The Bursar's Wife (22 page)

* * *

I got into Quintin’s apartment easily enough, but once inside it was dark and I didn’t want to put on the lights as I knew they were visible from the street. I let my eyes grow accustomed to the dark and then felt my way to one of the vertical blinds and pulled the cord to open them. That let in enough light to reveal an open plan living area furnished with ultra-modern pieces of leather, steel and glass. The end I was standing in was the seating area with a view over the river to the city. There were two large sofas facing each other separated by a glass coffee table. The other side of the space had a glass and steel dining table surrounded by uncomfortable-looking chairs. A dresser and a drinks cabinet stood either side of an arched doorway through which I could see stainless steel work units and an enormous American-style fridge. No desk, no bookshelves, no pictures anywhere. One of the walls had a giant flat screen hanging on it with a home theatre system underneath and another arched doorway next to it led to blackness.

I made my way through it and peered into the gloom. There were four doors off a hallway, the first of which turned out to be a large bathroom, the floor and wall done in what looked like black marble. The second door revealed a large bedroom with an enormous bed, a walk-in wardrobe with some nice dark suits and pressed shirts hanging in it, a rack of neatly hung ties and another of belts with shiny buckles. There were a couple of drawers with carefully folded designer boxers and balled socks arranged by colour.

I opened the drawer in the bedside table – nothing in it. The room was devoid of interest: no papers, no receipts in the bin, nothing in the en-suite all-white bathroom except expensive toiletries (all of the same brand) and a stack of very soft and very big white towels.

The third door along the hall was locked, so I moved to the fourth, which opened into what looked like an office. Against one wall stood a large glass drawer-less desk with a very big LCD monitor, keyboard and mouse on it. The computer itself was humming away underneath but the monitor was black. I moved the mouse and a small box came up on the screen asking for a password. A solid wooden cabinet stood against another wall, with two doors and two drawers underneath. I opened one drawer: it was full of neatly arranged computer discs, CDs or DVDs in transparent plastic sleeves, all labelled with a six-digit serial number and nothing else. Maybe, unlike me, he was anal about his backups, although there must have been a hundred or so disks. I chose the one from the front, took it out of its transparent sleeve and put it inside the cover of
The Cynic, the Rat and the Fist
that was in my coat pocket, so that it was underneath the DVD. I stuck the empty sleeve at the back of the drawer so it wouldn’t be noticed. The other drawer had VHS tapes in it, again with serial numbers.

Opening the cabinet doors above the drawers I was taken aback; it was the first bit of colour I’d seen in what was a monochrome apartment – the varied colour of a hundred or so DVD case spines. I pulled one out, called
Behind The Green Door
, a topless woman looking out from the cover. Out of habit I checked the credits; it was made in 1972. Another called
Insatiable
, a woman in cut-off jeans and nothing else, her back to the camera and looking over her shoulder, made in 1980. Another,
The Devil in Miss Jones
, circa 1973. Its cover showed a woman holding a snake near her face, sticking her tongue out at it.

“Hello.”

My heart jumped into my throat and I spun round, knowing from the accent who it was. Quintin Boyd stood leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, the very picture of calm. He smiled.

QUINTIN BOYD LOOKED AT THE DVD IN MY HANDS.

“Ah, I see you’ve found one of my favourites. By the guy who made
Deep Throat
, but I believe this to be the better film.” He walked towards me, completely relaxed, and held out his hand for the DVD case.

I gave it to him and he examined it as if seeing it for the first time. “There were six sequels made, none of them of course matching up to the raw appeal of this one. Excuse me.”

I stepped aside and he put the film carefully back in its place, arranging the DVDs so the spines were all flush. I could see that he owned all the sequels of the film.

“They knew how to make adult films then, George – you don’t mind if I call you George? There was a story to the action, a reason for the sex. Nowadays you can go on the web and just watch people fucking – it lacks context. Anyone can upload video of themselves having sex, but where’s the story?” He closed the cabinet. “Shall we talk in the other room?”

