by Daisy Waugh
‘It certainly is, Murray. Was there something you wanted?’
‘Hm? Yes,’ he says, pulling himself together. ‘Change of plan. We need to do this scene with the whole family. Sorry. We just…don’t think it’s going to work, cooking pancakes with the kids on their own.’
Maude sighs. ‘But why not?’ she asks. ‘It’s a lovely scene. A lovely scene. What do you need us for, Murray. We’ll only ruin it!’
Murray stuffs his hands into his back trouser pockets and scuffs his two feet against the carpet. He can’t bring himself to look at her. ‘Health and safety,’ he mumbles (always a perfect excuse). ‘Simon says. Just had him on the blower, unfortunately, and he’s worried. Kids alone in kitchens and all that. He says we can’t risk it.’
Maude, thinking of risk, laughs aloud. ‘You can’t risk it? For Christ’s sake, Murray. What’s to risk? It’s a couple of children making pancakes.’
‘Sorry. We need all four of you. A.S.A. if you wouldn’t mind. We’ve got it all set up, so it shouldn’t take a sec. But we want to get it in the can before the lunch. See?’ He winks at her. ‘If we can get this done all right we’ll be able to pack up and be out of here by noon. Imagine that! And by tomorrow we’ll be out of your hair for good!’
Maude mutters something Murray doesn’t quite catch. She’s recognised the stubborn glint in his eye. She knows he’ll stand there, sweating and winking, until he gets his way. Arguing about it will only waste more time. ‘Right then,’ she says, turning back to her room. ‘Give us five minutes. We’ll be down. Where are the children?’
‘Dunno.’ Murray shrugs. ‘Thought they were with you.’
‘Well – if you need them, you’d better go and find them. We’ll be down in a minute, OK?’
Maude returns to the COOP to tell Horatio the bad news, but he’s covered his ears with headphones (as he tends to when he’s angry). She spies the children scrambling in through the skylight behind him.
‘There you are!’ she says, her face breaking into a smile. It feels creaky, she’s not smiled for so long. Maude bends to wrap them in a hug. ‘I’m so sorry, my angels,’ she says, burying her nose in their sweet-smelling hair. ‘You’ve no idea how much I missed you. But there’s a bit of an emergency on and I haven’t had time –’
‘Shhhh!’ they both whisper urgently. ‘Be quiet!’
‘What?’
‘Pretend you haven’t seen us!’
‘Pretend –’ she laughs. ‘To whom?’
‘That horrible man, Skid. He just yelled at us!’
‘Has he? Loathsome man! How dare he?’
‘And he’s got Dad’s mobile phone,’ Tiffie says.
‘He has?’ Maude isn’t listening. Her mind has wandered back to her desk; she’s thinking about deadlines; about whether there’s enough time to do the breeder as a cut-and-paste or if it’s going to have to be a straight copy, which is never quite as good.
‘Tiffie actually saw him putting it in his pocket. Didn’t you, Tiffie?’
Tiffie nods.
‘What?’ asks Maude. ‘Putting what in his pocket?’
‘Mum, the phone.’
‘How very odd,’ Maude says vaguely. ‘What’s that horrible man doing here anyway? Does anyone know? Incidentally, Murray says he wants us all in the kitchen to do this wretched pancake scene, right now. Not just you two any more. All four of us. So will you go on down? Keep them occupied for a bit…’
‘But Mum, the phone –’
Maude kisses them, one on each head. ‘We’ll be down in two secs. And after that, guess what? Lunch with the wretched Mayor – and it’s all over!’ She smiles. ‘Just got to get through today – and they’ll be gone, and we’ll have our lives back, and we can be normal again! Won’t that be wonderful?’
‘Mum, we don’t want to be normal,’ Tiffie says. ‘Do we, Superman? Normal’s very boring. We want adventures.’
‘We do,’ Superman says. ‘We want adventures.’
‘Are you mad?’ Maude laughs. ‘Adventures are a nightmare.’
Tiffany and Superman shake their heads. ‘We want adventures,’ Superman says sternly. ‘You have to realise, Mum, Tiff and me never, never want to be just normal.’
MAKING PANCAKES
Murray is being unusually irritable and Len keeps whistling; a horrible monotone whistle through his teeth. He whistles even when the camera is turning, and it’s sending everyone mad, not just Murray.
