But in his heart he knew she was right.
‘I’ve got arthritis in my back.’ Her voice was harsh. ‘Dr Williams says I may have to lie flat for six weeks.’
‘How can you lie flat when you’re curved over like a boomerang? The man’s mad.’
She laughed. ‘Come and give mother a kiss.’
He moved further away, clinging to the corner.
‘Are you trying to steal a knife?’
‘Of course not.’ He couldn’t remember picking it up again.
‘Put it back where it belongs.’ She turned her back to show that she trusted him. ‘That Nancy girl tried to pinch the spoons. We were twenty to dinner,’ and she told him the guest list. If he didn’t know it was true he’d have assumed it was another symptom of her lunacy.
Three minutes after the twenty. He’d overstayed.
‘Here you are. Christmas present.’ She offered him what looked like three pounds. He must be making a mistake. It was usually two.
‘Put it on the table.’ He didn’t want to get near her. Last time he was upset he’d let her get too close and he’d left London.
‘Bring me a photo of your boy.’
She was suddenly ill. Her eyes were lopsided and the black irises had run into the whites and were set as though frozen. She should be in an asylum.
He knelt down on his side of the room — he knew this would be difficult — and said softly, ‘Why don’t you go to a rest home by the sea? I’ll fix it up.’
‘What are you talking about?’ She was amazed. ‘I’ve got half Paris coming next week.’
She came after him to the door — he’d forgotten his Christmas present — and said, ‘Get out of it fast. I’ll make arrangements for a nanny if you want to keep the child. That woman’s making you sick.’
‘Mother, I’ve put a lot into it,’ he pleaded. ‘It’s my last chance to make something work. She’s put a lot into it.’ He was thinking of Christine giving up all those men.
*
He went home because he was still excited, and he got hold of her, got her into the bedroom, but before he even started making love he knew it wasn’t what he wanted. He still felt excited although she left him cold. He couldn’t understand it. She cried.
‘Is it my past? Is that why you’ve turned off me?’
‘Of course not.’ He put his trousers on. ‘You know I don’t mind about that.’
He rushed out and went back to the narrow streets by the railway line. He got on a local train — he didn’t know where he got out, or why. There were gaslamps on the station.
*
Christine took the eight phials of youth-restorer from the refrigerator and carried them carefully into the bedroom. The sunlamp was on. Her new full-length mirror shone by the window. A towel lay spread on the carpet ready for her floor exercises. Then the phone rang.
She’d spent the autumn trying to find out what he needed. Frances had said, ‘A slight relationship. No demands.’ And for three days Christine had ignored him. It hadn’t made any difference. She’d been light-hearted, and then motherly. She’d tried being independent. She’d gone to Marbella with Matthew for a week and hadn’t phoned or written. Unaccountably, sometimes for several hours he wouldn’t enter her mind. It was usually when she was doing her beauty regime, but then the joy of those first months would come back to punish her.
She sat on the bed and picked up the phone. Sometimes she believed her heart was actually broken.
Frances said, ‘Is he there? He’s not shown up, and Joel wants him.’
‘No. I’ve bought some really expensive skin stuff. It’s the best in the world. You keep it in the fridge. It costs 80 quid. I was wondering how to break it to him. I really do need it. And Frances, a girl’s been killed — murdered so someone said. Connie, that friend of Jane’s. In the suburbs somewhere. Very nasty. I’ll tell him to ring the studio if I see him. He didn’t get back till five this morning. He’d gone out of London to a plant nursery to get something special for his tomatoes.’
*
Ken went to talk to a priest — he hadn’t been in a church since his school days, but he said to Frances ‘It’s a great relief.’ He had his hair cut very short, removed all Christine’s more worldly pictures and ornaments, shoved her beauty altar into a far corner, would have put a crucifix above the bed if he hadn’t felt it would be ridiculed. He asked her to tone down her appearance. He was fed up with her body.
Christine wore hats and started calling herself Ariel, which badly alarmed Frances. She read poetry and hinted at various artistic circles she was involved in. People said she’d been washing down too many anti-depressants with too much wine.
