‘And divorce my wife? No way, Monica. I love my wife.’
She snorted in a way that Vince was very familiar with. ‘Like you thought about that before you had your bloody way with me, and not just the once either. You weren’t loving her then, were you?’ There was the sound of a cupboard being slammed shut, a drawer being opened, something clattering on a desk.
‘Monica, be reasonable…’
Vince flinched when he heard something heavy crash against the wall. ‘Reasonable?’ she screamed. ‘Are you forgetting I’ve also been helping you in other ways; helping you and your friends by giving you details about Laura fucking Leach?’
‘Jesus, Monica – that’s my bloody Oscar you’ve just gone and dented! That was a present from my wife. And they’re not my friends…’
‘Who cares what stuff you’re involved in with them, friends or not. What will your wife say when she finds out about you and me? When she finds out about the other dodgy stuff you’re involved in?’
‘You wouldn’t…’
‘Oh no?’
There was the sound of the office door being yanked open.
‘Monica, please…’
Then the door slammed with such force Vince felt the ceiling shudder. He thought it best he creep quietly away. He’d already heard far more than he felt comfortable with. The stuff about Laura, though – what was that all about?
Later that afternoon, as Vince was preparing for the afternoon screenings, Caldwell knocked on the projection booth’s door and entered. He looked unusually haggard. His tie was undone at the neck, like someone had grabbed it and tried to mug him; the top button of his shirt was unfastened. Vince had never seen him like this. A sweet smell of some spirit or other wafted in with him. His bleary eyes looked like he’d been at the bottle some time.
‘Hi, Vince,’ he said, a little unsteady on his feet.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Caldwell.’
‘What are you up to?’
Vince frowned, then shrugged. ‘Doing what I do, Mr Caldwell. I’m working.’
Martin Caldwell went over to sit on the old wooden stool by the workbench. He toyed with the handle of the film winder. He looked at the projector. ‘You know, I wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to lace up one of those things,’ he revealed. ‘I don’t know much about film either. The only things I know about are balance sheets and budgets.’ He shifted his attention to playing with a roll of sticky-tape. ‘You’re lucky, you are, Vince.’
‘I am, Mr Caldwell?’ He didn’t feel lucky. He felt like luck and Vince Moody existed in different hemispheres of the planet.
‘Your life’s so uncomplicated. You’re not married. You’ve got a mindless, simple job…’ Vince was tempted to interrupt at that point but the moment passed. Caldwell sighed. ‘You don’t even have a blasted car to worry about. Me, I’ve got it all: debts, pressure, a wife, all sorts of complications. So many fucking complications I’m drowning in them.’ He sat in miserable silence for a while and then dropped down from the seat and headed for the door. ‘Anyhow, good to talk,’ he said, slinking quietly away. Vince heard the dull tramp of his world-weary footsteps echoing down the corridor.
One part of Vince said it was the man’s own stupid fault. If you play with fire you can expect to get burned. But at least Caldwell had had the opportunity to get burned; Vince hadn’t been close to lighting a single match.
At the end of the evening Vince closed down the projection booth as normal, checked the auditorium for any stragglers, turned off the lights and did the same in the toilets. He’d once locked a woman in the cinema by mistake, because she’d got caught short and had emerged from the toilets to find the cinema in darkness and all locked up. She inadvertently set off the alarms with her panicked banging on the doors and Caldwell wasn’t too pleased with having to turn out again because the police had called him back to the Empire to let her out. The woman was in a terrible state and it made front page of the Langbridge Gazette.
‘Get a fucking phone so they can call you next time!’ Caldwell had told Vince.
Vince had locked everything up, checked the toilets for stray women and was about to leave when Caldwell came staggering down the stairs in the dark. He wobbled across the foyer.
‘I thought you’d gone home hours ago,’ said Vince. ‘I nearly locked you in.’
‘I’ve got keys,’ he said absently. ‘Tons of bloody keys.’
‘Are you OK, Mr Caldwell? You don’t look well.’
