A Private Moon

by Peter Benson

  ‘Nine iron?’

  ‘Exactly. I had a job to keep up with him.’

  The Super nodded, stared at the ceiling and approached the ball for his second shot.

  The Commissioner’s tee-shot had landed in the trees. His second shot had landed in light rough twenty yards ahead of the Super’s, who selected an iron, squared up to his ball, concentrated on the flag, concentrated on the ball, and hit it.

  ‘There was something about his walk; there was a purpose to it I hadn’t seen before. Like he was hunting something.’

  The ball sailed into the bright blue sky, and appeared to hang, unsupported, unmoving, threatening the sun. The Super watched it, his club resting on his left shoulder and his head tipped to the right.

  ‘Or someone.’

  The ball’s trajectory had it in line for the smallest of a pair of bunkers to the left of the green; it caught a lucky breeze as it fell, and bounced between them, hopped once, twice, then rolled on to the skirt of grass that surrounded the green itself.

  ‘So I stayed with him most of the day.’

  ‘And what…’ said the Super, ‘did he do?’

  ‘He followed a bus-driver.’

  ‘Name? Connection?’

  Evans shrugged. ‘I’m checking.’

  ‘Do that.’ The Super smiled, and approached his ball again. The Commissioner was coming up behind, a shot down on the hole, level on the round. The green sloped alarmingly, the flag fluttered, a few people came from the clubhouse and stood on the terrace to watch. This was a thirty-yard putt; the Super paced it out, crouched and noted the bumps and notches in the grass, and put his fingers to his mouth. He crouched again, stood up, steadied himself and lined up his putter.

  Evans stood up.

  ‘Any developments on Austin?’

  ‘Sorry sir, nothing.’

  ‘This business with Davis got anything to do with it?’

  ‘I don’t think so…’

  ‘Sounds odd. You keep on to him.’

  ‘Sir.’

  He tapped the ball. It stuttered as it began to move, then began to roll, picking up speed as it dropped down the slope. It caught a bump, slowed, and veered to the right. As it got closer to the flag, it began to veer again, left now, then straight. The Super dipped at the knees, the Commissioner put his hand over his mouth, the people on the clubhouse terrace held their breath and the ball dropped into the hole. ‘Amazing,’ said the Commissioner, and he slapped the Super on the back. People were bringing drinks, and applauding. This sounded like leaves rustling in the breeze.

  ‘Keep me informed.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Mrs Austin went from room to room of her daughter’s house. It seemed smaller than when she’d last seen it, colder and darker. There was a stale smell in the air, a blend of damp and cheese. She drew the collar of her coat around her neck, and took slow, small steps.

  She stood at the living-room door and looked at an open newspaper, some cushions on the floor and a television. She went to the kitchen and leant on the table. She touched a lemon squeezer that was sitting there, she dipped a fingertip in some traces of juice, and licked it. Diana had always liked fruit. When she was sixteen, she had gone on a citrus diet; oranges, grapefruit, bran, satsumas and soya milk. That was the year Cyril decided to become a lawyer, or was it a doctor? Mrs Austin couldn’t remember, and she cursed herself. She swore out loud in the freezing kitchen, and her breath blew into clouds that broke and twisted like dead, drifting fish. She tapped the table with her fingers, and went upstairs.

  Diana’s bedroom was as she’d left it; the bed was unmade, clothes were scattered around the place and shoes lay in heaps on the floor. A pile of books sat on a low table, and an open bottle of perfume stood on the window-sill. The curtains were half-closed, a picture of a chalet in the mountains hung over the door. She stood by the window and looked down at the street. Hobbs was sitting in her car, reading a magazine and smoking a cigarette.

  There was an armchair at the foot of the bed; Mrs Austin stroked its back and sat down. As she did, she felt something dig into her back. She leaned forward and rummaged in the folds of material that draped over the chair, and she felt the spine of a book. She pulled it out, turned it over and opened it.

