The Museum of Doubt Page 19

  Don’t think they’ll be coming down this street again in a hurry, said Kenneth. He reached into his trouser pocket and took out the Stanley knife. That’s a handy piece of equipment, eh.

  Julie put her hand on her mouth and invoked God again. Gordon took the knife from him. Kenneth’s hand was shaking. Gordon wiped the knife carefully with a paper napkin and gave it back to Kenneth.

  Here, he said. Souvenir for you. Kenneth grinned and put it back in his pocket.

  Might as well have something stronger than water, eh, said Gordon, pouring him a big tumbler of Grouse and handing it over.

  Might as well, said Kenneth. He sat down and Julie clung to him.

  Is that blood on your hand? said Julie.

  Kenneth looked at his knuckles. Ah, must’ve been where I hit the boy’s glasses.

  What if he was HIff? said Julie, moving so there was half an inch of air between her and Kenneth all the way down.

  It’s my blood, said Kenneth. I’m not sure they were old enough. I mean of course they were old enough but they didn’t look like poofs or junkies is what I mean. But the menace of them, Jul, the sheer menace. You know you see it on the videos when they come for someone that’s defenceless and they enjoy it, don’t they, they drag it out and they taunt him cause they know he can’t get away. I opened the door and there’s this boy with specs – they weren’t real specs, you understand that, they just wear them with plain glass in, it’s a fashion – and he’s holding out the knife towards me and he says Finished. Like that. Finished. It was a kind of low voice, low and soft at the same time. Low and soft and like cold.

  You’d best all come and get your dinner, said Mary.

  They went through to the dining room and ate smoked salmon. Mary cleared the plates away and brought out a casserole and the police came. Gordon went to the door. It was two constables, a man and a woman. He invited them through to the lounge.

  We were just having dinner, he said.

  Your wife called us, said the man constable.

  You must know my brother Bruce, said Gordon. Bruce Stanefield. He’s CID.

  It’s all under investigation, said the woman constable. We can’t say anything just now. I’m sure he’ll be back at work soon enough.

  He’s on full pay while he’s suspended, said Gordon.

  I never knew him personally, said the man.

  I wondered whether maybe the lads were getting together some kind of support fund for his family while he’s suspended, said Gordon. I’d like to contribute. He pulled a folded 50-pound note out of his pocket and held it in the air between the three of them. Nobody said anything for a bit.

  Kind of support fund, said Gordon again.

  We’re from the uniform branch, said the man. You should go to plain clothes directly. He glanced at the woman. Right Wendy?

  Aye. You’re best going to them, Mr Stanefield. See we’re not supposed to carry messages from the general public. I know the DI’s your brother and that but there’s all sorts of rules about us taking money, eh Lindsay.

  Fair enough then, said Gordon, putting the note away. Was it my son you were wanting to see? It was his car got its tyres slashed.

  Aye. Aye, said Lindsay. Only we got another call from your neighbours up the road, the Willmans, saying your son beat up their kids. They came home with their faces all bruised. And the kids say it was you that slashed the tyres.

  It’s awful cold out tonight. I’m not a young man. I’m a pensioner. Where’s the motive, eh, son? Where’s my motive?

  You understand we had to ask, Mr Stanefield, said Wendy.

  You know the things kids’ll say.

  Och yes but we had to ask, said Lindsay.

  That’s OK, said Gordon. I went out to check my son’s car was OK and I saw these two shadowy figures slashing the tyres and I went back inside.

  Could you give us a description?

  No. They were like I said shadowy. But I remember there was this strong smell of burning leaves.

  You don’t think your son’d mind popping down to the station with us for a chat?

  It’s not the best time but what can you do? I’ll go and fetch him.

  He’s never been known to be violent, has he? Aggressive?

  Kenneth? Our Kenneth? Aggressive? The boy couldn’t punch his way out of a meringue cake.

  Right.

  That’s maybe why he carries a knife in his pocket. Self-defence, I suppose.

  A hunting knife?

  No, nothing like that. One of those DIY tools, what’s it called, a Henley knife. I mean when you’ve had a bit to drink like he has tonight you can lower your guard maybe and then you need some extra protection, right.

