Fine Lines

by Simon Beckett

  I mean, I've seen her upset before, but never anything like that. It was frightening." I felt a sly satisfaction that she also had to cal for help. "Is she any better now?"

  "Wel , the doctor gave her a sedative, and that quietened her down a bit. She's sleeping now, thank God. That's probably the best thing for her. I'm going to stay tonight. I don't think its a good idea to leave her on her own. I mean, I'm not saying she'l do anything, but someone should be here in case she gets hysterical again."

  "What about tomorrow?" I felt panic at the thought of having to cope with Anna like that on my own.

  "I've got the morning off, but I've real y got to go to work in the afternoon. But I phoned her parents, and her mother's going to come over at dinnertime. I'm glad, because Anna real y needs someone looking after her until she gets over this. I mean, al the pressure she's been under lately, she was bound to crack sooner or later. I've seen it coming. She's been bottling it up for weeks, and I suppose yesterday must just have been too much for her. You know, knowing that was when they should have gone to the States. It's like that was her cut-off point, or something. I've tried to tel her it doesn't mean anything, but she won't listen. She's convinced now that Marty must be dead, and it's not as if you can say much to reassure her, is it? I mean, what can you say? It doesn't look very good, does it?" I was not going to be drawn into that. "How long is Anna's mother staying for?"

  "Oh, she's not staying. She's going to take Anna home with her."

  "Home?" I echoed.

  "To Cheltenham." That was something I had not expected. "How long for?"

  "I don't know. Until she gets her head together, I suppose." Something in my voice must not have sounded quite right. "You don't mind, do you? Her taking time off, I mean?"

  "Good Lord, no. Of course not. As you say, she needs someone to look after her." It was easier to sound blase than to feel it. The thought of a separation, possibly of weeks, left me with a hol ow feeling in my stomach. I told myself that I had to al ow for some period of adjustment, and that a complete change of scene might make Anna recover al the more quickly.

  But that did little to make me feel any happier.

  The prospect of life without Anna, even for a short time, was awful to contemplate.

  I went to see her before she left the next morning. Debbie answered the door. "How is she?" I asked, keeping my voice low. "She seems better. Not hysterical like yesterday, anyway. Just quiet, like she's in shock or something. Her mother's here."

  We went into the lounge. Anna was on the settee. I was shocked by the change in her. She looked paler and more lifeless than ever. She gave me a watery smile that flickered out almost immediately. Her mother was sitting close by. By contrast she seemed to dominate the entire room before she even spoke. Large and buxom, even her floral print dress shrieked and demanded attention.

  "I'm pleased to meet you Mr. Ramsey," she said when Debbie introduced me. "I've heard a lot about you." I made the usual self-deprecating sounds. Her hand felt dry and cool, almost leathery. "How are you feeling, Anna?" I asked.

  "Okay." Another weak smile.

  "Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Ramsey?" Her mother asked. She did not wait for an answer. "Debbie, would it be too much to ask you to put the kettle on? I'm sure we could al do with a cup before we go."

  "I'l do it," Anna said, starting to get up. Her mother put a hand on her arm.

  "No, that's al right darling. I'm sure Debbie won't mind. Wil you, dear?" Debbie clearly did. Letting her face show her objection, she turned to me.

  "Would you like a cup, Donald?"

  "Please. If it's no trouble."

  "Actual y, I think I'l have coffee," Anna's mother said. "Wake me up for the drive home. Haifa sugar, please." Stony-faced, Debbie left the room. Mrs. Palmer smiled at me, the master of ceremonies. "I hope we've not taken you from your work. From what I hear, you've been giving up enough of your time as it is."

  "No, not real y."

  "I'm sure you're just saying that." She turned her domineering attention to her daughter. "Anna, darling, while Debbie's putting the kettle on, why don't you finish packing? Then we can al sit down together."

  "There isn't much left to do."

  "No, I know dear, but once it's done it's done, isn't it? Then we're ready to leave whenever we feel like it." Without further argument, Anna mechanical y rose and left the room. Her mother waited until the door had closed and then turned back to me. "I'd like to thank you for what you've done for Anna. From what she and Debbie have told me, you've been a great help."

