by Tommy Dakar
He called for Miss Reinhart.
‘Bin this, please, I don't want it cluttering up my desk and I've already seen all I need to see.’
She scooped up the paper and the magazines. Miss Reinhart never made comments about the clippings or the cases Dr. Flynch was working on, it was an unwritten rule. But this was not exactly a case, and she had not cut anything out, and after all it was common knowledge, it was on the streets. So she thought nothing of it as she said
‘Terrible to think it all started like that. Poor girl. Well, not such a girl anymore. I wonder where she is now.’
Two huge eyes looked up at her from behind the desk.
‘Why don't we find out?’
‘Get that, will you?’
Robbie dashed to open the door before his sister had time to react.
It was Thursday, just gone half past six, so it had to be uncle Paul. Rani, dressed in baggy Indian trousers with the crutch at knee height, would accompany him to the house then disappear for a couple of hours until it was time to collect him again, as if he were his Dad taking him to a birthday party. A now bearded Paul gave Robbie a quick hug and made his way to the kitchen.
Jill was back, much to her relief. Her mother had been a great help at first, and between them they had tidied up the mess made by the delicate Burton Police, but living under her mother's roof had eventually become too much of a strain. She spoilt the kids even though they seemed to drive her mad, had odd domestic rituals which had to be respected, mostly involving cleanliness and tidiness, and sighed constantly at one thing or another in a way that made you feel it was a criticism or a complaint. Then there was the subject of Ken, of course. What should a loving grandmother, a mother, a mother-in-law, think? How do you mention an ex husband before his estranged wife when that woman is precisely your own child, how do you act towards his children, your grandchildren, now he has had to 'go away' for so long? Should she say nothing and pretend it had never happened, or grasp the nettle? It was all so difficult, so complicated, because her son-in-law was a hard working man, a tidy worker, a good husband, a decent father. So what had gone so wrong? Who was to blame? She sighed and like most of her generation blamed it on the way the world was going. To the dogs.
So although she had no police protection, no Carlton Wallace to look after her and help her wile away the long afternoons, Jill had decided to go back home.
Paul took her by the shoulders in a swan like gesture and smiled. She liked him a lot more now, especially since he wore his hair up in a pony tail thereby hiding his Thespian locks. Anyway she had noticed that his hair was thinning and one day there would be no curls of any sort to annoy her, and that helped the relationship. She wasn't so sure about the pathetic beard, but that was another matter. He asked after her and the kids, and as he knew she had also recently been to visit Ken, let her know he was expecting an update.
Due to the seriousness of the charges brought against him she was the only one who had managed to obtain permission to visit Ken in prison. Her original idea to take the kids had been driven out of her head by granny – the less they knew the better. So her fortunate husband had been offered a long contract on a housing estate up north, too far up north to be able to visit even at weekends, and so much work that he may not be able to phone very often. Thankfully children worldwide take things in their stride and cope with reality as it unfurls. Anyway, both Susie and Robbie had learnt long ago that adults in general, and Mum and Dad in particular, are so strange.
Needless to say Ken hated every moment of his time inside. He hated the other inmates, the guards, the timetable, the food, the very idea of being held for a crime he had not committed. It was no compensation that he had not been beaten, or sodomised, or even threatened. The warders treated him with respect, the psychiatrist with sincere compassion. There was a general feeling in the whole institution that an injustice had been done, and that it was simply a matter of time before things were put to rights. Which is all very well, but meanwhile Kenneth Kavanagh was locked up in a cell, deprived of his liberty, without his beloved children, and only able to receive visits from one of the few people he had no desire to see - his ex-wife. He couldn't rid himself of the thought that had she not been so lured by the bright lights of fame, had she not been so taken in by the fishy, gore loving eyes of Dr. Flynch and his promises of celebrity status, he would not have been left without an alibi, sleeping in the back of a van like a stray dog. He could see the sneer of the detective and his long, tobacco stained teeth again as he asked, sarcastically, in that slightly nasal tone they learn at the police academy, 'so your wife threw you out of your home and made you sleep in the van? And you agreed?' He had been humiliated, dragged through the dirt, falsely accused, thrown into jail, treated like an animal, and he knew who was to blame.
So she would come, dressed in her drab best as if she were attending a funeral. She would sit upright and tell him what Robbie and Susie believed, how her mother was driving her mad with trivial cleaning duties, how she was looking forward to the trial and having him back home, as if nothing had happened. She would give him garbled versions of what Quigley had already explained to him in detail, how the business was going to be alright because she had contacted the customers and told them various lies, how she was enjoying working for Paul, as if nothing had happened. He would stare back morosely, answer in monosyllables, and accept it all as a way of breaking the numbing routine of the prison schedule. When their time was up he would watch her back as she stomped out. Gone. Good riddance.