  The constables stood up and put their hats on. If you’d just fetch him, said Lindsay.

  Gordon went back to the dinner table. They want you to nip down the station with them, he said to Kenneth.

  You what? I just about got fucking killed back there.

  Language, Kenneth, said Mary.

  I can’t help it, Mum, you know that, when I feel strongly about something. I haven’t even started on the casserole. They should be out chasing the psychopaths that slashed my tyres.

  They’ll be wanting a statement, I suppose, said Mary. You remember how your uncle Bruce used to operate.

  Christ if Uncle Bruce had anything to do with it I’d need a crash helmet before I went down there.

  That’s no way to speak about your uncle. He’s twice the brains his brother has and it’s not his fault about the alkie.

  Can I go with him? said Julie.

  Best not, said Gordon. They’ll bring him back soon enough.

  I’m not budging, said Kenneth.

  Don’t worry, we’ll look after Julie, said Gordon. You’d both best spend the night here, you can have the spare room.

  Maybe they could interview you here, said Mary.

  I’m not going anywhere, said Kenneth. He started cutting up a piece of meat on his plate.

  They’d think you were hiding something if you didn’t go, said Gordon. That’s what I’d think.

  It’s really delicious this, Mum, said Kenneth.

  Might affect your insurance, said Gordon.

  OKAY! shouted Kenneth, throwing his knife and fork on the floor. OKAY! I’LL GO, RIGHT? Keep your bloody shirts on. He stomped out. They followed him. The police were waiting in the hall. Their blue lights flashed through the glass in the door.

  Mr Stanefield? said Lindsay.

  OK, I’m coming, I’m coming, said Kenneth. This’d better not take long.

  Gordon caught Wendy’s eye and made a gesture. It’ll be all right, he said. That shouting was completely out of character. He didn’t think, the wee brat’d never been able to hold his drink. God if his brother’d been on duty he’d have been on the phone, out with the balaclavas and teach his nephew the difference between a boy and a man and not to poach his elders’ and betters’ women.

  You’ll bring him back, won’t you? said Julie to Wendy.

  Of course, said Wendy. It’s all routine. They went out to the police car and drove away.

  I’ll get a taxi home, said Julie.

  You will not, said Gordon. You’ll stay here with us till Kenneth gets back. We can’t have you sitting at home on your own worrying about him.

  I should have gone with him.

  Gordon’s right, love, said Mary, looking at Gordon and narrowing her eyes. Come on and we’ll have some Bailey’s and coffee. We’ve got some Amaretto if you want.

  Gordon yawned and stretched. I’m off to bed, he said.

  At ten o’clock? said Mary.

  It’s been a long day.

  You didn’t get up till half nine this morning.

  I’ve been to work.

  You haven’t been to work. You haven’t got any work. You’re retired. Never mind him, Julie, let’s go through and get a drink.

  Night night, said Gordon.

  Night, said Julie, looking over her shoulder at him and smiling. Gord
on went upstairs to the room where he’d left the drill, picked a spot at eye level and began drilling a hole in the wall. The work went well. In a minute he’d penetrated the first layer of plaster. He got stuck in a bit of timber. Christ why did they not just make walls with holes in so folk could watch each other? They did it with doors. He moved a few inches and started on another hole. This was the one. Straight through.

  What the hell are you doing to my walls? said Mary.

  Oh fucking shite Smithie, can you no leave me alone even for a minute? said Gordon, stopping the drilling, leaving the bit stuck in the plaster.

  I’m not Smithie. I’m Mary, your wife. Smithie’s dead. D’you not remember? He stuck a shotgun in his mouth and blew his head off. Mary came over and took the drill out of the wall.

  These lovers, eh, said Gordon, putting his hands in his pockets and looking at her, puckering his lips. How’d she crept up on him like that? Jungle training she had. Moving without the snap of a twig. She’d been practising. While he’d been out on the golf course she’d been practising moving silently round the house. It wasn’t fair.

  You won’t get a glimpse of Julie’s knickers that way, said Mary, leaning against the doorframe and toying with the drill. It’s all fitted wardrobes on the other side.