I followed him to the door. “Take Miss Jones for instance. She’s depressed at the start of the film, because her life is so boring, and commits suicide. At the pearly gates she meets Saint Peter and discovers that because she’s committed suicide, she’s going to end up in hell. She asks to be allowed to go back to earth as the embodiment of lust so that she can at least go to hell for good reason, right? And not just because she was bored with life.” We came through the archway into the now lit living room. The besuited thin man was standing at the front door, his flick knife in his hand. “I think you’ve met,” Quintin said casually beside me.

The thin man grinned.

“We’ve not been formally introduced,” I said, “but he showed me his knife.”

Quintin gestured to the sofa. “Please, sit down.”

I played along and sat down as if I’d just arrived for dinner, which is how he seemed to be treating my presence. He sat opposite me and crossed his legs, centring the crease on his trousers with manicured fingers. He was handsome, but carried it as if it wasn’t his fault, just something he had to bear. The thin man dragged a dining chair over the hardwood floor to the front door and Quintin winced at the sound.

“So, where were we?”

“You were telling me about Miss Jones,” I said.

“Ah yes. Miss Jones is granted a certain period alive to be as depraved as possible, which of course provides for some entertaining scenes.” He smiled and those dimples I’d seen in his photo came to life. “Eventually her time on earth comes to an end, but not before she has, of course, become a voracious sex addict. She’s now ready to go to hell, happy in the knowledge that she’s really earned it. She meets Saint Peter again and now she’s worried, deciding all of a sudden that she doesn’t want an eternity of physical pain. He reassures her that there will be nothing of the sort, that physical pain is simply a mistaken impression of hell held by the living. So she goes to hell and finds herself locked in a room with a man. Maybe, she thinks, she can have more sex after all. The problem is the guy spends his time looking for imaginary flies, and is completely disinterested in her.” He made more dimples. “So that was her punishment, George, to be stuck in a room with a man who didn’t want to fuck her despite her desperate need. That was her hell.” He uncrossed his legs and leant forward. “Now you tell me someone would think of making that sort of adult film today. No, sir. It could have been written by Sartre or Beckett.” He spread his arms along the back of the sofa. The smile disappeared.

“But, George, you didn’t break in to admire my film collection. Tell me why you’re here.”

“I’m just interested in renting one of these flats out, so I thought I’d take a look.”

“Don’t fuck with me, George. I’ll call your quaint cops and get them to come and pick you up. In fact in the eyes of the law I might be justified in using reasonable force to protect myself and my property.”

“Go ahead and call the police,” I said, ignoring his threat of violence. I gestured to the man at the door. “Maybe they’d be interested in what your employee was doing Wednesday evening, when my employee had his fingers broken.” Quintin smiled. He got up and went to the drinks cabinet near the dining table.

“What’s your poison, George?” he asked, his back to me. “I’ve even got some Armenian brandy, not bad at all.” I glanced at the thin man who was sitting in front of the door cleaning his nails with the end of his stiletto. I couldn’t risk trying to get past him with that thing.

“Whisky is good,” I said, sitting back in the sofa; the wine I’d had earlier had been scared out of me when Quintin had appeared at the door. I felt for my mobile phone, more as a reassurance than anything.

“Bourbon OK?” He asked, his back to me.

“Yes, but no ice.”

“Well done, sir.” He came over with two amber-filled glasses and handed me one. “This is Eagle Rare Single Barrel, none of that Jack Daniels crap everyone here thinks is bourbon.” He sat down. “Let’s discuss this sensibly,
mano-a-mano
.” He raised his glass and drank. I did the same. I didn’t think much of the Eagle Rare. It tasted too salty.

“I knew your father at Morley,” he said. “Kockers, we used to call him. He used to clean up after our gatherings.” He grinned, waiting for a reaction, but I didn’t oblige. “And now here you are, like father like son, cleaning up after other people’s messes. Sylvia’s on this occasion, right? She always was one to make a mess.” He looked down at his drink as if to contemplate its appeal. “You’ve been poking your nose in my business, George, and I’m entitled to know what it is you want, or what Sylvia wants since she’s employed you.” Every time he mentioned her name his full mouth twisted briefly into a smile. I swear he didn’t know he was doing it.

“Why don’t you just ask her?” I said. His lips pursed as if he was considering the possibility.

I drank some more salty whisky.

“Did she send you up here to look for something?”