‘We’ll have to do that again,’ Murray says, glowering at his partner. ‘Tiffany, dear. We want your mum sort of standing behind you, holding the frying pan, like – no. Like –’ He clicks his tongue, steps into the scene to arrange the bodies as he wants them.
He puts hands on both Maude’s shoulders and she shakes him off. ‘It’s a bit hot for all that,’ she says. ‘Just tell me where to be…By the way, where’s Skid got to?’ she adds, looking around her. ‘Wasn’t he here earlier?’
‘Gone.’ Murray and Len speak at once.
‘What was he doing here, anyway?’ Horatio asks. ‘Look, how long is this going to take? We’ve got things we need to do before lunch. I can’t stand here with a frying pan all morning.’
‘I think what we’ll do,’ interrupts Murray, not listening to him, ‘we’ll shoot just Mum and Tiffie for a start…Then we’re going to get the boys in. Like they’ve just come in from playing a bit of footie. Running around and stuff…So, Heck and Superman, if you wouldn’t mind standing aside, just for a sec. Stay here –’ he adds quickly. ‘But stand aside for a sec. Then we’ll get you two sort of bursting in. All right?’
Superman groans. Horatio clicks his tongue. They shuffle to the corner of the room, and wait.
And wait.
But Maude, hard as she tries, is her usual stiff self in front of the camera, and even without Len’s whistling it’s going to need several takes before they achieve a natural-looking mother–daughter pancake toss. Horatio thinks of his friends waiting patiently at the hotel. He can’t – physically – he can’t continue to stand here, wasting time, watching his wife behave like a plank. Upstairs, there must be only ten or fifteen minutes’ work left to do. He nudges Superman, holds a finger to his lips, and slips away.
…Upstairs, the sliding bookshelf has been left partially to one side, not properly closed. Horatio scowls at the carelessness. He draws closer and discovers not only that but the door behind it is ajar…Impossible, he thinks. Unless one of the children snuck up…Or Maude…But no. He distinctly remembers closing it behind him. He was the last out…He stops just in front of the bookshelf…There are faint sounds seeping from the other side; of drawers opening, of papers being shuffled. Of someone muttering under their breath. Horatio pushes open the door and finds Skid crouched intently at his desk.
‘Hello,’ Horatio says.
Skid spins around. Stuffs something in his pocket – Horatio doesn’t have time to see what.
‘Hello there, Horatio. Hello.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Horatio says, stepping further into the room. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. Were you looking for something in particular?’
‘In particular?’ Skid drawls, collecting himself, slowly straightening up. He’s tall, but no taller than Horatio. They eyeball each other, carefully, slowly. ‘No. Not really…Actually, I was looking for some tobacco.’
‘Tobacco?’ Horatio asks, the faintest hint of mockery in his voice. ‘Sorry, Skid. I’m not sure I can help you with that. How did you get in here, by the way? It’s meant to be fairly private.’
Skid smiles at him. ‘Aaah. I saw you coming out. A few moments ago…I was rather intrigued, if you must know.’
‘You should have said,’ mutters Horatio, casually stepping across Skid and closing down his computer. ‘I might have given you a little tour. Would you like to see our bedroom and bathroom perhaps, while you’re up here? They’re just over there, across the little landing.’
‘You’re very kind.’ Skid, his hands in his pockets, sidles carefully
around Horatio, towards the door. He smirks. ‘But I’m already familiar with your bedroom. Nice bed, by the way.’
‘Piss off,’ says Horatio, staring at him. ‘Go on. Get out of here. Get out of the house.’
‘By the way,’ Skid asks lightly, turning back. ‘What on earth do you do up here, with all these machines? It all looks terribly technical. I mean, for a farmer.’
Horatio hesitates. ‘Farmers have a lot of forms to fill in these days,’ he says.
‘How maddening for you,’ murmurs Skid. ‘In any case, I only came by to pick up Emma’s jacket. She left it here yesterday, out by the yew tree. I don’t suppose anyone’s brought it in?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Not to worry. I’ll saunter out. Have a gander for myself…Lovely day…’
Horatio slides closed the COOP door without bothering to reply.
Skid and Superman pass on the stairs and glower evilly at each other. Superman continues on up, finds his father in the COOP looking wild, pulling at his hair, scrabbling at the papers on his desk.
