The Experimentalist

by Nick Salaman

  ‘It looks friendlier by day,’ he said. ‘But not much.’

  ‘Why on earth did they buy it?’

  ‘For some reason they thought it was intrinsic to Messinger’s and TOJI as well. One of them owns the other. There’s some history in it that they thought would add public relations appeal. And besides, what child or grown-up can resist a genuine mediaeval castle? There’s a visitor centre. Also it’s a good place to have Messinger’s high-security laboratories – sited unobtrusively, of course.’

  ‘What do they do in those?’

  ‘Research for the Government, and other stuff for TOJI which is a kind of front, I suppose. Nobody really knows and it’s better not to ask.’

  ‘I’m surprised they were allowed to pluck the castle up and take it away.’

  ‘It was done long ago by some millionaire in about 1880 when the French were at a low ebb. Now we’re getting a little closer you can see the full … what adjective would you use to describe it? … majesty of the place.’

  ‘Power,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘power is the word. They do like power even though they describe the origins of the company as charitable. And the holding company is still a charity though I don’t know how much charity they actually do. It opens doors for them.’

  They were now a couple of hundred feet below the castle. Joe rapped on the dividing glass, and the chauffeur stopped the car at a place where others had evidently done the same, a pull-in where the road narrowed. She craned up to gaze at the turrets and battlements. The sheer enormity of it was impressive; what must it have taken in effort and money to move so many stones of this colossal bulk?

  ‘Worth coming?’ Joe asked.

  At that moment a light came on in one of the highest towers and a spidery figure could be observed looking down upon them.

  ‘Look,’ she said, pointing at the lighted window. But just as she said it, the car was enfolded in a light so dazzling they could see nothing, not even each other.

  ‘I had heard they had invested in a searchlight,’ Joe said, ‘but my normal visits here are by day. I didn’t realise that they were quite so sensitive to visitors. I hope they turn it off or we’ll be stuck here all night.’

  ‘Who was the man in the tower, d’you think?’ she asked.

  ‘No idea. The permanent staff live in accommodation at the back somewhere.’

  She thought, with a wild hope: perhaps it is my father…

  There was the sound of something whirring overhead, followed by a report from the direction of the castle.

  ‘Duck,’ shouted Joe, pushing her down.

  ‘What was that?’ she asked.

  ‘That was someone shooting at us.’

  The searchlight continued to cover them for a minute or two, then, as suddenly as it had arrived, the light went out.

  ‘We’d better get out of here,’ said Joe, ‘or I’ll have to start shooting some arrows.’

  ‘They weren’t firing at us?’

  ‘Not at us. They were firing nearus, or over us.’

  ‘Warning us to get out?’

  ‘Yes.’ He tapped on the window at the driver. ‘Drive on,’ he said.

  The Rolls glided forward.

  ‘What’s going on in there?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘New product development? Testing new drugs? Maybe better not to know. There’s a whole complex of new buildings behind the castle.’

  ‘Suppose we drive round the back and see what’s stirring?’

  A gap had appeared in the trees and a driveway showed amongst them, leading to a gatehouse. Joe tapped on the glass, and the Rolls stopped where the road widened.

  ‘I think perhaps not tonight. The worst scenario is we get shot. The second worst is that someone with a gun corners us and keep us in the castle.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘As long as they like. No one knows where we are.’

  ‘The driver would tell people.’

  ‘The driver would be here, with us.’

  ‘They can’t do that.’

  ‘Oh, they do what they want. If they can bring a castle from France, don’t you think they might be capable of locking up a few unwanted visitors?’

  She wasn’t ready to be locked up again. It seemed an age since she had been freed, but it was only a week. Her moment would come.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Let’s go home.’

  When they finally reached her disreputable building in Echo Park, the faint first watercolours of dawn were dabbing away at the night. She turned up her face to kiss Joe as the Rolls drew sedately to the side of the street.

  ‘You live here?’ he asked, trying to play down his initial incredulity.

  ‘I live here. Not your usual dropping off point?’

  ‘No. But I can work on it.’

  She gave him another kiss and got out of the car.

  ‘See you again,’ he said.

  It wasn’t a question.

  ‘See you again.’

  The car oozed sedately on its way again as she opened the front door of the little block. On her way upstairs, she tried rapping at Felipe’s door to show him the wonderful sunrise but he had maybe seen too many through a prison window, she thought. As she had a copy of his key, she opened the door to check that he was all right – he had told her he was normally an early riser – and stepped inside.

  ‘Felipe,’ she called, softly.

  No answer.

  She stepped over and touched his shoulder. She shook him gently, then harder. There was no response. She turned the light on and felt his pulse, his head. The head was clammy and cold. The pulse was very weak. The faithful servant of a father she had never met was going the way of his master.

