Spanky

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘Well, it’s unfair!’ he shouted. ‘I’m the one who believes! I’ve always believed, and where’s my help? What’s going to get me through?’

  I didn’t know. I had no answer for him. These days he was barely equipped to leave the apartment. ‘I’ll ask him to help you,’ I said.

  And that’s what I did.

  I was too busy at the store to move into the new apartment on Tuesday, and anyway the phone couldn’t be connected until the following weekend, so I delayed going until then. When Spanky next appeared it was late on Thursday evening, and I was still filling out order forms in the stockroom at the rear of the store. I barely recognized him. He was wearing Levi Silver Tab jeans, a DKNY belt, a plain white T-shirt and cowboy boots, and looked almost normal.

  I could tell at once that he wouldn’t respond to my request.

  ‘I can’t help Zack,’ he said apologetically. ‘I can’t explain why, but he’s just not suitable material. Some people aren’t, and they’re usually the ones who most want to be.’ He climbed to the top of a stack of bubble-wrapped sofas and seated himself.

  ‘Well, he’s really screwed up and I don’t know how to help him,’ I said. ‘Isn’t there anything you can do?’

  ‘Let me think about it.’

  ‘Why are you here? Are we doing something tonight?’

  ‘Nope. I’m a busy little entity. People to see, tangled webs to weave. Did your parents call again?’

  ‘On three separate occasions. I left a message with Lottie saying that I’m away on business and can’t be contacted.’

  ‘Good boy. I came by to tell you I won’t be around for a few days. Good luck with the apartment.’

  ‘Thanks. Have fun wherever you’re going.’

  ‘Forget it,’ he replied, reading my mind. ‘I’m not going to tell you.’ When I looked up again he had gone, his faint spicy odour lingering behind him like a signature.

  I had booked the next morning off in order to shift the few boxes of books, tapes and clothes I owned. Spanky had arranged the furniture for the new flat but I still needed stuff like a kettle and crockery. I didn’t care. I was prepared to drink out of toothmugs if necessary, I just wanted to be in there. The kitchen was fully fitted, and the few sticks of furniture I owned were too scruffy for such a palatial home. Max offered me a twenty percent discount on the store’s merchandise. I hastily declined.

  That night, Zack skulked moodily about the kitchen as I packed up my cartons of books. I was careful to leave him everything he wanted, including my toolbox and a couple of saucepans I had recently bought. I would buy fresh.

  On Saturday I moved into my incredible pristine apartment. The rooms smelled of paint and fresh wood. The whole place was less than five years old. I had never lived in a modern building, and found it hard to believe that there were no damp patches anywhere. During the course of the day I gradually unpacked, stacking books on thoughtfully provided shelves. I spent my first night in alone, wandering back and forth in front of the vast windows, marvelling at the size and space that had entered my life. Spanky had installed a widescreen TV and multi-system video, which I tuned in and stared at for the rest of the weekend.

  On Monday I was supposed to have lunch with Max’s son Paul, who had asked if we could meet to discuss the details of the forthcoming expansion. Although summer had started to fade and cool, the front of the Italian restaurant was still open to the street. I took a table and waited for nearly an hour, but Paul didn’t show up. I called the office but nobody had seen him. Odd.

  Max was out for a legal meeting and an extended luncheon with Neville Syms, so I worked at the store until eight. Still no sign of Paul.

  That night I luxuriated alone in my freshly painted world, wiring up some kitchen appliances and tuning my amp deck. I stocked the refrigerator. All I needed now was someone with whom I could share my good fortune. I decided to introduce myself to the neighbours and knocked on their door, but the apartment beyond remained silent.

  On Tuesday morning Max called me in and asked if I had seen his son. Apparently he hadn’t come home last night and Beverly, his fiancée, was out of her mind with worry. I explained about our lunch date, but was unable to offer any words of comfort. From the little I knew about Paul it seemed unlikely that he would have just taken off.

