The rooster didn’t know it was a day of rest. He was soon joined by the other birds, Martin could pick out the thread of the joyful warble of a blackbird from the tapestry of birdsong, but the identity of the other birds in the pattern was a mystery. His (wonderful) wife would know, she was a country girl, born and bred. A farm girl. A wholesome, milk-fed farm girl. He propped himself up on an elbow and studied her wholesome farm-girl face. In repose, she was even more lovely, although it was the kind of loveliness that inspired respectful admiration in other men rather than lust. Even the idea of lust would have sullied her. She was beyond reproach. A strand of her soft brown hair lay across her face. He moved it gently away and kissed the priceless ruby bow of her lips.
He would make her breakfast in bed. A proper breakfast, eggs and bacon, fried bread. For lunch today they would roast a piece of good English beef, meat was still on the ration but the village butcher was a friend. Everyone was their friend. He wondered why he was so frequently a carnivore in this other life.
The morning would follow its usual happy Sunday pattern. When lunch was nearly ready—the gravy thickening, the beef resting—he would laugh (because it was their little joke) and say to her, “A little preprandial, darling?” and bring out the Waterford sherry decanter that had belonged to her parents. Then they would sip their amontillado and sit on the armchairs covered in “StrawberryThief ”and listen to Schubert’s Trout Quintet.
He could hear a tap running in the bathroom and the tread of feet along the hallway and down the stairs. Peter/David was making airplane noises, fighting the Luftwaffe single-handed. Martin heard him say, “Take that, you filthy Nazi!” before making the ack-ack sounds of a machine gun. He was a good boy, he would grow up like his father, not like Martin. Yesterday evening when they had been sitting in their cozy living room (roaring fire, etc.), Martin toasting crumpets, his wife knitting yet another Fair Isle pullover, after Peter/David had kissed them both good night and gone up to bed, his wife paused over her needles and said with a smile, “I think he deserves to have a little brother or sister, don’t you?”A moment to treasure in a life of treasures.
He stretched again and put his arms round his wife and smelled her lily-of-the-valley hair. She wriggled a little, a sign that she was awake and willing. He put a hand inside the folds of her night-gown and found the apple roundness of a breast and pressed his body against hers. He should say something loving at this point, something tender. He always had trouble with the intimacies of conversation with her for some reason, perhaps if he gave her a name it would help. She rolled over and returned his embrace. “Marty,” she said.
He woke with a start. The cheap digital clock radio on the bed-side table informed him that it was six o’clock in the morning. He wondered if he should check under the covers to make sure he hadn’t turned into a giant insect.
Daylight had already overtaken the streetlamp outside and fil-tered through the thin orange curtains, bathing the room in the glow of a postnuclear sunrise. The lurid Lucozade light washed over Martin’s face. He couldn’t imagine how he would get back to sleep again. The walls of the room were tissue thin. Every toi-let flushed, every hawking phlegmy cough, every sexual act attempted or achieved, all seemed to be finding a direct conduit to Martin’s room.
What if somehow he was stuck here, if he had entered some surreal loop where he must wake up every morning in a different room at the Four Clans? How many rooms were there in the hotel? What if it was an infinite number, what if it was one of those Twilight Zone places with a nonexistent thirteenth floor and a staff who were really the ghosts of previous guests? A hotel you could never check out from.
He knew, in the sober light of day, that it was not Richard Mott who had phoned him last night. Which was most likely, after all— that Richard Mott was phoning him from the afterlife or that the person who killed Richard Mott had stolen his phone? A mur-derer phoning him was preferable to a corpse phoning him. Of course this was something he should tell the police about, but the idea of having to encounter Sutherland again was too depressing. He wondered what Richard Mott’s killer would have said to him if his phone hadn’t run out of battery power. “You next,” perhaps. An eye for an eye.
He had said to Melanie last night that he was going to cancel his appearance at the Book Festival, but now it struck him that it would be a badge of courage to turn up. “Pull yourself together, boy! Face the thing you’re frightened of.” He might have been reduced to a plaything of the gods, but he was still Alex Blake. This was his life, this was his arena, it may not have been a very noble one, but it was all that was left to him.
