Outside Chance

by Lyndon Stacey

  Ben braved the cold floor again to get a mug from the drainer and reached for the coffee. Mouse came quietly in, glanced at him under her bushy brows and curled up, with a sigh, on her blanket under the table.

  ‘I could come over later, for a little while. I was coming to see Mikey, anyway.’

  ‘Make it lunchtime if you like,’ Truman said. ‘One-ish. Come to lunch. What on earth’s that racket?’

  ‘The kettle.’

  ‘The kettle? Thanks a bloody million! Here am I dealing with a crisis, and you’re making a cup of bloody tea!’

  ‘Life goes on,’ Ben observed. ‘See you later.’

  Ben was expecting Lisa back at some point that day, but his intention to spend what was left of the morning tidying up and cleaning the cottage was hampered by two further telephone calls: one from Taylor, his editor on the Csikós story, and the other from Logan.

  Taylor, who – Ben thought a little sourly – must live in his office to be there first thing on a Sunday morning, was keen to wrap up the first part of the article on the Hungarians, not least because the troupe’s performances were attracting so much attention that he was worried someone might pre-empt Ben’s exposé. They would do a separate review of the preparation for and performance of the final, spectacular son et lumière at Brinkley Castle, Taylor said, warning that there would be hell to pay if someone else stole the magazine’s thunder.

  Logan’s business was equally imperative.

  ‘When are you going to tell me what the bloody hell you’re up to?’ he demanded without preamble.

  ‘With regard to …?’ Ben asked cautiously.

  ‘Well, try this for size: you ask me for information on ALSA, then our colleagues over at Midhurst pick a couple of them up after a midnight disturbance and who should be on hand but Ben Copperfield. You ask for info about one Leonard Salter, and guess what? A couple of days later he gets himself beaten up and almost fried to a crisp. And when we asked the neighbours if they saw anything strange in the last few days, they said yes – our Lenny had a visitor; a youngish man in a four-wheel-drive vehicle whose description was you to a tee. Now, do you have anything you’d like to tell Uncle Mark?’

  ‘He was beaten up? Again? Poor bastard! Will he be OK?’

  ‘Well, he’s off the danger list, apparently. But he’s still hooked up to a machine and I’m told it’ll be a while before he’s up and about. It would appear that someone took a boot to him. I gather there was quite extensive internal bleeding.’

  ‘They didn’t – I mean, he told me he was terrified if they came back they’d break his elbows. They didn’t, did they?’

  ‘If who came back?’

  ‘Whoever did his knees.’

  ‘Well, not as far as I know. So, come on. What gives?’

  ‘Nothing. Well, nothing new. I mean, you know what I’m working on. Ford and Truman have promised me an exclusive, and I’m just following up a few leads while I’m waiting.’

  ‘And what’s the connection with this horse circus thing?’

  ‘No connection,’ Ben heard himself say, lightly. ‘That’s another article I happen to be working on.’ If only that could be true. He didn’t like lying to Logan.

  ‘So what did you find out from Salter?’

  ‘Well, he’s certainly not one of Eddie Truman’s biggest fans, if that’s anything. Quite apart from unfair dismissal and defamation of character, he seems to have no doubt that it was Truman who was behind the beating-up he suffered a few years ago.’

  ‘Yet, when we interviewed him at the time, he swore it was a couple of youngsters after dope money.’

  ‘Well, do you blame him? When they’d just taken out his kneecaps with a monkey wrench and were threatening to come back and finish the job?’

  ‘So, who was it this time, Sherlock?’

  ‘What does he say? Haven’t you spoken to him?’

  ‘He hasn’t said much at all yet; he’s pretty drugged up. But, interestingly, your name has come up a couple of times. Why should that be, I wonder.’

  Ben ignored him.

  ‘Well, I don’t know for sure who did it, but I do know that when Truman found out that I’d been to see Salter he wasn’t a particularly happy bunny.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got a man waiting to have a word, as soon as the doctor says he can. Until then I guess we’ll have to hope forensics turn up something. And as for you, buddy, just remember there’s a whole lot more to this thing than making the headlines in some newspaper, OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Ben said. ‘Believe me, I know.’

