Snake in the Grass

by Dominic Luke

  Old George was waiting on the doorstep. ‘About time,’ he said as he came in, taking off his coat. ‘And is there anyone serving, or is that too much to ask?’

  The landlord had gone straight back upstairs, so the Stasi was forced to get up and go behind the bar.

  ‘We’re having a meeting, George. It’s important.’

  ‘Oh aye. And what’s it about, this meeting?’

  ‘We’ve all decided,’ said the Stasi, handing him his bottle of light ale, throwing money in the till, ‘to stand for the parish council – the whole committee is going to stand.’

  All? thought Gwen in sudden panic. But that wasn’t the idea—

  George took a long swig of his drink, looking through at them from the public bar as the Stasi began to turn on the lights. ‘Well,’ he said at last, smacking his lips, ‘that’ll put the cat among the pigeons, that will. There’ll be ructions, mark my words. But I’ll vote for you. We could do with some fresh blood. It’s about time that lot—’ He jerked his head vaguely, ‘—were put in their place. About time indeed.’

  Gwen’s heart sank. The tunnel closed round her again. The light at the end was snuffed out. And now, her hopes dashed, she had to go home to see about supper – and face Basil.

  TWENTY-THREE

  LYDIA OPENED HER front door.

  ‘Richard,’ she said drily. ‘What an unexpected surprise.’

  ‘Don’t sound too pleased to see me.’

  ‘To what do I owe this honour?’

  ‘Look, do we really have to conduct this conversation—’

  ‘Conversation?’

  ‘Is that not what this is? Is it not what mates do?’

  ‘Mates?’

  ‘Mates, friends, whatever. Are you going to let me in or what? I can feel beady Wetherby eyes on my back.’

  Lydia stood aside so he could enter the cottage.

  In the main room he ranged about like a beast in a cage, picking things up, putting them down, peering out of the window. It looked like he had come straight from work. He was wearing chunky boots, heavy-duty trousers, a mucky T-shirt.

  ‘Tea?’ Lydia suggested, watching him from the doorway.

  ‘What about beer?’

  ‘No beer.’

  ‘Gin, then.’

  ‘No gin.’

  ‘Blimey. What’s got into you?’ And then he laughed, pointing at her stomach. ‘Oh, I get it. That’s got into you.’

  ‘I’ve given up booze for the duration. Turned over a new leaf. No gin, no silliness—’

  ‘No fun?’ Richard cocked an eye.

  ‘I do hope,’ said Lydia, ‘that you haven’t got any daft ideas that we might—’ She was uncomfortably aware that – sod’s law – she was wearing the same clothes – the same jeans, the very same jumper – as the day after Boxing Day.

  ‘You think I’m here for…?’ Richard guffawed. ‘Course not! Do me a favour! We’ve given all that up. It’s in the past.’ He began fiddling with her canvases, turning them round, bending down to squint at them – almost as if he was interested. ‘I’ve come to say hello to my godson, that’s all. How is he?’

  ‘Until there is evidence to the contrary, he is an it.’ She moved to join him, slapped his hand as he reached for another canvas. ‘Leave those alone.’

  ‘Ouch! That hurt!’ He shook his hand, blew on it, an injured look on his face. ‘I don’t understand why you have all your paintings stacked facing the wall. Don’t you like them or something?’

  ‘One is never satisfied with one’s work—’

  ‘Oh, isn’t one?’ he mocked.

  ‘But it’s not that. I would never get any peace if they were there looking at me all the time. My head is full enough as it is without that lot crowding in.’

  ‘Oh, here’s a good one!’ He had sidled back to the paintings, hoisted up a canvas. ‘It’s old St George!’

  Lydia made a grab for her painting, but Richard twisted away from her, inspecting it with a critical eye.

  ‘I like the dragon – though I’m not sure what Lady Darkness will make of it. She might not think that red scales suit her, nor a tail.’

  ‘She will never see it. I’ve decided not to show it.’

