Necrocrip (15 page)

It was an evening on which Slider desperately needed to see Joanna, in order to have himself reconnected via her with the real world. The day had left a bad taste in his mouth, and he badly needed the sweet and sensual pleasure of her company to soothe his troubled mind and weary body and restore him for the fray tomorrow. But Joanna was what she pleased to call ‘up-country’, doing a concert in Leeds which was a repeat of one of the tour programmes. She had nobly refrained from pointing out that if he had done his duty and sorted out his personal life by now, she would have come home, albeit very late, to him; but he pointed it out to himself as he drove home along the A40 towards Ruislip. Due west, it was, into the sunset, and a very gaudy one this evening: purple bars across raging crimson and gold on the horizon, and above that streaks of Walt Disney powder pink and baby blue. It made him feel as though he was in the last
scene of a movie. He could almost hear the soaring strings and the celestial choir in the background.

Wind the film back a bit.
The first opportunity,
he had promised her. Would there be an opportunity tonight? Oh fearful thought! Why couldn’t he skip that bit? He saw himself in a still taken from the movie, facing Irene and telling her about Joanna, telling her he was leaving her. In the still he couldn’t see his own face, but he could see hers. How could he do that to her? Well, that had always been the question, hadn’t it? And it was unanswerable.

He had stills of the children, too. He saw them not in their usual rôles of either defying him, ignoring him, or berating him for failing to reach their high standards of parental expenditure. Here they appeared in vulnerable mode: Kate coming to him weeping because Goldie the Guinea pig had died, Matthew’s brow buckled with the weight of anguished responsibility because he had been picked to play for the middle-school eleven and was afraid his batting wasn’t good enough.

And what would he say to them? Daddy’s leaving you, children. Daddy still loves you very much, but he won’t be living here with you and Mummy any more. He’ll still come and see you, of course, on Sundays (if he’s not on duty) to take you for an outing that’s supposed to make up for the fact that he isn’t there every day, and for birthday treats and at Christmas. Slider knew how it was done. The police force was a high-divorce industry – he had seen it all before.

How would he bear it when they cried? How would he bear it if they didn’t? He was hardly ever at home anyway, hadn’t taken them out anywhere in months (years?) Maybe they wouldn’t care that he was going. He imagined Matthew taking Kate aside: ‘A boy at school’s father went away, and now every time he visits, he brings him
brilliant
presents! This boy’s got a fifteen-speed bike and a Nintendo Gameboy and his own video … ‘ Ah!

There was the alternative, of course: to say goodbye to Joanna, and to serve out his sentence as the disappointing husband and barely tolerated father; without love, without comfort, without appreciation, without conversation – and worse, knowing that Joanna was without those things too,
only at the other end of a telephone, within reach, out of reach. Foolishness and waste, the two of them unhappy when they could be happy. Irene and the children would soon get over him, they didn’t care that much for him, never had …

But he had made promises, taken on responsibilities. How could he go back on them?

But he could fulfil them in other ways – better ways, surely, if he was personally content? He had a responsibility to himself, too. What sort of husband-and-father would he make if he felt miserable, deprived and trapped?

Or was that just a weak justification for doing what he knew was wrong? But
was
it wrong, or was it the best thing for all of them in the long run?

And he had gone through all this before, every argument, every word, a hundred times, maybe a thousand, since he first met Joanna and went over the side – as the police saying was – in an unexpected splash which astonished him and everyone who knew him, left his brains waterlogged and his moral rectitude going down for the third time. It was not as if he had done anything like that before. He had not been a philanderer. He had never even been tempted before. Surely that made a difference? It was not that he had wanted to leave Irene and had latched onto the first available woman. It was Joanna, no-one else. He had to have her, or everything else was poindess. And to have her he must leave Irene.

Oh, round the wheel again! He could see his own tail up ahead of him, its fluffy tip ever retreating, beckoning him on.
The first opportunity.
Would there be an opportunity tonight…?

She was not in when he got home, but the children were there. Kate was sitting on the floor about eight inches away from the television screen watching
The Young Doctors.
She was addicted to soaps, and absorbed the emotions of the characters, however banal or incomprehensible, like a vicarious black hole. The video recorder was permanently set to tape them all, and she watched them over and over again unless she was stopped.