I decided to follow some of my own advice to others and directly ask the question I wanted an answer to. “What is it you want with Lucy, Mr Boyd? Surely you can see the anguish you’re causing her mother by seeing her.”

He looked surprised then laughed. A forced, harsh laugh that made me feel very tired.

“My dear Kockers Junior, you’re completely out of your depth, aren’t you? You haven’t got a fucking clue what’s going on. Sylvia hasn’t told you anything, you sap.” My tongue felt very thick, like my brain. Quintin was difficult to bring into focus.

“Are… you… shleeping… with… Lucy?”

He smiled, and what I thought he said was, “I suppose that could be considered your business, but not Sylvia’s.” He then said something else but I couldn’t make out his words at all.

Fuck and bugger it.

Salty drink, George. What’s your poison, George. I put the whisky carefully onto the coffee table and took out my mobile phone. Someone would need to pick me up; I needed to get back to Nina’s or go home to bed. But my fingers were unusually large and I couldn’t work the buttons. Quintin leant over the coffee table to take the phone gently from my hands.

I desperately needed to lie down, so I did.

* * *

Someone was doing DIY in my head, knocking through from one hemisphere of my brain to the other, trying to make an open-plan brain. I was lying down at least, on my side. I opened my eyes; I was hemmed in, seemingly by a wall of fabric. It smelled familiar. My feet came up against something when I tried to stretch my legs out and I was hit with a panic of being boxed in or even buried alive. I sat up quickly, only to find myself on the back seat of the Golf. Someone was tapping at the window but I couldn’t see them due to condensation. Although my raincoat was over me I was cold. I rubbed the window and saw Eric looking in. I wound it down and let in a blast of cold air.

“You alright, son?” I had no saliva and words came out unformed. The bastard had slipped something into my whisky, probably GHB given the salty taste. Eric opened the door. I sat up and groaned at the pain in my stitched shoulder; I’d been lying on it.

“You must have really overdone it last night, son.”

“How long have I been here?”

“It’s six-thirty in the morning, I’m just on my way home.” Jesus, just how long had I been out here?

“Did you see them bring me out?” I asked.

He glanced back at River Views and then at me. “No,” he said, before disappearing from the window. I felt in my raincoat pocket for my car keys, but pulled out my house keys with Boyd’s apartment keys tangled up with them. If Quintin and his henchman had searched me they must have thought they were mine.

* * *

I desperately needed a piss. When I put the keys in my raincoat pocket I felt a piece of paper. I pulled it out to find a folded A5 sheet that when opened revealed a photo of myself passed out on Quintin’s sofa. On the table before me was a sex toy, standing obscenely upright. Underneath the photo was printed: “Next time we use this on you.” I got out and looked up at the penthouse. The lights were on behind the blinds. I thought about going back up there but my head and legs had nothing in them and I couldn’t even formulate what I would say, never mind get up there to say it. I relieved myself leaning against the wall behind a white van, my urine splashing onto my shoes and billowing steam in the cold air. Then I ripped up the photo and scattered the tiny pieces around. Afterwards I sat behind the wheel of the Golf and found the car keys were in the ignition. Something dug against my armpit when I moved to start the engine. It was the DVD case I’d taken to my aborted date with Nina. Inside, still underneath my DVD, was the disc I’d swiped from Quintin’s office. Just a serial number on it. My shoulder throbbed like an idling motorbike with no exhaust, keeping time with my head. I was worried that the stitches had come undone when I’d been manhandled to the car. I could go to Kamal’s, but I couldn’t face another badgering about going to the police, and his pork-sewing flatmate might still be at work or might just have gone to bed after a night shift. Sandra might be up; she didn’t work Friday nights so she could be on the ball Saturday for Ashley. I put the car gently into gear and moved slowly off.

IT WAS SEVEN WHEN SANDRA OPENED THE DOOR IN HER FLUFFY
bathrobe. Her hair was still wet and she was makeup free. She looked pissed off for a second before looking me up and down.

“Jesus, you look like shit.”

“I look better than I feel.”

She helped me take off my raincoat and we went through to the kitchen. I explained briefly where I’d come from and what had happened last night, leaving out my aborted date with Nina.