‘Did Skid give you back your phone, Dad?’
‘What’s that?’ Horatio jumps. ‘Oh. Hello, Superman. What are you doing up here? Do they want us in the kitchen?’
Superman shakes his head. ‘The phone,’ he says wearily. ‘We told Mum but she didn’t listen. Skid’s got your phone. They all had it: Murray, Len and him. When we came in. And then they saw us and – you know when Tiffie stole the tarte aux fraises and then Mum found it in her satchel? Remember?…Remember?’
Horatio nods, not remembering at all.
‘That’s what they looked like when we came in. They looked like Tiffie when Mum found that big strawberry tart in Tiffie’s satchel. As guilty as that.’
‘…Really?’ Horatio looks grey suddenly. He puts a steadying hand onto the back of his chair, looks at Superman as if he were seeing his ghost. ‘…Oh, Christ…’
‘It was very bad of Tiffie, that, wasn’t it?’
‘Superman,’ Horatio says. He bends down to talk to his son. ‘Listen to me. I want you to –’
‘Why are you whispering?’
‘I want you to go to your room and collect up the things that are precious to you – do you understand? Get Brown Bear. Get all the stuff you can, and get Tiffie’s giraffe as well. Here. Doesn’t matter about clothes. Just the things you care about, OK? The things you’re going to miss…’ He opens a drawer, pulls out a plastic bag. ‘Fill it. And come back here. And don’t talk to anyone…Do you understand?’
Superman stares at him. ‘Do you mean…’ he says cautiously, and his face breaks into a grin, ‘…do you mean we’re going on an adventure, Dad? Are we going on an adventure?’
‘Shhh! Yes, Superman,’ whispers Horatio, reaching for the telephone with one hand, switching off his computer with the other. ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’
‘Are Tiffie and Mum coming?’
‘Of course they are. Now be quick. Hurry. Off you go!’
He calls Maude’s mobile, praying she has it on, that she hears it, that Skid doesn’t smell a rat, that…
‘Howdidoo? Maudie’s phone.’ It’s Len.
‘Yeah. Hi,’ Horatio says. Very businesslike. ‘Is Skid with you?’
‘No, he’s not,’ Len says, looking around. ‘Who is that?’
‘Put Maude on, would you?’
‘Is that you, Heckie?’
‘It’s Horatio. Yes. Give me Maude. I need to speak to her.’
‘I thought you were in here. Where are you? We need you down here!’
‘Just give me Maude, Len. I’ll be down in a second. I need to speak to her. Now.’ Horatio hears Murray in the background, asking who it is, and then Maude, at last, grabbing the phone.
‘Hello?’ Maude asks.
‘Stay calm,’ Horatio says. ‘I’m saying something boring, OK? Something domestic. I’ve found the guarantee for the washing machine.’
‘You have?’
‘Of course I bloody haven’t. I just said –’
‘Well that’s fantastic. I’ve been looking for that for months. Thanks. Thanks a million. Where did you find it?’
‘Maudie, Skid knows. They all know. I just caught Skid up here in the COOP, rifling through our stuff. He put something in his pocket. They all know. We’ve got to get out of here. Now.’
‘Mmm. You’re sure it’s the right one, are you? That may be for the previous machine.’
‘What? Of course I’m fucking certain.’
‘Because I’m pretty certain I kept it in the laundry room. It’s an easy mistake to make. But it would be such a shame if we got it wrong. If we went all the way to the shop only to find we had the wrong bit of paper.’
‘It’s definite, Maude. Skid’s got hold of my mobile. With messages from you on it. I presume. Giving me updates on your journey from England.’
‘Oh, fuck. Yes. Damn it. It’s – that one’s for the previous machine, I think. Look, wait a moment. I’ll come up and see. Give me half a sec.’
‘He’s going to do one of two things, Maude. He’s going to blackmail us. Or he’s going to report us to the police. Or of course he may do both.’
‘Yes. I can see that. That sounds about right. And as far as the current machine is concerned – have you managed to – complete the rest of the paperwork?’
‘Give me ten minutes. Maybe five. But we’ve got to get out of here. Now. I’ve got Superman. He’s collecting his stuff. But you’ve got to get Tiffie out of there. Can you do that?’
