Life's Lottery (33 page)

Then, she recites, ‘And, and, and… Cardboard. Cellophane. Magic Markers. Paper. Scissors. Sellotape. Silver paper.’

You’re sure she’s got it right. Mary always does the trick. Sometimes it helps her, keeps her from having a turn.

She looks at the television. Beautiful Australians argue. They never used to waste children’s TV time on soaps. They were for later, for after bedtime. Why would kids want to watch arguing Aussies?

Last time you mentioned this, Mary had a panic attack. Suddenly, she became very worried about Skippy, the Bush Kangaroo. She didn’t know what had happened to him since he was last on and became consumed with a dreadful knowledge that something terrible had befallen him. They turn ’roos into pet-food Down Under. These days, he might be Skippy, the Tin of Discount Doggo Chunks.

Outside, night has come down like a cloud.

The panes of glass in the bedroom windows have long been replaced with squares of cardboard wedged in with plasticine. No dark can creep past.

You switch channels, banishing the Australians. The quality of the picture changes. You can only get BBC2 in black and white.

A man in a suit runs down a corridor, holding a gun. He is wearing a triangular badge.

‘
Man From U.N.C.L.E.
,’ Mary says.

You turn the sound up, hear the familiar music. You haven’t heard it for maybe twenty-five years, but here it is again.

The man in the suit is joined by his blond friend, who wears a black T-shirt. He also has a gun.

‘Which did you prefer,’ you ask, ‘Napoleon or Illya?’

Mary doesn’t answer.

You tunnel your concentration, trying to think yourself back to the last time you saw this programme. Before everything dark from the world pressed in on you.

If you can remember perfectly the room in your old house where you watched
The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
, you will be back there again, warm and comforted, with a whole life before you. Each of the children had a special place, declared inviolable after an intense family negotiation. Laraine’s was the rocking-chair, where she’d tuck her legs under herself and chew her pigtail, shifting her centre of gravity to work the rockers. James’s was the rug nearest the three-bar fire, from where he could look up at the television’s dusty grey screen like the apeman looking up at the monolith in
2001.

And where was yours?

If you can remember, you can
go back to 2
, and things might turn out better. Somewhere along the way, you know, you have stepped off the well-lit path, and strayed into the dark. You have not been welcome in your own world, not for – Lord, how many is it? – years. The best part of two decades has slipped by, as you and Mary huddled in on yourselves like turtles, faces pressed to the mattress, eyes screwed shut, knowing that the spiders in the dark knew where you were. They let you live because living with the knowledge you could be got at any time was worse than any being got could possibly be.

Where was your special place?

Napoleon and Illya are battling men from THRUSH who have torches strapped to their rifles. A beautiful woman in high heels is tied up. Napoleon smiles at the woman. Illya frowns. A villain rants.

A core of warmth inside you begins to grow, to spread. Soon, it will come to you, and you will be back there, in your special place.

Can you go to 2?

Yes, it was –

‘April!’

Mary seems to have shouted.

You are confused. You were trying to remember something and it is gone. The core of warmth dwindles and dies. Something goes out inside you for ever.

There’s no way back now.

‘It’s April.’

What is Mary talking about?

‘It’s February, Mare.’

‘April. That’s who I liked. Not Napoleon, not Illya, April Dancer. Stefanie Powers.
The Girl From U.N.C.L.E
.’

There is an infinitesimal crackle and the television cuts out. It’s not the set, it’s the plugboard. A tiny blue flame, the only light in the room, glows where the cord joins the board, and smoke coils.

You hope the flame will grow, but it doesn’t.

You and Mary are in the dark.

Neither of you says anything. You don’t even try to hold each other any more. You each know you can’t comfort the other. You don’t even know if you want to.

Deep down, you blame Mary, though you no longer remember quite what you blame her for. Maybe by preferring April Dancer over Napoleon or Illya, and invalidating that question you were asked so long ago – by Shane, wasn’t it? – she has upset some cosmic balance and plunged the world into an eternity of darkness.

The dark is perfect, sealed in as much as sealed out. There isn’t even a luminous clock-face in the room. You shut your eyes, icy swell of your eyeballs shocking the insides of your eyelids, and there is no difference.