  This was Diana’s diary; January 1993 was printed on the first page, and then small, neat handwriting took over. She flicked to the middle of the book and read ‘When Sandie left last night, I was filled with guilt, but that feeling was quickly replaced by a delicious sense of being wanted, being loved, being lusted after. Who would have believed it? Sometimes, when I think about her, I feel that I could drown in my own juices. How could I have missed what was under my nose? To think that we’ve both fooled ourselves all this time…’ Mrs Austin snapped the book shut, closed her eyes, said a prayer, waited a moment, and then stuffed the book into her handbag. She stood up, took one last look at the bedroom, then left her daughter’s house quickly.

  Lisa knocked on Mrs Platt’s door, and waited. When there was no reply, she bent and peered through the keyhole. She could see the back of an armchair, and the corner of a picture, and a silver ornament glinting in weak light. She knocked again, and called, ‘Mrs Platt? Hello?’ She balled her fist and thumped. ‘Mrs Platt?’ She kept this up for five minutes, then went out the front door, turned right, then left, and walked down a narrow passageway that lead to the garden. She opened the gate and stepped over the old flower-beds, and stood in the middle of the cleared patch of ground. She looked at Joey’s pyre, and at the footprints in the snow. She followed them to the back door, cupped her hands over her eyes and peered through the kitchen window.

  She saw the tinfoil on the table, and the candles. She saw a wineglass on the draining-board, and a bunch of faded flowers in a vase. She knocked on the window and shouted again; ‘Mrs Platt? Are you in there?’ She tried the door, but it was locked. She knocked again, and she thought about breaking the glass and climbing in, but then she thought about Frank, and how sometimes he came home in the afternoon. He’d tell her that she was over-reacting. Mrs Platt was probably shopping.

  ‘She doesn’t go shopping,’ she said. Her voice surprised her. The words dropped out of her mouth and dissolved in the freezing air. She shivered, turned around and went back to her flat.

  Frank whistled as he entered Beech and Crosby, his fourth estate agents of the day. He was carrying a sheaf of particulars. He unbuttoned his coat, sat in a comfortable chair, and Mr Crosby said, ‘Been doing the rounds, sir?’

  Frank frowned, then followed the man’s eyes to the particulars, and the frown turned to a smile. ‘Certainly have,’ he said, ‘but I haven’t found what I want.’

  ‘And what’s that, sir?’

  Frank explained.

  Mr Crosby had just the place. He stood and went to a rack, pulled out a set of particulars and put them on his desk. ‘Amigos,’ he said.

  ‘Amigos?’ said Frank.

  ‘That’s the place.’

  Amigos was in Burnthouse Alley. It had thirty covers, eight bar-seats and a kitchen. Fridges, chillers, ovens and microwaves to be sold as seen. An unoccupied two-bedroomed flat above. Stock and goodwill included in the price. ‘It’s a going concern. I believe the owner’s retiring from the trade.’

  ‘Why?’ said Frank.

  ‘I’d say he was seventy odd…’

  ‘Burnthouse Alley?’

  Crosby reached into his desk and took out a town plan. ‘There,’ he said, pointing.

  ‘Nice,’ said Frank.

  ‘Like me to give him a call?’

  Frank looked at the photograph of Amigos. ‘Why not?’ he said.

  Evans left the station and drove to the bus station. He parked and walked, and spotted Davis by the photo-booth. He noted the time, and went to the café.

  ‘You back again?’ said the woman behind the counter.

  ‘Yes. Cup of tea please.’

  She went to his table, bent down and whispered, ‘Have the Russians gon
e?’

  ‘No.’ He took a newspaper from his pocket and opened it.

  ‘I’ll let you know if any come in.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The woman went to make the tea.

  Evans opened his pocket-book and laid it on the table, and then he watched, read and sipped. When Davis left to go to the gents’, when he bought a cup of tea, when he moved from the photo-booth to the waiting-room, when he left the waiting-room and walked the perimeter of the bus station; when he did these things, he did them at exactly the same time as he’d done them the day before. He was stalking. There was something flashy in his eyes. He was wearing a thin overcoat but he didn’t shiver. He looked more confident than Evans remembered, bolder and stronger. It started to snow but he didn’t head for cover. He walked slowly, pacing his way around the station, each footstep an echo of the one before, so his steps began to sound into infinity. They reached out and held their own hands, they comforted themselves in the face of madness, and they waited.