He had lost his laptop, his wallet, his novel, his home, and his identity over the course of the previous forty-eight hours. All he had left was Alex Blake.
Reception was now being manned by a boy in a striped satin waistcoat and a bow tie who looked as if he belonged in a bar-bershop quartet.
“Can I use the phone?” Martin asked, and the boy said, “Cer-tainly, Mr. Canning. My mother’s read all the Alex Blake books, she’s your number one fan.”
“Thank you, thank her. That’s very kind.”
From his pocket he fished out the flyer that had been given to him a lifetime ago. “Can I help you?” he had said. Well, he did need help. He needed just one person to be on his side. “Face the thing you’re frightened of. Pull yourself together, you fucking fairy.You’re an old woman, Martin.”
He was not going to be cowed by unfounded suspicion, nor by dead men phoning him. He was going to hold his head high and carry on. Cosmic justice could come and get him, but it would be on his own terms.
He dialed the number and, when it was answered, said, “Mr. Brodie? I don’t know if you remember me?”
37
Jackson rolled over in the bed and spooned Julia’s hot body. She usually slept naked but was now wearing a pair of horrendous pa-jamas that were much too big for her and might at some point have belonged to her sister. Jackson knew the pajamas were sig-nificant, but he didn’t particularly want to think what that significance might be. He missed the feeling of skin on skin, the peachy roundness of Julia. He fitted himself into the familiar curves and cambers of her body, but instead of pushing back and settling into his shape, she shifted away from him, murmuring something incomprehensible. Julia talked a lot in her sleep, all of it gibberish, but nonetheless Jackson had taken to listening intently in case she divulged something secret and hidden that he would feel better (or, more likely, worse) for knowing.
He moved closer to her again and kissed her neck, but she remained steadfastly asleep. It was difficult to wake Julia up, short of shaking her. Once, he had made love to her while she slept, and she’d hardly even twitched when he came inside her, but he didn’t tell her about it afterward because he wasn’t sure how she would react. He couldn’t imagine her being particularly put out (this was Julia, after all). She would probably just have said, “Without me? How could you?” Technically it was rape, of course. He had arrested enough guys in his time for taking advantage of drunk or drugged girls. Plus, if he was honest, Julia was such a sound sleeper that there had been a touch of necrophilia about the whole thing. He’d put a necrophiliac away once, the guy worked in a mortuary and didn’t “see where the harm was” because “the objects of my affection have moved beyond earthly matters.”
Between Amelia’s pajamas and necrophilia, Jackson had pretty much managed to kill off any desire he might have woken up with. Julia was probably still annoyed with him, anyway. Jackson placed his ear to her back like a stethoscope and listened to her rattling breath. He had done the same for a three-year-old Marlee when she’d had bronchitis. Julia’s lungs would kill her in the end. There was something about her that suggested she would never make old bones, that long before she was drawing her pension she’d have emphysema and be lugging around an oxygen tank as tall as herself. She wriggled farther away from him.
Everything was subject to entropy, even sex, even love. A slow era-sure of passio
n. Not his love for his daughter, obviously, that was the one unbreakable bond. Or his sister. He had loved his sister with a true heart, but Niamh was too far “beyond earthly matters” now for him to feel the tug and urgency of love. The sadness was all that was left.
He propped himself up on an elbow and studied Julia’s face. He had a feeling that she wasn’t really asleep, that she might be acting.
“Don’t,” she said and rolled over, pressing her face into the pillow.
When he woke again, Julia was kneeling on the bed next to him, wearing only a towel and holding a tray on which he could see coffee, scrambled eggs, toast. “Breakfast!” she announced gaily. Jackson’s watch said seven o’clock.
“For a minute I thought you were Julia,” he said.
