The Immaculate (10 page)

“Yes, you did. So none of that means anything? It doesn't jog any memories?”

Gail handed Jack her empty bowl and drew her knees up under the covers. She wrapped her arms around them and leaned forward, a thoughtful look on her face. Eventually she said, “Nope. Sorry. Jack, just what is this all about?”

He sighed, rubbing a hand slowly across his forehead as if to massage his thoughts, relax them. “I don't really know,” he admitted. “This morning I woke up feeling . . . incredibly uptight, anxious, scared that something bad was going to happen. I still feel it now as a matter of fact. And then, just before you woke up you said that thing about Alice, and . . . oh, I'm probably being stupid, but it seemed . . . linked somehow, as if you were confirming that there was something to worry about.” He snorted a half-laugh through his nose, lips curling stiffly into a smile.

“But who's Alice?” Gail asked. “I don't understand what that's got to do with anything.”

“She's . . . she
was
my mother.”

“Oh,” said Gail, “I see.” A small silence fell between them. Sunlight was seeping around the edges of the curtains, staining the walls like luminous paint. Gail reached out and touched Jack's bare shoulder. He shivered, though her hand was not cold.

“Don't you think you're probably reading too much into all this?” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Alice isn't an uncommon name, is it? Maybe I was dreaming about something I've seen on telly, or
Alice in Wonderland,
or even someone I know.”

“
Do
you know someone called Alice?”

“Well . . . no,” she admitted.

Jack pulled a face as if to say:
I don't like it but that proves my point, don't you think?

“Maybe you told me your mother's name sometime and I kind of stored it in my subconscious.”

“I don't think I've ever told you my mother's name.”

“Yes, but you can't be sure, can you?”

“Pretty sure.”

“But not one hundred percent sure?”

Jack looked unhappy. “Well . . . I suppose not,” he said grudgingly.

“There, you see? Problem solved. You're just getting uptight about nothing.”

“Am I?”

“Of course you are. Sometimes I wake up feeling anxious without knowing why. Everyone does. It's probably some minor physical thing. A surge of some chemical to the brain or something.”

Jack looked unconvinced for a moment, then he shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, you're probably right. Probably just a touch of PMT.”

She giggled. “What's that? Pathetic male tendencies?”

He grinned. “Putrid maggoty tentacles.”

“Yuk, gross,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “How about pink monkey tusks.”

“Peripatetic metamorphic thespians,” he responded immediately.

“Clever sod. Just 'cos you're a writer.” She frowned hard, trying to come up with a suitable riposte, then her face brightened. “No,” she said, “I know what it stands for.”

“What?”

“It stands for Please May-I-have-my Toast?”

Jack laughed loudly, felt the tension easing inside him. “You're brilliant,” he told her.

“True.”

“Except that I haven't made toast today, I've made crumpets.”

“Spoilsport,” she said. Then she unexpectedly lunged for him, wrapping her arms around his neck from behind, her head darting forward, her small but very wet tongue invading his ear. Jack bellowed in mock-disgust and for twenty seconds or so the two of them wrestled on the bed, feet sliding on the duvet. Pillows plumped to the floor, one of them only just missing the breakfast tray. Gail was strong and sinewy; she wriggled out of Jack's grip like a snake, using her long fingers to dig into his waist and tickle, undermining his strength. At last she got on top of him, pinioning his arms to the mattress above his head with her hands. Jack lunged forward and licked her left breast as wetly as he could. Gail squealed, “You beast! You'll suffer for that.”

“Ooh, yes please, mistress. Make me suffer,” Jack wailed, rolling his eyes in exaggerated rapture.

Gail giggled and this time lowered her breasts to his face. Jack closed his mouth over her nipple.

Their lovemaking was unhurried and sensual. Afterwards, Jack's body tingled so much that he couldn't be touched without giggling. They snoozed in the warm afterglow for a while, Gail smiling as she drifted. At last Jack rolled over and murmured, “Gail?”

“Mmm?”

“The tea and crumpets have gone cold.”

“Mmm,” she said again, her eyes still closed, expression unaltered.

“You don't care, do you?” said Jack.

“Mmm.”

