“You and Andreas know John of the notorious twins, don’t you? So you’ve probably seen what fun he can be?”
“That’s true — I’ve only been with him twice, but I thought he had a lot of charm, and sensitive, too —”
“Exactly! I’d only seen him twice myself, first at a semi-official drinks party Geoff took me to, I don’t know why John was there — he walked all the way around a crowded room to introduce himself, which was flattering but also strange. The next time I sat next to him at a dinner at The Hunting Horn given by a bunch of town aldermen. He talked to me the whole evening through. It wasn’t long before he began punctuating his pleasant conversation with remarks that became more and more affectionate. He didn’t go so far as to declare his intentions, but when he told me how beautiful my eyes were, I recognized the seducer’s most beguiling ploy. Still, he spoke the words ever so modestly, with his usual sweet smile, without a single blush or a drop of sweat on his smooth forehead. When we danced (slows only), he didn’t dare place his cheek against mine but settled for the braided hair above it. As we said good night, he asked me if I’d have lunch with him in two days’ time, meaning yesterday. I told him I’d have to check my dance card.
“He phoned yesterday morning. I’d told Geoff about the invitation; would he mind if I accepted? ‘Why should I mind? John can’t be after your favors. You must be near twenty years older than he is.’”
I interrupted: “Geoff doesn’t know about the allure younger men find in older women? Why, operas have been written about it. When I met John, his inclination was all too plain. If much less explicit than in your case.”
“I said nothing about that to Geoff. I agreed to the lunch.
“I’d come down on foot to meet him. He insisted on walking me home, and I let him. He followed me into the house, and once inside, he frankly defined his passion. He defined it with great delicacy and simplicity, and as he spoke he began stroking my bare upper arms — it was his touch more than his words that won me over, it was like a woman’s touch, a caress without weight or pressure, his fingertips barely grazing my skin. When he stroked my nipples through the silk of my dress, he touched them as if in passing, as if they were unfolding rosebuds he might come back to pluck. In bed the same fingers entranced my whole body, bit by bit, and when he came to my rosebud, ah, I shiver just thinking — he held it in his mouth until I was limp with glory; I gave up counting the times I came after I reached fifteen, no I’m kidding, but it’s as though he wanted to make things last forever. He fucked me hard, too, twice. I’m still bewitched.”
I said, “Darling, you hit the jackpot! Just looking at you brings me joy. A year ago I might have felt a slight soupçon of jealousy. But no more.”
“I know — I guess I found myself a real mensch, and a randy one. And so cute!”
“Do you plan to go on seeing him?”
“I don’t know. We made comforting noises to that effect. Nothing definite. What’s your take on replays of unforgettable . . .”
“The pits.”
“That bad?”
“Not objectively; but by comparison, that bad. What about Geoff?”
“He won’t be a problem. I’ll never tell him. I won’t love him any less.”
“Please don’t!”
I went to the Hydes’, with Andreas, the Sunday of that week. Andreas noticed that Margot looked exceptionally pretty. As for Geoffrey, who knows?
Margot began her scheduled story with apparent aplomb. “Our first story was the story of a man told by a woman. The second was the story of a man told by a man. Tonight, and none too soon, it will be the story of a woman told by a woman.” Margot made this announcement with such bravado I apprehended a replay of her tryst with John. I needn’t have worried.
“I met her when my parents brought me to England, when I was fifteen years old. Meredith was my age; we were classmates in the school I was sent to, both of us lonely souls happy to have found each other. We shared our pulp novels and our favorite singers — Randy Newman, Dionne Warwick (Meredith pronounced her name without the w in ‘wick’). We dated local boys together — we were living in Hull for some reason, at the time a total dump. Meredith became involved with a thirty-year-old docker, a tall, blackhaired man, nice enough I thought, with an incredibly virile body — a hunk. His name was Shanks. In time he got her pregnant. When Meredith found the courage to tell her parents, they couldn’t handle the news. One day they’d make her swear not to have an abortion, two days later they’d tell her not to worry, they’d arrange one for her. I remember there being talk about a kind gynecologist in Geneva. In the end, however, he wasn’t needed. Mr. Shanks stepped up and offered to marry ‘his lassie.’ Five months later their son was born and baptized a proper Anglican.
