... er ... I will of course be giving both of you excellent appraisals, with recommendations for a pay rise, but we have to be a bit subtle about your timekeeping. If the MD suspects something’s going on, then its curtains for all of us. And about the photograph, I don’t suppose there’s any way you could....’
But Savita was already shaking her head. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘That was a digital photograph. And there’s no way Damian’s going to delete it. That’s our passport to good behaviour, wanker. You don’t mind if I occasionally call you wanker from now on? Just between the three of us, of course.’
There was a sharp rap on the door; it opened, and in walked Jeremy Clarison, the company MD. He raised his eyebrows quizzically and gave the two employees a half-smile and a nod.
‘Malcolm,’ he announced, ‘I hope I’m not disturbing anything important.’
Malcolm swallowed noisily. His lips felt dry and his throat was parched. ‘No, not all, Jeremy. Just going through some preliminary details of Savita and Nicky’s quarterly appraisals which we are reviewing next week.’
The MD eased himself into a chair and crossed his legs. ‘In that case, don’t mind me. Pretend I’m not here. I’ll be a fly on the wall, like the camera in a reality TV show. Please carry on.’
Malcolm’s tongue felt furred-up, large and cumbersome when he tried to speak. ‘Um - well - thank you for the hard work, girls. Carry on as you are doing. I mean, keep m-motivating the team as you have been doing, and your appraisals will be....’ Malcolm’s brain seized up. He made two forward slices with his hands instead. Then recovering slightly, he said, ‘Excellent work so far. Excellent. Thank you for coming in to discuss it.’
Savita and Nicky exchanged an amused expression before exiting. As soon as they had gone, Malcolm offered the MD a feeble smile, as if this would suffice as an explanation for his odd behaviour. After an uncomfortable pause, the MD frowned and studied his fingernails carefully before speaking.
‘What was all that about, Malcolm? I mean, if you are doing quarterly appraisals next week, why a sort of preview? Bit of a waste of time, if you ask me.’
Beads of sweat had broken out on Malcolm’s forehead, and his face was mottled. ‘I - um - just wanted a quick word with them. Good workers. Good workers.’
The MD stared at Malcolm in deep concentration. ‘Are you feeling all right, Malcolm? You really look most peculiar.’
Just for an instant, it occurred to Malcolm to confide in Jeremy. Bloke to bloke, he might understand. I mean, he thought, what bloke hasn’t been tempted like that? A threesome. Bit of lesbian coupling. Male fantasy, and all that. But Jeremy Clarison was old school. A bit old fashioned. About to have an enormous twenty-fifth wedding celebration. No, bit too risky. He might find himself clearing his desk in double-quick time.
‘As a ma-matter of fact,’ Malcolm stammered, ‘I don’t feel well. Might be a virus that’s doing the rounds. I feel hot and cold all the time.’
‘I think you’d better take the rest of the day off,’ Clarison said. ‘What a nuisance. I interrupted my annual leave to come and ask you....’ He sighed deeply and shook his head.
‘What?’ Malcolm said.
‘I fancied a round of golf at the Neville, and I’d got no one to partner me.’
***
Mary snuggled close to Dave, her hand gently stroking the hairs on his chest.
‘How was it for you?’ she giggled softly.
‘Fair dos. It were awright that!’
She giggled again, then became serious. ‘That’s something I noticed about you - your accent. It became really broad when you were talking about your childhood.’
‘It’s impossible to escape from the past.’
‘Is that what you’re trying to do?’
‘Not escape, exactly - no. I’ve just not been able to confront the past - up until today. But I’m glad I was able to tell you. To share it with you.’
She pecked his cheek. ‘So am I.’
From downstairs there came the sound of the letter box swinging open, followed by the plop of something heavy dropping onto the mat. Dave looked at the bedside clock.
‘Bit late for a second post.’
Mary got out of bed and threw on her dressing gown. ‘I’ll go, and I’ll make us a cup of tea.’