  The atmosphere at the Truman dinner table was interesting, to say the least. It was Eddie Truman himself who opened the door to Ben and, aside from shooting a pithy dismissal towards the remaining couple of reporters lingering hopefully on his drive, he seemed perfectly genial. Somehow, rather than putting Ben’s mind at rest, he found this a little unsettling. He was ushered into the huge, range-warmed kitchen where the rest of the family had gathered and was furnished with a glass of red wine. All the recessed spotlights were on and blinds were drawn over the two windows that overlooked the front drive, which Ben presumed was to guard against the possibility of prying eyes and camera lenses. Tactfully, he made no comment.

  Fliss greeted Ben with a kiss on the cheek, glancing defiantly across at her father as she did so, and as the soup-and-sandwich lunch got underway it was obvious to Ben that she still hadn’t forgiven either her father or her sister for the previous day’s quarrel. Helen wore her habitually sullen expression, glaring at Ben whenever he looked her way, and her mother looked almost as if she’d been crying. Eyeing her, Ben wondered for the first time whether Truman’s abuse of her ever went beyond the purely verbal.

  As on the previous occasion, Finch seemed interested in his food and little else, so the conversation – such as it was – was confined almost entirely to Truman, Ben and Bess.

  ‘Oh, I hate this false light!’ Helen exclaimed suddenly, breaking in rudely on something Bess was saying. ‘Can’t we have the blinds up now?’

  ‘You know why we can’t,’ her father said shortly.

  ‘Because somebody blabbed to the papers. And we all know who that was, don’t we?’ Helen sent Ben a sneering glance, which he affected not to notice.

  ‘It wasn’t Ben,’ Truman said.

  ‘Oh, why? Because he says so? He can do no wrong, can he? You let him talk his way out of everything. What is he, the son you never had?’

  ‘Helen!’ Elizabeth said sharply. She had put little food on her plate and eaten almost none of it.

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if it was you who spoke to the papers,’ Fliss put in, looking at her sister.

  ‘What? Don’t be ridiculous! Why on earth would I do that?’

  ‘Just to get Ben into trouble, probably. I wouldn’t put it past you.’

  Helen coloured, and it occurred to Ben that Fliss might well have hit the nail on the head.

  ‘I did not, you vicious cow!’

  ‘That’s enough!’ her father thundered.

  Somewhere in the central part of the house a two-tone doorbell sounded, and Bess quickly offered to answer it.

  ‘Why do you always take her side?’ Helen complained bitterly, ignoring Bess’s departure.

  ‘It’s not a case of taking sides, it’s a case of behaving like civilised adults, which, quite frankly, neither of you are at the moment!’

  ‘Well, it’s not my fault she’s got a crush on Ben!’ Helen retorted.

  This time it was Fliss whose face flamed.

  ‘I have not! You made that up, you interfering bitch!’

  ‘Oi!’ Finch looked up over a spoonful of soup, finally moved to a nominal defence of his wife and, in the corner of the room, baby Lizzie hiccupped and started to cry.

  Elizabeth rose to her feet to go and tend to the child but Helen pushed her chair back sharply and jumped up, saying over her shoulder, ‘Now look what you’ve done!’

  Being opposite the door to the hall
, Ben was the first to notice Bess come back and stand hesitantly on the threshold. He thought she looked flustered.

  She cleared her throat. ‘Er – Eddie …’

  She had to say it again, a little louder, before he heard but then he too saw the look on her face and waved his hand impatiently at the others.

  ‘Yes, Bess?’

  ‘Er … There’s a young man at the door. He says … He says he’s … ’

  Suddenly, the young man in question was there, beside and just behind her.

  ‘I said, I’ve come to find my mother,’ he stated, in the squeaky-gruff voice of the adolescent male.

  Somewhere in his teens, the newcomer was of medium height and slim build but with a breadth of shoulder he had yet to grow into. His hair was dark, as were his eyes and, even under a stress-induced pallor, his skin had a faintly olive tint. He looked terrified but Ben was impressed by the courage with which he faced the roomful of people, who were gazing back at him with a semi-comical array of expressions, none of them especially welcoming.