  Gordon sat down on the chair at Kenneth’s old desk. There was still that Iron Maiden poster hung up over it. The boy’d never had a poster of a lassie hung up there and he got a Julie. The injustice of it was so terrible Gordon felt like greeting.

  These lovers, eh, he said, turning to Mary. How old it is.

  Pure

  Gordon woke up. There’d been a dream with a white and mint-fresh-green plastic cover for a domestic appliance with an insect stuck in a crevice inside which he’d been trying to get out with the end of a spoon handle. That’d gone on too long. Mary was up and moving about. It was barely light. Gordon just opened his eyes so’s he’d be able to see but they’d still look shut. Mary was lying on the floor on her back, holding her knees in her hands and pulling them down towards her. She pulled and grunted with the effort and rocked back and forth for a second and let the knees go. She did it again. She could have put a tracksuit on. The thighs on her.

  Give us a break, eh, said Gordon.

  It’s my back, said Mary. I can’t sleep, I have to do my exercises.

  What’s the time?

  Half seven.

  Jesus.

  I’ve told you, it’s bloody sore. You’ve never had back problems.

  I have so.

  There’s no justice. You haven’t got piles or heart disease or arthritis and you’re the biggest bastard I know.

  I get headaches.

  Aye, you know what that is? That’s your brain stotting against your skull, trying to escape.

  I was dreaming.

  Oh aye. What about?

  Plastic.

  Mary pulled her knees tightly down towards her chest and grunted through clenched teeth.

  There’s been no word from Kenneth, she said.

  Eh?

  Kenneth, your son Kenneth.

  There was something good in this, a prize, something that came before the plastic. What was it? Gordon turned over and put his arm out onto the quilt.

  He should’ve called. They’re allowed a phone call.

  Who? Gordon had something hell of a good coming to him but what form it was there was no remembering. He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips.

  Kenneth. That’s nine hours he’s been down there now. Julie’ll be worried sick.

  Gordon swung out of the quilt, stood up and made a run for the door. When he got there Mary was already leaning against it with her arms folded.

  She’ll be wanting her breakfast, said Gordon.

  You can’t even open a yoghurt carton.

  I can.

  Aye, I’ve seen you. With your teeth. From the bottom. Why can’t you leave her alone? She’s not for you. You won’t get in to see her, she’s locked in. Get dressed and come down.

  Where’s the key?

  Mary shook her head, put on an acrylic dressing gown with pictures of pagodas on it and went out of the room. Gordon put on blue jeans and a cream polo shirt and a light blue Lacoste cardigan and went to the door of Julie’s room. He turned the doorhandle and pushed. It was locked. He knocked.

  Julie! he said.

  Hello, said Julie from far away, like she was half under the covers still, like he’d woken her.

  Can I get you something?

  No, I’ll come down.

  Kenneth’s on the phone.

  Right, she said, I’ll take it here. Sure enough there was a phone in the room, the planning of it was meticulous from beginning to end. He was in the hands of a master. What was the use. He started off downstairs, hearing her pick the phone up and say hello and hello and put it down and call out to him that they must have been cut off, she’d come down. He shook his head and laughed and kicked the skirting board with the toe of his slipper as he came round into the hall.

  In the kitchen Mary was putting orange halves onto a machine which was making them into juice.

  Can I have a shot? said Gordon.

  Your paper’s on the table. What d’you want to eat?

  Kippers. Gordon sat down and picked up the paper.

  Kippers. Mary laughed. I’ll make you some bacon and eggs.

  Julie’s greeting and screaming upstairs cause you locked her in. Where’s the key?

  Screaming is she, said Mary, clenching her teeth as she pressed the fruit onto the growling spindle.

  Give us the key, eh, I’ll go up and let her out.

  D’you want juice?

  No. Gordon found the obituaries column in the paper. He grinned. Hey Smithie, he said, mind that old cunt used to teach us Latin?

  Mary turned round with a gouged-out half-orange in her hand. Looking at Gordon she took hold of the lapel of her dressing gown, put the orange down, reached in and took out her left breast. The broad puckered brown nipple stared at Gordon.

