Balls

by Tommy Dakar

  ‘Leave him alone! Leave him alone!’

  She screamed, scratching and flailing at Ken. Paul tried to intervene and got her elbow on his nose for his trouble. He started to bleed profusely.

  Ken was unsure what to do. He could obviously knock her to the ground with one blow, and then easily deal with the other idiot, too. But could he, should he, strike a woman? He’d only lose out if it went to court. He decided to just try and keep her at arm’s length. Meanwhile Rani ran round the fighting couple and punched at Ken whenever he got the chance.

  Ronald hated physical fighting – he had lost too many fights over the years. His was irony, scorn, subtly veiled insults. This was caveman stuff. He headed for the door.

  ‘I’ll do what I can to keep you out of this’

  mumbled Paul through a tissue.

  ‘You’d better, or else.’

  And he left.

  Ken had struggled free by now. He warned Rani and Diamond to keep out of reach, then turned to Paul.

  ‘Keep us out of it. Just keep us out of it, that’s all.’

  Paul nodded; he would do what he could. Then shook his head; all this violence! Then, spotting Ken’s bewilderment, nodded again; yes, yes, I will do what I can, honest!

  Ken huffed, studied the back of his hands, and then he was gone too, leaving the sect to lick its wounds.

  Outside Ron was sitting in his car with the door open. Seat belt already on. Ken sauntered over, a little deflated by now.

  ‘We’ll have to keep an eye on him,’

  sentenced Ron.

  ‘I think if we can just be on top of it all, we may be able to play things down.’

  ‘Excuse me!’

  A bald man, dressed as if he were about to enlist for Mao’s Long March, barged past. Typical bad manners, thought Ron. Shoving past like that, but with a ‘polite’ phrase grunted just in case. They watched as he headed towards Paul’s flat. A journalist? Should they intervene? But they had both had enough for one day. Ken closed his big brother’s door, gently, as he knew Ron hated slamming doors, and walked back to his van.

  He felt defeated. His anger had got the better of him once more, he had solved little or nothing. He had almost beaten that girl …. He needed to get home, to Jill and the children, to spend the rest of the day with the TV and paper and the kids’ homework. To forget about it all, to pretend it had all vanished, a couple of beers, feet up on the sofa, and an early night.

  No sooner had he walked in the door he knew there was a guest. The place was tidy and too quiet. He went into the living room.

  ‘Ah, you’re back. This is my husband, Kenneth. Kenneth, this is Dr, Flynch.’

  Everybody likes a murder. It is the most basic ingredient in all box office hits and bestsellers, without a doubt the best way to guarantee the attention of the international Man (please read ‘or Woman’) in the Street. We are proudly presented with a violent death which leads us, through twists in the plot and gradually revealed clues, to Vengeance, or, as it is sometimes euphemistically put; Justice.

  The only condition is that the victim must die. They can then conveniently be forgotten, as our attention focuses on those left alive. The victim has its moment of glory, is eliminated classically (shot, knifed, poisoned) or ingeniously (buried alive, disintegrated, hung upside down over a sulphur pit), and then quickly disappears from the scene and our memories. After all, there are plenty more where they came from. Victims come, victims go.

  But what happens if the assassin should bungle, if everything goes horribly wrong and the murderee survives? Then, inexplicably, they are banished to a kind of limbo, an almost unreal realm of induced comas, convalescent homes and group therapy. Few feel comfortable with this. Perhaps because a semi-tragedy doesn’t sell, or because the maimed have little poetic beauty. Either way it is a cruel and sad fact of life that the Great Public often thinks that these half-victims would be better off dead.

  Miss Catherine Prior had often felt that way, too.

  Most of us have been through enough and seen enough to be able to, if not empathise, at least sympathise, so let us not wallow in her suffering. It is sufficient to say that her recovery, never complete, was arduous and painful. The wounds healed, but the scars remained.

