Plots and Errors

by Jill McGown

  SCENE XXV – BARTONSHIRE.

  Sunday, July 20th, 8.15 p.m.

  Little Elmley.

  The evening was as warm as the afternoon had been, but after her final dive of the day, her first proper long one, Sandie felt cold. Water lapped gently round the boat as Josh took it into the platform and tied it up, and they walked the short distance to the dive centre to shower and change, calling goodbye to Howard as they left to go back to the boat. Josh headed it off, this time using the outboard motor, back round the curve of the banking, and at last it was chugging towards the landing-stage.

  They passed the willow tree again, and the sun, low in the sky now, but still warm, lent everything a rosy, romantic hue that Sandie felt was probably unwarranted. Dangerous and exciting it might have been, but there had been nothing romantic about the interlude under the willow tree, and Josh still didn’t so much as glance at it, as he struck off down a path that she hadn’t even seen before.

  ‘Why did you put yourself through the last two days?’ he asked.

  ‘It seemed important to you,’ she said, as she followed him round the outside of the house. The sun was dipping below the horizon, and Venus became visible. It was romantic, but Josh didn’t seem to notice. ‘How did you get Paul to apologize?’

  ‘It’s easy when you know how. Why shooting lessons?’

  Because on the boat she had felt powerful with that gun in her hand, and then Paul had wrapped himself round her and made her feel used. He’d taken the power from her, just by taking control of the gun in her hands, and she hadn’t been able to stop him. ‘I want to feel like God,’ she said.

  He smiled. ‘This part houses my apartment,’ he said, unlocking the door, letting her in. ‘I told you that sharing the house is no hardship. Even the ever-vigilant Angela can’t see me come and go.’

  ‘There you go again. Little digs at your stepmother. All the time.’ She sat at the kitchen table as he busied himself browning mince and putting the kettle on, and opening a jar of bolognese sauce. ‘Why do you hate her?’

  ‘Angela and I get on really well. Ask anyone.’

  ‘You hate her. And I’m not anyone.’ Her eyes met his. ‘Am I?’

  Josh looked at her for a long time, then shook his head slowly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re not.’ He turned back to the cooker. ‘When my mother died,’ he said, ‘I cried for days. My father told me to grow up. A little while after that he introduced me to Angela, who was going to marry him, he said. She said she was going to be my new mummy. She had a little boy of her own, so I would have someone to play with. And he was called Paul, just like daddy. I liked that. He was six, but I could tell him what to do, and he just did it. I liked that too.’

  Things hadn’t changed, thought Sandie. ‘And you got him into trouble,’ she said to his back.

  ‘Frequently.’

  ‘And he got punished, and resented your father more and more. Is that what you wanted?’

  He stopped what he was doing, turned. ‘Maybe. Don’t psychoanalyse me. Just let me tell you, if you really want to know.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He filled a pot with the boiling water, and went into a cupboard for the spaghetti. ‘I didn’t think much of the haste,’ he said. ‘But I liked Angela. I even called her mummy, like she wanted me to. She wasn’t fun like my mother, but she was kind, and life was a lot more tranquil. She gave great birthday parties, and Christmas was like Disneyland. I even stopped being just as much of a handful.’

  ‘You?’ said Sandie. ‘A handful?’

  He turned and smiled. ‘From the beginning, people remarked on the likeness between Paul and me, but I thought nothing of it.’ He resumed his unnecessary attentions to the food. ‘Then my father adopted him, and he changed his name to Esterbrook, so people stopped remarking on it so much, since they thought we were brothers anyway. But then one day when I was about twelve, and Paul was thirteen, and we were pretty much the same height and build, someone mistook us for twins. And that was when I finally began putting two and two together.’ He looked over his shoulder at her. ‘Quick, or what?’

  ‘Quicker than Paul.’

  ‘Everyone’s quicker than Paul.’

  True, thought Sandie.