  ‘After all my hard work?’ Richard held the painting at arm’s length, closed one eye. ‘You could have given me biceps. And a decent six-pack.’

  ‘It’s a depiction of you as you are, not the muscleman you’d like to be. You don’t have a six-pack.’ Lydia cornered him, snatched the painting – and at the same moment seemed to snatch, as if from thin air, the germ of an idea. ‘This is too conventional,’ she said thoughtfully, putting the painting aside. ‘Far too conventional.’

  ‘You’re saying I’m conventional?’

  ‘Not you. I am not talking about you. I am referring to the theme, the motif.’

  ‘What is convention, anyway? If anything, I’d say that picture is decidedly unconventional.’

  Lydia, running with her new idea, ignored him. ‘The whole scheme is fallacious. The representation of heroism in such simplistic terms is not authentic. The dragons we really contend with are all in our own heads.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘I’ve had an idea!’ cried Lydia, the germ growing, blossoming, new vistas opening up in her mind. ‘A much better way of symbolizing heroism. You can help.’

  She outlined her proposal.

  ‘No. No way. Definitely not.’ Richard looked alarmed; backed away from her towards the door as if he thought she was about to pounce on him right then and there. ‘I’m not doing it.’

  I must strike whilst the iron is hot, thought Lydia, before the inspiration withers and dies; before I lose my nerve. ‘Look, Richard—’ She took his hand.

  He snatched it away. ‘I’m not doing it,’ he reiterated. ‘You must be out of your tiny mind if you think I would. No way am I posing in the buff.’

  ‘But don’t you see? This is exactly the idea I was looking for. It will be simple yet profound, will make a valid point whilst simultaneously shaking the observer out of his complacency.’

  ‘At my expense. I’ll be a standing joke!’

  ‘That’s just what we want!’

  ‘It’s now what I want!’

  ‘The aim would be to get a response – any response – from the observer! To make people sit up and think! They won’t need to know it is you, of course. It will be a generic male form. Impressionistic. Idealized. I’ll give you muscles, I’ll even give you a six-pack—’

  ‘And a second bollock?’

  ‘No, of course not, that would spoil the whole thing. Your missing testicle is the point of the exercise. I’m thinking Marc Quinn. I’m thinking Alison Lapper Pregnant. On a smaller scale of course, but it will be—’

  ‘Porn. That’s what it will be. A naked body equals porn.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! It won’t have any reference to sex, except in an abstract sense. It will be a statement about body fascism. A celebration of our differences. An assertion that disfigurement—’

  ‘Disfigurement? Well, thanks a lot—’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘It’s only a testicle. I’m not the Elephant Man.’

  ‘Only a testicle?’ She remembered the word he’d used that day in his flat: mutilation. ‘There’s nothing only about it in your mind. You see yourself as the Elephant Man. And that’s what we will be exploring: what is in the mind, people’s perceptions of others, our own perceptions of ourselves.’

  ‘I knew it was a mistake coming here.’ Richard had his back against the door, but the door was shut. There was no escape. ‘I should have steered clear.’

  ‘It was serendipity. You came in order to inspire me.’

  ‘You’re a loony. Barking mad.’

  ‘It will help you, too. It will help you to feel more at ease about yourself. All you do at the moment is avoid the issue. You even hide it from the women you sleep with.’

  ‘I told you about that, I—’

>   ‘Excuses, excuses! All that talk about it being too much bother, not knowing the right words: that is simply a pretext. The real reason for your reticence is that you’re ashamed, you’re embarrassed, you’re—’

  ‘Oh. Right. So now you claim to know me better than I know myself, is that it?’

  ‘That’s exactly it. Take Sandra, for instance—’

  ‘I’ve dumped Sandra.’

  ‘And why?’

  ‘Because … because she’s a kid. Too young for me. And … well, I told you all about that before.’

  ‘Precisely! It was getting to the point where you would have to confide in her. Rather than face up to it, you dump her!’

  ‘Crap! You’re talking crap! I don’t even fancy her!’