“So far so good. Shanks treated Meredith with a tenderness I hadn’t expected, all through her pregnancy and during the sometimes difficult times afterwards. He treated the boy less warmly — I assumed that having been an orphan himself he’d never experienced the comforts of family affection and wouldn’t know how to reinvent them now. That turned out to be too kind a view. Shanks’s attitude gradually turned into open resentment, as if his generosity and affection in marrying Meredith had provoked a slow backlash of brutality. He used to curse his son or yell at him when he’d done nothing to warrant this abuse — when he’d done nothing at all. Apparently Shanks loathed the boy for simply existing.
“Meredith couldn’t find any way to counter such unreason. Her only recourse was to keep the little boy out of Shanks’s sight, something she did ever more frequently after the father moved on from verbal to physical chastisement. He started slapping and spanking him when he was three. At four Shanks used a cane, a hairbrush, or a strap. I begged Meredith to find a counselor or a specialist to attend to Shanks, or convince a doctor to prescribe some sedative she could dope him with, but she kept taking the blame for what was happening, and he started threatening her with violence if she tried to get medical or legal help. But when her son was six years old, and Shanks took a small board to him, and ended up breaking his hip . . . I finally came to my senses. I couldn’t take any more of it.”
Andreas looked at me incredulously. Why wasn’t I more surprised? I wasn’t at all. Geoffrey, crouching by her chair, kissing her hand: “Why didn’t you warn me that you were going to tell them?” Margot: “I’m all right. Of course — it’s my story. I’ve very much wanted to tell it ever since Geoff came clean. Only I didn’t want your sympathy to muddle the story line. It doesn’t matter.”
“Thank you, Margot, for telling it,” I said.
She smiled at me: “Some things have to be told. Others, better not.”
Andreas: “But then what happened?”
“What happened was that I took Timothy in the dead of night and drove fifty miles to a trustworthy and highly reputed center that I’d had the brains to inquire about long before that ghastly accident. We were at its gates when it opened the next morning. By then I was at university where I could call on a few eminences to vouch for me, and others in the medical profession whom I’d consulted privately and who were ready to certify the urgency of my predicament — I was courteously received and attended to. I assented to the formality of putting the boy up for adoption as the best way to bypass bureaucratic delays (the institution was famous as an adoption center, as well as an orphanage and school). I was encouraged to take rooms nearby and spend my days with Timothy while he became accommodated to his new life.
“The boy was a perfect angel through all of this — he sensed that his new mentors were animated by kindness and concern, and they in turn were touched by his sweetness, his openness, no doubt his beauty, too! As long as all concerned were content with the arrangement, he could stay there as a boarder until he finished his schooling. If I could pay one-third of his tuition fees and as much for his board and lodging, the administrators of the center were reasonably sure t
hey could obtain the remainder in public and private scholarships.
“I spent a week visiting the buildings of this pleasant establishment in the company of Timothy and a certain Mr. Ned Linnen, a teacher. He showed us the schoolrooms, the refectory, several bedrooms, and the extensive playing fields. Wherever we went, Timothy was introduced to students, masters, and occasionally a guardian, most of whom greeted him with benign curiosity. When I left him, I promised to come back whenever he requested it. I kept my promise. As the years passed, his requests came less and less frequently. I last saw him on his eleventh birthday.
“Soon after that I went back to Seattle, and while there, one year I went on a tour of the Far East during my summer vacation. I happened to visit New Bentwick, because a feminist companion told me there were ‘interesting developments’ going on there. I still don’t know what she meant, but since I met Geoffrey almost as soon as I got off the boat, I didn’t care, and a visit that was meant to last a few days — well, there’s still no end in sight.”