  She was like a tiny frightened bird; nervous, jerky, of another species. Going out alone was unthinkable. Even years after that tragic night she was unable shake off the fear and a certain incomprehensible sensation of guilt. She never married, her relationships being awkward, taut affairs that inevitably came to nothing. The complexity and enormity of the task in hand was so daunting that it left her exhausted even before she had begun, and she knew she would never have the strength to see it through to the end. Instead she had taken refuge in her family, especially Trudy, her elder sister, with whom she had lived ever since leaving hospital.

  Trudy was solid, both in build and character. She held her brown hair up in plastic claw-like hair grips, she pushed her sleeves half way up her forearms even in the cold, she swept out to work in a flurry, she wore an apron and listened to the radio whilst cooking. To Catherine she was like a second mother, capable of everything, always ready for action. No job was too big for Trudy. The house, the three kids, husband Chris, the Estate Agent’s and her little sister, all cared for with an efficient ease that Catherine both admired and envied.

  The idea for the only interview Catherine had ever given about the case had been Trudy’s. She had arranged it all and helped her sister prepare the questions in advance. It was to coincide with the second anniversary of the attack, to jerk the public’s memory and give fresh impetus to a police investigation which was beginning to flag. The reporter was a kind, friendly, patient young woman who was prepared to spend all the time necessary so that Miss Prior could feel sufficiently comfortable with the whole process. They had taken tea and gone over her answers together, and had parted on good terms. But when she had seen the final result she had felt betrayed. They had twisted sentences and taken them out of context, they had adorned her words with melodramatic phrases in an attempt to make the article more ‘attractive’, more ‘saleable’. She had felt used, and swore never to repeat the exercise. The police came up with nothing, the masses had new horrors to deal with, and she was left to come to terms with the sordid tragedy alone.

  Or so she thought. But she was not alone. Trudy and her family had unconsciously taken upon themselves poor Catherine’s grievance. Chris Morton, tall, lean and as active as his wife, an ex army sergeant now working for a bank selling insurance, fantasised about catching the culprit and carrying out his own idea of justice on him. It consisted primarily in doing to the bastard what young Paul Kavanagh had decided to do to himself. There was more, but the details would change depending on his mood. No medieval torture was to be ruled out, and some more modern military interrogatory tactics would also have to be put into practice. It would have to be a long and extremely painful process, with Cathy giving the scum the coup de grace only if he begged for it. Maybe not even then. Perpetual torture. Even that was too good for him!

  He had imbibed this spirit in his children, who, being good, obedient little things, had taken these ideas even further. So Danny, Tommy and Laura, now 18, 16 and 14 respectively, had no truck with soft, liberal, so-called justice. They wanted to bring back the rope, or the axe, or the rack. They wanted to brand and cut off hands. They wanted a show of strength, and none of this mamby-pamby conditional bail or parole nonsense. If only they could get their hands on a sexual offender! Or one each! Or a gay, or an illegal immigrant, or a pickpocket, or a liar, or an Inter Milan supporter. The list of potential offenders grew longer every year.

  Danny would fool you. He bent with the wind regarding fashion and dressed like most of his peers. That way he could find out who was who. Tommy was more open about it all, preferring close cropped hair and boots. Laura hadn’t yet decided, and just mooched about in whatever her mother thought best. But the three of them, along with their father, were u
nited in their desire for vengeance. Aunt Cathy needed to see that they would not hesitate, that a form of justice would be done, that her cause would not be forgotten. And if they ever found out who had done that to her………

  Daphne was driving the Rover. Poor Ronald obviously had no control over his own flesh and blood, so she would have to take it upon herself to set things to rights. She had chosen a sombre brown skirt suit for the occasion, with a cream blouse to match. No brooch today. She had recently visited the coiffure so she knew her hair would not let her down. Shoes and bag expensive yet discreet. She stole a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror- yes, she looked the part.

