The Mystery of Mercy Close

by Marian Keyes

  ‘Tell him to get his hair cut.’

  ‘No.’ I twisted my body so I could look her straight in the eye. ‘No,’ I repeated.

  ‘Ouch.’ She twinkled at me. ‘You’re a tough one.’ And off she went, leaving me alone with Artie.

  ‘What was that about?’ I asked him.

  ‘She wants me to get my hair cut.’

  ‘But …’ It was none of Vonnie’s business, the length of Artie’s hair. They were divorced. He could grow his hair to his knees and it still wouldn’t be any of her business. But best if I kept my mouth shut.

  ‘So.’ Artie gestured at the grill. ‘Can I tempt you?’

  ‘You always do,’ I said. ‘But not with a burger. I’ve already been to seventeen barbecues today.’ No need to mention I hadn’t eaten a thing at any of them.

  ‘Only fair to warn you that Bella is on the lookout for you,’ he said. ‘She’s created a personality quiz specifically with you in mind.’

  ‘Okay.’ I was distracted by the coleslaw. It looked bafflingly beautiful. I gazed into the bowl. It was only cabbage, which normally I abhorred, but it was exquisitely beautiful. What had they done to it?

  Iona wafted towards me with a glass of white wine and a tumbler of the much-publicized home-made ginger ale. I took the ginger ale but declined the wine. ‘Diet Coke instead?’ she asked.

  I nodded gratefully.

  ‘Two seconds,’ she said.

  Bruno was stomping about in his black clothes and carmine cheekbones and ginormous fringe. He passed me and hissed in an undertone, ‘What’s she doing here?’

  ‘Blowing your dad,’ I hissed back at him.

  And here came Bella, self-importantly carrying a Hello Kitty clipboard. ‘Helen, I’m so glad to see you. Have you tried the ginger ale? It’s home-made, you know.’

  ‘And delicious with it. Iona’s getting me a Diet Coke.’

  Bella cast a sharp-eyed glance towards the kitchen. Iona was floating over to us, carrying a glass.

  ‘Iona,’ Bella said. ‘Hurry up with Helen’s drink!’

  Iona placed a glass in my hand.

  ‘Thank you, Iona,’ Bella said crisply, then she turned her attention to me. ‘We need privacy for this, Helen.’

  She ferried me off to the home office, the highest point in the house, a glass pod which jutted out on a steel branch off the main trunk of the building. Every single wall, including the floor, was made of glass. It was such an astonishing feat of engineering jiggery-pokery that I was afraid to think about it in case my head burst.

  Bella invited me to take a seat on a silver lamé beanbag, then she positioned herself in a chair above me. Beneath my feet I could see the garden, the guests, even the perfect coleslaw. People were leaving. Good. Maybe I’d get Artie on his own soon.

  ‘Nervous?’ Bella asked. ‘About what the quiz will reveal about you?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘That’s quite normal,’ she said kindly. ‘Let me explain. I will ask you a question and there will be four possible answers: A, B, C or D. Just give me the answer that you feel is right for you. Let me stress, Helen, that there is no wrong answer. Don’t overthink it, just answer. Have I explained enough?’

  I nodded. I was already exhausted.

  ‘Then let us begin. What’s your favourite colour?’ Her pen (pink, of course) was poised over her clipboard, the contents of which she was guarding with a cupped hand. ‘Is it pink, spots, stripes or parachutes?’

  ‘Parachutes.’

  ‘Par-a-chutes,’ she mouthed, putting a smart little tick on the page. ‘Just as I expected. Are you ready for the next question? If you could be a vegetable, would you be boiled, dauphinoise, turnips or julienned?’

  ‘Julienned. Definitely.’

  ‘As I suspected,’ she said. ‘The most elegant choice. Next question, also vegetable-inspired: if you could be a cabbage, would you be savoy, red, curly kale or white?’

  ‘None of them because –’

  ‘– you hate cabbage. Very good! It was a trick question! I know you extremely well. What weighs more? A kilo of feathers, a kilo of mascara, a kilo of stars or a kilo of kilos?’

  ‘A kilo of stars.’