Yet he stayed with her.
*
He stood on the highly polished linoleum, under the naked light-bulb, keys warm in his hand. He didn’t know where he was. He felt it was night. Then he recognised the lift, the passage and the door of the flat where he lived with Christine. He put the key in the lock and went in.
Chaos. An unaccountably recognisable chaos. Bones and raw flesh on the carpet, a chunk of meat in the corner. Vomit. Dog shit. ‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘Yes.’ For a moment it gave him indescribable pleasure.
Then he ran, terrified, out of the flat. He stopped before he got to the outer door. He must go back. He must make himself go back.
Christine, alone and as she put it, ‘twitched’, drank too much. As usual she’d hardly eaten, and the reviving smoke of hash had made her sick. She’d just managed to stagger to bed before she passed out. It was 6 p.m.
Matthew hadn’t been put to bed and the dog hadn’t been taken out or fed. He’d upset the rubbish and nosed through it for food. Matthew gave him the weekend meat and he’d ravaged it in the living room. Flowers had been knocked over.
Ken came back, and locked and bolted the front door. Matthew, his face tear-stained, was lying by Christine’s feet. The cat was washing itself and the dog cowered under a chair. He cleaned it up, all the time muttering, ‘Oh God. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’
*
‘Pick it up, Matt. You know Daddy won’t like it.’ She recrossed her legs and started swinging them again. She couldn’t keep still. ‘Isn’t he out of this world? He’ll break a few hearts, like his Dad.’ Her voice was desperately jolly. ‘Take the car into the bedroom, precious. He’s in all the time now. Doesn’t like going out at all. Sometimes he goes out late at night for a walk.’
‘Oh Ken,’ said Frances. ‘I thought you were talking about Matthew.’
Frances’ face was full of winter — red nose, blue cheeks, puffy eyes. She sat, thick-skinned, unmoving like a slug.
Christine jumped up and looked in the mirror. Her skirt was slit to the waist and she wore her scarlet skyscrapers. She was so thin her cheeks were hollow and bones stuck out of the top of her chest.
‘I’ve had to watch the drinking. Made a boo-boo the other night. Ariel was a little bit sick. All over the sodding place. I didn’t take the dog out as I was high out of my mind, so it piddly-pooed everywhere and ate rubbish. When he came in, he didn’t say a word. Just cleared it up.’ She grabbed the mirror. ‘Is that him?’
They listened but no one came in.
‘Have to get this out of the way. He can’t stand mirrors around the place or clutter. Likes everything bare and clean, as you can see. I always used to hear his footsteps coming along the passage. He’s got a distinctive walk. Now I don’t hear anything till he puts the key in the lock. He must be wearing rubber soles or something. The hand-washing is getting a bit much. He even sterilises a cup before he uses it. He waits till he thinks I’m not looking. I shudder to think what he does in the lavatory. It makes me and Matt very twitched. D’you know, it was better when he wasn’t around so much. I have to think twice before I say anything. I know his success shattered him, but it can’t be that any more. The studio’s very quiet. It’s not blocked creativity either.’
‘I’ve always thought; it was his mother,’ said Frances. ‘But i
t surprises me he’s messed up, because he was such a successful person. He could handle things.’
‘He looks different from day to day, hour to hour. I’ve never seen anyone change so much. He looked dreadful at nine this morning. Said he was too ill to go to the studio, but I saw him in the street at ten looking perfectly healthy. Will you talk to him?’
‘Well, it’s difficult because I never see him do anything.’
‘He behaves all right at the studio?’ She was wriggling again.
‘Impeccably.’
‘I haven’t had “it” for a year. Over a year — and I like my bit of pleasure, I can tell you. It’s incredible. Now I’ve started getting obscene phone calls. He doesn’t want to know about them. Doesn’t want to hear anything like that.’ She bent over and picked up a piece of fluff off the carpet.
‘Where are the animals?’
‘He’s put the dog in the kennels. He’ll put Matt and me in next. The cat keeps out of his way.’
‘Why the hell don’t you leave him and go with someone else?’ Frances blew her nose, furiously.
