by Amy Cross
“We'll call,” Mary replied, stepping over the piles of dirty clothes as she headed to the door.
“I've got great tits,” Sarah slurred. “Everyone thinks so.”
“They certainly seem popular.”
“I should insure them for a million dollars.”
“Yes,” she replied with a faint smile, stopping at the door and turning to her, “perhaps you should.”
“I think I'm gonna vomit.”
“You should go to the bathroom for that.”
“Good idea.” She slumped back down onto the bed and then rolled onto her face. “I'm there now!”
“Sarah...” Sighing, Mary hurried back over to her and pulled her up, before supporting her weight as she struggled to get her out the door and through to the bathroom. “You're going to choke if you're not careful,” she explained as she lowered Sarah onto the floor and lifted the toilet lid. “My God, woman, you can't be left alone in this state.”
“I told you,” Sarah said with a hiccup, as she leaned her face right down into the bowl, “don't leave me.”
“But I...” Pausing for a moment, Mary winced as Sarah began to throw up. “Of course not,” she added finally, sitting on the edge of the bath and pulling the girl's hair back. “I couldn't in all good conscience leave you like this, now could I Don't you have anyone else? Parents? Siblings? Friends?”
“I'm not a bad girl,” Sarah replied between heaves. “I swear.”
“I don't think you're bad at all,” Mary told her. “I think -”
Before she could finish, Sarah vomited with such force that she bumped her head against the inside of the toilet, causing Mary to instinctively pull her back a little.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I'm fine,” Sarah whimpered, “just a little splash-back. I think I maybe had one drink more than I should have. It's okay, though, 'cause I'm thinking I'll be famous soon anyway when we get out with all these photos.”
“No-one's going to be famous,” Mary told her. “Not for the photos, at least.”
“No no,” Sarah replied, “that's where you're wrong. I'm gonna be a star in the magazines and in films. We'll all be famous, I'll tell everyone about how much you and your Donald have helped me.”
“Best not,” Mary replied, moving her hands around to the side of Sarah's neck in an effort to hold her more steadily as she began to vomit again. “We wouldn't want any names getting out, now would we?”
TODAY
Hurrying through to Donald's study, she fumbled with the key as she opened the safe. Once she'd managed to swing the door open, she reached past all the other documents and grabbed the white envelope from the very back, before tearing it open and pulling out the photographs.
“Dear God,” she muttered, checking one after another until finally she found the two that filled her soul with fear:
The first image showed Mary sitting in the old flat from many years ago, holding up one of the cheques they'd received in the mail. She had a startled look on her face, since she hadn't expected to have her photo taken, but the writing on the cheque was clear, as were the addresses on some of the envelopes. The picture was enough to tie her to the operation.
The second photo showed Mary's face up-close, staring angrily into the camera, while behind her Sarah could be seen drunkenly half-covered by a white sheet. Mary still remembered the moment the photo was taken all those years ago, on the day when she'd first truly questioned her late husband's moral compass after he'd carried on taking photos of Sarah when she was drunk.
With the photo still in her trembling hand, she set it down on Donald's desk before taking the latest envelope from her pocket and removing the images she'd just received in the mail. They were exactly the same as the pictures from the safe, with one crucial difference. On the picture of Mary and Sarah, in thick red letters, someone had scrawled:
R.I.P. Sarah Cole, 1962 to 1984. Mary and Donald Heaton, it's time confess your sins!
Taking a deep breath, Mary stared at the two identical photos for a moment, before turning to look at the leather seat behind her late husband's desk.
“Oh Donald,” she whispered, “who in God's name did you share these photos with? And what did you tell people?”
PART THREE
TODAY
“Hello, Andy.”
Standing in the doorway, Mary couldn't help but allow herself a smile as she saw Andy Weathers looking up at her from underneath the car he'd been servicing.
“Mary Heaton?” he said, clearly shocked. His face was covered in oil and grime, and as he slid out and got to his feet, he grabbed a cloth to dry his hands. Despite the lines on his face and the shadows under his eyes, he still had the youthful expression that Mary remembered from the old days. “Wow, now this is a blast from the past.”
“I'll say,” she replied, looking around at the garage workshop. “Still getting your hands dirty, then? You never could resist an engine, could you? Some people never change.”
“I sold the old business a few years back,” he explained, spitting on the cloth and using it to wipe his face clean, “but... I'm not really the kinda guy to sit back and count his money, so I started up a little hobby servicing classic cars, that kinda thing. God knows, it's grown like crazy.” He paused for a moment. “I actually kept meaning to get back in touch with you guys, it's been too long, but time got away from me and...”
“It's a shame we didn't get together before Donald died,” she replied.
He nodded.
“He always spoke about you,” she continued, “and wondered what you were up to. I remember when he read in the newspaper that you'd sold your business for all that money, he insisted on pouring us each a brandy to toast your success.”
“He could've called.”
“Yes, he could, but...” She walked over to one of the workbenches and pretended to be interested in the tools.