It is as dark inside as out.

And inside there will never be any light. Never.

And so on.

‘
R
o, I just want you to know that I love you. I’m sorry, but…’ You don’t finish your prepared speech.

Ro stares at you, open-mouthed.

You try to kiss her.

Go to 86.

S
ean gives his notice to the bank. He gives a three-month warning, partly so they can find a replacement manager, partly so he can perform the delicate surgery of dissociating the Syndicate from the bank. He asks to see all the paperwork, going back to the first £10,000, especially with regard to the loans you’ve occasionally extended yourselves (including your mortgage, you realise). He says he wants to leave everything neat and tidy for the next administration.

Clearly, he expects you to resign too. For that reason, he does not recommend you take over as manager. And Tristram Warwick comes into your lives.

The Nightmare Tristram.

* * *

He’s younger than you, and dresses strangely, like one of
The Champions
, a bright orange roll-neck pullover under a check jacket with leather elbow patches, tight gigolo trousers with the fly on the thigh and pointy-toed Italian shoes. He sometimes wears a flat cap; not like a cockney stall-holder, like the Lord of the Manor.

It’s nothing to do with how you feel about him, but he’s gay. His partner is Kay Shearer, a small businessman whose start-up loan repayments you’ve been chasing for a while. Shearer’s Shelves isn’t a huge success.

Tristram Warwick, manager-in-waiting, is to spend three months getting up to speed on the branch. Sean has an easy mateyness with Tristram that you think conceals a vicious battle of wits. They instinctively dislike and distrust each other. Sean’s affable complacency riles Tristram. Tristram’s methodical, no-short-cuts approach frustrates Sean.

A lot of things have slid over the years. Tristram is especially ‘disappointed’ with the files Candy has been keeping for you.

‘It just doesn’t add up,’ he keeps saying.

Sean keeps reassuring him, marking off the days till he leaves.

Tristram is always commenting on the expense of Sean’s car, clothes, home, holidays. He also notes you aren’t short of a bob or two.

‘Good investments, my boy,’ Sean always says, laying a finger against his nose.

Tristram is never amused.

Sean is leaving, but you’ll stay behind. Tristram will pick you over until he gets answers. You start going over the files yourself. Is there anything you should know?

Has Sean been entirely scrupulous? He has ‘borrowed’ money from the bank, but it has always been officially declared, paid back on time with interest. You only got into this in the first place to improve the service offered to customers.

Many people have benefited from advice you’ve given. Advice that would have been worthless if you hadn’t had the experience you’ve gained through the Syndicate.

Sean has kept things from the bank, you’re sure. He’s kept things from Ro, certainly. He still goes to London at least once a week, and receives private calls from a well-spoken woman who is slipping him stock tips.

Has he kept anything from you?

* * *

Sean has a big leaving party. It’s a supremely awkward occasion. You notice how much Ro is drinking. She tends to be in a huddle with Vanda and, of all people, Kay.

Tristram admires Sean’s home, its furnishings. Sean has bought a lot of toys.

Candy keeps bringing you
hors d’oeuvres
.

Sean swans about grandly. He’s already had business cards printed. In addition to managing his own portfolio, he’ll be offering investment advice and running seminars for people who want to manage their own stocks and shares.

There is a position waiting for you. Something keeps you at the bank.

Before leaving the party, Tristram asks if you could schedule a morning for him next week, to go over the loans department’s affairs in detail.

Kay winks at you.

* * *

The party winds down. Ro has to be helped upstairs to be sick and collapses in bed.

Past midnight, you find yourself in Sean’s study. You are having large brandies. Vanda is with you, hands clasped round a mug of coffee.

‘I should have married your sister,’ Sean tells you.

‘She’s single now,’ you mention.

‘I can’t go on with Ro.’

Vanda’s grip tightens on the mug.

‘The Syndicate will be fine,’ Sean assures you. ‘We can buy her out.’

‘How?’ Vanda asks.

Sean waves a drunken flipper.

‘There’s more money than she knows.’

‘More?’ you ask.

‘I’ve been shifting things around, against the eventuality. It’s time to make a change.’