I asked her, “And Shanks?”
“The day after we left, I let him know by phone I wasn’t coming back. He couldn’t believe it. When I settled down in York, where I’d been studying, I wrote him a letter, in the manner of a case history of his life, as if written by a social investigator or a police officer. All cool, objective description. No judgments, no comments. It worked. He was mortified, wrecked. He still is. He begged me to see him. He’s still doing it. I have a very happy life, except for one thing. He found out where I’d gone and followed me here. I’ve made sure he never gets near me. He lives alone, he survives doing menial jobs. I don’t care. I don’t want to hear about him.”
Andreas: “How can you possibly be sure he won’t bother you?”
“As soon as I learned he was here, I went to Father Murgatroyd, our Anglican priest. When I told him Shanks’s history, he agreed to act as intermediary. An indictment, which has not been served, an indictment of Shanks for extreme child abuse, would, if activated, benefit from the testimony of the hospital staff and several dependable neighbors. Through Father Murgatroyd, I conveyed to Mr. Shanks that if he ever approached me I would denounce him in this country, he would then be extradited to the UK for arrest and trial. He told the priest that he accepted my conditions, that he was content to stay here, out of my sight, in the hope that I might one day forgive him.”
I said, “You’re divorced?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’d kicked him out of my life. I’d taken his son away from him. He’s living in penury. Divorce feels like one humiliation too many.”
The telephone rang. Geoffrey, nearest to it, picked up. He turned back to us to announce the imminent arrival of Captain Kipper and Sergeant Kerr. “It seems something rather grisly has happened.”
“Exit, pursued by a bear?”
“I’m afraid, Andreas, that they are not in a punning mood. Charley Kipper said that New Bentwick has at last recorded—a murder.”
The two men soon appeared, haggard, and of somber mien. Margot said, “You’ve not had dinner!” and disappeared toward the kitchen. After two double whiskies, rapidly dispatched, bowls of hot broth were set before the new guests, soon followed by plates of cold meat and a bottle of red wine. They addressed their dinner with little relish. A first few sips of wine helped them get started.
Captain Kipper: “What you’re about to hear may be hard to stomach. Sergeant Kerr, please tell our friends what you first witnessed.”
“Certainly, sir. I remember the whole beginning — it was a seesaw of the right throbs and the wrong. I was strolling along the shore on a routine patrol, just past the town on the north side. It was pleasant walking at that hour, a lovely late afternoon with a quiet sea to my left and to my right a familiar countryside bathed in the mild light of Indian summer. Around five o’clock, just when the first shadows from the hills were darkening the waterfront, I saw at a distance two men coming towards me. I was able to identify Paul, one of the twins you’re all so interested in.”
Captain Kipper: “You’re sure it was Paul, Sergeant?”
“It was the way he was manhandling his companion, almost dragging him along. I couldn’t see John doing that. But Paul — you remember when we had to bring him in and scare him a little for taking his fists to one of his Arab workers?
“It took me a while to place the other man. He was an older fellow in his fifties, a poor sad bloke who goes by the name of Shanks — by his family name, strange as that may seem. Mr. Shanks kept shrinking from Paul the twin, who was holding him fast by his right arm and waving something at his head that I apprehended might be a pistol, and that indeed it was, as I clearly saw when they had drawn closer. I then turned round and without actually running I hastened as fast as I might —”
Charley Kipper intervened: “You may not know this, our men never carry firearms on their daily patrols. They are under strictest orders never to challenge an armed suspect whatever the circumstances. If Sergeant Kerr had intervened at any moment during the events that followed, he would have probably been deprived of his rank.”
Alastair Kerr: “I knew the rule, and I also had not the slightest wish to be shot at! I kept hurrying towards Paul’s boat, where I assumed he was going. It was tied up to a kind of shed set back from the water. I had time to get to its far side and clamber into the shed’s underpinning, an assemblage of posts and struts meant to keep it above high water. I was well ensconced when I heard the men climbing onto the planks overhead.