  She intended to get to the root of the problem, to confront the one person responsible for all of this getting so out of hand. She had thought it over well, and had informed Ronald of her intentions. He had been reluctant, of course, and had dithered as he did so often these days. Well fair’s fair, she assumed, he has been under a lot of pressure of late, and his political career was not exactly, well, not what you would call flourishing.

  They had decided to meet at a quaint little teahouse overlooking the bowling greens of a small village just outside Burton. It was either that or a pub, or one of those ghastly department store cafés. It had to be neutral ground for psychological reasons. That ‘come into my parlour’ syndrome had to be avoided. On both sides, she hastened to add.

  She parked as near as she could and set off on her mission.

  ‘Jill, have you lost weight?’

  Can a question be classed as a lie?

  ‘If only!’

  and Jill patted her tummy as she shook her head. She noticed Daphne’s impeccable appearance, whilst Jill’s dowdy dress sense could not escape Daphne’s clinical eye.

  They sat at a neat table with white embroidered tablecloth and napkins. A bunch of wild flowers as a centrepiece. It was all very genteel, very coy, very ladylike. It made you think of words like twee, or doyley, etiquette and Empire, housemaids and social classes. The sugar didn’t come in a shaker, or even in individual sachets, but in delicate china bowls; white, brown or lumps. And the spoons were real. They ordered tea of course, Earl Grey, and some…..no, on second thoughts……oh, alright then, some butterfly cakes.

  Outside some elderly couples were playing bowls. Do not be deceived by its slow paced, gentle mannered appearance; like diplomacy it is a game of ruthless skill. The idea is to find perfect curved lines so that you can get your wood as near to the jack, the little white ball, as possible. If to do that you have to knock others out of the way, so be it.

  They chatted idly for a while about the children and the weather and their health until the goodies arrived. They ate and drank good-naturedly whilst mutually scrutinising each other until, the second cup poured, Daphne took the female bull by the horns. It was the moment they had both been waiting for.

  ‘I understand you intend to collaborate, or liaise with, or however you choose to put it, with this, this Flynch character. You do realise what this means, don’t you? You do realise the, the damage it will cause.’

  Jill stared into her cup to avoid Daphne’s stern, schoolteacher gaze. For Daphne was indeed back at school, reliving her days as deputy head, imagining Jill was a silly sullen pupil who needed reprimanding.

  ‘It isn’t right, is it? It isn’t right at all, Jill. Just when we thought things were dying down and we could get back to some kind of normal life, though God knows it’ll never be the same again. What good is it going to do anyone, or, more importantly, what harm is it going to bring, eh? Have you asked yourself that?’

  She thought she was doing very well. The delivery had been calm and correct, and she had only muddled enough for it all to appear natural and sincere. Jill had bowed her head, which was always a good sign. It meant that she accepted her guilt and felt remorse even if she later tried to deny it. Daphne stared at Jill’s middle parting. Why doesn’t she dye her hair, she’d look years younger?

  ‘Well?’

  Jill looked up sharply. She knew Daphne had only arranged this little ‘tête a tête’, as she had put it, to cow her, in both senses of the word.

  ‘It’s all too late, Daphne, it’s all far too late now. The cat’s out of the bag, it’s common knowledge. It’s all over the papers and the TV. The whole town’s talking about it. Even in here.’

  She nodded her head to another table which immediately fell into silence.

  ‘It’s no good burying your head in the sand, or hoping it will all just go away. Paul actually wants people to find out about it!’

  ‘Hmmf!’

  ‘And now Dr. Flynch is on to it, he’s not just going to let it go, is he? He’s going to snoop and dig and delve and dig up stuff eventually.’

  ‘Well good luck to him. But we don’t need to help him, do we? We should be trying to stop him for heaven’s sake, not encouraging him!’

  She had wanted to say ‘not be blabbing it off to all and sundry’ or similar, but had decided beforehand to mind her manners.

  Jill shook her head as if poor ignorant Daphne just didn’t understand. It was spotted, as planned.