  "There's not real y been very much I could do."

  "Nonsense. You've supported her, that's something. And then there was the detective. Why Anna didn't come to her father and me, I don't know. She's such an independent girl. But if you tel me how much it was, I'l write you a cheque. There's no reason why you should have to pay for it."

  "That's not necessary."

  "Of course it is! You've done quite enough for Anna as it is. Now you must tel me how much it was." It was easy to see why Anna had not wanted to involve her parents earlier. It would have been a constant battle not to be swamped. "No, it's quite al right. Real y."

  "I insist."

  "So do I. It was the least I could do." I smiled, but my tone was firm. I was not going to let this woman railroad me.

  "Oh." She seemed nonplussed at being refused. "Wel , I suppose if you're adamant, there's nothing I can do about it. Thank you. That's very decent of you." She sighed. I sensed a change of tack. "It's quite a mess, isn't it?"

  "I'm afraid so." She lowered her voice as a concession to privacy. "What do you think about it al , Mr. Ramsey?"

  "I real y don't know. I'm not sure what to think, to be honest."

  "No, it is rather worrying, isn't it? I must say, when Anna first cal ed and said Marty had vanished, I thought it was a lot about nothing. Wel , no, that sounds cal ous. I don't mean it was nothing to Anna, but I thought he had simply left her. And to be perfectly honest, although I wouldn't say this to her, I wasn't particularly sorry. I wasn't happy about her going to America in the first place.

  It was so rushed. Meeting someone one minute, living with them the next. And then planning to move abroad with them. Perhaps I'm old-fashioned, but it al seemed a bit premature to me. Do you know what I mean?" I inclined my head, noncommittal y She took it as agreement. "I said from the start that it wouldn't last. Not to Anna, of course.

  I knew better than that. But it struck me as being ... wel , a bit unrealistic, shal we say? So when I heard he'd gone, I thought, "Oh wel , it's probably for the best. Better now than later."

  I could not have agreed more. But loyalty to Anna prevented me from saying so.

  "But now it's gone on for this long without hearing anything," she continued, "It does rather make you wonder exactly what's happened to him, doesn't it? He'd have to be very cruel not to get in touch with Anna at al , and he never struck me as being like that. Then again, I must admit I hardly knew him. They kept themselves to themselves." She paused. I waited for the next question. "What did you make of him, Mr. Ramsey, if you don't mind my asking? You probably knew him better than I did." I answered careful y. "I only knew him through Anna, so I can't claim any deep insight. But he never struck me like that, either." She sighed again. I thought I detected a shade of disappointment. "No, that's what I thought. But as you say, you only knew him through Anna.

  And when al 's said and done, even she had only known him for a matter of months. Less than a year, anyway. I might be being cynical, but I don't think that's real y long enough to know everything about someone, no matter how much you think you do." I looked thoughtful, but said nothing. "Do you think he might have left her for someone else?" she asked, after a moment.

  "I don't know. Anna doesn't seem to think so, and I suppose she should know better than anyone." She looked at me rather archly. "Wel . That depends." She leaned closer. When she spoke again, her voice was hushed, as though she were in church. "I gather th
e police think he might have been homosexual." I noticed how she used the past tense. "I don't think they've actual y said that in so many words," I said, "But ..." I shrugged. She nodded as though I had confirmed her suspicions.

  "I must say, that was something that had never occurred to me. But it does make you think, doesn't it? It opens up al sorts of possibilities." I did not comment. This was obviously not good enough for her. She pressed further. "Do you think that might.. . wel , might have anything to do with what's happened?"

  "I real y wouldn't like to say."

  "No, of course not." She hesitated. "But what do you think? Do you think he might have been that way inclined?" I thought back to when I had encouraged Zeppo to that same point of view. "I'm sure Anna would have realised if he was." Now there was no mistaking her disappointment. "Not necessarily. It's not the sort of thing one advertises, is it? A friend of mine was married for twenty years, and never knew her husband was a transvestite until she found him in her clothes one day." She seemed almost as much of a homophobe as Marty's father. "I don't think there was ever any suggestion that Marty wore Anna's clothes."