  Frank and Mr Crosby went to Amigos, and Frank fell in love with the place. He loved the tall counter, and he loved the polished sneeze guards. The bowls of sandwich fillings. The neat menu cards. The five different types of bread. Covered dishes of buns and pastries. The smell of freshly brewed coffee. The friendly conversation of the customers. The chink of plates. The steam from a polished boiler. A selection of speciality teas. A line of pot-plants along the window-sill. The owner was Mr Santos, a Spaniard who shuffled out from behind the counter, shook Mr Crosby by the hand and said, ‘Who have you brought today?’

  ‘An extremely keen client.’

  ‘You say that every time.’

  ‘Please, ‘ said Crosby, ‘this time, believe me.’

  ‘Ha!’

  Frank stepped forward and offered his hand. ‘Afternoon,’ he said. ‘Nice place.’

  ‘I think so.’ The owner wiped his hands on his apron, and shook. ‘Half a lifetime’s work.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Santos turned away. ‘Maybe you could explain to my children.’ He went behind the counter, picked up a spreading knife and said, ‘You know the way,’ to Crosby.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And don’t leave any doors open.’

  ‘Mr Santos,’ said Crosby, ‘would I?’

  ‘You did last week.’

  ‘Then please accept my apologies.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Santos, and he began to spread a slice of bread.

  ‌23

  Bob spent the afternoon watching television, then he dozed for half an hour. When he woke up, it was dark outside. He felt better. His side was calm, and his heart was beating normally. He stood, closed the curtains and switched on the sauna.

  It hummed as it heated up. Bob patted its side, and went to make a cup of tea. As he sat and waited for the kettle to boil, he looked at his kitchen notice-board. An unpaid telephone bill was pinned over a sheet of telephone numbers, and a television licence was tucked into one corner. Above this, peeping out from behind an Indian take-away menu was a photograph of his wife and children. He reached up and pulled it off the board, and laid it on the table.

  The picture was taken in Devon, in the summer of 1987. His wife, Ann, is cradling Julia, the baby. Jo, the oldest boy, is building a sandcastle, while Keith is holding a red plastic bucket. It’s a happy scene, captured a million times on a million different beaches. Leisure, happiness, sun, sand, children. A sign that reads DECKCHAIRS FOR HIRE. A curling wave and a high sun. An upturned paperback book and the remains of a picnic. It’s a snapshot, it’s an icon, it’s all Bob’s got, it’s pinned up with the rest of his life. He remembered how he felt when he took the photograph, and the pain in his side flared again, and he grew sad.

  He made the tea, and sat to drink with the photograph propped against a bottle of milk. In 1987, on holiday in Devon, the family had been as complete as it ever was; the return to Brighton had coincided with a backlog of work and half a dozen new cases. Bob had thrown himself at the work, and within three months, Ann was beginning to feel ignored and irrelevant, marooned in a sea of children and house. The things she had loved about Bob dissolved in the demands of the agency. He used to sit and listen to her, he used to understand her needs, he used to take her and the children on unexpected trips, he used to stand in the garden and imitate the cries of seagulls, and he used to play football with the boys. He used to do the washing up. He used to hold her because he loved her. Now he was too tired, too busy, too late or too angry. He was too everything but too nothing, and he couldn’t see what was happening. Ann’s frustrations were echoed by the children, and the echoes boomed around the house, but he didn’t hear them. Ann told him what was happening but he didn’t feel it. He was forgetting, but couldn’t remember what. He was lost.

  One day, he came home to find a note and an empty house. Ann had taken the children and gone to live with her sister in Exmouth. She told him not to follow or try to contact them; she would write, and explain what she intended to do.

  Bob burnt his anger by burying himself in work. Then he started to drink, and then he began to fill with remorse. Self-pity had him for a year, and then an understanding of his mistakes. He attempted a reconciliation, but it was too late. Ann had found another man. He could divorce her for adultery, or wait another six months for a two years’ separation. He waited.

