Seven Types of Ambiguity

by Elliot Perlman

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I know Simon very well. He’s the sweetest, gentlest man on earth. He’d be the perfect father.”

  “But he doesn’t have any children of his own, does he?”

  “No.”

  “And you didn’t have any immediate plans to start a family, did you?”

  “We already were a little family . . . in a way. We took care of each other. And we had the dog.”

  “You’re not married to him, are you, Angela?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “Did you have any plans to marry?”

  “Well . . . not in the short term. What have these questions got to do with anything?”

  “Why should Sam’s parents worry about him being with a friend of theirs?”

  “They shouldn’t.”

  “But you thought they might?”

  “Parents worry about their kids.”

  “Angela, you’re not being completely frank with us, are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re holding back and trying to protect your boyfriend.”

  “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?”

  “What made you call the police?”

  “I really don’t know. I might’ve overreacted. I just thought they might be worried about him.”

  “Wasn’t Simon supposed to have him?”

  “I don’t know. I think he was . . . or he thinks he was.”

  “Don’t you think he was?”

  “I think he was but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Look . . . Simon forgets things.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “All sorts of things, arrangements. Sometimes he makes arrangements and forgets them or gets them wrong.”

  “Why does he do this?”

  “I don’t know, he doesn’t sleep well. He has insomnia.”

  “Does Simon use drugs?”

  “No.”

  “Does he drink?”

  “Everybody drinks. Is that a crime?”

  “Does he drink too much?”

  “Sometimes he does.”

  “Had he been drinking too much today?”

  “You mean was he drunk when he picked up Sam? No, I don’t think he was.”

  “You were there when he picked him up from the school?”

  “No.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I don’t know exactly what time he picked him up. I was probably at home.”

  “Can you verify that?”

  “I’m not a suspect. I called it in, I called you.”

  “Why did you call the police?”

  “I didn’t have his parents’ number.”

  “But you said Simon was an old friend of the family. Surely he would have had a contact number for them?”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “Then why didn’t you ask him for it?”

  “Okay, I was afraid that . . . Simon doesn’t sleep and he drinks more than I would like him to. He’s unemployed and—”

  “What was his previous occupation?”

  “He was a teacher.”

  They glanced at each other again, just briefly.

  “Look, I thought he might’ve screwed up the arrangement and that Sam’s parents would be worried and call the police. I didn’t want to embarrass him, I didn’t want to humiliate him by either second-guessing him or having the police called by anxious parents . . . I didn’t want to have the police burst in on Simon and the little boy. There was nothing dangerous or . . . there was nothing wrong, except perhaps with Simon’s memory. I thought that if I told the police where Sam was you could tell his parents and then they could pick him up from Simon’s place or Simon could bring him home. I wanted to protect him.”

  “Protect him from what?”

  “From everything that’s happened. From all of this, actually. And I failed.”

  “Who did you want to protect?”

  “Simon.”

  “You called the police because you wanted to protect Simon?”

  “Yes. Sounds stupid now in light of this, I know.”

  “In light of what?”

  “In light of the front door of his house being kicked in and us being dragged in here like this.”

  “Was it really Simon you were trying to protect?”

  “Yes. What do you mean?”

  “Wasn’t it Sam you were trying to protect when you called the police?”

  “There was nothing to protect Sam from. Look, I don’t have to answer any more questions. I called you guys. I’ve talked to you. I’m not under arrest, am I?”

  I stood up for the first time since they had brought me in.

  “I want to leave now. I’ve done nothing wrong and I want to leave.”

  Trying to hide my nervousness, I walked around the back of them, just a few steps toward the door. I heard one of them shift his chair back as I reached the door, and then the milk-faced one spoke for the first time in a long while. The room was hot and stuffy.

  “Where do you work, Angela?”

  I stopped dead. “Why do you want to know that?”

  “We want to be able to contact you if we need to.”

  “Can’t I give you my home phone number?”

  “We’d like all your contact details, please. Are you working?”

  “I’m a student.”

  “How do you support yourself?” the milk-faced one asked, looking directly into my eyes with the beginning of a smile in his. It was hard to focus. Everything became a little flickery.

  “I’m a dancer.”

  14. At home I tried to remember everything I had said to them, but I couldn’t. I was running late for work and even thought of calling in sick, but then I remembered that I was sick and therefore had to work as much as I could before the illness forced me to stop. The clouds of the rainy day for which everyone is meant to save were closing in on me. I tried to reach Alex, thinking he had probably left for the day. He hadn’t left yet, but the line was busy. I tried a few times but it was continuously busy. It occurred to me that Simon might be talking to him. A moment of relief was displaced by regret that it wasn’t me he was calling. Perhaps he had tried to reach me while I was phoning Alex? I knew he hadn’t.