Matthew and his adenoidal friend Sibod were playing a
game which involved much running up and down stairs, slamming doors, and bellowing at each other from opposite ends of the universe. Since the house, built in the worst period of the ‘70s, was only made of cardboard and Sellotape, it trembled like a frightened dik-dik at every adolescent footfall.

Slider fielded Matthew as he thundered past. ‘Are you lot all on your own?’

‘Bernice has just gone,’ Matthew said, already slithering away. He had a child’s ability to remove his bones from a grip, leaving the restrainer with nothing but a handful of clothing. ‘Mummy was supposed to be back by now, and Bernice couldn’t stay any longer.’

‘Have you eaten?’

‘We had Turkey Bites,’ Matthew replied diminuendo as he retreated upstairs.

‘Turkey bites?’ Slider said, baffled. Was that food?

‘And oven chips. Out of the freezer.’ He was almost in his room now. ‘Bernice did them in the microwave,’ he offered, as if it were the clue to the labyrinth, and the door slammed, shutting off any further possibility of communication. Slider, stranded in the hall on his ebbing wave of parental enquiry, looked through the sitting-room door at Kate, but decided against disturbing her. With her head almost in the set, she was far, far away in a sunnier land, pursuing one of girlhood’s most durable dreams in a nurse’s uniform.

He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, and stood leaning against the work surface, his mind for once leaving him alone. The kettle sang companionably, like a cat purring. He would have liked a cat, but Irene always said there was no point when he was barely ever at home, and in any case they were dirty and unhygienic. In vain he pointed out that at least you didn’t have to clean up after them like Kate’s rabbits and Guinea pig – they did it themselves. But Kate’s beasts were kept caged and did it in one place, Irene countered. And in any case, she – Irene – would be the one who’d end up having to look after the thing (which was undeniable) and if she’d wanted a cat she’d have got one for herself long ago. So that was that.

Just as the kettle boiled, there was the sound of a key in
the front door, and Irene’s voice called, ‘Bill? Are you back?’

‘In the kitchen,’ he shouted. She appeared in the doorway, taking off her coat. ‘I didn’t hear your car. You must have had the exhaust fixed.’

‘It’s in the garage. I’m getting it done tomorrow. Marilyn just dropped me off.’

‘Oh,’ said Slider cautiously. ‘I didn’t know you were seeing her today.’ His wife had a bright-eyed and bushy look to her which boded no good. What was it going to be this time? A roof garden? An en-suite bathroom? A two-week bridge-playing holiday in a heritage hotel in Wiltshire?

‘We’ve just been shopping in Watford. She wanted me to help her choose some curtain material for their dining-room.’

And make the curtains, Slider thought, if he knew anything about it. The she-Cripps, though wealthy beyond repair, was not averse from letting Irene save her money through the labour of her nimble fingers. Perhaps she believed that exploitation was the sincerest form of flattery.

‘Are the children all right? Did they have their tea?’

‘Bernice brought them back and gave them Turkey Bites, whatever they are. Out of the freezer.’

‘It’s pieces of turkey breast in breadcrumbs,’ Irene said seriously. She dropped her coat over the back of a chair – a most uncharacteristic gesture – and sat down eater-cornered to him. ‘We had them last week, don’t you remember? With salad. On Tuesday.’

He didn’t remember. Food at home was an exercise in nourishment without tears rather than an occasion to cherish in recollection. ‘Oh, those,’ he said vaguely.

‘The children like them,’ Irene said defensively, ‘and they’re quick.’ She clasped her thin hands together on the table-top. They were always beautifully kept, with perfect, unchipped nail varnish on the neat oval nails. Joanna’s nails had to be cut very short for playing the fiddle, and would have looked wrong painted. He couldn’t imagine Irene’s hand clasped round a pint glass or throwing a dart. She was everything that was ladylike, neat and feminine. Why didn’t he love her? He transferred his gaze from her hands to her face, and found it urgent with hopeful anticipation.

‘Bill,’ she said, ‘you aren’t doing anything tomorrow night, are you?’

‘Why, what’s tomorrow night?’ He said it non-committally, though his heart was sinking. It would be harder to pull the usual piles-of-work excuse if he had already had to agree to whatever it was she wanted him to do with her. And anyway, he didn’t like letting her down at the last minute, especially since he had so often in their lives had to do it legitimately.