Keys chinkled and he was in the flat.
His clothes lacked their usual elegance. His behaviour was unassuming. He said he was pleased to see Frances, and they drank tea.
‘Are you better?’ Frances asked, as Christine furtively moved the mirror.
‘Why do you ask?’ His eyes gleamed.
‘Well, you said this morning you were ill.’
‘Well, people can get better, can’t they? Or is that a crime?’ His voice was soft.
‘Not in half an hour,’ said Christine.
‘Half an hour? I was lying down all day. I went out for some fresh air just before you got in with Matthew.’
‘I saw you in the street, love, not twenty minutes after you said you were too ill to move.’
His eyes shifted, avoided theirs. ‘It couldn’t have been me. Definitely not.’ He looked up and smiled, a brilliant smile. ‘You wear so much muck on your eyes you can hardly see out of them.’
‘Anyway,’ said Frances, giving Christine a meaningful look, ‘if you skive off for a few hours and do Joel down — who cares? You’ve worked like hell for him. He’s upset because he’s had to abandon his magical cornflakes. He knows where the magician lives — North London somewhere — but he’s avoiding Joel. Won’t answer letters, telegrams or phone calls.’
They sat quietly, but it was not a pleasant silence. Neither Frances nor Christine could think what to say. He spun round to Christine. ‘What’s wrong now?’
‘Nothing.’ She was taken aback. ‘I was just thinking about Christmas.’
They went on sitting quietly. Christine could see him looking at her arm, and all of a sudden it gave her a funny feeling. Yet she couldn’t draw the arm in, and it lay stranded along the back of the couch.
Then he smiled, widely. ‘Joel’s thinking of doing a cat-food and a bird-food along the lines of Snap. We’ll get a sensational contract.’
‘What about the opera?’ asked Frances.
‘I can’t really get into it because of all the ads.’
‘All what ads?’ she asked.
‘Well, it’s the thought of them.’
‘That murdered girl was buried today,’ said Christine. ‘No one knows what happened.’
‘Do I have to hear all that again?’ He went into the bedroom and changed his shirt.
‘How’s your mother?’ Frances asked when he came back.
There was a nasty hush, and Frances, ignoring Christine’s warning look — Mother was one of the dodgy subjects — said, ‘Are you going there for Christmas?’
‘Nope.’
‘I thought you always went for Christmas lunch?’
‘I don’t see her, actually. She’s catching.’ He turned and looked at Frances, his eyes wide. He had nothing to hide. ‘She’s very sick and she makes me feel uncomfortable. She’ll manage. She’ll have to be responsible for herself just as everyone else should be.’
He emptied Frances’s ashtray into the new wicker basket and then emptied the basket into the kitchen rubbish bin. He came back with a wet cloth and wiped the inside of the ashtray. Frances felt she should resist another cigarette. Discreetly, Christine took a Valium. Ken left the room.
‘Washing his hands, I bet,’ whispered Christine. ‘I can’t ask you to stay to dinner because he wouldn’t —’ Matthew came out of the bedroom and climbed into Christine’s lap. ‘That poor girl who was done in had four kids apparently. What will happen to them? I must phone Jane.’
Frances looked for her coat. He’d hung it up.
‘He won’t allow Wendy or Pat in the place after Wendy told a joke about a dog with sexual problems. Actually the joke was rather good. A man goes into the —’
Frances turned round. ‘I thought he was in the room.’
‘He was,’ she whispered. ‘He’s gone again.’
*
Christine wondered if he’d committed a crime. She hadn’t forgotten the way he ran away outside the shop in Kensington. He was always disappearing, reappearing.
Then she realised that what was wrong with him was much worse than that.
16
Christine hated going outside because, still convinced that Ken wanted other women, she was tortured by every attractive woman she saw. Fat ones, short ones, long glamourous ones — even plain ones — there were so many he could fancy.
Ken hated going outside because he felt threatened by women.
He fired Gordon. It was impossible to know if Ken was in the conservatory or not, as the plants were so plentiful and thick, and one morning Gordon, thinking he was alone, made a phone call.