“No, you don't. In fact you're not even listening to me, are you?”

“Mmm.”

“No, you're not. I can tell. I think the time has come for you to be told that my real name is Spoof Blixen, and I'm from the planet Zeltoid Magnesium 3. I came to Earth in a spaceship shaped like a giant penguin, which I've cunningly managed to secrete behind the marmalade jar in the cupboard under the kitchen sink. My mission is to make love to every Siberian hamster I can find, introduce the word ‘plaxicrolic' to the English language and wipe out Mexico, thus undermining the world trade in sombreros and enchiladas. What do you think of that?”

“Mmm.”

“Oh, you're no fun. I'm going to have a bath.”

As he lay back in the warm water, steam drifting about him, blurring the mirror into grey marble, Jack was dismayed to find that his unease was returning again. It seeped into his stomach, fluttered in his mind, like a fever re-establishing itself after the temporary panacea of Gail's soothing words and their lovemaking. Was there something he had to do, something vital he'd forgotten, some appointment he was supposed to keep? Sitting up in the bath, he scooped water into his face and over his hair as though he could wash his anxiety away like dirt. He shook his head angrily, creating a spinning halo of droplets that fell in pinpricks on his shoulders. He lathered himself roughly, grumpy at both his sour mood and himself for harbouring it. When he was clean he yanked the plug from the bath and stood up to towel himself dry. Water swirled down the plughole with a sound like a giant sucking liquid through a straw.

He was nearly dry when the telephone rang. The fist in his stomach spasmed so violently that he almost cried out. Something told him he had to answer the phone, had to get to it before Gail stirred from her snooze. He could feel his heart pulsing strongly, felt beads of sweat spring out on his forehead, his body turn clumsy with urgency. He fumbled with the door handle, his hand like something he had to manipulate from afar with a delicate remote control.

“I'll get it!” he yelled, and wrenched the door open. The air outside the bathroom now seemed freezing cold and raised instant goose bumps on his damp flesh. Clutching his towel to his stomach and groin, he ran into his study, his thigh colliding painfully with the jutting edge of a bookcase. He snatched up the telephone receiver, juggled it for a moment in his sweating hand, and then gasped, “Hello?”

There was silence that reeked of surprise. Then a tentative, though imperious, old woman's voice said, “Is that you, Jack?”

“Er . . . yes,” he said, thrown. He knew this voice, but couldn't place it. “Who . . . who is this?” he stammered.

He was not sure whether the person on the other end was amused or hurt by his question. “Can't you tell?”

Suddenly, as if his mind had taken pity on him, her name rose to his lips. “Aunt Georgina?”

“Of course it's me. It's been a long time, hasn't it, Jack? Too long—though you can hardly be blamed for that, I suppose.”

Five minutes later, when he re-entered the bedroom, Gail was still snoozing. However, she came awake immediately as if she'd been jabbed with a sharp stick, took one look at him and said, “Jack, what's the matter?”

He stood in the doorway, face neutral, looking at her. “My father's dead,” he said flatly.

There was a brief shocked silence, then Gail said, “Oh, Jack, I'm so sorry. What . . . what happened?”

He shrugged. “Heart attack, they think.” He crossed the room and sat on the bed, facing away from her. Barking a mirthless laugh, he said, “At least it wasn't lung cancer.”

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head. “Doesn't matter. Private joke.”

“Who was that on the phone?”

“My Aunt Georgina. She looked after me for a while when I was a child. She's my mum's sister. I haven't spoken to her for about three years. She found my dad's body in his living room this morning.”

Gail put her arms around him and hugged him. “Oh, Jack, I'm so sorry,” she repeated.

“Thanks,” he said vaguely. “And it's okay . . . about my father, I mean. We never got on. I haven't spoken to him for about twelve years. I haven't even sent him a Christmas card for about eight.” He swivelled to face her and there was a pained look on his face. “It's just . . . she wants me to go back to Beckford . . . my Aunt Georgina, I mean. She says it's my duty to sort out my father's affairs.”

Gail kissed his nose and said tenderly, “Well, I suppose it is really, isn't it?”

“Yeah, I suppose so, but . . .” His voice tailed off into a sigh, his shoulders slumped.