  I’m not Smithie, Gordon, Mary said. He was a man. He didn’t have any of these. D’you see that? D’you understand what I’m saying?

  I’d forgotten you had them on you, said Gordon.

  I know you did, said Mary, tucking her breast in and going back to the oranges. You forget too much. People who’ve forgotten a good sight less than you are bouncing round the Royal Ed. And I won’t have you using words like cunt in my kitchen either.

  How––

  And you don’t speak a word of Latin.

  I do: Friends, Romans, countrymen. Listen if Smithie had a shotgun how come he never gave me a shot?

  Julie came in. Has Kenneth not called back? she said.

  How did you get out? said Gordon.

  Out of what? said Julie.

  Your door was locked.

  I’m sorry. It’s a habit from hotels. I always lock the door. I can’t sleep otherwise.

  Might have been a fire, said Gordon. Here, come and sit down. He grabbed a chair and pulled it close to him, patting the seat. Julie glanced at Mary and took another chair at the far corner of the table. Mary put a glass of orange juice and a toast rack in front of her.

  Julie, I should have said, borrow some of my clothes, said Mary. You don’t want to be wearing that nice dress two days running.

  She does, said Gordon.

  Shut up, said Mary. Just go up to our room, my clothes are in the units on the left, and help yourself. Pair of jeans probably for a Sunday.

  Thanks Mrs Stanefield.

  Mary.

  I’ll go and help, said Gordon, getting up and lunging forward. Mary pulled a knife from a mahogany block on the sideboard and flung it at the floor. It landed upright in the parquet tiles just in front of Gordon’s foot and quivered there, the blade imbedded half an inch into the wood. The three of them looked down at it.

  Slipped out of my hand, I’m sorry, said Mary. Away you go upstairs, Julie. Gordon stood and watched his wife wh
ile she came over, tugged the knife out and put it back in its place. She’d been practising. Well then, if that was the way of it, two could play at that game. Once he found out what game it was he’d be onto them like he used to be. But did she have to take those legs away? They were so long and smooth. One wee stroke was all he’d been after. He sat down and opened the paper.

  Need to go up the garden centre again, he said.

  What for?

  What not for!

  How about Kenneth?

  Ah, he’ll not want to come.

  He’s at the police station still. D’you not think they should have let him out by now? I’ll take the car and go round there with Julie.

  I’ll take her.

  Mary didn’t say anything. She broke eggs into the frying pan. After a while she said: I’ll put any money on those refugees for the ones slashed Kenneth’s tyres.

  Gordon was reading the livestock prices. What a bargain a sheep was! So much cheaper to buy a whole one at the auctions than get it in penny packets at the superstore. They knew how to screw the punters right enough. Maybe there was some angle in there for a middleman with a bit of capital.

  Andrew said he’d see they never got permission to put them there, said Mary. And then look. Outvoted on the committee. We’ll all be murdered in our beds. What’s his name that Shiltie calls himself a Christian minister and he fills our church hall with foreigners. If folk want to be refugees they can do it in their own country. We never got German refugees coming over here during the war.

  She put bacon rashers into the pan and they sprayed out fat loudly. Gordon looked up.

  You’d be better buying a whole one, he said.

  A whole what, said Mary. Here’s your coffee.

  Julie came in and sat down. She was wearing a pair of Mary’s jeans and one of her black handknitted jumpers that looked liked it’d been caught on the barbed wire trying to get away. Gordon glanced at her and looked back to the paper. The jeans and the jumper were baggy on her. It wasn’t the same Julie as it’d been with the legs and the dress and the breasts and the lips and the arse on her. It was a different lassie. It was a skinny girl with her hair out of place not knowing where she was or what she wanted. How could Smithie take that Julie with the legs away without her being dead and without there being two of them, it was like there was only one of them at the heart of it all but they’d gone off on different roads, the Julie of the black dress on one by herself without Gordon, to a place he couldn’t go, and the Julie of the baggy jeans with Gordon and Mary, getting older and more vulnerable to attack with every passing day. It was awful quiet in the kitchen, why was that? He coughed.