  That night I went to the actor’s dinner party, and ended up staying in Chelsea with an extraordinary girl called Wyoming Charles, who was understudying in the West End production of a new Steven Berkoff play. Her hair was detergent-box red and her breasts defied several natural laws. She was charming and flaky and strange, and we fooled around with each other’s bodies all night. A little after 6.30 a.m. I fell asleep and woke up late for work. Feeling distinctly sleazy I let myself out of her flat and headed for the tube, wondering if I should start notching up my conquests on a stick.

  On Thursday I rang the hospital to try and speak with Darryl, but the staff nurse told me that he had discharged himself the previous evening. When I tried to call him at home, there was no reply.

  Paul hadn’t reappeared, either. Max had finally been to the police with Beverly, who admitted that she had had an argument with her fiancé on Sunday evening, the day before he vanished. Hearing this, the cops failed to provide much encouragement. They suggested sitting tight until the weekend before officially declaring him a missing person.

  All kinds of crazy thoughts had begun to pass through my mind.

  With growing unease I called my old apartment and got a recorded message. Eerily, my voice was still on the tape. If Zack was in, he wasn’t bothering to pick up.

  Perhaps it was because Spanky had also disappeared, but by the time evening came I was convinced that harm had befallen those around me. The telephone was now connected, so I decided to go against Spanky’s wishes and ring my parents’ house.

  Their line was dead. A single high-pitched note whined through the empty ether. I immediately checked with the operator, who told me that the number had been disconnected.

  Now I began to panic.

  How could I have been so blind? I had been so wrapped up in my own tawdry pleasures, I couldn’t see that something terrible was happening to almost everyone in my life. I took a cab around to the old Vauxhall flat and rang the doorbell long and loud. I had surrendered my keys to Zack when I left. There was no reply, and I could see from the street that the living room lights were switched off.

  Don’t be alarmed, I told myself.

  There’s a rational explanation.

  But how was I fit to discuss the concept of rationality? I was the one taking advice from a daemon.

  I decided it was time to visit my family.

  I rang Max and informed him that I wouldn’t be in for work tomorrow, which pissed him off royally. Thanet was already short-staffed without Darryl, and Max was being forced to work the shop-floor himself.

  I didn’t have a car, but there was still one more train running that night. I threw some clothes into a bag and called a cab, but the damned thing took fifteen minutes to reach my apartment. We raced down to Charing Cross station through bad traffic, and I slid into the ticket hall about thirty seconds after the train had pulled out. There was nothing for it but to turn around and go home.

  The next morning I awoke at dawn, checked the timetable and wearily returned to the station. The first train was cancelled, the second delayed, and the longer I waited the more convinced I became that something terrible had happened.

  The journey seemed to take forever. Twelvetrees awaited my arrival beneath rushing dark skies. Just as I alighted it began to rain, and I was forced to walk the last half-mile. By the time I turned into their street I was running.

  I quickly saw the problem.

  The house was boarded up.

  A tall wire fence had been staked around the property, and the doors and windows were covered with sheets of chipboard. The back half of the lawn had been ploughed under, and tractor marks vanished around the side of the house. I ran across to t
he nearest neighbour’s house and rang the bell.

  A very elderly woman answered the door. This had to be Old Mrs Sinclair, whom I had never met, but who was categorised by my mother as having ‘led a tragic life’.

  ‘Oh, they’ve gone,’ she said. ‘You’re Martyn, aren’t you? They were looking for you.’

  ‘Do you know where they are?’

  ‘They gave me the address, in case you came by. They were very worried. You look soaked. Come in.’

  She thumped her cane along a hallway scented with lavender polish, and I followed her, dripping, into a pristine front room that she obviously reserved for visitors.

  ‘Here they are,’ she said, passing me a card. ‘I can’t read it without my glasses.’

  It was the address of a villa on the Portuguese coast of the Algarve. There didn’t seem to be a telephone number. Although she owned a passport ‘for emergencies’, my mother had only ever used it once. What the hell were they doing in Portugal?

  ‘You don’t know why they would have gone there, do you?’

  ‘Limestone, I think it was. That was it, limestone. They said the insurance people were going to pay.’ The old woman was making no sense.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not with you.’

