A Private Moon

by Peter Benson

  ‘Come upstairs and I’ll make you a cup of tea. Plenty of sugar.’

  ‘Oh, Frank,’ she said, ‘you’re kind.’

  Frank gave Mrs Platt a cup of tea and as she drank she began to talk about Whitby and the Yorkshire coast. She made him promise to take her there one day. She said she would treat him to a weekend at the guest-house she used to stay in. She could picture it, standing on a cliff with a view of the church, the sea and the harbour. She told him that the town was full of fish restaurants. This made him sit up. ‘Just you and me,’ she said, ‘and when we get back I can buy another Joey.’ Frank was pleased that she was able to talk about buying another bird, and she wiped her eyes, told him that the tea was the best she’d drunk for a week, and could she have a cake? She had seen a box of French Fancies on the side. ‘Of course you can,’ said Frank, and he fetched them.

  Three hours later, as Mrs Platt slept in her rooms and Frank brushed his teeth, he heard the street door slam shut. Lisa had arranged to meet Adrian in the pub, but he hadn’t turned up. She’d waited two hours, tapping her watch, drinking Martinis and watching couples. Couples are happy to a single person, even if they’re arguing. They’re together, and that’s what counts. Some were arguing, others were staring into each other’s eyes, blamelessly counting stars. Lisa felt blameless and angry.

  As she stood in the hall and stamped the slush off her shoes, she saw the letter. She picked it up and held it to her nose. It smelt of Swarfega. It was Adrian’s smell and his writing. He had never written to her before, and now, as she held the envelope in her hand, an idea careered out of nowhere. She felt her organs wilt and her skin creep. She knew as soon as she saw her name in his crooked writing, and she knew why she had sat alone for two hours. Her eyes told her, and her stomach, and the anger she had burned in the pub exploded into fury. She ran up the stairs, ripping the envelope open as she went. She unlocked her door, kicked it open and threw her coat on the floor. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘tell me.’

  Dear Lisa, This is the hardest letter I have written because I do think about you and think your great, but I cannot get married any more because I have got another job, and its not in Brighton. I know you will think I am a real bastard for this but I had to tell you now because I cannot go through with it. I know you are going to have a baby and I wanted to see it when it’s born but I have promised this friend that I will be working for him, and I can’t let him down. I hope you understand, but I had to say this now, I didn’t want to say it later, when it’s too late. I will let you know where I am, and then I’ll phone. Is it alright? Love, Adrian.

  Lisa screamed ‘All right!’ She screwed the letter into a ball, then grabbed an empty coffee mug and threw it at the wall. She kicked a table leg, yelled ‘All right?’ again, and saw a teapot she had given him. It was in the shape of a football. It was next to go, exploding in a shower of china over the sofa. ‘Bastard!’ She went to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of whisky from a shelf, unscrewed it and threw the cap across the room.

  Frank was out of his flat the moment the mug was thrown, and was standing at her open door as she took her first swig.

  ‘Lisa?’ He knocked once, then walked in. He found her standing by the kitchen sink, one hand on the bottle and the other to her eyes. ‘Lisa?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Se turned to face him. ‘What the fuck does it look like?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Adrian.’

  ‘What about him?’

  She turned around again and hissed, ‘It’s in there!’

  ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘His letter.’

  Frank went back into the sitting-room, picked up the letter, unscrewed it and read it. Lisa came out and slumped on the sofa; he sat down next to her, took the bottle from her hand and whispered, ‘Lisa.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she said, ‘Lisa…’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Of course you are, Frank. You’re always sorry, aren’t you?’

  Frank took it. ‘I know, and I mean it every time.’

  ‘People who say they’re sorry all the time…’ and she snatched the bottle back and took another swig, ‘never have anything to be really sorry about. Usually, they’re the ones who haven’t done anything. Non-achievers. They’re apologising for themselves, not for something they’ve done.’ She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing a line of lipstick across her cheek. ‘Is that you, Frank?’

  He took the bottle back, stared at the label, tried to peel its top corner and opened his mouth.

  ‘I bet you’re the type who says sorry when someone steps on your foot.’

  ‘Lisa…’

  ‘Don’t.’ She snatched the bottle back.

  ‘I think you’re—’

  ‘Don’t!’

  ‘I wasn’t going to do anything.’

  ‘There!’ she cried. ‘Either you do nothing or you say you’re sorry.’ She swigged. ‘You’re useless. You, him, my old man, the boss. Men.’ She snorted. ‘Worthless.’

  ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘Do what you want.’

  ‘I’ll stay.’

  ‘Steady!’ She glared at him. Her eyes were filmy and the pupils dilated. ‘You don’t want to be decisive.’

  ‘I’ll stay,’ he repeated, ‘if you share the bottle.’

  ‘That’s right. Nothing’s for nothing, eh, Frank?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘But you meant to.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You’re a man, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You meant it.’

  ‘Not all men are like him.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  Frank thought.

  ‘Prove it.’

  Frank took the bottle and swigged. ‘I think he must be mad.’

  ‘Why, Frank?’