“Ha, funny. I couldn’t sleep.” Her damp hair was bundled into a demented ponytail on one side of her head, and she smelled soapy clean. She was naturally spotlighted by the sun, caught in a lozenge of light, and he could see the dark rings around her eyes, the shadow of something mortal on her brow. Maybe it was just disappointment. She settled cross-legged onto the bed and read out his horoscope to him. “‘Sagittarians are having a tough time at the moment.You feel as if you’re getting nowhere, but never fear—there is light at the end of the tunnel.’ Are you? Having a tough time?” she asked.
“No more than usual.”
He didn’t ask her what her stars said, that would have been to give a kind of credence to something he considered to be non-sense. He suspected Julia thought it was nonsense as well, and it was all part of some affectation.
“No, of course, this is yesterday’s paper,” Julia said. “We don’t know what’s in store for you today. Did you have a tough time yesterday? Oh, yes, you did, didn’t you? Fighting in the street, brawling, killing dogs—”
“I didn’t kill the dog.”
“Thrown in jail, convicted of an offense. They’ll never take you back in the police now, sweetie.”
“I don’t want to go back to the police.”
“Yes, you do.”
It was surprising what a burnt offering for breakfast could do to a man’s spirits. The eggs were rubbery and the toast was charred, but Jackson managed to get it all down. He had been expecting to breakfast on the cold leftovers of last night’s argument, so the eggs and Julia’s general air of benevolence were a pleasant surprise.
Julia sipped a cup of weak tea, and when he asked her why she wasn’t eating—Julia loved food the way a dog does—she said, “Funny tummy. First-night nerves. The press is going to be in, how ghastly is that? The idea of the show being reviewed is terri-fying, almost as terrifying as it not being reviewed. And you know it’s the Festival, so we won’t get a proper theater critic, they’re too busy on the Next Best Thing, we’ll get some nerd who usually
subs the sports section. If only we had another preview.”
“How did it go last night?”
“Oh, you know”—she shrugged—“awful.”
Jackson’s heart went out to her.
“I’m sorry I was grumpy with you,” Julia said.
“I was grumpy too,” Jackson said magnanimously. He didn’t think he had been, really, but it didn’t hurt to be a little chivalrous, espe-cially as he presumed the logical outcome of Julia in a towel making him breakfast in bed was going to be sex, but when he made a play-ful grab at her, she jumped off the bed as neatly as a cat and said, “I have to get on, I’ve got so much to do.”At the door to the bedroom, she turned back and said, “I love you, you know.”At the beginning of a relationship, Jackson had noticed on more than one occasion in his own life, people looked happy when they said “I love you,” but at the end they said the same words and looked sad. Julia looked pos-itively tragic. But then that was Julia, always overacting.
Jackson’s phone rang and he considered not answering it. Good news always sleeps till noon, isn’t that what they said—or were those the lyrics to a Cowboy Junkies song? He answered it and had to riff on his memory for a while before the name meant something. Martin. Martin Canning, the guy who threw the briefcase at Terence Smith. An odd little guy.
“Hey, Martin,” Jackson said, adopting a false kind of cama-raderie because the guy sounded slightly unhinged. “How can I help you?”
“I wonder if you could do me a favor, Mr. Brodie?”
Jackson could no longer hear the word “favor” without thinking it had dark implications. “Sure, Martin. I haven’t got anything else to do today. And it’s Jackson, call me Jackson.”
“What are you going to do today?” Julia asked, fully dressed now and too distracted by her own day to be truly curious about his. She was applying her makeup in a little mirror propped up on the kitchen table. A light dusting of face powder had fallen on a pyra-mid of oranges balanced in a glass oven dish. Jackson didn’t remember buying any fruit.
“I’ve got a job,” he said.
“A job?”
“Yes, a job. Some guy wants babysitting today.”
“Babysitting?”
Jackson wondered if she would just keep echoing back to him what he said to her. Wasn’t this what the queen was supposed to do? It gave the impression of polite conversation, it gave the im-pression that you were genuinely interested in what the other person was saying without you having to actually engage with them on any meaningful level, or even listen to them. Testing the the-ory, he said to Julia, “And then I thought I might go and drown myself in the Forth,” but instead of parroting “the Forth?” Julia turned and gazed at him thoughtfully, seeing him rather than looking at him, and said, “Drowned?”