“As soon as they were inside Shanks began protesting loudly. Then came a short, dull sound, after which he fell silent, at least he uttered no more words, only gulps or groans. I guessed that Paul had inserted a gag of some kind into Shanks’s mouth, an onion as we found out, secured with heavy-duty tape across the lips and right around his head. He must before that have been attached to a seat of some sort. Paul then initiated his own tirade of insults. He began, ‘Am I so changed, Old Fart, that you do not know your son?’ in clear tones, but after that in a mumbled voice, so that I could not recognize every word, but the gist was Paul vehemently rebuking Shanks for pain and shame inflicted in some former time, with beatings never deserved, and accompanying this there was an irregular rumble of grunts due to the jabs Shanks was getting, kicks, too, judging from the sounds. I dared not use my mobile phone since he would surely hear me, as he would if I tried to climb out of my coop of old boards.
“There was a pause of almost a minute, then Paul started speaking again, now in a louder voice — I could catch all his words. ‘Say, dear father, do you see this board? Remember? It’s the one you busted my hip with, in memory of which I have cherished it through the years. I’ve kept it for you, just for you, right now.’”
(Only then did I let myself steal a look at Margot. She had turned her back to us.)
“I heard a loud smack, then Paul’s voice. ‘And now, Daddy-o, you are to take leave of this valley of perpetual dreams. Slowly, though. So best I help you get started. Just keep your eye on the board.’ Several blows made a new crunching noise. When we examined the corpse, we deduced that Paul had struck Shanks with the edge of the board until the bridge of the nose and the neighboring sockets were crushed. Shanks’s bleats were hard to bear. I felt myself doubtful again, felt indeed sure I was making a mistake. But I remembered the rule and Paul’s gun, a large automatic pistol, the kind that could take a Maori’s arm off. The bleating ended when Paul started bashing the skull. Shanks quickly lost consciousness, but it took considerable time to sunder the cranial bones.”
Captain Kipper again broke in. “Thank you, Mr. Kerr. Let me tell the rest.” Poor Kerr was visibly relieved; he had turned white with nausea.
“The Sergeant clambered out of his hiding place as soon as Paul’s boat, with Shanks dragged aboard, had started down the ways. It disappeared northwards, its motor idle, on the current known as the Hawing Drift. Sergeant Kerr a
lerted our headquarters at once on his portable phone, then ran all the way there to give us a summary report. I ordered a pickup van carrying six men and one of our little patrol boats to join us in covering the shoreline north of Paul’s shed. We dropped two men at the shed with orders to cordon it off with police tape and guard it until they were relieved.”
Andreas broke in: “Captain Kipper, what is the Hawing Drift?”
“It’s a current that’s active only at this time of year. It rises off the bottom of our main street and follows the shoreline north at a distance of about twenty yards until it reaches an insignificant prong of land called The Chicken’s Beak. There it makes a grand swing of 110 degrees to the southeast and maintains that direction as far as The Droppings, a pile of giant submarine blocks in the middle of the bay, and there it disappears. No one has been able to explain the course of the Drift or even how it came to exist.” Andreas nodded his acknowledgment.
“We found Shanks off The Chicken Beak in about ten feet of water. He’d had two bricks sewn into his belly to keep him under water, but the job was bungled, the seams hadn’t held. Poor Z. Shanks! That’s how he figured in our file.” Sergeant Kerr: “What time shall we assign to his death?” “Seventeen hours forty-six minutes.” The hour of sunset? I thought.
The Sergeant briefly took up the tale. “We found him floating twenty-some yards from the beach and brought him straight ashore.”
The Captain continued, “Immersion in seawater had cleansed the remaining gristle of blood. Yet the top of his head was a pitiful ruin. The Sergeant took one look at it and tossed his cookies.”
The Solitary Twin Page 9