‘It’s a concert,’ she said, serenely unaware of what she was doing to his heart rate. ‘The Royal Charity Gala at the Festival Hall – the Duke and Duchess of Kent will be there, and all sorts of celebrities, and there’s a sort of reception afterwards to meet them and some of the orchestra. Marilyn’s got four tickets – well, David has, really. His firm is one of the sponsors. They’re apparently ever so hard to get hold of, the tickets I mean, so I was really flattered when she asked us. Of course I told her I’d have to check with you. I know you’ve got a case on at the moment, but you did say it was going well and you’ve charged a man, and that usually means you’re a bit less pressed. But Marilyn said she’d like me to come even if you’re working, and they’ll just keep the other ticket in case you can make it at the last minute or anything.’

Slider marked time in desperation. ‘It’s rather short notice, isn’t it?’

‘I expect she’s only just got the tickets,’ Irene said trustingly. Only just been let down by the first people she invited, Slider corrected inwardly.

‘How much does she want for them? If it’s a gala, it’ll be expensive.’

‘She doesn’t want
paying
for them,’ Irene said, shocked. ‘She’s invited us as her guests, hers and David’s. It’s a great compliment. Why do you always think the worst of people?’

‘I suppose it is kind of her,’ Slider said reluctantly, desperately searching for an excuse. ‘I don’t know that I’d be very good company, though. You know how tired I get when—’

Irene jumped in, bubbling with excitement and happiness. ‘I know, but you like classical music, much more than I do, really, at least you know more about it, and you wouldn’t have to talk, would you, just sit and listen. It would be
relaxing for you. And, oh Bill, it’s so nice that she’s asked us to something like this, when everyone must be longing to go, if they could only get the tickets! I’d have been glad enough to go on my own, but if you can come it will make it just perfect – you know how awkward I feel when everyone else has a partner and I don’t. And we haven’t been out together for such ages! I’ve only got to ask Bernice to come and sit in with the children, and I can take your dinner suit into that two-hour cleaners in the High Street tomorrow morning, so that’ll be all right.’

‘Dinner suit?’ Slider said dazedly.

‘It is a
Gala,’
she reminded him. ‘Of course it’s black tie! And Marilyn said long dresses,’ she added happily. ‘It’s so nice to have the chance to dress up once in a while, and you look so distinguished in a dinner jacket, it really suits you. People don’t wear evening dress often enough nowadays. Everything’s so casual, it’s a shame. I’ve hardly worn my long dress and I’ve had it five years. I expect Marilyn’s got a dozen of them, she and David go out so much. I just hope it will be warm enough tomorrow night not to wear a coat. I do think a coat looks so silly over an evening dress, unless it’s a fur coat of course, but that’s different. A fur stole would be nice. Marilyn’s got the most beautiful fox cape – David bought it for her for their first wedding anniversary, she told me. I suppose I could wear a shawl if it’s chilly, that would be better than a coat, anyway. I wonder if that one I got in Spain would be all right, or would it look common?’

Slider let the burble pass over his head. This one was going to be a bugger to sort out. He switched his conversation circuits over to automatic pilot and got down to some real industrial-strength worrying.

WDC ‘NORMA’ SWILLEY GLANCED UP
as Atherton came into the CID room, and then as she saw his face she gave him her full sympathetic attention.

‘You look terrible.’

‘I feel terrible,’ he said. ‘It’s a set.’ He slumped down behind his own desk and rubbed his eyes.

‘What time did you go to bed last night?’

‘Oh, two – three. A low number.’

Beevers from across the room made a vulgar noise of appreciation which in written English is usually rendered along the lines of
hooghoooeragh!
‘Ask him what time he went to sleep, though, Norm!’ he advised further. ‘Polish come across at last, then, did she?
Corrhh!
’

Atherton yawned without bothering to stifle it. ‘If I could yawn with my mouth shut,’ he told Beevers conversationally, ‘you’d never know how boring you really are.’

‘It’s funny, you know, Jim,’ Norma said seriously, ‘I had a strange dream last night. I dreamt I was walking along the beach with my mother, and washed up on the shingle there was a huge, bleached Alec Beevers, its white belly glinting in the sun. I said, “Mummy, can I touch it?” And she said, “Be careful, darling, the dullness rubs off.”’