‘It’s a cold brought on by Smirnoff’s,’ he said, suppressing a burp. He went to the large plate-glass doors and stepped away from them in horror. He hid behind a false marble pillar. ‘Fuck! He’s here!’ he said.
‘Who is?’
‘Him. The man. You know, outside…’
‘The man who called the other day? The one you didn’t want to see?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s the bugger. I’m trying to avoid him. He mustn’t see me.’
‘Shall I call the police?’
‘What? The police? God, no! Not the pigs.’ He waved for Vince to come towards the door. ‘Have a look and tell me if he’s still there.’
Vince did as he was told. Stared through the glass doors. ‘There’s nobody out there, Mr Caldwell.’
‘You sure?’
‘All clear. Not a soul. Are you sure you saw him?’
‘Yeah, of course I’m sure!’ He ran the back of his hand across his damp forehead, crept up cautiously to the doors. ‘I’m certain he was there. Maybe he’s waiting for me. Check out the back yard, will you? He could be round there.’
Vince said OK and came back minutes later. ‘Nobody there. Maybe you imagined it. Brought on by the Smirnoff’s, perhaps.’
Caldwell glowered hard at him. ‘Very fucking funny, Vince. Very fucking funny. I’m going out the back way. Make sure you lock up after me.’
Vince watched as Caldwell’s MG burst out of the open yard gates like he was in an episode of The A-Team and roared down the road headed for home. Vince mounted his Carlton Criterium. He’d found it difficult to forget Laura, leave her to her new man. The same man that appeared to be haunting his manager. It was as if his old life was like an unmade bed, with crumpled sheets so uncomfortable he didn’t like the feeling of getting back into it.
There was no real reason he could furnish that excused his night-time cycling out to Devereux Towers. He just knew he had to go there. He had to see the place where she lived, to know she was in there, to know she was near. One last look then maybe he could forget her once and for all.
And that was all the reason he needed. He pedalled out to the track that led to the house. It was completely dark now, the building like a black smudge against the faintly lighter sky. He turned off his cycle lamps and trundled his bike along the rutted track till he got close enough to make out two cars parked outside. One was Laura’s blue Hillman; the other was the white Ford Cortina. Both of them snuggled up close together like two pairs of slippers under a bed.
* * * *
11
The Blue Door
There was a perceptible change in the weather as the year took a steep nosedive into autumn. The field in which Devereux Towers stood had been scraped bare, the trees and hedgerows fringing the field beginning to turn amber. Despite a log fire crackling energetically in the large grate of the stone Tudor fireplace, the room could not quite shoulder away the growing cold of the evening.
The dining room was large, originally fitted out to resemble some kind of medieval baronial hall, but Laura had attempted to temper the effects of bleak stone with patterned wallpaper, uplifting pictures, thick rugs and functional contemporary furniture that sat uncomfortably in the room. They were sitting on chrome-framed chairs with cushions of brown corduroy, seated at a large oval smoked-glass table mounted on tubular chrome legs, as far from medieval as it was possible to get.
‘I rarely use this room,’ Laura confided. ‘When you’re in it on your own it makes you feel so small, so I usually take my
meals elsewhere.’
‘I’m honoured you opened it up for me,’ said Casper, raising a glass of wine. ‘Makes me feel like a regular king. The meal was lovely, Laura.’
‘Now you’re being facetious,’ she said, glancing down at her plate.
‘No, really, I love sausage and chips. How was the cod?’
‘I told you I can’t cook. I was never taught how to.’ Her face looked despondent and her eyes about to fill with tears. ‘I’m sorry, I must be a real disappointment to you.’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t care,’ Casper said. ‘I’m more than pleased that you feel able to let me into Devereux Towers. Sausage and chips was the icing on the cake!’ He wiped his mouth on a napkin and looked about him. ‘It’s very grand. Your father must have poured an awful lot of money into this place.’