  "No, I'm sure there wasn't. But he did go to those nightclubs, didn't he? And Anna only had his word for what happened." She gave me a meaningful look. "It does seem a bit peculiar, don't you think?" It appeared I had met someone whose antipathy to Marty matched my own.

  But I did not want to compromise myself by agreeing with her. My loyalties lay with her daughter, and I was not sorry when Debbie saved me from answering by returning with the tea.

  And Mrs. Palmer's coffee. With half a sugar.

  Anna was summoned from the bedroom by Debbie, at her mother's command.

  Mrs. Palmer commandeered the conversation, and I was happy to let her.

  The occasional comment from either Debbie or myself was enough to keep her commentary running. Anna said nothing. She did not appear to be listening.

  Final y, putting her mug down I noticed Debbie had given her a chipped one Anna's mother announced that it was time to go. My tea was unfinished and so was Debbie's. Anna's remained untouched.

  I had managed to avoid thinking about Anna leaving until then.

  Suddenly, I felt the pit drop out of my stomach.

  "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay for lunch?" I asked.

  "No, thank you al the same. I don't want to hit the rush hour."

  "You'l have plenty of time. And I think you'l find the rush hour lasts al day." Mrs. Palmer would not be put off. "We'd stil better be making tracks. The sooner we go, the sooner we'l get there." With this homily, she began preparations for their departure.

  These consisted of instructing Anna to fetch her cases from the bedroom, and Debbie to take the mugs back into the kitchen. "Give them a quick rinse while you're there, wil you dear?" she asked. I was permitted to remain while she busied herself poring deeply into her handbag and renewing her lipstick and powder.

  We left the flat. I carried Anna's suitcase downstairs and packed it in the boot of her mother's Volvo. Debbie hugged her and gave her a kiss: I stood back, uncertainly. Anna came and put her arms around me.

  She was on the verge of crying again. "Thanks, Donald. I don't know what I'd have done without you." I patted her back. She let go and climbed into the car. I waved as they pul ed away, and then they were gone.

  Debbie snorted, angrily. "God, I pity poor Anna, having her for a mother. I mean, what did her last slave die of?" I did not answer. I was too choked to speak.

  Chapter Twenty

  Anna was away for much longer than the two or three weeks I had hoped.

  It was almost two months before I saw her again. During the third week, when I was beginning to hope she would soon be back, her mother telephoned to say they were taking her to Tunisia for a month.

  Predictably, she did not ask if I minded her having the time off; she presented it as a.fait accompli. I consoled myself by nurturing a sense of injustice. But that was immediately forgotten when Anna herself cal ed a few days later. It was good to hear her voice again, and I reassured her that I did not mind her going in the least. Cheered by talking to her, at that moment in time I meant it. Anna, on the other hand, seemed unexcited by the prospect. She sounded as though nothing mattered to her very much one way or the other.

  Without Anna to look at and occupy me, I fel into a mechanical, listless routine. Life would begin again when she returned. Until then, I was merely treading water. I hired a temporary assistant from an agency, but the sight of another girl in the gal ery only made Anna's absence more marked. I coped by switching myself off as much as possible, functioning on a surface level only: a state of semi-permanent limbo. It worked so wel that when the girl eventual y left, I could remember neither her name nor what she looked like.

  I contacted Zeppo only occasional y during that period. He was his usual sardonic self, hiding any relief he felt at the petering out of the police investigation behind sarcastic comments. But even he failed to reach me. His barbs slid off almost unnoticed which, I realised later, was probably the best reaction I could have had to them. The last time I spoke to him I said I would let him know when Anna got back and hung up. I think he was beginning to say something when I put the receiver down.

  My state of apathy was unassailable. Or so I believed. On the morning I received my first postcard from Anna bland and perfunctory I was also contacted by someone else. Someone much less welcome.