  ‘Stars? You still have the capacity to surprise me, Helen. Would you prefer to swim with dolphins in the Caribbean, do a bunjee jump from the Golden Gate Bridge, zip-wire over the Grand Canyon or eat ten Mars bars in a yurt in Carlow?’

  ‘The Mars bars.’

  ‘Me too. How would you like to die? In your sleep, in a luxury spa, in a stampede at the opening of a new Topshop or in a plane crash.’

  ‘All of the above.’

  ‘You have to say one of them.’

  ‘Okay. The plane crash.’

  ‘The quiz has now ended.’

  God, that was mercifully quick.

  ‘You may relax,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to add up your scores.’

  There was a lot of muttering as she collated her information. Eventually she said, ‘Mostly Ds. “You can dance but you tend not to. One of your ambitions is to ‘gallivant’ even though you aren’t quite sure what it means. You are prone to brusqueness, but you have a kind heart. You are not afraid to mix high street with high fashion. You are sometimes misunderstood. You may develop gout in later life.”’

  It was surprisingly accurate and I said as much.

  ‘I know you well. I’ve made a study of you. Now, Helen, may I ask a favour?’ Her little face had become serious. ‘Do you mind if I go down and spend some time with Mum? I think she’s feeling a little lonely.’

  ‘Er … not at all.’

  Much as I loved Bella, she could seriously deplete the old energy. But, as soon as I was left by myself, I was swamped with the blackness. I was shocked by it, by how much worse it had become in the last twenty minutes. It was growing, like some horrible animal. I had to keep moving. Maybe if I got Artie on his own, maybe that would keep it away. Or maybe I should go for a drive on the motorway.

  I was still sprawled on the beanbag when Artie appeared. ‘I hear you’re prone to brusqueness but have a kind heart.’

  Eagerly I sat up, relieved that he’d arrived and that I didn’t have to be alone with my own head. ‘How does she know words like “brusque”? What sort of rum bunch are you Devlins?’

  ‘I take it that Wayne has turned up? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’

  I shook my head. ‘He hasn’t. I’ve decided to give it up.’

  ‘Why? No, tell me in a minute.’ He crouched down beside me. ‘Does that mean you’re free tomorrow afternoon? Because I think I’ve managed to offload all three of the kids at the same time. Bella’s on a play date, Iona’s going on a protest march and Bruno’s at some make-up party. Maybe you’d come over?’

  ‘I’m there.’

  Softly, so softly I could barely hear him, he said, ‘Good.’ He stroked my face with his finger and stared at me with such intent that – almost in anguish – I had to say, ‘Oh Artie, don’t be looking at me in that sexy way. I can’t bear it.’

  He stood up. ‘You’re right. Nothing we can do about it at the moment.’

  ‘How about,’ I said, ‘I take our mind off things by telling you everything that’s happened with Wayne?’

  Artie sat in the chair that Bella had recently vacated and I stayed on the beanbag.

  ‘First, let me tell you about the rehearsal over at the MusicDrome. Oh my God, Artie, it was a shambles.’ I related the whole sorry story, the swan costumes, the computer glitches, John Joseph’s rage, Frankie’s terror … ‘Even if Wayne comes back, there’s no way they’ll be ready for Wednesday. I can’t see it going ahead. You know, it really wouldn’t surprise me if they had to cancel all three gigs.’

  A strange expression zipped across Artie’s face.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing. Just … it sounds like an insurance job.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Who’s financing the gigs?’

  ‘OneWorld Music
is the promoter.’ I’d heard Jay Parker talking about them.

  ‘They’ll certainly be big stakeholders in this,’ Artie said. ‘But they won’t be the only investors. Do you know who the others are?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Usually the band is expected to chip in a fair whack,’ Artie said.

  I thought about it. I genuinely believed that Roger St Leger hadn’t a penny, and neither had Frankie. But John Joseph, even though he mightn’t be very liquid, had plenty of assets. He could have raised cash somehow. As for Jay Parker, he could definitely have squeezed money from some poor sucker.

  ‘Well,’ Artie said, ‘whoever is financing this, their share will be underwritten. In layman’s terms, insured. So if the gigs don’t happen, they’ll get their money back and, depending on the policy, they might even get a projected profit.’