She nodded. ‘Too much, one might say. He loved it, but as you can see it is an impractical old thing really. Too cold in winter and costs a small fortune to keep heated. The upkeep of Devereux Towers is quite something, what with all the repairs and what not. That is partly why I only use a small number of rooms; and the fact that I feel I rattle around the place like a marble in a can.’
‘So why not simply sell it?’ he asked. ‘It must be worth a small fortune to the right buyer. Buy yourself something smaller.’
She shook her head vigorously. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t do that, ever. I don’t want to live anywhere else.’
‘But you can’t afford to keep paying out for the old girl, surely?’
‘I have more than enough to live on. There are no worries on that score.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s reassuring. Still, if you ever get desperate you can always sell the family silver, eh?’
‘I won’t ever be desperate, Casper.’ She set down her knife and fork. ‘You haven’t really spoken about your wife, even after all this time.’
His expression fell sullen. ‘I’d rather not. It is still extremely painful. You do understand, don’t you? When the time is right, I promise. But tonight is about us, about the future not the past. As they say, the past is a library, not a living-room. I have not pushed for details of your past,’ he added.
‘Forgive me, Casper. It is insensitive of me. And you are correct; tonight is about you and me. When you have finished your meal I must show you around the rest of Devereux Towers. After all, one day you will live here with me.’
He blinked. ‘You know, I never really thought about that. I suppose I will. I rather fancy myself as lord of the manor!’ he said, grinning over his glass of wine.
‘We haven’t discussed a date for the wedding yet,’ she put forward speculatively. ‘I would like to begin to make plans. That is, if it is alright to think along such lines…’ she said. ‘If I am not being too forward…’
‘My dear Laura, if that is bothering you why not say June? You could be a blushing June bride. How does that suit?’
‘Really?’ she said, her eyes lighting up. ‘June next year?’
‘You would prefer sooner?’
‘No, June would be wonderful!’ she burst. ‘June would be just perfect!’
‘There, that’s all sorted then. We’ll make a list of what we need to get arranged.’ He rose from the table. ‘My congratulations to the chef,’ he said, picking up his plate. ‘I never thought chardonnay went with sausage, but now I try it, I find it makes perfect sense!’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Taking this to the kitchen so I can wash up. I take it there are no servants to do that kind of thing,’ he said, glancing theatrically around the room. ‘No, only me, it seems!’
‘You’re my guest. I will see to those.’
He shook his head firmly. ‘I insist,’ he said, collecting Laura’s crockery on the way. He paused. ‘Except I don’t know the way.’
She laughed and led him to the kitchen. ‘Come, put those things down and I’ll take you on a tour.’ She linked her arm through his.
She led him through the many rooms in the main part of the house, most of them being little used, made obvious by the great many dust sheets over furniture. She casually pointed out paintings on the walls, starchy portraits of other people’s ancestors, telling him that she’d no idea who any of them were. Her father had constructed something of an imaginary past, a long line of nameless dukes and nobles who bore no relation to her family but, over the years, Laura said she’d become so accustomed to seeing them that they felt almost like distant friends or relatives. He also collected a good many other things, like vases or fancy pieces of furniture, almost as if he’d been on the Grand Tour himself. He was particularly proud of his collection of tribal artefacts.
Casper was intrigued, so she took him to her father’s study. Even the electric light failed to wash away the dark shadows or inherent gloom of the place. He admired the collection of weapons.
‘Are they really old?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes, some of them extremely old. I don’t like any of it. The masks scare me, the statues are grotesque and devilish, and I hate the spears and the clubs. They were made to kill and hurt people. I sometimes imagine I can still see dried blood on them.’ Casper picked up a long wooden club carved all over with strange creatures and abstract forms. ‘That is a Fijian warrior’s war club, called a bati,’ she explained.
‘I’ll bet this could do some real damage,’ he said, testing its weight and balance.
She gently took it off him and placed it back where it belonged. ‘I’m sure it could.’
‘Why not sell them, if they are so horrible? I’m told such things are beginning to get very valuable.’