  ‘Are you sure? Anyway, there will be other Sandras, other situations in which you will shy away from being honest.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. And another thing. This painting you’re planning—’

  ‘You are changing the subject, avoiding the issue. There won’t be a painting unless you agree to it first.’

  ‘I still think it will look a bit dodgy.’

  ‘So what? If people choose to regard it in a sexual way, won’t that be a vindication of our aims?’

  ‘Our aims, now, is it?’

  ‘It is what we want: for the observer to see beyond the so-called deformity – to look at the subject as a person in his own right, not a victim or a patient.’

  ‘That’s all very well, but there’s not going to be a picture, I’m not doing it: I am not standing around for hours in my birthday suit so you can paint my bits.’

  ‘You won’t need to stand around. All I need are some photos to work from. But if you’re too much of a wimp even to pose for some photos …’ She used cunning, looked him in the eye, approaching him like a matador waving a cloak as he stood trapped by the door.

  He met her eyes. ‘You think I couldn’t do it, don’t you? You think I haven’t got the balls. I mean, I haven’t, but I have, if you get me.’

  ‘Then you agree, you’ll do it?’

  ‘No.’ He slipped out of the gap between her and the door, went and sat on the sofa.

  She turned, resting her bum against the door, watched him scratch his stubbly cheek, avoiding her eye now. ‘You have no self-confidence,’ she said. ‘That’s your problem. You always take the easy option. Sex with no strings, that job in the warehouse—’

  ‘I like working in a warehouse; it’s where I want to work. The money’s good for one thing. And if you think it’s easy work—’ He went silent as she came and sat next to him. He looked at her warily.

  ‘It might not be easy work physically,’ she said, ‘but it is not challenging. You don’t have to use your brain. Does it not bother you, the things your father says, that you’re a disappointment?’ She was goading him, distracting him with the matador’s cloak.

  ‘Dad would never be happy, no matter what I did. He’d never be proud of me. Even if I became Prime Minister – even if I won a Nobel Prize – he’d still think I’d fallen short in some way. I learned ages ago that it’s useless trying to impress him. I learned it when I was about five.’ He moved a safe distance from her, shuffling along the sofa. ‘There won’t be any painting.’

  ‘There will.’

  ‘Won’t.’

  ‘Will.’

  ‘Won’t.’

  Lydia jumped to her feet. ‘Get your clothes off, chop-chop, there’s no time to waste!’

  Richard jumped up too. ‘You can whistle. I’m not doing it. That’s final.’

  ‘Yes you are!’

  ‘No I’m not!’

  They faced each other, standing in front of the fireplace (there was no fire: it was a bright March morning, the sort of morning on which she would have taken Prize for a long ramble – in the old days). Richard, tall and gangly, seemed almost to reach to the ceiling, but she was not frightened of him as she’d been that day in his flat. He was not like Nigel. Nigel was an aberration. Why had it taken her so long to learn that lesson? Looking at Richard, so young and full of sparkle, she was overcome by a feeling that she had wasted her life, that Nigel had been with her not for ten years but for twenty. She was old now, middle-aged, worn out like the rug they were standing on, fraying in places, walked all over. Her enthusiasm drained away. Her great idea withered in the cold light of day. She was deluding herself if she thought – at her time of life – that she could produce anything worthwhile, the tour de force she craved.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said wearily. ‘There won’t be a painting. Apart from anything else, I could never get it ready in time. And … well, it’s just pointless….’

  ‘There’s ages yet before the Exhibition.’ Richard was guarded. ‘It can’t take that long to dash off a masterpiece.’

  ‘I said nothing about it being a masterpiece.’

  ‘Profound, then. You said it would be profound – make people think.’

  ‘I may have exaggerated. It’s not as if I have much skill—’

  ‘Now who’s lacking in self-confidence? Takes one to know one, I say. Pot. Kettle. Black.’

  ‘There’s no point in discussing this,’ she said, taking refuge behind his reticence. ‘You are not interested. You said so.’