  ‘So if the gigs had to be cancelled, there might be an insurance payout? More than the original investment? So the investors might be better off if the gigs didn’t go ahead?’

  ‘Maybe. This is all conjecture.’ Artie eyed me warily. ‘I thought you’d given up on the job.’

  ‘How would I find out the details of the insurance policy?’

  ‘You couldn’t. It’s a private contract.’

  All kinds of unsaid stuff hovered between us. Artie probably could find out. The legal way. If he could provide just cause. But I wasn’t going to ask him.

  I pushed myself up off the beanbag and went over to Artie’s home computer. ‘Something I mean to keep checking,’ I said. ‘Let’s see how the tickets are selling.’

  We went on the MusicDrome site. About half of Wednesday’s tickets had been sold, half of Thursday’s and less than a third of Friday’s. Not great.

  ‘So if I was one of the people who’d invested in these gigs,’ I said, ‘I’d be hoping they’d be cancelled, right?’

  Artie shook his head. ‘Not yet. Too soon. Lots of publicity to come which will give tickets sales a shot in the arm. They’re on telly tonight with Maurice McNice.’

  ‘How’re they going to explain the absence of Wayne?’ I asked.

  ‘They’ll come up with something,’ Artie said. ‘That Jay Parker seems like a man who thinks on his feet.’ Said with such contempt! And Artie wasn’t that type. ‘And there will definitely be something in tomorrow’s papers. You’ll see.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, anything at all. A puff piece on Frankie’s new babies. Zeezah modelling bikinis. Something.’

  Just then my phone rang. I looked at the screen. It was Harry Gilliam. What did he want? Other than to send the chill winds of fear blowing through my innards.

  I picked up because if I didn’t he’d just keep on ringing.

  ‘Harry,’ I said, forcing terrible jolliness into my voice. ‘How’s things? How’s your hen?’

  After a long pause, he said, ‘Cecily didn’t make it.’

  I swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘She let me down.’

  I had a sudden distressing vision of a dawn raid on a hen house, of all of Cecily’s family being rounded up and their necks being wrung. Oh dear.

  ‘Word has reached me,’ Harry said, ‘that you’ve called off the search for your friend.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Keep looking for him, Helen.’

  My skin prickled with fear, excitement, interest. Mostly fear. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just what I said, Helen. Couldn’t be simpler. Keep looking for him.’

  ‘Why? Is he in trouble? What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m getting a cramp in my tongue here, Helen. I’ll only say it one more time. Keep looking for him.’

  ‘But if you know something that could help me, you might as well tell me!’

  ‘Me? How would I know anything?’

  And he was gone.

  Dumbfounded, I looked at the phone. I was afraid of Harry Gilliam. I really was afraid of him. I didn’t know why. I didn’t used to be afraid of him, but I was now. Somehow he’d developed an incredible skill for menace. Maybe he’d gone on a course.

  ‘What?’ Artie asked.

  I kept studying my phone. I was very confused. Was Harry Gilliam trying to tell me that he knew that Wayne was in trouble and needed to be rescued? Or was he telling me that he didn’t know where Wayne was but that, if he wasn’t found, I was going to get it? Should I be worried for Wayne? Or should I be worried for myself?

  ‘Helen?’ Artie said gently.

  How much should I tell him? Boundaries, professional, personal, all over the bloody place.

  ‘Harry Gilliam?’ I said.

  Artie went into cop mode, suddenly being very discreet. ‘He’s … known to me. Been hit hard by the recession. People aren’t buying drugs like they used to.’

  ‘Well, that was him on the phone. He suggested I keep looking for Wayne.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Didn’t say. But, and I don’t know how he did it, he’s managed to convince me to change my mind.’

  After a long pause Artie said, ‘I suppose there wouldn’t be any point in me asking you not to do this.’

  I looked at him. There was no need for me to shake my head. ‘I can take care of myself,’ I said. ‘It’s one of the reasons you love me.’

  Startled, we stared at each other – somehow I’d let slip the ‘L’ word!

  ‘It was an accident,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Let’s do the decent thing and ignore it and move on quickly.’

  He kept on looking at me. Neither of us knew what to do. Eventually he said, ‘Be careful, Helen.’