  ‘He confirmed that Paul was indeed my half-brother, and said that he had wanted to wait until I was old enough to understand. That my mother had been a very difficult woman, and he had sought refuge with the ultra-reasonable Angela in her little cottage by the sea. She had been a welcome respite from my unpredictable and unreasonable mother, and Paul had been a mistake. Why, I wanted to know, had he called him Paul? If he was a mistake, and I wasn’t, why didn’t he keep his name for me? He said that they had thought that my mother couldn’t have babies, but they had been wrong, because I had come along when they had been married for ten years, and less than a year after Paul. He even told me how relieved he was that she hadn’t wanted to call me Paul too.’

  Sandie broke the long silence that followed. ‘Why does that mean that you hate Angela?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t. I didn’t hate Angela. But I had been kept in the dark for years about what had really happened, about who Paul was. My father, upright guardian of my morals, who took a cane to me if I told a lie, had lied to me, and nothing was the same.’

  ‘How did Paul take it?’

  ‘That was the funny thing. He felt better about everything because Paul senior really was his father. What he’d resented was being disciplined and ordered about by someone that he thought was an interloper, and his really being his father made it all right, apparently. They began to get on pretty well then.’ He finally left his meal to cook itself, and sat down with her. ‘And – no psychoanalysis please – that was when I began to get into real trouble.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘No, well. Maybe I’d have got into trouble anyway. I was always a bit wild. But the things I did got worse and worse. And when I came out of prison, I felt guilty about putting my father and Angela through all that. I tried – I really tried to settle down, to make amends, I suppose. And the ever-reasonable Angela welcomed me back with open arms, unlike my father.’

  ‘But he did let you come back.’

  ‘I think my reasonable stepmother reasoned with him. But I married as soon as I could to get away from him.’ He got up and stirred his bolognese, then sat down again, and looked at her. ‘Then he died, and even from the grave he managed to put the kibosh on my life. The will was read to the assembled company, Cheryl found out about the robbery, and she felt like I had when I’d found out about Angela. She had been kept in the dark, and she didn’t like it. Besides, we were going to have to move into the family home, and she didn’t want to do that either. So she took her sizeable and unconditional lump sum, and left.’

  ‘How long had you been married?’

  ‘Nearly six years. I was quite glad to move back in with Angela. I didn’t want to be entirely on my own, and neither did she. She was devastated by my father’s death, so she needed someone around. Eventually she asked me to sort through his private things, because she hadn’t the heart to do it. That’s when I found a whole bundle of letters from Angela to him.’

  ‘And read them.’

  ‘Of course. They began when Paul was about three years old, and went on for a couple of years, one every two months or so, addressed to him at work. She would always ask when he was going to tell my mother about her and Paul. Then suddenly she began bombarding him with letters, putting him under real pressure – said if he didn’t tell her, she would, all that. And she did. Turned up here out of the blue, with Paul, when my father was at work, told my mother who she was, who Paul was. Then she wrote and told my father what she had done. My mother died three days later.’

  Sandie frowned. ‘How did she die?’ she asked.

  ‘She took an overdose. But then, she wasn’t reasonable, was she? Not like Angela.’ He stood up and got knives and forks, then served the meal.

  They ate the spaghetti bo
lognese in near silence, partly because they were both so hungry after their long, strenuous day, and partly because Sandie was sure that Josh had more to say, and she didn’t want to sidetrack him. When they’d finished, he made coffee, and they went into the sitting room.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, as he sat down. ‘I did get Paul into trouble deliberately when we were kids. But he eventually realized that I got into even more trouble, and he could always shift the blame for anything he really had done. No one ever questioned it. He got away with murder, and I was the one whose collar kept getting grabbed. Of course I resented it.’

  Sandie still didn’t speak.

  ‘Then we were sent away to school. Paul became a prefect, and I was expelled, sent to a local comprehensive, got suspended from it. Paul went to Sandhurst, and I went to a young offenders’ institution. My father had to choose between Paul’s passing-out parade and my court appearance for sentence on the manslaughter charge. He went to the passing-out parade. But Angela came to court, and I loved her for that, I really did. She had missed her own son’s passing-out parade for me, and I’d never been anything but trouble to her.’