  ‘They had to stay somewhere, your mum and dad. I think they wanted to come and stay with you, but they couldn’t get hold of you. The house fell down.’

  I could see their house from the window. ‘What do you mean, it fell down?’

  ‘Broke its back, just like that. They found a big hole underneath, part of a limestone quarry, I think it was. Just opened up beneath them. Good job they were out when it happened. So now the house has to be—I can’t remember the word—’

  ‘Underpinned.’

  ‘That’s it. The hole has to be filled up before there’s any more subsidence. They couldn’t live there while the work was being done, and this holiday-thing had come up, so they decided to take it after all.’

  An image from my last visit sprang to mind: Spanky armed with a long-handled shovel, asking about insurance policies. His plan was suddenly clear. He’d forced a great change on my parents to break them of their former habits. No wonder he hadn’t wanted me to call them. I would have accused him of being cruel.

  ‘What holiday-thing, Mrs Sinclair?’ I asked.

  ‘A man from the supermarket came and told your mum that she’d won a holiday. He had the tickets and everything, all first class, but your dad was suspicious and turned them down. I think he was worried about hidden extras.’

  That sounded like my father, all right. Spanky could have offered him eternal life and he would have argued the toss.

  ‘Your mum was ever so upset,’ the old lady continued, ‘because she wanted to go. But then the house cracked and they had to move anyway, so they made use of the tickets after all. It was difficult, what with Laura being so ill and everything.’

  ‘Laura? What’s wrong with her?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Surely you knew about that. She couldn’t hold anything down, poor love. Bringing back everything she ate. Couldn’t get a single thing to stay in her stomach. The doctors were worried, but they weren’t able to find anything wrong with her.’

  ‘Did Laura go with my parents? How could she travel in such a state?’

  ‘That’s the odd thing. Your mum told me her problem cleared up just before they were due to fly out.’

  And I bet it resumed the moment they landed, and would stay with Laura until she hit target weight. I needed to see Spanky. If my parents were safe, what of the others?

  I returned to my apartment and stalked about the lounge, waiting for something to happen. At five o’clock a couple of guys delivered some furniture I hadn’t ordered: a long white linen sofa and two ironwork standard lamps, stylish and presumably very expensive. These continual gifts from Spanky were starting to feel like bribes.

  I took a very hot shower and tried to shake away my doubts about him, but they kept returning. How could I know if my parents were really safe? If Laura was well? And what on earth had happened to Paul?

  As I walked back into the living room wrapped in a towel, I gave a start. The daemon was at the kitchen counter, experimenting with half a dozen brightly coloured bottles and a silver cocktail shaker.

  ‘I’m making my own special version of a vodka stinger,’ he said casually. ‘Want to be my guinea pig?’

  ‘I feel as if I already am. What are my parents doing in Portugal?’

  ‘Ah, that.’ He gave the shaker a few good thrusts and unclipped the cap, pouring a viscous, lime liquid into a pair of martini glasses. ‘Actually, they’re rediscovering themselves. It’s a beautiful villa, very secluded and romantic. I knew Gordon would pester the insurance people, so I had the phone taken out. There’s no TV, just an old stereo, a stack of Frank Sinatra records and a spectacular view of the bay. And they can stay as long as they like. Your father has a lot of holiday time owing, as you can imagine. I think they were quite pleased to get rid of him for a while.’

  He ran his finger around the lid of the shaker and gave it a lick. ‘You weren’t supposed to know about them yet. I wanted it to be a surprise. Present you with a fait accompli. I’d like to make sure that their marriage is fully reestablished before you start arguing with each other and undoing all my good work. I suppose you know about Laura as well.’

  ‘I know she’s ill.’

  ‘She’s fine, she just won’t be able to absorb more than a few hundred calories a day until she reaches her correct weight. I know it’s unpleasant for her, but drastic measures were called for. She’s learning to eat less. And, I might say, already becoming a much happier person. She spent the whole of yesterday sunbathing in the garden. In a swimsuit. Taste this and tell me if it needs anything.’