‘Of course,’ Maude says, her voice heavy now, without expression. Murray glances at her curiously. ‘…I think Tiffie was there when I filed it away. Maybe she’ll remember. I’ll bring her too.’ Maude snaps shut the telephone, breathes, looks across at Murray, her face already set in an apology. ‘Sorry!’ she grimaces. ‘So sorry!…Domestic crisis…The bloody washing machine’s broken down. We can’t get someone out here to fix it until we’ve found the guarantee…And with two children in the house, I’m sorry but the washing machine has to come first! Heck’s managed to dig up the paperwork for the previous machine. So. We’ll be back in a tick – Tiff, darling. Can you come? You’re always so good at finding things…’
Murray makes a great, heaving point of looking at his watch, but the fact is Skid’s not here to take control, and if Maude won’t co-operate without the washing-machine guarantee there’s not a great deal he can do about it. ‘Well. Be quick,’ he says sulkily. ‘…D’you mind if I help myself to a beer?’
‘Absolutely!’ Maude says gratefully. ‘You too, Len. I think we could all do with a few minutes’ break.’
WAITING
Murray cracks open a bottle of Stella Artois, takes a slurp and presses the cold glass against his fat, sweating cheek. ‘Ahhh,’ he says. ‘Needed that.’ Then he looks at Len. ‘What was Maude banging on about?’
Len shrugs. He says, ‘Search me, Murray. Something to do with washing machines, wasn’t it? She seemed a bit worried.’
‘…Mmm.’ Murray takes another slurp. ‘…Well…When you’ve got kids these things can get to you, can’t they? I remember with my ex-wife. The washing machine went kaput one time and I was away on a job. I tell you, Len, she went ballistic…’ And they’re off, reminiscing once again about this and that and that and this and – Murray and Len can talk for hours at a stretch, about anything – each other’s ex-wives’ washing machines – without ever suffering a moment of boredom. It’s magical, really. A magical relation-ship in many ways.
‘…that’s the thing about these special anti-colic teats, you see, Murray. My sister-in-law swears by them. And, yes, fair enough, they may work, but they do tend to clog up after a certain amount of usage…’
Skid ambles back in, Emma’s jacket under one arm, and her stash of cocaine neatly tucked away in a back pocket. He’s been stalking the garden, fine-tuning the plan. He’s come to present his sidekicks with their instructions.
‘…You can pop them in a sterilise
r. That’ll clean them, all right. But it’s not going to clear the clog…’
‘Where are they?’ demands Skid.
Murray and Len look at him, uncertain, for a moment, who he’s talking about.
Skid pulls a crumpled sheet of paper from his back pocket. ‘Evidence,’ he says. ‘All right? I found it lying on the floor.’ He presents the two men with something he pulled out of the bin – a discarded print-out for Fawzia’s new passport. ‘It’s like bloody INTERPOL up there. State-of-the-art computers, scanners, the bloody lot. There’s enough evidence up there to put those buggers away for years.’
‘…You sure we’re not getting into something we can’t handle, Skid?’ Murray says carefully, looking at the sheet held out in front of him. ‘We don’t want to get the Albanian Mafia on our backs.’
Skid stares at him. ‘What the fuck’s the Albanian Mafia got to do with it?’
‘Well – I don’t know.’ Murray looks embarrassed. ‘I don’t know about these things. I’m just a director/cameraman, Skid. I don’t know how these – underground crime networks tend to operate.’
‘They operate,’ snarls Skid, through his gritted, rotten teeth, ‘like this. We get those bastards down here. We tell them what we know. We demand cash. They hand it over. We go away. It’s very simple…And then, of course,’ he smirks, ‘depending how well they take it, we either come back and demand more cash. Or we call the police. Possibly both.’
‘Oh,’ says Murray, stealing a glance at Len, beside him picking at calluses on his thumb. Offering no help. ‘Right then.’
‘…The only question remains, how much should we ask for?’
Murray and Len don’t know what to say. They study their calluses, their empty beer bottles, and wait for Skid to speak again.
‘Any suggestions?’ he asks impatiently.
‘Mmm –’ Len pretends to think. ‘A million?’ he says, with a nervous giggle. ‘Ten million?’
‘Don’t be idiotic,’ snaps Skid. ‘What do you think we’re dealing with here? This is a cottage industry. I think we should ask for thirty thousand euros. Ten thousand each. Where are they, by the way?’