‘Who is she?’ Vanda asks.

‘There isn’t a “she”,’ he says.

Vanda’s eyes go flinty. She doesn’t like being lied to. And no wonder.

‘Oh, there used to be a “she”. A very “she” Mike “she”. But that’s over.’

You sip the brandy.

‘Look, space kiddettes, when Ro’s out, she’ll be fine. And we three witches will be set up. I have things perking. Things I’ve had to keep quiet. Tris the Terrible would have kittens if he knew how I’ve managed things.’

Your heart goes cold.

‘Keith,’ Sean says, ‘get out of the bank as soon as you can, there’s a good chap.’

‘What have you done?’ Vanda asks.

‘I’ve done very well.’

Your wife shakes her head.

* * *

Tristram has questions you can’t answer. You’re too busy thinking about Sean. He called last night to tell you he was moving out of his house, that he and Ro were separating. He’s coming over tonight with papers to sign. Ro isn’t leaving the Syndicate, but she’s going to sleep in the partnership. It’ll be better for her and the kids. Candy fusses around outside your office, picking up on the agitation.

‘I still don’t understand,’ Tristram says. ‘Run me through it again, would you?’

‘I don’t understand what you don’t understand.’

You’re stalling. There are gaps in the files. Not just Candy-putting-it-in-the-wrong-place gaps, but things-having-been-removed-and-shredded gaps. Tristram looks at the books.

‘You know, Keith, I wish you’d arranged your mortgage through a building society.’

This is out of left field.

‘My father…’

‘The departed Mr Marion, late of this parish. I understand he was eager to set you on course. But we don’t operate in the way we did when he was manager. Then, banks were like corner shops or village post offices. We accepted interest payments in chickens. It wasn’t fair of him to yoke you to that old system.’

‘Does this have anything to do with Shearer’s Shelves?’

‘No, of course not.’

He’s lying. Damn it. Because you refused to extend a loan to his boyfriend, this sleek shark is going to see you hanged. And you don’t even know what for.

‘I think that’s enough for today,’ Tristram says. ‘I have to make a report. Then we’ll talk again.’

He leaves. You want to break something.

* * *

That evening, Sean doesn’t come round. You get home to find Vanda open-mouthed in front of the television, and the kids squabbling.

On the news, figures are scrolling up and down the screen and a commentator is trying to make sense of it.

‘…actually, strange as it may seem, this points fall is greater than that which precipitated the so-called Wall Street Crash of 1929.’

Your ribcage constricts your heart.

‘Everything went crash,’ Vanda says, dully.

You pick up the phone and begin to dial.

‘I’ve tried. It’s off the hook. I got through to Ro. She’s drunk.’

‘I’ll drive over.’

* * *

You find Sean didn’t even bother to lock the door of his flat. He hasn’t been living there long so it’s impossible to say whether he’s packed up and moved out. There are still kitchen implements and clothes around; but no paperwork. He was using the place as an office, so something must be wrong.

You find the phone buzzing, receiver beside the set. You replace it. It rings at once. You pick up and listen.

‘Sean,’ a man’s voice says, ‘thank God I’ve reached you. How much –’

You hang up and put the phone off the hook again. You are shaking. Without knowing, you know. There isn’t a Syndicate any more.

‘Sean?’

You turn. Candy stands in the doorway. She is carrying a stuffed suitcase, packed in a hurry. She’s surprised to see you. You feel betrayed. You were always the one she fancied.

‘Not you too,’ you say.

She bursts into tears.

* * *

Sean, evidently, is in Morocco. And the bank owns your house. Vanda won’t talk to you, but blames herself as much as you. Ro had told her some things she didn’t pass on. She had a sense of the extent of Sean’s dealings.

Tristram brings a woman to see you in your office.

‘Keith,’ he says, ‘this is DS Yatman.’

‘We were at primary school together,’ the policewoman says, smiling, extending a hand. ‘Scary Mary, remember?’

‘That was a long time ago.’

‘Wasn’t it just?’

‘She wants to talk about Sean,’ Tristram says.

‘Actually, we’d like to talk
to
Sean,’ she purrs. ‘But that seems out of the question now.’