  She rushed out onto the stairway to look for Jaime, located him in the All-Nite bar round the corner which she knew was a favourite (Jaime led a strange nocturnal life which was something to do with drugs) and dragged him by the hand to Felipe’s bedside. Jaime too felt his pulse and forehead.

  ‘He very sick. Fetch ambulance,’ he said. ‘Call 911.’

  The ambulance arrived with remarkable promptness, wailing its path through the pristine light of dawn, and soon Felipe was gathered up and taken away. She wanted to ride with him but Jaime was his nominated next of kin and there was only room for one.

  ‘I bring you news straightaway,’ Jaime said.

  She went to bed and fell into a deep, uneasy sleep. Jaime came back when the roaring light of noon was banging at the blanket that passed for a curtain in her bedroom.

  ‘Felipe is gone,’ he told her. ‘He say goodbye.’

  She was desolated: for herself at having lost her first friend in LA, and for Felipe that he’d died without her when he had done so much on her behalf. There was a small collection for a gravestone, organised by Jaime, though he seemed vague as to where the grave was going to be. It was to be decided. She dipped rather too generously into her savings, but Felipe had been her friend.

  ***

  That evening she was back at Merrymaids punctually, if unwillingly, at seven o’clock. It was Friday and the punters were in weekend mode. Margot greeted her excitedly.

  ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

  ‘Joe was good.’

  ‘Did you … you know?’

  ‘No. He’s sexy. But he’s all right. Interesting.’

  ‘I told you he was all right.’

  ‘How was Grindlay?’ Marie asked.

  ‘Not so bad. He was a bit funny about you going up to the castle.’

  ‘Funny with you? It wasn’t you who put us up to it.’

  ‘No, he was just … funny. There something confidential going on up there, he said.’

  ‘Well, someone shot at us.’

  ‘Shot? Like bang bang you’re almost dead?’ Margot had been there, done everything, but she was impressed.

  ‘Yes. It went fizzing past. I think it was just to warn us off.’

  ‘And it did.’

  ‘W
hat is it that’s up there? I feel I should try and get in,’ Marie told her.

  ‘Even though it’s shooting at you?’

  ‘It wasn’t shooting at us. It was just making a point.’

  ‘Not a very hospitable one. Maybe if you get closer it’ll turn out to be a pussycat?’

  She paused, scrutinising Marie. ‘Are you all right? You look a bit down.’

  ‘My friend died. He had malaria.’

  ‘Oh God. What a bummer. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I don’t have so many friends I can afford to lose one. But I have to move on. Cancel out and pass on, so the man said.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it’s in a play somewhere.’

  ***

  So began the pattern for a number of weeks. Days full of the flutter of perfume and alcohol, food, pretty girls and affluent men who, if they were not themselves rich, wielded impressive expense accounts. Nights of low lights, lots of cleavage, drinking, snorting and snogging. The girls took Quaaludes, which were a fashionable relaxant, and everyone was happy. No Merrymaid ever looked melancholy. It was a contradiction in terms.

  Marie was certainly among the prettiest of the Maids, though not necessarily the most popular because she would not go to bed with anyone, but she was very much prized as a dinner companion, and would, on occasion, give a cabaret. It started one night when the regular artist had laryngitis and the management was caught short. A call went out to anyone who had a turn or an act. She must have been drunk because she put her hand up. She had started to write songs, funny songs based on the place and the people who frequented it, and now she rendered them in a voice that was both demure and on-turning. She teamed up with the pianist who was something of a composer and the result seemed to go down a bomb. Mr Merriman actually gave her more money for doing them. She even got Margot to join her on occasion.

  Things went on like this, and then, one evening, after she had given her little show, a voice behind her said: ‘Hello, Marie.’

  It was David.

  He looked older, a little sleeker. Not quite as she remembered him. She was interested to find her heart hardly missed a beat, but there was still the moment of memory, of shared physical intimacy, and of embarrassment, that had to be sealed off like a police tent over a corpse.

  ‘What are you doing in a place like this?’ she asked.

  ‘I was going to ask the same thing of you.’

  ‘Where have you been? What have you been doing?’

  ‘I got married,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’

  There must have been a momentary interruption in the power supply. Or was it someone fiddling with the dimmer switch?

  ‘And divorced,’ he said. ‘It was a terrible mistake.’

  It was definitely the dimmer switch because the place seemed to brighten up again no end. It was almost too coincidental that he would turn up now, here, but she could not disguise her happiness at seeing him.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘That’s a shame. But what are you doing here?’

  ‘I am in the oil business, like my father. I was working in San Diego but we have just opened an office here. A friend of mine who works in LA said this place was fun.’

  ‘And he’s right. Look how much fun it is.’

  ‘Never had such fun,’ he said, seriously. ‘Can you forgive me for deserting you?’

  ‘Can you forgive me for having a cloud over my name?’

  ‘For having a crazy dad?’