  ‘I thought you were meant to be persuading me different.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ she asked warily.

  ‘Who am I to stand in the way of art? That is what I’m saying.’ He didn’t sound reticent now. He sounded reckless, as if he was going out on a limb. ‘Get your camera. And quick, before I change my mind.’

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ she said. ‘Don’t move.’

  But, fetching her camera from upstairs, fresh doubts assailed her. How could she be sure that her idea was not simply some wild flight of fantasy? Goading Richard, she had lost sight of reality. Had she hoist herself with her own petard?

  Hesitating on the stairs, she tried to gee herself along. She had seen naked men before. She had been in far more intimate situations – with Richard himself, for one. But the real problem was the one he had put his finger on: she had no faith in herself. She had only run with the idea because she had banked on Richard refusing to cooperate. Why, for that matter, was he cooperating? Did he feel sorry for her? Was that what her life had come to?

  Masterpiece, he had called it. The word made her tremble. What if she was overreaching herself? What if she failed? But it wasn’t just her painting now. She had made it Richard’s too. She couldn’t afford to fail. There was nothing for it but to take a deep breath and go on.

  Richard was waiting for her. He had taken his clothes off, was hiding, coy, behind the sofa, had his hands cupped over his genitals for good measure.

  He had drawn the curtains. She opened them.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘I need the light.’

  ‘I was only thinking of your reputation. You know what the Wetherbys are like, the world’s original nosey neighbours.’

  ‘You’ll just have to hope they’re not watching. Now come out from behind that sofa.’

  At the drop of a hat, she thought as she watched him shuffle onto the rug, he would have run a mile. It was only bloody-mindedness that was keeping him going.

  But the same was true of her.

  Oh Lord! I don’t want to look! What if he is horribly disfigured? But if I use the viewfinder, then it’s the camera looking at him, not me. The camera is cold, rational, detached.

  She raised the camera. The air of tension made her hand shake. She had to use her other hand to steady it.

  ‘You might want to …’ she began.

  ‘What?’ he said defensively.

  ‘Move your hands.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  He was avoiding her eyes – raised a hand in front of his face, in fact, shielding himself, a gesture that made him look strangely vulnerable.

  She fiddled with her camera, trying to remember how
to operate it. It had been years since she’d used it. Nigel, she remembered, had been apt to get impatient. ‘How many more times? This button, not that one. No, no, no: that’s the zoom, you don’t want the zoom. Oh, for pity’s sake, women and technology: it’s a recipe for disaster.’

  ‘Have you finished?’ asked Richard fretfully. ‘I’m freezing my balls off here.’ He laughed: a very thin, strained sort of laugh. ‘Freezing my balls off. Get it? It’s a joke. I’ve been thinking up jokes. Working on a routine. A way of telling people – girls, I mean: women. A way of telling them that I’m one bollock short of a set – since you reckon it has to be done. I don’t want to get all heavy so I thought I could use something like this. I say, “What have Richard Collier and Adolf Hitler got in common?” And she says, “They’re both megalomaniacs who want to take over the world?” And I say, “Close, but …”’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘You know. That’s when I spit it out. Confess. That’s the punch line.’

  Lydia, changing her position, lining up another shot, said speculatively, ‘I am not, I must admit, an expert in male physiognomy. I have not had much experience—’

  ‘That’s what you say,’ said Richard from behind his hand.

  ‘—but do you really think,’ Lydia continued, ‘that anyone would actually notice?’

  ‘What do you mean? It’s pretty obvious …’ He spread his fingers, peeped through them. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Not to me. But like I said …’

  The camera clicked. Richard’s fingers snapped shut.

  ‘I don’t see,’ said Lydia as she crouched down to get a different angle, ‘that you have anything to worry about. You are young, you are what might loosely be termed good-looking, you—’

  ‘You’re just buttering me up.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Taking the piss.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m just me. Nobody special. A bit of a comedian. Rich Collier, always up for a laugh, always out for some fun. But that’s not the same as …’