  ‘Because you’re…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know if I…’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘It’s hard for me.’

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘I think,’ said Frank, and he had another drink, ‘that you’re lovely.’ He hadn’t said anything like it to a woman for over twenty years, and he heard his voice come as if he was listening from the other side of the room. He cringed.

  She laughed. ‘Lovely?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Two questions, Frank,’ she said. ‘What does that prove and do you really think you’re getting in my pants?’

  Now Frank was angry. He stood up. He’d been where she was. In 1959, Janet Black had written him a letter like Adrian’s. He knew about the deceit that rides on love’s back, and had not forgotten. He remembered how a pair of boots, bought to impress Janet, had pinched like hell, and he remembered Ray Butts on his motor bike. ‘It proves,’ said Frank, slowly and carefully, ‘that you’re not the sort of woman I’d want.’ He licked his lips. ‘I heard someone smashing up your place, I didn’t know whether it was you, someone else, or someone else attacking you, or what it was; so I came down and all the thanks I get is—’

  ‘You want thanks?’

  ‘I didn’t say—’

  ‘Yes you did! You want whisky, you want thanks and what else?’

  ‘I could find him for you.’

  ‘Find him?’

  ‘No trouble.’

  Lisa laughed. ‘Why? I don’t need him.’ She put her hand on her stomach. ‘We don’t need him.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Or you.’

  Frank turned around and slammed the door as he left. He stormed up the stairs, stopped outside his door, then stormed down again, past Lisa’s, past Mrs Platt’s and into the night.

  Frank walked. It was snowing. The streets were empty. Every step he took echoed. He could hear a rushing noise in his ears, like steam escaping. He walked faster. He was not wearing a coat, but he didn’t feel cold. Lisa�
��s whisky was burning behind his eyes and twisting his thoughts. Janet Black was in there, talking about him with Bob. Then there was Lisa and Mrs Platt. Each had a different idea about him but they didn’t argue, they agreed. He tried to ignore them but he couldn’t; they were like a waking dream, accusing, deriding and pointing. ‘Prove it!’ said Lisa, and Bob said the same. ‘Prove you love me,’ said Janet Black, and Mrs Platt said, ‘You promised to take me to Whitby.’ Promises and proofs. Even the snowflakes whispered as they drifted through the Christmas lights that decorated the deserted streets.

  ‘God,’ he said to a parked car. His voice startled him. He stopped walking and stared at the sky, and let the snow murmur over his face. Then he turned east and walked towards the Palace Pier.

  Chaos breeds chaos, and Frank could prove that. Twenty-four hours and he had the evidence. He could deliver a report, a bill and go home satisfied, but he was not. He was lost to satisfaction and caught by confusion. He stepped on to the beach beneath the pier, and walked down to the sea.

  The water was calm. The waves broke softly, dragged the shingle and rustled it like paper. He picked up a pebble and threw it as far as he could. It’s a story that haunts every life that was ever lived, tolling like a bell that will not stop. It sounds across valleys and sounds into the mountains. It crosses oceans and fords rivers. It rides its deceit like a horse, dropping spores of chaos every minute. It’s black and it’s white, and it’s every colour you ever saw. It’s weather and it’s speech, and its words are unspelt.

  ‌8

  In the morning, Frank poured a bowl of cereal and listened to the radio news while he ate. The world ran on deceit, and it topped itself up every day. A politician was making excuses for a policy that had never been what it turned out to be. The man’s voice soared between one idea of the truth and the truth itself, but didn’t touch either. He threatened to tie himself in knots but never did; Frank heard but did not listen. The radio was company, the voice was like a pet in a cage. He switched it off and went out.

  He didn’t stop outside Lisa’s room, but he knocked on Mrs Platt’s door. She answered it. She was wearing a quilted dressing-gown.

  ‘Oh, Frank.’ She rubbed her eyes, and dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the tips of her fingers. ‘I’ve overslept.’

  ‘Good for you,’ he said. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ She touched her hair. ‘I’m going to have a wake for Joey. Will you come?’

  ‘This evening?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going to ask Lisa.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Frank. ‘I’ll bring a bottle.’

  ‘And the vet.’

  ‘The vet?’

  ‘He was such a nice man.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Frank, and he took a step back.

  ‘Any time after six,’ said Mrs Platt.

  Two policemen were waiting for Frank. They were sitting in a car outside the office; when he let himself in, they followed him.

  ‘Frank?’ said the first.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Inspector Evans.’ He flipped his card. ‘And this is Sergeant Davis. Can we have a word?’

  Frank looked at Evans. He started with his feet and worked up. A Christmas carol drifted in the air. ‘Why not?’ he said.

  Frank sat behind Bob’s desk. Evans and Davis sat opposite. Evans did the talking, Davis watched carefully. Evans wore a double-breasted suit, a white shirt and a polka-dot tie. Davis wore jeans, a sweat-shirt and training shoes.

  ‘What’s happening?’ said Frank.

  Evans fished for his pocket-book, opened it, flicked some pages, fiddled with a pencil and said, ‘Austin. Ring any bells?’