  It was when I was trying to explain the basics of my cataloging system to the temporary assistant. The girl's repeated inability to grasp it was beginning to rub at my patience. I lacked the enthusiasm to be angry, but I felt a tired, irritable frustration at her continual stupidity. When the telephone rang it seemed a further, needless distraction.

  "Look, just don't do anything until I get back," I told the girl, as I went to answer it. "Hel o, The Gal ery?"

  "Mr. Ramsey? Margaret Thornby here." This time I had no difficulty placing either the voice or the name. I felt a weary resignation.

  "How are you?" she asked. "Wel , I hope?" I assured her I was. "Just phoning to let you know I'm coming up to London again later this week, and I thought if you weren't too busy that we could perhaps meet up sometime." I made a polite expression of interest and asked what day it would be.

  "Thursday," she said. "Is that convenient for you?"

  "Is that this Thursday?" I asked. "The nineteenth?" She gave a laugh. "Wel , it's this Thursday, but don't ask me what the date is, because I haven't a clue. I'm awful on things like that.

  I've got a diary somewhere, though, if you want me to check?"

  "No, that's al right. There's no need. I'm afraid if it's this Thursday I won't be able to make it anyway. I'm out of town al morning, and I've a meeting scheduled in the afternoon." The excuses came easily, fabricated without effort from my lassitude. I waited for the expression of regret, already looking past them to the goodbyes, and the mild relief I would feel on hanging up.

  "Oh, have you? Wel , never mind. What about Thursday evening then?"

  "Thursday evening?" The question pierced through my complacency.

  "Yes. If you're not doing anything. I'm going to be staying at my daughter's overnight, and the friends I normal y see are both on holiday, so if you're not busy we could make it the evening

  instead." Again, she gave a laugh. "It'l save my daughter having to think of something to entertain her mum, anyway."

  I scrambled for an excuse. But the sudden departure from what I had expected was too sharp: I could not make the adjustment in time. "Mr.

  Ramsey, are you stil there?"

  "Yes, yes. I'm sorry, I was just… I thought someone had come in." I searched for inspiration. None came. My mind was blank. "Yes, Thursday evening's fine," I heard myself saying.

  "Oh good. What time suits you?"

  "Whenever." Numb, I let her fix a time and arrange a suitable place to meet. When she had finished, I put the phone down. The feeling of relief I had looked forward to had be
en replaced by a dul sense of entrapment. I went back to where I had left the girl. She had fol owed my instructions to the letter and done absolutely nothing. She looked at me, waiting mutely for instructions.

  "Take an early lunch," I said.

  The threat of Thursday night cast a pal over the intervening days.

  Whenever I tried to rationalise it away, I would think what Anna had said, and it would immediately darken. I could see no innocent reason for the woman's persistence, nor could I think of a way to avoid it. As horrific as the prospect of spending an evening alone with her was, I could not bring myself to confront her with excuses.

  I awoke on Thursday morning with a leaden sense of oppression. Its weight lay heavily in my stomach as I went into the gal ery and tried to get through the rest of the day. The ordeal waited for me at the end of it like an impassable block. I could not see beyond it. My entire future was reduced to that single evening.

  Anna seemed far away.

  The hours passed quickly. I closed the gal ery, showered and changed, and tried to tel myself it would, if nothing else, soon be over. The Thornby woman had suggested a restaurant with a smal bar in it. I went there early. Not, needless to say, out of eagerness, but because I needed a drink before I faced her. I ordered a gin and tonic, sat down, and looked around. I was relieved that the restaurant was not a particularly intimate one. I looked at my watch. I had nearly twenty minutes before she was due. Time enough for another drink, if I wanted one.

  Feeling the closest to

  being relaxed I had al day, I took my first sip, and over the top of the glass saw the door open and Margaret Thornby walk in.

  My stomach curdled. Al enjoyment of the drink vanished. In the moment before she saw me, I swal owed half of it, regardless. Then I had been seen.

  She smiled and began to walk over. I forced an answering smile on to my face. A waiter intercepted her and made some polite enquiry, and she murmured something in reply and indicated towards me. I stood up as she approached the table.