More than anything he hated having so much time on his hands. He had never been a thinking man, preferring the football scores or the long term weather forecast to philosophical reflection. What was the point in going round and round in circles, he argued? Had anybody ever come up with an answer to it all? Had anyone ever found happiness through dwelling on things for too long? It was a waste of time, and only made you feel sad, or insignificant, or lost. Ken was practical, he liked to know things. He had learnt a lot about carpentry, bricklaying, plumbing, even electricity over the years. He was a handy mechanic. He had even done a welding course. Useful things, crafts that would get you out of a fix, stuff you could teach to your kids. Not like all that bloody nonsense about if the apple is being observed or if one is observed by the apple. For heaven's sake! But inside Burton Provincial Prison he found his thoughts would not leave him alone. Over and over again he saw his mother peeling spuds at the kitchen sink, everything about her saying 'don't mention Sam'. His Dad floating on his back at the seaside, or carrying him piggy back up the hill to the shops. A young, sultry Jill, flushed and flustered on her parent's sofa. Jill in her track suit pushing the buggy down the garden path. Then Paul at the hospital, when it all spiralled out of control. St. Christopher's, the threats, that Flynch idiot. The fights, the nights in the van. That incredible morning when they came for him. Arrested for murder. They had been polite, they had been professional, which had only helped to make it all more surreal. Paul and his drugs had been the start of it all, or Dad maybe, who knows, but Jill changing like that had killed him off. The woman he had once loved, the mother of his children, his lawfully wedded wife. The irony was she was now the only person he could see apart from Quigley.
He knew they were melancholic thoughts, terrible memories that would only make him feel sad and insignificant and lost. But he couldn't stop. He would go mad if he didn't get out soon
‘It's a pity I can't see him more often, I know he looks forward to the visits, even though they're so short and few between, it's the only time he can break the routine. Still, he seems to bearing up really well given the circumstances.’
She put on her brave face. So stoical, so composed, but underneath? Please, don't ask. Which was fine by Paul.
All the accounts were on the computer but they both preferred to see the books, spread out on the table - in, out, balance, with receipts in different currencies in separate piles held together with clips, cheques over here, cash
over there.
‘Any idea when the trial will take place? He should be let out then, right?’
There was no longer any doubt now that Ken was innocent in Paul's mind. It was true he had doubted him, at first, for a second, but it was a general doubt that had to be extended to all humanity. Don't put your hand in the fire for anyone or you'll get your fingers burnt. And Mr. Swan was so.., so.., revered. It had come as an enormous shock. Not only that he had been murdered, made a martyr, but that the police thought it was Ken. Ken? My brother? Are you mad? It was like a nightmare, it was unbelievable, it was un-everything. It was strange how the world could come tumbling down in an instant, destroying all our previously held beliefs like a plane in a skyscraper. Even stranger now to look back on all that as if nothing had happened. How quickly we pick ourselves up and start all over again. Well worth a few hours' meditation.
‘Soon by all accounts. But how soon is soon, I ask myself? They all drag their feet so as if... well, if it were their family in trouble they'd move fast enough. How can it all be so slow?’
Paul shrugged and made the right facial expressions, but he said nothing. He didn't want to encourage her. If he wasn't careful she'd go all over it again, from the very beginning. What she thought of Ron and Daphne's Quigley, how he had treated her, how he looked down not only on herself but on Ken, too. The Justice System and how it needed an overhaul. The deficiencies of the transport system to and from the prison itself. Timescales, costs, attitudes, two-faced hypocrites, snotty secretaries, unanswered phone calls. She had more than enough gripes to last a whole month of Thursdays. He hoped his silence would force her to answer his question without too much garnish.
‘I mean, how long did they take to even let me know he'd been arrested, eh? I'm still his wife, aren't I? But here I was sat at home without any idea of what was going on, not until they deemed me worthy of a phone call. Ten hours later!’
It hadn't worked. She was off once more, he would have to cut her short before she got too carried away. He shook his head, tutted and at the same time tentatively raised a finger as if to say “never a truer word spoken, but if I may just add”.
‘From what I have heard, from one of the gang who used to study law, there's a good chance it'll be before the end of May. If so, he could be back home in a couple of months.’
When in Jill's presence he liked to call the sect members the 'gang', it sounded less pretentious, more affectionate. He wanted her to feel he was a warm, caring leader, and that he considered his followers first and foremost as his dearest friends. With or without funds. Naturally as a consequence of this amicable relationship, this spiritual brotherhood, a certain amount of bookkeeping had been generated, but it would be cynical and callous to suggest that economics preceded goodwill.
Back home. How carefully they both avoided any mention of the emotional rift. It was common knowledge, it had indirectly led to his arrest, but it was taboo. Perhaps because Ken had never physically left the family home, or to protect the kids, or maybe because he was now in a terrible fix and enough is enough. Let there be no doubt about it – when Ken is released he is going back home. Right Jill? Right Paul.
For Paul understood Jill, knew how to defuse her. She was transparent and came rushing at you like a bull, but with a few deft moves of the cape she could be brought to a standstill. She was a compulsive chatterbox and an incorrigible gossip. The neighbourhood, her friends and relations, were her soap opera and she needed to to know as much as she could about everyone and everything. The other day when she went to the bank there was a new bank clerk sitting at her desk in the open plan office. She wore a little badge that said Rosanne. At once a hundred questions occurred to Jill. That's a pretty name, why did your parents choose it? Is there someone else in your family with that name? Have you always worked in a bank? Which conditioner do you use? Do you live alone? Near here? Got any foreign blood? You obviously don't like sport so what hobbies do you have?