‘I couldn’t do that,’ she said with finality. ‘They belonged to my father.’
‘Tell me about him. You never speak about you father.’
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t want to. Come, there are more places to see.’
‘All this stuff, it must be worth a small fortune,’ he speculated. ‘He must have been quite well-to-do, to have been able to indulge his passion to such a degree.’
‘Yes, he was. We were. I am.’
She looked at him, expecting some kind of reaction, but she felt heartened when Casper said he knew nothing about antiques or their value, and hadn’t the faintest interest in money. After all, there were far more important things in life than money. What point was there in collecting things when they’d all be given away to strangers when you were dead and gone? Nothing is ever really yours, he said. Even the skin over your bones has to be given up at some point. She said she agreed, but even so one day she must get a valuer in to go over things, if only from an insurance point of view. Yes, he said, being practical that would be a good thing.
‘I mainly live in the tower,’ Laura said, having come to the end of the guided tour of the rest of the building. She took him through a large arched door and up a circular staircase to the first floor. ‘Father always called it Laura’s Tower, after me,’ she said, but there wasn’t a hint of fondness in her voice, just a bald statement of fact. ‘This room belonged to my sister,’ she said, opening and pushing at a door. All the furniture, bed included, was covered in dust sheets. ‘It’s not been used in a long, long time. Not since she died.’
It felt cold, damp and dispiriting thought Casper. ‘I was thinking of wedding guests,’ he said. He saw her stiffen. ‘Who will you invite from your side of the family?’
‘I don’t have any family,’ she said.
‘Not a single person?’
She came to him, touched his arm tenderly. ‘I thought it might be just you and I.’
‘What, no one else? A wedding without guests?’ He shrugged. ‘I guess I never really gave it much thought before. But what about my parents, my brothers?’
‘You didn’t tell me you had brothers.’
‘I’m the better looking!’ he quipped. He saw how agitated she was becoming. ‘Look, let’s talk about that some other time. If you want it to be limited to the two of us, that’s fine by me. Anything to
please you.’
Laura closed the door, avoiding his gaze. They passed another door on the landing, painted in blue. Casper paused and pointed. ‘So what’s behind here?’ he said, putting a hand on the handle. It was locked.
‘Oh no, you can’t go in there,’ she said harshly, pulling his hand away. ‘No one goes in there.’
He looked surprised. ‘Sorry, Laura. What have you got in there, dear? A dead body or two?’ He laughed but her frosty expression didn’t melt.
‘No one goes in there,’ she repeated, almost under her breath. ‘It’s not used at all. It’s just a boring, empty old room,’ she said, dragging him away. They ascended the stairs at the end of the landing, to the next floor, Casper casting a last, inquisitive glance back at the door. ‘This room is mine,’ indicating a door but not opening it. ‘And this room is where you will be staying tonight. It used to belong to my mother and father. I always thought it was a little too masculine in its décor for mother, but she never complained at all the dark furniture and drapery or anything. But it will suit you, I feel.’
‘Oh yes, I will feel quite the noble sleeping in here,’ he said upon seeing it. ‘It’s really very nice of you to invite me to stay over like this.’
She looked faintly embarrassed. ‘The bathroom is over there.’ She pointed out yet another door further down the short corridor. ‘It’s basic but serviceable. The hot water is a little temperamental because the old boiler needs replacing. That’s Devereux Towers for you.’
He took hold of her hands, which he noticed were trembling. ‘I know how much it has taken for you to invite me into your home like this, Laura, and I really appreciate it. But if you would rather me leave because it all makes you feel uncomfortable then you only have to say the word and I will leave at once.’
‘Please don’t go!’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re here. You’ve made me so happy when I thought I would never be happy again.’
He smiled warmly, gave her lips a peck. ‘Good, I am glad to hear it.’
Now it was his turn to look troubled and she read it immediately in his deepening frown. ‘What’s wrong? Have I upset you?’
MOUSE (a psychological thriller and murder-mystery) Page 7