“But he was mixing it with the lords and ladies of the big house by then, huh?” Andy said finally.
She turned to him.
“It's fine,” he said with a smile, “I know what Donald was like. Upwardly mobile like a rocket. He didn't have time for any of his old friends once he got his feet under the table in Whitehall.”
“It's not that he didn't want to see you,” she replied, slightly defensively, “it's just that he had so much to do and there was never a spare moment. When he retired, I thought he might finally be able to catch up with the old gang, so to speak, but he didn't last long before the heart attack. It all happened very fast. I think he was so used to living with stress, his body just gave out as soon as he tried to relax.”
“Well, at least...” He paused again, eyeing her with a hint of suspicion. “At least you're here now! How are you doing, Mary? It's been so long! I'd give you a hug, but I'm dirty from top to toe.”
“I'm okay,” she told him, trying to work out how to broach the delicate subject she needed to discuss. “Just getting along with things, you know? Sophie's visiting for a few days, and that always livens things up. How are you and Catherine?”
“We're good,” he replied. “You should come for dinner some time.”
“That would be wonderful,” she said, even though she knew such a thing would never happen. Socializing without Donald just seemed impossible. “I suppose I should be honest with you,” she added, “and just come out with the reason I came to see you today.”
“I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“You and Donald, you never really did anything without a reason. You were always the same, you two. Minds spinning, calculating, eyes on the prize. You could never just drop by for a pointless chat. Do you ever actually relax, Mary?”
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be, it's your life. So what's up?”
“You dabbled a little in a different business for a while,” she continued, choosing her words with care. “Remember that party, when there was that comet and you told us about what you were doing?”
>
“I'm not sure I follow,” he replied with a frown.
“The photographs you were selling? Please don't make me spell it out, Andy.”
“Oh, Jesus...” At this, an embarrassed smile crossed his lips. “Well, hell, yeah, I did that for a little while, but for God's sake don't tell anyone. Made a decent packet, too, but then the competition got pretty intense and I figured I had to either go all-out and really try to build an empire, or pack it in and focus on the garage business. I think I made the right choice, although sometimes I wonder if I could have made a go of it. I mean, that was right before the whole internet thing kicked off. If I'd just made a few different choices, stuck in there a little longer, I might've been there at the dawn of the dot-com boom and I could've made billions. Then again, cars have always been my thing. Who needs billions, anyway?”
She nodded.
“I don't know if I would've liked that lifestyle,” he added. “You wanna take pride in your work, don't you? Not hide it away and pretend you're doing something else.”
“Absolutely.”
“Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered if you ever discussed that side of things with Donald? After the party, I mean.”
“God, no. I mean, that was around the time when we all started drifting apart. You and Donald... Well, I hope you don't mind me saying this, but when his political ambitions heated up, you two seemed to quite carefully disassociate yourselves from the rest of us. Don't think it went unnoticed, either.”
“Yes,” she replied, “I suppose we did.”
“I don't think I ever talked to him about my little photo business again,” he continued, “not after that party. In fact, wasn't that the night that you two helped that drunk girl get home?”
“Yes,” she said, clearly uncomfortable with the memory.
“What was her name again?”
“I really don't remember.”
“I only saw Donald properly one more time after that,” he explained. “It was about two months later, I bumped into him in the street and I swear, I almost didn't recognize him. We chatted and something seemed different, like he wasn't the same guy I'd known for all those years. He had this pack of photos he'd just got developed, but he was being weird about them, saying they were important but refusing to let me see them. I don't know what was up with him, but to be honest it was kinda annoying. I mean, if he didn't want me to ask about them, why did he keep bringing them up? He seemed kinda smug and pleased with himself too.”
“I can believe that.”
“After that, I honestly don't think we ever really spoke. A few phone calls, Christmas cards, but nothing of any real substance. I invited him down the pub a few times, but he was always too busy.” He waited for her to say something, but after a moment he could tell that she was worried. “So come on, Mary, you didn't just come down here to make some casual inquiry about how things went between me and Donald. I can see it in your eyes, your brain's whirring away. What's really up? Now Donald's gone, maybe...”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe we can talk like human beings?”
She allowed herself the faintest of smiles.
“I thought we were,” she said finally.
“Maybe,” he muttered, “or maybe you just want to ask me whatever's on your mind, and I'll give you a straight answer.”
She stared at him for a moment, desperately trying to work out whether or not he was holding anything back. After a few seconds, however, she began to realize that if she was going to find the person who had been sending the letters and photos, she'd have to look elsewhere. Andy was too upfront, too blunt, to bother hiding very much.
“It doesn't matter,” she said eventually. “I was just thinking about things, and I was in the area so I thought I'd pop by.”
“Uh-huh,” he replied sceptically.
“Can't an old friend just pop by?” she asked.
“Not when her name's Mary Heaton,” he said with a smile. “You came 'cause you wanted something, and I don't know what it was, but I've obviously given it to you without realizing.”