Over the next few months, years if necessary, Jill would try to answer the majority of those questions. Sometimes it was easy. Maybe Rosanne was a chatterbox too and didn't mind being questioned. But all too often people were very secretive and jealous of their private lives. Which was a shame because they just turned into human furniture. It does no harm that people know a little about you, it makes you more approachable, it helps form a community. To set an example Jill would happily tell you all about her daily strife, her tribulations with her ingrowing toenails, would warn you not to visit that upstart chiropodist who clearly hadn't the faintest idea, or the chemist and his costly, ineffective remedies. In the end it had been Iris, her Mum's friend, who had shown her the way forward. It makes you wonder what they study at school these days.
The trick was to keep her floating safely and calmly on the unruffled waters of the reservoir, because once the sluice gates were opened she was unstoppable.
Jill too thought she had cracked Paul's nut. He was a little prince now. As long as he was pampered and told he was right, there would be no trouble. She saw it like this. He had got lost in the jungle of youth without a map, had tried the forbidden fruits, and the mushrooms probably, and had drifted round in circles for years. Then, one fine day, he had stumbled across the river. Now he had followed it down to the coastal plains. Why he was now a prince she hadn't yet worked out, but that was the basic idea. She kept an eye on him, watched his body language, and reacted accordingly. They got on together perfectly.
‘A couple of months. A couple of months.’
She seemed to say, if you believe that you'll believe anything, but what else can we do? A couple of months it is.
They decided to count the money, a task they both enjoyed immensely.
Far be it from Paul to speak ill of the dead, but the truth was that under Jill's careful management the sect, the gang, was now considerably more flush than when Johnny Icognito had held the reins. Donations didn't exactly pour in, but there was a constant worldwide trickle that soon added up to a tidy sum. Even after expenses. Because it had been decided that Paul be freed from the burden of earthly deeds. Instead Rani, or in his absence Diamond, would take care of everything, from food to transport, from accommodation to clothing. They were his personal assistants, on a fixed wage, and holders of credit cards. So far their trustworthiness was beyond doubt. Jill too had her wage, a very reasonable salary, generous even. Promotion, travel expenses, rents, phone bills, there were a lot of overheads. Even so the deposit account grew and grew, and would continue to do so especially after last Sunday's special feature. Soon they would be able to buy that farmhouse outright, in cash. Then the sect would really begin to spread its long white wings and fly.
They studied the books for a while, sorting out the rand from the yen, the dollar from the euro, while from the living room came the background noise of canned laughter, the whirls and boings and clonks of Robbie and Susie's evening entertainment.
Outside the kitchen window the garden was hidden by darkness.
‘Are you ok here? Ron's hired a bodyguard.’
‘Paranoid, that's Daphne. She thinks just because some nutter went and killed....well, you know. Poor man. But that doesn't mean there's a serial killer on the loose, now does it? Why on earth would anybody want to kill her? Paranoid she is.’
‘Well, I think you're right. But Ron reckons that as Ken didn't do it....’
‘Of course he didn't do it. He wouldn't harm a fly.’
Which was not true, and weakened her argument. She realised this, but carried on regardless.
‘How anyone in their right mind could have suspected for a moment that Ken....Nonsense. Where would he get a knife? It wasn't any ordinary knife, it was a bloody stiletto or something, wasn't it? And what would he be doing prowling around the street at that time of night? He has to get up at the crack of dawn.’
She had to be stopped, and soon. He hadn't intended to set her off on her 'Ken's innocent' routine. He knew that as well as she did. An
yway, he'd heard all this at least five times.
‘Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. But what I mean is that as Ken wasn't, isn't guilty, then...’
‘Then someone is, someone we don't know, someone who is now wanted for murder, someone who if they have any wits about them will not go knocking on Daphne's door to try and knife her too, just for good measure. For God's sake, it's ridiculous. Still, if they want to piss their money up the wall that's their problem. Look, …..’
‘But you feel safe here? I say that because if you need any help, you know we can help, I mean, help you out, if you feel....’
She was touched. He was a good man, a spiritual man. But she genuinely did not feel frightened, not in the least. Because it was all so unreal. Paul, beside her now, her brother in law, her boss, had cut off his own....testicles. Now he was the new messiah. She and Ken had split up, in a way, and now he was in jail for a murder he had not committed. Now she was treasurer, in charge of bucket loads of cash, while Ron and Daphne struggled to pay their way. Dr. Flynch had introduced her to a world of fame and celebrities. She had been on national TV. He had fancied her, too, though that was not exactly a compliment. Those eyes, his breath! Just as well he had suddenly stopped all contact with her. She wondered why. Did she make him feel uncomfortable with her questions? Or was it the look on her face when he'd tried to impress her with his knowledge of sadistic instruments? It was difficult to say, to understand. It was all far too difficult to understand. She thought about it once more. Fear was not the word. She was not too sure how to put it, but she was definitely not scared.