  Suddenly I wasn’t sure what exactly he was warning me against, but I couldn’t think about it now.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  45

  Out in the street I rang Parker. He answered on the first ring.

  ‘Helen?’

  ‘Where the fuck are you?’

  ‘Television Centre at RTÉ.’

  ‘I’m on my way over to you for Wayne’s key. Sort it out so there’s a pass waiting for me on the front desk.’

  ‘What the –’

  I hung up. I didn’t know what was going on, with Harry Gilliam and Jay. I was afraid and I was angry, which was unpleasant but, oddly enough, better than the way I’d been feeling when I’d been off the case.

  Surprisingly they knew all about me at the reception of Television Centre. I was expecting a weary back-and-forth with some power-mad jobsworth, but a laminated pass was waiting with my name on it – misspelled, of course, so I was ‘Helene Walshe’ (someone liked their ‘e’s) – and after a quick phone call, a black-clad runner appeared to show me to ‘Hospitality’.

  I’d never been in a green room before, and to my disappointment it looked just like a big sitting room. There were lots of couches and a bar in the corner, and about twenty people sitting in clusters and keeping their distance from the other clusters of people. Apart from the Laddz contingent, I hadn’t a clue who the other guests were. But I could take a punt. A chef who’d done a cookery book, maybe? A fake-knockered, fake-nailed woman who had slept with men in the public eye? The captain of the GAA hurling team who’d won the Munster final? Some crappy band with a single or a gig to promote. Oh, that would be Laddz, of course.

  The Laddz contingent was in a tight-knit knot. Jay was there, obviously, and John Joseph and Zeezah, who were having a low, private conversation with each other. Roger St Leger had brought along the leggy, throaty blonde he’d met at the barbecue. They were both scuttered and lying on a couch, roaring with dirty laughter, drinking vodka, and liable to have sex at any moment.

  Frankie was sitting rigid and uncharacteristically silent. Initially I thought it was because he was disgusted by Roger’s antics – the ‘man above’ certainly would not approve. But I realized that Frankie was in a complicated situation. At the moment his television career was on fire, and with the way things stood, as soon as Maurice McNice died, hi
s job was Frankie’s. In the meantime, while Frankie was waiting for Maurice to die, it was a bit awkward to come and sing on the show. It could almost seem like gloating.

  Jay was deep in conversation with a man who appeared to be one of the show’s producers.

  ‘But Wayne’s sick,’ Jay was saying. ‘His throat is killing him. No way can he sing.’

  ‘No one’s asking him to sing!’ the producer said. ‘No one ever sings on Saturday Night In. They always mime.’

  ‘Wayne’s in bed with a temperature of a hundred and two,’ Jay said. ‘He can’t even stand up. An interview with John Joseph and his beautiful new bride will be far better.’

  I summed up the situation at a glance: before Wayne had gone awol, Laddz had been invited on to the show to ‘sing’ and now Parker was trying to retrieve whatever publicity chances he could by offering John Joseph and Zeezah as interviewees.

  But the producer was not at all happy with this proposed arrangement because the show’s line-up included an interview with a newly married GAA hurling star. ‘We’ve already got a “beautiful new bride” interview,’ the producer said. ‘And no musical acts. There’s rules for light entertainment shows! This is all out of balance.’

  ‘That woman,’ Jay pointed at Zeezah, ‘is a massive worldwide superstar. It’s a coup to get to interview her.’

  The producer got a gleam in his eyes. ‘Maybe she could sing.’

  ‘No!’ Jay saw the publicity opportunity for Laddz slipping away. ‘She hasn’t got her costumes with her. Zeezah can’t just hop up on a stool and start singing. She’s not Christy Moore.’

  Producer guy’s walkie-talkie crackled with some urgent command, which had him jumping to his feet. ‘I’ve got to sort something else out,’ he said to Jay. ‘But this isn’t over.’

  As soon as your man had gone racing off, I hit Jay on the shoulder. He looked up at me.

  ‘So you’re back?’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Just give me Wayne’s key.’

  ‘Tell me. What’s going on?’

  ‘Your friend Harry has persuaded me to keep looking for Wayne.’

  ‘Harry?’ Jay looked genuinely confused. But hard to know with him. ‘Who’s Harry?’