“You know me too well.”
“Come to dinner,” he continued. “Let's put everything behind us and just have a fun evening some time, talking about the good old days. You can meet Catherine properly, and our youngest still lives with us. Catherine's a great cook, and I'm sure the four of us could just have a normal meal together, talking like friends. How about it?”
“That sounds lovely.”
“So you'll come?”
“I'd love to.”
“Your number's in the book, is it?”
“Um, yes.”
“Then I'll be in touch. How does Saturday sound? You can bring your daughter if you like. Just make sure you don't mention the dirty photo business to Catherine, 'cause she doesn't know and I'd rather leave it that way. She'd be horrified that I was into all that, but... You should still come.”
“Perhaps.” Taking her gloves from her bag, she slipped them onto her hands “I've taken up too much of your time for now. I'm sorry, please, ignore my interruption, I should be going.” She turned and headed back to the door. “Goodbye, Andy, it was nice seeing you again.”
“You won't come,” he said suddenly.
She stopped and looked back at him.
“It's okay,” he added, “I understand. You and Donald were a team and you probably don't do anything without him. I'll still get in touch and invite you, but I know you won't come to dinner with us.”
She smiled politely.
“Maybe I'll surprise you.”
“Maybe. I doubt it, though. You haven't changed at all, have you?”
As she made her way out of the garage and along the street, she found herself wondering if perhaps she actually might take him up on his offer. Then again, she couldn't possibly imagine what she'd talk about with them all evening, and she felt the entire thing would be rather stressful for all concerned. By the time she reached the end of the street, she'd made a decision. Stopping and glancing back at the garage, she knew that she wouldn't be seeing Andy again. Still, at least she'd ticked one of the suspects off her list, which left only one more.
THIRTY YEARS AGO
“We need to build a fairer society,” Donald announced with conviction as he stood at the podium, “but also one that rewards hard work. Every man and woman should be the master of their own destiny, and those who work should never be held back by those who can't or won't. Good, honest labour must be at the heart of everything we champion!”
A smattering of applause broke out among some of the party members who had gathered in the church hall to hear the candidates deliver their big speeches, although a few conspicuously kept their backs to the stage in an attempt to show their disapproval. They were gathered around the other candidate, Graham Garnside, whose own speech had ended a few minutes earlier.
Standing near the back, Mary watched her husband with pride as he continued to deliver the speech they'd worked on together.
“We cannot be seen as a party that stands in the way of progress,” he continued. “The world is full of men who want other people to stop and wait for them, but that's not how things work. As we approach the final decades of the twentieth century and look forward to the twenty-first, we have to embrace the spirit of positivity and look to new horizons. The world is changing and the Conservative party must be at the forefront of that change!”
Again, there were isolated pockets of applause, but Donald clearly wasn't carrying the entire hall with him. He turned to the next page in his speech and continued, undaunted, to deliver his outline for the future of the party and his own candidature.
“You know I think he has a chance,” Carol whispered as she came up behind Mary. “Old Graham Garnside didn't exactly light the place up either. All that guff about rose gardens and house prices might play well with the geriatric brigade, but it's not exactly a vote for the future, is it? I mean, God, he might as well have smoked a pipe while he
was talking.”
“So it's a case of whoever fails the least?” Mary asked, turning to her with a smile.
“Don't be so pessimistic,” Carol replied, bumping her elbow. “At least you finally got Donald down here, I was starting to wonder if he was giving up on his political aspirations altogether.”
“I did have to twist his arm a little,” she admitted, “but... This is good for him, it's what he was meant to do. He's not very good at the campaigning part, but I promise you he'll be exceptional once he gets to Westminster. The daily grind of an MP, that's going to be his real strength. I've known that from the moment I first met him. Of course, I think he might drift to the civil service after a while, but we'll see. He'll find his niche somewhere in the system.”
“I believe you,” Carol muttered, glancing around the hall, “I just hope he can galvanize enough of these stuffed shirts to support him today. Some of them are just gathering dust while they wait to be buried, I can't imagine that their hips will hold up long enough for them to get to the ballot box. I'm afraid the party will always be held back as long as the old guard cling to life, and some of them are approaching ninety! They'll vote for Garnside purely because his sweaters are a more traditional shade of brown.”
“Oh, I doubt that will be a huge problem,” Mary replied, glancing over at the other side of the hall as she saw Graham Garnside heading toward the toilets. “Excuse me, Carol,” she added, “I must go and spend a penny.”
As Donald's speech continued, Mary crossed the hall with as much speed as she felt would be reasonable without drawing attention to herself, and finally she reached the corridor that led toward the toilets at the far end.
“Graham!” she called out. “Mr. Garnside, can I have a word?”
Stopping ahead, he turned to her.
“Mrs. Heaton,” he said, clearly uncomfortable with the intrusion, “am I not even allowed to visit the bathroom without being canvassed? I would have thought that this part of the hall might be a sanctuary from politics.”