  ‘Austin?’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘We just finished a job for an Austin.’

  ‘Spence Road?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘What was the nature of the job?’

  Frank smiled. The policemen held their faces blank. Frank said, ‘That’s confidential.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Evans.

  Davis didn’t move.

  ‘Our clients are guaranteed confidentiality. You know that. It’s in our contracts.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Evans.

  ‘So unless you can—’

  ‘And your clients are guaranteed a discounted funeral?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘I heard,’ said Frank, ‘but I didn’t understand.’

  ‘Smart, are you?’ said Davis.

  Evans turned and put his finger to his lips.

  ‘What is this?’ said Frank.

  ‘Austin.’ Evans coughed. ‘You were working for him. We can hold you to that?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And when was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Yesterday. We’d wrapped up the case, and I went round to—’

  ‘What exactly was the case?’

  ‘He’d asked us to tail his wife. He thought she was cheating on him.’

  ‘And was she?’

  Frank turned and looked out of the window.

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Evans nodded. ‘And you told him this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him that his wife was studying Tai Chi with his sister.’

  ‘Tai Chi?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a Chinese exercise, a sort of meditation…’

  ‘I know. And?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Evans nodded, glanced at his colleague and looked back at Frank.

  ‘What’s this about?’ said Frank.

  ‘Mrs Austin is dead.’

  ‘Murdered. Throat cut.’

  ‘She was found this morning at her house. There’d been no signs of forced entry, no sign of a struggle, nothing stolen; we’re extremely anxious to find Mr Austin. We found your card in her handbag, so decided you’re as good a place to start as any.’ Evans coughed. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘She’d done nothing.’

  ‘That’s the way it is.’

  ‘His sister?’ said Frank. ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Austin has a sister?’

  ‘You haven’t! Have you even spoken to her?’

  ‘No.’

  Frank stood up and grabbed his coat. ‘Come on!’ he said, and he pulled Evans after him, out of the office and into the street.

  Evans drove, Frank sat beside him, Davis sat in the back and stared blankly at Brighton’s shops.

  ‘You met Austin?’ said Evans.

  ‘A couple of times.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Efficient. He wanted to have things under control. He didn’t like to shake hands, and I remember his eyes. He’d never look directly at you. It was difficult to know what he was thinking.’

  ‘Hiding something?’

  ‘I don’t know if it was that. Do you have to be hiding something to be secretive?’

  ‘He was secretive?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And this sister. You met her at his office?’

  Frank laughed, then cut it. ‘No.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At his wife’s. They were sleeping together.’

  ‘His wife was sleeping with his sister?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Evans shook his head. ‘There’s a first for everything,’ he said. Davis didn’t say anything. He pinched his nose and closed his eyes. He felt a pain gather in his ears and begin to spread into his brain. It was a regular pain; he knew its depths, and he understood its meaning. Its warning. He wasn’t meant to be a policeman, he hadn’t been born to walk this tide-line between scum and right. He was an animal lover, a man with a dog’s mind and a cat’s walk. He wanted out, and he wanted peace. When the car stopped at traffic lights, he opened his eyes and watched a shop
per walking her dog along the street. He thought about his own dog, and about the Christmas present he was going to buy for it. He dreamed about early retirement and setting up a breeding kennel. Work and play, and all sleep in between.

  The lights changed, Evans turned right and said, ‘Would you say that he was a vindictive man?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have, but now…’ Frank picked some loose skin from his thumb and dropped it on the floor, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What’s different about now?’

  ‘Anyone who can kill his wife…’

  ‘Who said anything about him killing her?’

  ‘I thought…’

  ‘Amateur,’ said Davis.

  ‘For all we know, it was you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Why not? A beautiful woman, you go round to spin some yarn about Tai Chi, but she doesn’t want to play your game. She decides honesty is the best policy, you don’t agree. You argue, she insists, you lose your temper and before you know it…’

  ‘I don’t lose my temper.’

  ‘No?’ said Evans.

  ‘Where were you last night between nine and half-one?’ said the colleague.

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Clever boy.’

  ‘I was with my neighbour.’

  ‘Name?’

  Frank told him as Evans turned off the shopping street and drove down an avenue of semi-detached houses. ‘Her boyfriend had left her; I was consoling her.’

  ‘So you’re a saint?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ said Frank. He pointed to a house with a yellow door. ‘The sister’s.’

  ‘You’re not a saint?’

  ‘I didn’t say that either.’

  ‘So what are you?’

  ‘The sister?’ said Frank.

  The two policemen looked at the house, looked at Frank and looked at each other. A sparrow hopped along the pavement and flew away. The sky was small and flat, and its clouds were the size of coins.

  ‘I think she left in a hurry,’ said Evans. They were standing in the kitchen. Unwashed dishes were piled in the sink. The radio was on. Upstairs, clothes were strewn across the bedroom floor, and the smell of perfume was in the air.

  Frank picked up a packet of cornflakes and shook it. ‘Or else she’s just untidy,’ he said.

  ‘You think so?’