  ‘Look, it’s all got out of hand a long time ago. It’s all over the papers. The best thing to do is try and control it from the inside.’

  Now Daphne was shaking her head.

  ‘Really, from the inside, I mean it. If we let Flynch run free he’ll write what he feels fit and we’ll just have to grin and bear it. He’s going to find out anyway. He’s going to dig it up. But if we can, I don’t know, keep an eye on him, or somehow’

  she was struggling for a word here

  ‘regulate it….’

  She trailed off. Regulate was not the right word! Still, she knows what I mean.

  I am talking to a halfwit. ‘It’s all got out of hand a long time ago’. One or the other, please! It’s all got out of hand, or it all got out of hand a long time ago. These, to others, insignificant grammatical mistakes irritated Daphne immensely. And the repetition. This time she would let it ride as promised.

  ‘That’s rather defeatist, don’t you think? It seems to me we are fanning the flames by playing along with him.’

  Jill was shaking her head again. Daphne carried on stoically.

  ‘And to think that you can ‘control’ it from within. Have you any idea what the press is capable of? Just how much of it will be twisted and used against us? Have you any idea? They will stop at nothing, they are heartless, we mean absolutely nothing to them beyond sales and audience ratings.’

  A pause for effect, then

  ‘They will destroy us, Jill. Not only Ronald and Kenneth, but you and I. And your dear children, poor Robbie and Susan. Have you thought about them?’

  This ploy had been premeditated. She had come to the conclusion that Jill’s weak spot had to be her offspring. There she would attack. Could a caring mother really jeopardise her children’s future for the sake of an exclusive on TV? Could a responsible, loving parent drag her own children through the dirt?

  Unfortunately for Daphne, Jill was not the halfwit she imagined her to be.

  ‘I think we’d best leave the kids out of this, if you don’t mind.’

  Which translated means: Who are you to give me lessons on motherhood? You are childless. You don’t like children at all. You prefer cars. You have no love for either Robbie or Susie and we both know it. You are sometimes terribly transparent, and it won’t work, ok?

  Jill thought she was doing very well. So far Daphne had been just plain Daphne – a bit snooty, a little devious in an obvious manner, and with an air of superiority which was almost amusing. The most important thing to remember was to avoid the treacherous ground of family. No unguarded comments, no idle chit chat, nothing that could lastingly damage their intricate relationships.

  Jill tried to sidetrack. She asked about the new outhouse Ron was putting up in the back garden. Daphne spotted it and brushed it aside quickly. This was not the purpose of the meeting. She would go straight to the
point.

  ‘Would you consider backtracking and telling this Flynch man… where to get off?’

  That was as close to swearing as she got. She had used the expression in an attempt to gain Jill’s confidence, as if they were really together in this. Two women joined in forces against this incredibly ugly man! She smiled. What do you say, eh Jill?

  Jill returned her smile and let her have it right between the eyes.

  ‘I told you before, it’s too late now, it’s all out in the open. I did the interview two days ago and it’ll go out sometime before the end of the month.’

  ‘What did you do with them Paul? I need to know. I have to know.’

  Mr. Swan had changed, or so it seemed to Paul. When they had been together in the New Forest sect, he had been so calm, so wise, had exuded soft words and subtle scents. Now he appeared to be less relaxed, more concerned with minor details, and on occasion even slightly irritable. He still maintained a number of his mannerisms; he would hold you by laying both palms on your shoulders, he would half-close his eyes when speaking, he would smile benevolently just before uttering words of wisdom. But now he would also snap orders, especially at Rani and Diamond, who he had not yet fully accepted. He deigned them ‘unprepared’. He was also extremely nervous about the fund-raising, and was forever on the phone to magazines, the radio, TV shows and the like arranging interviews for Paul to be able to spread the word. Today he had decided that the website prize should by rights be theirs. He would find somebody to collect it on their behalf.