  Into the stunned silence, Ben took it upon himself to speak.

  ‘And you, I take it, are Stephen,’ he said. Instantly everyone’s attention was transferred to him.

  ‘What the …?’ Truman seemed momentarily floored.

  The boy’s dark eyes had turned Ben’s way, surprised and wary.

  ‘How did you know? Who are you?’

  ‘Call it an educated guess,’ Ben said, smiling a little. ‘I knew of your existence so it’s not so very clever. My name’s Ben Copperfield.’

  ‘You’re not …? I mean … ’

  With a shock, Ben realised what the boy was trying to say.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he said gently. ‘You’ll have to ask your mother about that.’

  Stephen looked across to where Helen was standing, holding the baby tucked under one arm and her feeding bottle in the other hand. Her fingers had tightened and milk was dripping steadily from the rubber top but she didn’t notice. Her eyes shot in panic from the visitor to her father and back again.

  ‘You are my mother, aren’t you? I guessed a while ago,’ the boy said, advancing a step or two into the room. ‘Why did you pretend you weren’t?’

  Helen seemed to have lost the ability to communicate. She stood, pale and visibly trembling, effectively confirming his statement by her very silence.

  ‘Helen? What’s he talking about?’ Fliss was looking bewildered.

  Her sister ignored her.

  ‘This is utterly ridiculous!’ Truman had found his voice again. He got to his feet and advanced around the table towards the youngster. ‘I don’t know who the bloody hell you are, but if you think you have some connection with this family, you’re clearly deluded! I think it’s time you left my house; you’re not welcome here. Go back to wherever you came from.’

  Colour came and went in Stephen’s face as he turned to look at Truman.

  ‘And who are you?’ he asked with a touch of hauteur.

  Truman nearly had a fit. He stopped in his tracks, his face turning beetroot red.

  ‘Who am I?’ he repeated. ‘Who am I? I’ll tell you who I am – I’m the man who’s going to call the police and get you arrested! I’m the one who’s going to whip your bastard ass out of this house and halfway to the coast if you don’t go by yourself! Do I need to be clearer than that?’

  ‘Eddie don’t, please,’ Elizabeth pleaded, tears beginning to run down her ashen cheeks.

  Her husband didn’t spare her so much as a glance.

  At the table, Finch watched intently, an unpleasant sneer twisting his heavy features, clearly having no intention of joining the fray. Ben wondered if he had known about the boy’s existence, and decided he must have. He had shown little surprise.

  ‘Well?’ Truman demanded.

  Galvanised, at last, by the violence of her father’s tone, Helen stepped forward.

  ‘Dad – please …’

  ‘Shut up, girl!’ Truman snapped, without taking his eyes off Stephen. ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’

  His courage wavering under this sustained attack, the boy took a step backwards, glancing in desperation at the other occupants of the room as if hoping for support. Ben took pity on him.

  ‘Where have you come from?’

  Wide, unhappy eyes turned his way. ‘Bristol.’

  ‘And how have you got here?’

  ‘By train, and then I hitched. I can’t go back – I’ve run out of money,’ he added helplessly, suddenly looking very young.

  ‘So what – you’ve come here for a hand-out?’ Truman enquired.

  ‘Where’s Matilda? Does she know you’re here?’ This was Elizabeth, and her husband finally turned his attention to her.

  ‘Oh, so that’s the score is it? He’s been living with your sister. How dare you cross me? All these years you’ve played the meek little wife whilst you’ve been lying to me – laughing at me, no doubt – with your slut of a daughter!’

  Elizabeth quailed. ‘No! No, it wasn’t like that. But we couldn’t just give the boy away. He’s Helen’s son; our grandson – our flesh and blood!’

  ‘He’s a bastard-born Gypsy brat and no kin of mine!’ Truman stated through clenched teeth.

  Clutched in her mother’s arms, the baby started to bawl and Helen dissolved into tears.

  Ben had had enough. Getting to his feet, he moved round the table and approached the lad who looked completely shell-shocked.