  Now, six years later, he worked out his children’s ages, and he tried to imagine them, but he couldn’t. They were past him. He was a dream they vaguely remembered. He wished they could see him, he wished they could understand that he had changed, but he wouldn’t force it. He’d seen too many unexpected reunions breed unexpected results. He flipped the photograph so that it lay face down on the table, and finished his tea.

  Frank hummed as he climbed the stairs to his flat. He took them two at a time, rattling his keys and smiling. Lisa stood on the first landing. When he saw her, he gasped, said, ‘Lisa! What are you doing here?’ and ran to her.

  ‘I was discharged.’

  ‘Discharged?’ He took her arm. ‘Already?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Come on.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You shouldn’t be out here. What’s the matter with your flat?’

  ‘I was waiting for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s Mrs Platt. I’ve been knocking on her door, but I can’t get a reply.’

  ‘Maybe she’s out. Christmas shopping or something.’

  ‘She doesn’t go shopping. You know that.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Frank, and he bent down and looked at Mrs Platt’s door through the banisters. ‘When did you last knock?’

  ‘Twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Frank went down the stairs, put his ear to the door, then thumped it hard. ‘Mrs Platt!’ he yelled. ‘Hello! Are you awake?’ He looked over his shoulder. Lisa looked at him and nodded. ‘Stand back,’ he said, and he took four steps back. He braced his shoulder and ran at the door; it burst open with a crack, and he stood in the sitting-room.

  The air was freezing and rancid. He switched on the light and walked towards the kitchen. His breath plumed into fat clouds. He said, ‘Mrs Platt?’ softly, and tripped over the leg of an armchair. As he fell he put out a hand and grabbed a standard lamp. The shade fell off and rolled across the floor. ‘Shit…’ he hissed, and he stumbled into the kitchen.

  Lisa came behind him and said, ‘You all right?’ He nodded and moved to the table. He picked up the tinfoil, smelt its dusting of ashes, licked a finger and tasted some. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know…’ He felt the teapot. It was cold. He went to the sink and tried to turn off the dripping tap, but it was stuck. He looked at the candles on the table. He turned, left the kitchen and went to the bedroom.

  He opened the door slowly, put his mouth to the crack and said, ‘Mrs Platt? Are you in there?’ He let go of the handle. It swung back and he saw the be
d. This was illuminated by a dust of dim blue; he put his hand out for the light switch, but Lisa touched his shoulder and said, ‘Don’t.’ She brushed past him and crossed the room, stood by the bed for a moment, and sat down. She put her hand to Mrs Platt’s cheek and touched it. The old woman’s eyes were open. She closed them. She straightened the blankets, and smoothed them down. Frank joined her, and as he stood, his blood froze, and his mind lost its grip on the day. He felt tears behind his eyes, but he couldn’t cry. He started to make a tiny whining sound, like the sound of a small boy locked in an attic. Lisa turned and bowed his head on to her shoulder, and held him around the waist. Her hair smelt of disinfectant and lino floor. Wind rattled the window and blew a flurry of snow against the glass. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘She shouldn’t be here.’

  Davis followed the driver, who did something different. He stopped at a video shop and rented Strictly Ballroom. While he was choosing, Davis waited by a phone box, and Evans stood thirty yards back, outside a newsagent’s shop.

  There was a display of Christmas decorations in the shop window. There were foil bells, sparkly bunches of holly, baubles and a scatter of paper chains you glue together yourself. Evans looked up the street, looked at the decorations, looked at his watch and dived into the shop.

  He pushed in front of a woman buying toffee and said, ‘Quick!’ He touched the woman’s arm and said, ‘I’m sorry.’ He turned to the man behind the counter. ‘Give me some of those paper chains!’

  The man was angry. ‘I’m serving this woman, and—’

  Evans rummaged in his pocket and flashed his warrant card. ‘Police,’ he snapped. ‘Now.’

  The man squinted. ‘Paper chains?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘The ones you glue yourself.’ Evans pointed. ‘In the window.’

  The woman stood back and held her handbag to her chest while the man came from behind the counter. ‘How many?’

  ‘A dozen packets.’