  ‘That was why you tried to make up for it when you came out?’

  He nodded. ‘But then I read those letters, and I found that it was just a guilty conscience that had made her do that. That had made her persuade my father to take me back in when I got out of prison. Because none of it would have happened if it hadn’t been for her.’

  He stood up, and opened a cupboard, bringing out two glasses and a bottle of brandy, and spoke to her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘She killed my mother. She knew she wasn’t stable. My father had said she wouldn’t be able to take it if he told her, never mind hearing it from Angela. She knew what it would do to her, finding out like that. She killed my mother, and then she came here and took her place, bringing her bastard son with her, and he’d even stolen my name. And, yes, your psychoanalysis is right, because then he stole my father.’ He turned to face her. ‘And I’m damned if I’m going to let them steal any more that’s rightfully mine.’

  ‘But what can you do?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get Paul so deeply in hock to me that he wouldn’t dare take me to court whatever I did,’ he said.

  ‘But you can’t do that with Angela, can you?’

  ‘No. All I can do with Angela is amuse myself by seeing how far I can go, and keep her alive.’ He poured two large brandies, and pushed one across the coffee table towards her, then lifted his own. ‘Here’s to us,’ he said.

  Sandie lifted her glass. ‘Is there an us?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I think so. Don’t you?’

  ‘Because of a few minutes’ inappropriate behaviour?’

  He shook his head. ‘Our relationship is based on something altogether more dangerous and exciting than sex,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Isn’t it?’

  She smiled back, and stood up, touching her glass with his, and they drank.

  ‘You do have other plans, don’t you?’ she said, as they sat down again.

  ‘I didn’t,’ he said. ‘I had an idea. A crazy idea. It isn’t a plan, not yet. But it will be, if I work on it, and you help me.’

  ‘But how can I help?’ she asked, puzzled.

  ‘You already have, without even knowing it. Since you came, everything just seems to have begun falling into place. You’ve been sent to me, Sandie. I know you have.’

  ‘Sent?’ she repeated uncomprehendingly, and then she smiled, her head nodding. It was true. There had been a bond from the moment they had met; she had been drawn to him in a way that she had never been drawn to anyone. He had become more important to her in a single hour than anyone else in the world, and yes, she could believe that she had been sent to him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I think I must have been.’

  Josh took a sip of brandy. ‘So I want to tell you something,’ he said, ‘and then I want to ask you something.’

  For the first time since she’d met him, Sandie could see that he was nervous, hear it when he spoke.

  He took a deep breath. ‘It’s about Billy the rent-boy,’ he said.

  SCENE XXVI – BARTONSHIRE.

  Sunday, July 20th, 11.00 p.m.

  The House at Little Elmley.

  They had finished their drinks and he had poured two more in the silence that had followed his question. ‘Well?’ he said, when he felt that he had waited as long as he could.

  ‘It would be dangerous.’

  ‘You get off on danger. You know you do.’

  She nodded. ‘But do you? Look what happened to you last time. Doesn’t that worry you?’

  ‘That won’t happen this time. Not with you. That was—’ He shrugged. ‘A mistake. You’re the one who thinks I’m wasting my life,’ he continued. ‘So I’m going to do something about it, like you said I should.’

  She frowned. ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘I can read your mind.’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, all right. But this? It’s—’

  ‘Crazy,’ he finished for her. ‘But you quite like crazy, too, don’t you?’ He leant forward. ‘And you want to do it. I know you do.’

  She thought for a moment, and then he saw the faint flush of excitement on her cheeks, just as he had under the willow tree when he had spoken those words. He had known she would agree then, and he knew she would agree now. She had been sent to help him. From where he wasn’t sure, but he doubted very much that it was from heaven.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  He sat back, relaxed for the first time since he had walked into the room, and smiled. ‘I’ve got a special licence,’ he said. ‘We can get married any time we like.’