  ‘It turns out he was framed. I’ll tell you about it. But that’s not why you have to forgive me.’

  ‘Why do I have to forgive you?’

  And then she thought: I’m not going to blurt it out like this; I am not going to tell him about the baby now. This is not the time or place. I am going to find out if he’s still the same person first.

  ‘For not getting in touch. You told me you lived in San Diego and I did nothing to find you when I came over to LA. I guess I was too ashamed. Yes – and angry,’ she said.

  ‘But at least we’ve met now. I know we can’t just pick up where we left off, not just like that, and there’s a party of us here, but can I take you out to dinner and we can catch up?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Monday is my night off.’

  Joe would have to suffer, which was unfair and, yes, not what she wanted.

  ‘Monday it is. Let’s go to Gianni’s. Eight o’clock.’

  It was an Italian place she knew – quiet, not too Chanel and champagne.

  ‘Great. But not next Monday. Monday fortnight.’

  There was a particular reason for that.

  ‘Sure. And … what are you doing here – in all this?’ He gestured at her Merrymaid costume. ‘Nice though it is,’ he added.

  ‘Money,’ she told him. ‘Simple as that.’

  ‘Oh. Cute.’

  ‘I’m seeing someone else,’ she said.

  ‘I would expect nothing less.’

  She reminded herself how much had happened since last they’d met. Maybe she hadn’t known him that well – they had both been almost children. And how did she know he wasn’t another decoy or tease set in front of her by Brickville and Middleburg? How did she know that everyone she met and everything that happened to her was not part of the game? This David seemed subtly different from the one she had known, less Oxford, more California. She supposed that was to be expected. She wondered for a moment whether he was in fact the same man at all, but that was ridiculous.

  ‘I have to go back to my party,’ he said.

  ‘By the way,’ she told him, ‘for obvious reasons I’m not Marie Lavell over here, I’m Marie Sinclair. Although in the club I’m Katie. And sometimes I don’t know who I am.’

  ‘Join the club,’ he said.

  She kissed his cheek demurely – she still hadn’t made up her mind about him; something was there, but that was in another country – and they said goodbye.

  ***

  Next day she called Joe to tell him about the change of plan – no dinner on Monday fortnight. Mondays had become a regular engagement. She thought he might be in love with her, but he was waiting, being a wise Red Indian, to see if she was in love with him. She imagined him, bent over the tracks of the evening, reading the undergrowth of the conversation, seeing where the twigs were leading.

  ‘I wouldn’t change it for anyone else,’ she said, ‘but this is a friend from way back.’

  ‘A good friend?’

  ‘Yes. But that was then.’

  ‘Let’s hope then does not become now.’

  ‘I sort of hope that too.’

  ‘We’ll meet again on Monday? Or at the club this week?’

  ‘Yes to Monday. I don’t really like seeing you in there. I’m rather on duty, so I can’t give you the time I’d like. I have to share it out on the rest of them.’

  ‘So long as you only give them time, I don’t mind,’ he said, smiling. ‘Don’t give them anything else.’

  It was a difficult course to steer at Merrymaids for the Maids were requested, though not ordered, to bestow at least cuddles and kisses if called upon to do so. Luckily, she was popular enough to get away with flirting without fornicating. There had been a couple of near squeaks, one of them when Joe had been present, and he had almost become involved in a fight which would have done both of them no good with the management.

  ‘I need that job,’ she told him, reminding him of the scene.

  ‘I could get you a job in wine.’

  She imagined herself telling people she was in wine, like a prune.

  ‘You could call me Prunella,’ she said.

  ‘I would like to do that.’

  ‘I don’t think it would be a good idea for us to work together. It would alter the balance of power.’

  ‘Ah, you English.’

  ‘Or whatever I am.’

  She hadn’t meant to go into all that with him – not yet at any rate.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Oh
, my father died long ago, but I believe he was partly French. And I was brought up in Scotland.’

  ‘And what does your mother say?’

  ‘She died too, when I was still a baby.’

  ‘You poor thing. So you are an orphan?’

  ‘And a survivor,’ she said, firmly. ‘See you Monday.’

  ***

  It was hard for her these days to know whom to trust. She was almost sure she had trusted Felipe; his story rang true but there was just a suspicion that his finding her had been more than the result of hard work – how had he supported himself while he was looking for her? – he had spoken of a little money that her father had told him about, in a hidden place, but it seemed to stretch credulity a little. Had someone else funded him? Why should she not trust him when he had rescued her from Middleburg and the Holdsworths? And why should he have died like that? Of course, she wasn’t blaming him, but at the same time it was rather odd. She had asked at the hospital if they’d kept anything of his, but all they’d said was that it had been collected. By whom? Not by Jaime – according to Jaime. And then she thought: maybe death is always rather odd; no one you meet has been through it before. But still there was a small question mark over Felipe.