  At work nobody asked for their money back but they would have been entitled to at least a discount. I could barely talk. I kept wondering about the milk-faced detective and where Simon was and what exactly he’d been charged with. I was not sure I had done the right thing by calling the police. If Simon hadn’t been going to hurt Sam, and I knew he was incapable of that no matter how unwell he was, why did I have to call them? Why hadn’t I at least waited a little longer? I didn’t even really know why he had taken him. I thought about all this while the regulars and the flotsam and jetsam of a normal Friday night took off their clothes, touched me, played with my skin and put parts of me in their mouths. It was not until much later that night when I caught a glimpse of myself with a man, much like any other man, in one of the mirrors, that I started to cry convulsively, hysterically. I cried for myself in the mirror, for myself in Adelaide, for the foolish man, and for Simon, wherever he was.

  I went home and had another shower before going to bed. I couldn’t sleep. At around five-thirty I got up when I heard Kelly turning the key in the front door. She was just closing the door when I put the light on and startled her.

  “Oh my God! You scared the hell out of me. What’s wrong? You look awful.”

  “What’s the name of the guy you drink milk for?”

  “What?”

  “Yogurt. The guy you drink yogurt for every time before his booking. The deep-throat guy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s his name?”

  “The milkman? I don’t know. Why? I didn’t have him tonight. What’s wrong? Did you have him? What’s wrong, Angel? You look terrible. Did he hurt you?”

  “Is he in the police force?”

  “I don
’t know. Possibly. It’s hard to ask him anything. We don’t talk much. Why?”

  “Simon’s been arrested.”

  I got to sleep at around six-thirty only to be awakened by the telephone at nine forty-five. It was the second detective. He wanted me to come to the station as soon as possible. They had some more questions for me. It couldn’t wait; it had to be that morning. He said they would come to my home to pick me up. It didn’t sound good.

  “That won’t be necessary. I have a car.”

  “How soon can you get here?”

  “You’ve just woken me up. I‘d like to have a shower and something for breakfast first.”

  “You can have coffee here.”

  “That’s very kind. What’s so urgent?”

  “We need you to clear some things up for us.”

  I was not at all interested in eating breakfast but I wanted some time to think, to try to figure out why they needed to speak to me again and so urgently. I had a hot shower and my eyes got blurry. I tried to call Alex, but the only number I had was for his office. I didn’t expect him to be there. It was Saturday morning. I called it as a matter of ritual, just so that I could tell myself I was doing everything I could do. I needed help. I wasn’t smart enough to do this on almost no sleep and on my own. It was pointless calling him at work, but I did and the line was busy.

  I boiled some water for the coffee and then found we were out of milk. Kelly had only a professional interest in dairy products. These sorts of things were left to me at home. She got her fuel somewhere else. I have never really understood how she survives. At times she could finish all the milk and cereal I‘d just bought in a single sitting. At other times I could go for days without seeing her eat anything.

  With my hair still wet I went down to the corner just to buy some milk and found the nightmare had colorized the day. It had hit the streets. It was surreal. The blurriness was spilling out of me. Under the headline ANOTHER CHILD STOLEN was a photograph of Simon. It was a photograph I had taken. The police must have gone back to his apartment. The photograph was an old one I had taken on a really good day. It was a portrait shot of two heads, Simon and Empson, given equal prominence. The papers had cropped out Empson. I had some time ago decided to take photos of us on good days for Simon to look at on the bad days, and on the days when I couldn’t be there. I would ask strangers to take shots of Simon and me, much to his embarrassment. Sometimes I asked Alex, but Simon seemed even more uncomfortable being photographed by Alex. I had told Alex privately how I thought that perhaps the photos might help, and he didn’t disagree. I wanted our snapshots to outnumber the ones of Anna. They were not meant for the tabloids.

  I ran home, still blurry, and tried Dr. Klima again. A woman answered. It sounded as though I had woken her up, but she roused herself enough to tell me I had the wrong number. I tried him again, paying more attention this time to the numbers my fingers hit. The line was no longer busy but there was no answer.

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “We just want to ask you a few questions,” Threlfall told me.

  “You asked me questions yesterday. Where’s Simon now?”

  “We want to tape your answers this time.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t want to keep having to drag you out of bed,” the milkman said, looking away, unable to say it to my face.

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “It’s Saturday morning, Angela. Do you have a lawyer?”

  “Well . . . no.”

  “We just want to ask you a few questions, pretty much like yesterday only with the tape on.”

  “Can you tell me, please, where Simon is? Shouldn’t I have a lawyer?”

  “Angela, we do this sort of thing all the time. If you spend time trying to get a lawyer now and then have to wait for him to get here we’ll all be waiting here for hours. If you really want, you can get a lawyer on Monday and everything we talk about now will be on tape so he won’t be missing anything. It’s just a few questions, and then we can all go home. So, Angela, do you agree that it is now . . . eleven-o-five on Saturday morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to talk to you in relation to the possible kidnapping of Samuel Geraghty. Do you agree that you know Simon Heywood?”