‘He’s a cunning bastard. Slippery. I wouldn’t trust him. It’s nothing you can pin down.’
It was with amazement that Ken realised that Gordon was talking about him.
He fired him because Gordon discovered the letter. On impulse Ken had written an anonymous letter to the News of the World which could only be described as boastful. Writing in red ink, he had extolled his success in the raising of tomatoes and added that he would never be caught. At the bottom, a PS: ‘I’m a runner. Ha Ha.’
The sealed note was laid ready to post. Gordon had opened it and read it. It had meant nothing to him and he’d resealed it. Ken peering, between two tomato plants, had seen him.
*
Frances was allowed one more visit to the flat — she’d brought a present for Matthew. It was cold outside, but inside the atmosphere was icy. Christine seemed to have reached a crisis of beautified sex appeal. She strutted and glittered like some exotic bird.
In the corner of the dust-free room sat Ken, morose, dull-eyed — his sterilised cup in front of him, the carpet freshly groomed.
Christine bent over, revealed knickers which were no more than a strip of black lace, wiped the clean table, dried it and put his dinner of boiled rice, raw vegetables and an apple in front of him. She was still sunburnt. The television was off, but Matthew still sat in his usual viewing place, staring, his hands full of bricks.
‘Ken bought me a marvellous present.’ Her voice was hushed. ‘Come and look.’ She took Frances into the bedroom. Lying across the bed was an ankle-length white fur-coat. Tenderly she picked it up. ‘Isn’t it too incredibly — Ken is so fantastically — It’s going to be a sensational Christmas.’ She put the coat on. ‘I feel I’m on the edge of a volcano.’
The lanterns had been taken down and the beauty altar was out of sight.
Ken finished his dinner and peeled his apple, carefully.
‘Out of this world,’ said Christine for no reason, as she took his plate and cup into the kitchen. He wiped the table with a paper tissue. Then he saw the coat.
‘You’re not going out?’
She mistook his worried tone, thought he was being unusually protective until she said, ‘Why not?’ and he replied, ‘Because it’s dark.’
Two sets of eyes were looking at him and they contained the same expression. Un
easily, he got up.
‘The only thing is to do what you believe in. Commit yourself. It’s the only answer,’ he said hoping to placate those eyes.
‘What — Snap, you mean?’ said Christine. ‘So you have signed the new contract.’
‘Without it there would be no point.’ He looked at Frances, his eyes bright. ‘God is the only thing that makes sense. You can see that.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Frances.
He walked up and down in front of them, almost swaggering, and she was reminded of the letter.
‘Did you get rid of Gordon because he opened that letter?’
He stood still, hands in his pockets, looking innocent. ‘Letter?’
‘The one he opened. He told me it was to a newspaper. About tomatoes.’
‘Oh that.’ He laughed. ‘Of course not. The letter was a joke.’
‘Gordon’s very hurt. Why didn’t you at least see him and let him apologise? You can’t amputate people. I don’t believe in amputating people.’
His eyes, as he stared at her, were feverish. Then he smiled, a warm caressing one. ‘Of course I’ll see him, Frances.’
They played cards. The cat came out of some furniture and curled round Frances’ shoulder, purring loudly. It dug her in the cheek, playfully, and the paw made a dent. The flesh, instead of springing back, stayed dented. Ken stared, horrified.
‘The nine, Ken. I’ve played the nine.’
Without speaking he went into the bathroom and locked the door.
Christine was surprised to hear him call urgently. He unlocked the door and pulled her in. ‘Get her out!’
She looked amazed. ‘What’s she done?’
‘Get her out. Out!’
‘What d’you mean? I can’t. She’s bought a present for Matt and we’re playing cards. It was your idea.’
‘She goes or I go.’ He gripped her shoulder painfully.
‘All right, Ken.’
He stayed in the lavatory till she’d got rid of Frances.
Later he said, ‘You saw her flesh. You must have. If you press it, your fingers go right in and the flesh doesn’t spring back. Her flesh is decaying.’
By Flower and Dean Street Page 15