“What is it, Jack?” Gail said. “What's wrong?”

He sighed, pulled a face. “It's just . . . I don't want to go back there. It's a bad place. For me, I mean. A really bad place.”

He disentangled himself from her embrace, stood up and walked across to the window. Tugging back the curtain, he peered out, sunshine sidling over him and into the room.

Tentatively, Gail said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jack let the curtain fall back into place, turned to face her. “Yeah,” he said bleakly. “I think I'm ready now.”

“I'm not sure how old I was when I first began to realise that my father hated me. Maybe two or three. Or maybe I knew from the moment I was born.”

Jack broke a piece of poppadum from the pile on the plate between them and crunched it. When he spoke it was in a flat, neutral voice, as if divorcing himself from his emotions would allow him to disown his memories.

“Anyway, I remember that my childhood was spent in a state of . . . well, I guess near-panic wouldn't be too strong a phrase. I seemed to be either trying to endure pain as best I could, or waiting for the next pain to happen, which in some ways was worse.”

He broke off again to clear his throat and pour himself a glass of water. The jug wobbled in his hand, slopping water over the tablecloth.

“Shit,” he muttered and half-heartedly began to mop the mess up with a paper napkin, aided by Gail. When he had done he said, “Look, are you sure you want to hear all this? It's not exactly cheerful stuff.”

She reached across the table and took his hands in both of hers. “Listen, buster,” she said firmly, “I love you like crazy and I want to be there for you at all times. I don't want us to have to pretend with each other. If you have a problem or you're feeling crappy, I want to know about it, and I hope that you feel the same about me. I want us to be soulmates, Jack. I want to share everything with you, good and bad.” He must have looked dubious because she said, “I mean it. Honestly, I do. Whether you're a happy chappy or a glum bum, I want to be there.”

Jack looked at her earnest face for a long moment, which seemed elfin in the reddish light of the restaurant. The flickering white image of a candle flame was reflected in the dark pupil of each of her eyes. Then he smiled and said, “I love you.”

“Me too,” she said. “So talk.”

Jack picked a crumb of poppadum from the tablecloth and squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger like a bug. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, resembling a nervous bridegroom who has left his speech in his other suit.

A waiter sidled up with their order. Jack looked glumly at the channa masala, pillau rice, mango chutney and naan that the waiter placed before him. Normally he relished this meal, but just now he didn't feel too hungry.

As though to make up for him, Gail made exaggerated yum-yum noises as her lobster-red tandoori chicken was brought to the table together with a small bowl of salad and an even smaller bowl of raita. Normally she and Jack shared a portion of rice, but from the looks of him she would be scoffing the lion's share this evening.

As they filled their plates from the various bowls, Gail prompted, “Why do you think your father hated you so much?”

Jack grimaced and shrugged, but muttered, “Because he blamed me for the death of my mother. I was a breech birth, you see, and apparently on the night I was born there was a terrible storm, so the doctor was unable to get to the cottage as early as he should have done. Because of the various complications, she died, and . . . well . . . I got the blame for it.”

“But that's awful!” Gail exclaimed. “It wasn't your fault that your mother died.”

Jack simply shrugged and spooned mango chutney onto his plate.

“Surely, though, when your father cooled down he must have realised how unreasonable he'd been?”

“He never did cool down. He ran out of the house into the storm and didn't come back. In the end, my Aunt Georgina had to call the police out to look for him. They found him in the woods, unconscious, lying in mud and soaked to the skin. He was suffering from exposure and concussion and a couple of broken bones. They reckon he must have slipped down a bank and knocked himself out. Aunty looked after me while he was in the hospital, which was about two or three months. He took a long time to come round from his concussion and a longer time for his bones to mend. Aunty always said that at that time she thinks he wanted to die, which is why he took so long to get better. Anyway, he was never the same man after that. He suffered from constant depression, and when he came out of the hospital he hit the bottle hard, which, mixed with the various pills he was taking, meant that he was only half-there most of the time. For the first few years of my life, I was shunted between my father and Aunty. My father was admitted to the hospital a lot, either with his depression or because he'd got drunk and hurt himself in some way.”