  “Yes, you know I do.”

  “What is your relationship with him?”

  “He’s my boyfriend.”

  “How long has he been your boyfriend?”

  “Oh . . . approximately two years.”

  “Do you agree that you had a conversation with us yesterday in this very room at around six-fifty P.M.?”

  “Yes, although . . . I mean, I don’t know exactly what time it was.”

  “Do you remember, Angela, that when you talked with us yesterday you told us you were a student?”

  It was hot and my mouth was dry. The room was already stuffy.

  “Do you remember telling us you were a student?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a student, Angela?”

  “What has this got to do with anything? You woke me up and got me to come over here to ask me that?”

  “Are you refusing to answer the question?”

  “I’m answering.”

  “Are you a student?”

  “Well . . . sort of.”

  “What are you studying?”

  “Literature, politics, sociology . . . lots of stuff.”

  “Where are you studying literature and politics and sociology?”

  “At home . . . mainly.”

  “Are you enrolled in any educational institution?”

  “I was.”

  “When?”

  “About two years ago.”

  “Are you enrolled in any educational institution now?”

  “Not really.”

  “Are you enrolled at all?”

  “No, I’m not. You don’t have to be enrolled somewhere to learn things.”

  “Angela, are you really trying to assist us with our investigations?”

  “Well . . . yes, I am but . . . I don’t know why you’re asking these questions about my studying.”

  “You see, yesterday, Angela, you told us that you were a student but today you’re telling us that you’re not.”

  “But I am . . . in a way.”

  “Who is teaching this . . . er . . . literature and . . . what was it . . . politics?”

  “Simon has been.”

  “Are you saying that Simon Heywood has been teaching you literature and politics?”

  “Yes, I am saying that. He’s a teacher. I don’t know what this is about. Do you think I could get a glass of water?”

  “We’ll get you one in a moment, Angela. Do you agree that yesterday when we talked to you at around . . . six-fifty P.M. you told us that you supported yourself as a dancer?”

  “Look, I don’t know what this has got to do with Simon or anything. Simon is a teacher. He’s a big reader, a huge reader, and a natural-born teacher. He can’t help trying to teach people, to pass on . . . ideas . . . It’s a thing with him. If you’re around him for any length of time—”

  “Has Simon Heywood held a job in the time you’ve been involved with him?”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  “Do you know what kind of job he had when he last had work?”

  “He was a teacher.”

  “Are you able to say what kind of teacher he was?”

  “He was . . . he was a very good one.”

  “Angela, are you seriously trying to assist with this investigation?”

  “You’ve got him locked up somewhere. I don’t know why you’re asking me these stupid questions.”

  “Are you able to say what kind of teacher?”

  “He was a primary-school teacher. He taught little kids. You should know. It’s in the papers. You told them.”

  “Do you agree, Angela, that you told us yesterday that you supported yourself as a dancer?”

  “Yes.”

  �
��What kind of dancer?”

  “I don’t think I specified.”

  “Would you specify now?”

  “I don’t think I want to. I‘d like a glass of water now and I‘d like you to tell me why I have to answer these . . . irrelevant . . . They’re stupid questions . . . Are you going to get me a glass of water?”

  “We just have a few more questions, Angela. Do you say now that you’re a dancer?”

  “I can earn good money as a dancer. I have earned good money as a professional dancer.”

  “Is that how you’re supporting yourself now?”

  “Not right now, no.”

  “When was the last time you worked as a professional dancer?”

  “A while ago.”

  “Angela, do you think that you’re cooperating right now?”

  “I’m here of my own free will first thing in the morning, second time in twenty-four hours, answering stupid questions when you already have my boyfriend locked up somewhere. You haven’t let me see him. You won’t let me have a glass of water. I haven’t had any sleep. You won’t even tell me where my boyfriend is. I hope the tape is getting all of this. They won’t even tell me where my boyfriend is—”

  “Angela, you earn your living as a prostitute, don’t you?”

  The milkman asked me that. This was when he looked me in the eye for the first time.

  “Can I have a glass of water, please?”

  “Angela, you earn your living as a prostitute, don’t you?” he repeated slowly.

  “It’s not against the law. Not in this state.”

  “Are you saying that you do earn your living as a prostitute?”

  “What has this got to do with anything?”

  “Angela, are you refusing to answer this question?” Threlfall asked.

  “He knows the answer.”

  “Are you pointing at Detective Staszic?”

  “I’ve seen him there. I even know what he pays for. You should ask him a few questions. He’s the disgusting one, not me.”

  “Angela, you’re not in any trouble for working as a prostitute.”

  “Am I in any trouble?”

  “It is an offense to hinder the police in the course of their inquiries.”

  “How have I hindered you? I’m answering your questions. Am I in any trouble?”

  “Not if you cooperate, Angela. Would you still like that glass of water?”