While she went downstairs, Dave leapt naked out of bed and peered through the net curtains at the window. He was just in time to see his argumentative neighbour’s son crossing the street back to his parent’s house.
Mary screamed: ‘Ugh! This is disgusting! Someone’s posted something....’
Dave grabbed his dressing gown and dashed downstairs.
‘It’s all right,’ said Mary, shaking. ‘I thought at first it was dog’s muck. But it’s a pile of tea leaves and tea bags.’
She was surprised to notice that Dave looked pleased.
‘I saw him,’ he said. ‘It was my neighbour’s son. That’s him what’s been making all those phone calls, I’ll bet. And now we’ve got him. Bang to rights!’
Forty - Six
‘Can I come in?’ Claire knocked lightly on Andrew’s door and entered. She caught him hurriedly hiding an A4 sheet under a magazine on his desk.
‘I was just....’ he started, a trace of guilt in his tone.
Claire sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to continue. He sat at his desk, half turned away from her, absently doodling on the magazine.
‘Just what?’ she ventured after a brief silence.
He shrugged. ‘Oh - nothing much. Just making a few notes.’
‘What about?’
‘Nothing that would interest you.’
‘How d’you know it wouldn’t?’
‘I just know.’
‘Who’s this Mr Bannerman who wanted you to phone him?’
‘Oh - I’ve already spoken to him.’
‘So who is he?’
‘Just a bloke who’s doing some work for me.’
‘What sort of work?’
‘He’s an investigator, if you must know.’
‘An investigator! You mean like in private investigator?’
Embarrassed, Andrew turned toward the computer screen and moved the mouse.
‘Andrew, has this got anything to do with that writer Chloe was telling us about?’
‘I wish I hadn’t told her now. I should have kept my mouth shut.’
‘What’s going on? What are you up to?’
Andrew tensed briefly, then turned round to face his mother, suddenly feeling the need to share his feelings with her.
‘I hired this bloke from an ad in the Yellow Pages, to see what he could uncover about the writer.’
‘Oh Andrew! What the hell d’you think you’re up to?’
Andrew turned back to the computer screen. ‘I knew you wouldn’t understand.’
‘How much is this costing?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Because I don’t want to see you throwing your money down the drain. The money Nanny left you.’
‘Exactly. It’s my money. She left it to me.’
‘I’m sure she didn’t intend you to chuck it away on some - some hair-brained nonsense.’
&
nbsp; ‘I wish I hadn’t told you now.’
‘Andrew, why do you get so obsessed about everything?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘It was the same with the computer. Then the fruit machines. You never do anything in half measures; you become thoroughly wrapped up in them, to the exclusion of everything else. Why can’t you just behave normally?’
‘You saying I’m abnormal?’
‘Of course not - it’s just that - why d’you get so involved with something that doesn’t concern you?’
‘It does concern me. It concerns all of us. You know what the book was about, don’t you?’
Claire tried to stop herself from sighing, knowing it would irritate her son, and let her breath out slowly.
‘I know it’s about the arms industry.’
‘Yeah ... well ... it’s pretty sickening. I’ve been researching it myself - on-line. Never mind this new deal for Africa and all that rubbish about wiping out debts. D’you realise how many billions of pounds this country is still making selling arms to countries like Malawi and....
Concerned, Claire automatically pressed her hand onto Andrew’s. He snatched it away, as if he’d been scalded.
‘Look, we all know how terrible that sort of thing is....’ she began weakly.
Andrew slammed his hand down on the desk. ‘But we don’t know. We only think we know.’
Claire tried to remain calm, speaking softly, almost in a whisper. ‘And what have you asked this Bannerman bloke to do?’
‘Try to find out who was printing the writer’s book. They might still have a copy.’
‘So you’re paying this bloke good money to do something you could easily do yourself.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well, you don’t work during the week. Presumably this firm of investigators will just contact all the local printers, which is something you could have done yourself. Dad would have helped you.’
Andrew looked surprised, then frowned and shook his head.