  And when they did, Sandie would become a fully paid-up member of his gloriously dysfunctional family.

  Act II

  THE PRIVATE DETECTIVES

  If circumstances lead me, I will find

  Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed

  Within the centre.

  Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2

  SCENE I – BARTONSHIRE.

  Monday, July 21st, 10.30 a.m.

  The Copes’ House.

  ‘Can’t you get it through your thick head, woman? We’re broke! The building society’s threatening repossession!’ Andy Cope slapped the letter he held in his hand, and wheeled his chair over to where she sat. ‘Look, if you don’t believe me!’

  Kathy Cope, her thin face drawn, her fair hair uncombed, was at the desk on which, still in its box, sat the computer that was causing all the trouble. Her husband, red in the face with frustrated rage, was roaring as though she were at the bottom of the garden. He should be careful, she thought; he could have a heart attack like that. He was the right age, the right build. Middle-aged, running to fat, overfond of fried food and beer, and now that he was confined to a wheelchair, he didn’t get the kind of exercise he needed to work it off.

  ‘Read it!’ He banged the letter down on the desk. ‘Then file it away in your nice new filing cabinet! Another sheer extravagance!’

  ‘It’s not an extravagance,’ she said. ‘It’s a necessity.’

  ‘A necessity?’ he bellowed. ‘You can keep files anywhere! You’ve not got above a half-dozen! You’re not Pinkerton’s, woman!’

  ‘You have to make a good impression when someone comes,’ Kathy said. ‘It looks more professional.’

  ‘Desks, filing cabinets, display ads, a bloody computer – for God’s sake! What next? Surveillance equipment?’

  She already had some surveillance equipment, if Andy did but know it. She hadn’t used it yet, not on a job, but she had put two cameras up in the house to see if Andy noticed, and he hadn’t. They were tiny little things; one was in the centre of the kitchen clock and the other was in the picture frame on the wall in the sitting room.

  ‘We’re not making anything like enough money for the sort of thing you’re buying! I’m supposed to look after the business side! How the hell can I do that if you’re going to
go out and order bloody computers?’

  ‘It’s on monthly payments,’ she said.

  ‘Monthly payments? Is that supposed to make me feel better? We’ve got bills coming with every post! We can’t afford all this, can’t you understand? I’m having to do deals about the gas and electricity and you’re buying bloody computers? Christ, I can carry all your so-called clients’ details in my head!’

  It wasn’t her fault they’d had so few clients. She had had to turn a lot of jobs down, because one person couldn’t handle them. And she had had an offer from an old friend which would solve their problems, but the ground had to be very carefully prepared if their plan was to work, and watching Andy getting apoplectic was part of the spadework. ‘It’s not just for that,’ she said. ‘The Internet can make the job easier—’

  ‘The Inter-bloody-net?’ he roared. ‘Have you signed up for that?’ He leant over her, one hand on the desk, the other on the back of her chair, his face thrust close to hers. ‘Have you? Answer me, woman!’

  ‘Yes. It’s not that expensive – you just pay a flat rate, and you can log on. You can find things out without having to trail round offices and things. It’ll save us money in the long run.’

  ‘Find things out!’ His voice was contemptuous. ‘Find things out? Spy, you mean. Check up on people, sneak on them. I should never have let you do this in the first place. It’s – it’s . . . demeaning. Degrading. If I wasn’t in this bloody thing, you wouldn’t be doing any of this!’

  ‘It’s not like that any more.’

  ‘Oh, don’t kid yourself! All you do is sneak up on people, serving writs, collecting debts, ferreting out where people have gone to try to avoid their creditors.’ He made a sound, a cross between a laugh and a sob. ‘You’ll be getting asked to trace me any day now!’

  ‘If you’d let me stay on in the job we wouldn’t be in this mess,’ said Kathy. ‘I’d have been able to retire by now. On a good pension. We would have a cushion for when we didn’t have much work on. We could make a go of this if we had some more capital, more staff.’