Jackson sensed the mistake immediately. Julia’s eldest sister, Sylvia, had drowned herself in the bath, a formidable act of will that Jackson almost admired. She was a nun, so Jackson supposed all those years of discipline had put the iron in her soul. His own sister hadn’t drowned, she had been raped and strangled and then dumped in a canal. Water, water, everywhere. They were linked, he and Julia, by these things. “Like some kind of karmic concate-nation,” she had ruminated once. He had to look up the word “concatenation,” it had sounded Catholic, but it wasn’t. From the Latin “catena,” a chain. The chain of evidence. Chain of fools. He wished now he’d had a classical education rather than an army ed-ucation. A good school, a degree, the world his own daughter was growing up in. The world Julia had grown up in, but then look how fucked up that had been. He wanted to tell Julia about the woman in the Forth, about his own near-drowning experience, but she had returned to herself, applying lipstick, peering at her lips in the mirror with professional detachment, smacking them together and making a face as if she were kissing her reflection.
Jackson wondered what it said about a relationship when you were unable to tell the “object of your affection” that you had been pulled out of the water like a half-drowned dog. “Lucky”— inevitably—had been the name of the dog that had scooted with joy off the pier at Whitby. The owner of the dog, the first man to drown that day, had a wife and eight-year-old daughter, and Jackson had wondered what had happened to the dog. Had they taken Lucky home with them?
“But you’ll be finished in time for the show?” Julia said.
“The show?”
As she was going out the door, Julia said, “Oh, while I remember, can you do me a favor? I dropped the memory card off at the chemist next to the flat. I thought if you didn’t have anything better to do you could pick the photographs up.”
“And what if I do have something better to do?”
“Do you?” Julia asked, curiosity rather than sarcasm in her voice.
“Hang on,” Jackson said, “back up—what photographs? What memory card?”
“The one from our camera.”
“But I lost the camera,” he said, “I told you I lost it at Cramond.”
“I know, and I told you that I phoned up the police lost prop-erty at Fettes and someone had handed it in.”
“What? You didn’t tell me that.”
“Yes, I did,”
Julia said, “unless there was someone else lying next to me in bed pretending to be Jackson.”
When had Julia had time to drop things off at the chemist, to fill up the fruit bowl, to make phone calls, have lunch with Richard Mott? And yet she hadn’t had a second to give to him.
“Scott Marshall,” she continued blithely, “that nice boy who plays my lover, drove out to Fettes and picked it up for me.”
“They just handed it over to him?” Jackson said, astonished (“my lover,” the way she said it, so casual). “Without any proof?” He thought of the image of the dead girl trapped in the camera. Had someone looked at it, developed it?
“I described the first three photographs on the memory card over the phone,” Julia said, “and that seemed to satisfy them. And I told them that someone named Scott Marshall would be picking them up. He showed them his driver’s license. Crikey, Jackson, do we have to dissect every aspect of police procedure regarding lost prop-erty?”
“What are the first three photographs on the memory card?” Jackson asked.
“Are you testing me?”
“No, no, I’m intrigued. I have no idea what they are.”
“They’re of you,” Julia said, “they’re of you, Jackson.”
“But—”
“I have to dash, sorry, sweetie.”
No wonder identity fraud was such a fast-growing crime. The chemist was as lax as the police, Jackson had no receipt, no proof that the photographs were his, yet they were handed over promptly to him when he said that “Julia Land” had dropped them off this morning. The chemist (a man) smiled at him in a knowing way and said, “Yes, of course,” so Jackson presumed that Julia had used the full force of her orange-selling charms on him. If you were a man, you could be eighty with a Zimmer and Julia would flirt with you while she helped you across the road—because, and this was one of the reasons he loved her, she was the kind of person who walked old people across the roads, helped blind people in supermarkets, scooped up lost cats and injured birds.
One Good Turn Page 30