  He passed me one of the green glasses. The alcohol content was so high my vocal cords shredded when I tried to speak.

  ‘The interesting thing about your sister, Martyn, is that there’s no biological imbalance causing her obesity. Once she returns to her former figure she should be able to keep it fairly easily. The more she gets out, the more people she’ll meet, and the more she’ll want to keep her weight down. The cause-and-effect circle has been broken. She’s worried about you, though. Wants to know where you are. I’ll let you speak to each other soon. Tell me something; she started to eat soon after—’

  ‘—Joey died. This drink is awful.’

  ‘Whenever I mention your brother you change the subject. Why is that?’

  ‘Personal reasons.’

  ‘Oh, I see. It still hurts.’

  ‘What have you done with Paul?’

  He began to chuckle. ‘You think I’ve done away with everyone, don’t you? Just lately your luck has been too good to be true, and you’re looking for the catch. Can’t enjoy yourself without feeling bad—sounds like our old friend Mr Guilt. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Martyn, but if you’d remembered to play back your messages from this morning you would have found out about Paul.’

  He pointed to the Faxfone on the floor in the corner of the room. I would have collected my messages, but I had no idea I even owned a new machine. Now I rewound the cassette and played it back.

  ‘Hi, Martyn.’ Paul’s booming, genial voice. ‘I imagine Beverly and my father are tearing their hair out right now. I’m sorry for all the trouble I’m causing but well, something’s happened to me.’

  I looked up at Spanky, who was listening with an amused smile.

  ‘I have to tell someone. The fact is, I’ve met the most incredible, exciting woman. I’m with her right now. I was first at the store on Monday morning, and she just walked in behind me! We weren’t even open! She says she had no idea what made her do it, isn’t that weird? Her name is Stephane, and we’re at her home just outside Avignon. I feel terrible about just leaving like this but I’m not much of a talker, and couldn’t think what to say to Bev. I knew I couldn’t marry her some while ago, but we just sort of drifted on. Now I�
��m really in love with someone. It’s so different, Martyn, not like being with Bev at all. That’s how I know it’s real. There’s none of that awful inevitability, you know, marriage and everything. Listen, I’ll give you the number here, but please don’t pass it on to Max. I know it’s a cowardly thing to ask, but could you tell him what’s happened? He’d only hang up on me. Say I’ll call him once I’ve sorted everything out more clearly.’

  The number followed, and I jotted it down on a notepad. Spanky watched me with an eyebrow raised, as if to say, ‘See? Now do you believe me?’

  Another message followed after the beep.

  ‘Hey, Mr Breadhead, how are you doing? Just to let you know that I’m doing the right thing. I hope you’re sitting down because this is, like, a big announcement. I’ve asked Debbie to move in with me. Actually she needed a place to stay because her landlord keeps hanging around on the landing in his underpants, and your room was free so she’s going to have that. I’m collecting all her stuff over the next couple of days. You wouldn’t believe how much junk she has like, one of those sixties wickerwork chairs you hang from the ceiling, only I don’t think our ceiling will hold it. You forgot a box of books, by the way. I’ll put them out in the hall for you. Speak soon?’

  It was all very neat. I only needed a call from Darryl to completely allay my fears.

  ‘Oh, I heard that,’ said Spanky, reading the thought. ‘Give me a break, will you? How much proof do you need, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I replied. ‘It’s just my natural cynicism kicking in.’

  ‘If it’ll make you any happier, I’ll try to get your mother to call you from the village in the next couple of days. It’s difficult, that’s all. I don’t usually do long distance stuff. It’s too draining.’

  He gave my shoulder an amicable nudge. ‘Come on, deep in your heart you know I’m on your side. You and I are the same, remember?’ He raised his glass and tapped the rim. ‘Try it now. I’ve modified the kick a little. Let’s drink a toast.’

  He was right. My overreaction was most likely a side effect of my changing life. In any situation I always thought the worst, just like my father. Now I raised my glass, as much in apology as celebration.