  ‘I expect you’re tired,’ he said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  Stephen nodded gratefully, and Ben looked hopefully at Bess.

  She came up trumps. Holding out a hand, as one would to a small child, she said, ‘Come on. I think we should give them a moment to clear the air. It’s all been a bit of a shock.’

  The boy hesitated, looking across at Helen, but, evidently deciding there was no support forthcoming from that department, he turned to go with Bess.

  ‘Hey! Hold on!’ Truman started forward and would have followed them had he not come face to face with Ben. ‘Get out of my way!’

  Ben held his ground.

  ‘Eddie, you’re not thinking! You’ve got reporters camped on your doorstep. If you throw this boy out, they’ll have a field day. You can imagine the headlines – “Red Truman Disowns Daughter’s Lovechild”. My God, they’d think Christmas had come again!’

  Truman paused, frowning at Ben.

  ‘So what am I supposed to do? Welcome him into the family? Because I won’t do it. I’m not having that Gypsy’s brat under my roof!’

  ‘I can’t tell you what to do but, whatever you decide, you don’t want the papers getting hold of it. They’d crucify you.’

  Truman glared at him for a moment longer.

  ‘And what about you? You’re a journalist.’

  ‘So I am,’ Ben said blandly.

  With barely stifled fury, the trainer brushed past him and walked to the doorway, but there he paused and seemed to reconsider, slamming his fist against the wall before turning back into the room. Temporarily deprived of his main prey, he vented his spleen on lesser targets.

  ‘I can’t believe you conspired with one another to go against my express wishes,’ he said, looking first at Helen and then his wife. ‘Lying and scheming and cheating me. Your sister, was it? How did you persuade her to go along with it? She’s even more of a wet blanket than you are!’

  Elizabeth drew herself up.

  ‘She couldn’t bear to see Helen’s child given away to a stranger. She wasn’t happy about it but at least she had the human decency to give him a home, which is more than you did!’

  ‘Good for you,’ Ben muttered under his breath.

  Helen was also clearly impressed by this show of spirit, looking open-mouthed at her mother, and for a moment Truman appeared much as one might if attacked by an earthworm.

  ‘He was soon back on track. ‘You had no business to even tell the nosy cow! I thought I made it clear no one was to know.’


  ‘She’s my sister. Besides, I had to do something,’ Elizabeth protested. ‘He’s our grandchild, Eddie. And Helen was desperate. She was making herself ill.’

  ‘She should have thought of that before she let that Gypsy screw her!’ Truman said, his voice loaded with contempt.

  Beyond crying harder, Helen didn’t react. She’d obviously heard it all before.

  ‘For God’s sake! This is getting us nowhere,’ Ben said. ‘There’s no point in squabbling about what happened fifteen or sixteen years ago. The boy’s here, now. You have to deal with it, and just turning him out of the house won’t answer.’

  ‘Who asked you, anyway?’ Finch demanded, finally roused. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and Ben noticed that he’d taken the time to finish his lunch; such was the level of his concern.

  Truman faced Ben.

  ‘All right, then – what do you suggest I do? You’re always the one with the answers; sort this one out.’

  Ben was a bit taken aback to find himself being regarded with varying degrees of expectancy by everyone in the room. Even Helen, not hitherto numbered among his greatest fans, had swallowed her sobs, mopped her swollen eyes with a corner of the baby’s bib and was now watching him hopefully.

  ‘Well?’ Truman prompted, his chin jutting aggressively.

  Ben took a deep breath.

  ‘As far as I can see, it’s not up to you,’ he told the trainer. ‘Surely this is Helen’s business. Maybe you had the right to order her life when the boy was born – or maybe not, that’s debatable – but I’m damned sure you haven’t got that right now. She’s a grown woman, for God’s sake! Her relationship with her own son is nobody’s business but hers.’

  For a moment he thought Truman would hit him, and judging by the eager look in Finch’s eyes, he thought so too, but after clenching his jaw a couple of times Eddie regained control.

  ‘I’ll not have him in my house or around my horses.’