Enchantment

by Monica Dickens

  He was furious with Harold. True, he owed the money, but he was angry about the threats and dirty tricks. Little Hitler had droned to him in the shed, over the drone of the lathe, ‘Never borrow, never lend. Borrowers end up hating the lender.’

  Dead right, Dad, as usual. Ever been wrong? But if a person could never be humble, he could never be humiliated.

  Tim did not go to the Boathouse that week. They had an influx of interloping drama students, and did not need him.

  One evening, as he sat on his low window-sill and picked off the unheeding cars – ping, ping, ping, with an air rifle disguised as a toilet plunger, the nine o’clock news came on the radio. Tim was not listening. He was in a dazed dream, hypnotized by keeping aim at the cars, but, as the news reader plunged dramatically into the lead story, he lowered the plunger.

  ‘Reports are coming in of a sniper terrorizing the Green Ponds housing estate near Heathrow Airport. Two children and three adults are known to be dead, and several other people have been rushed to hospital with severe injuries.’

  A sniper … and I was playing at guns through the window. Or was I playing? What are they talking about? Tim shook his head to try to clear it. What’s happening? Are they talking about me?

  ‘… and the man, in his twenties or thirties according to eye witnesses, and carrying a sub-machine-gun, appears to have escaped. Police are on the scene. Details are still confused. We’ll keep you up to date as more information comes in.’

  Tim sat thinking about it for a long time, with the plunger across his lap.

  Next day, the senseless, horrible crime was on everybody’s lips. Four people had been cut down in the street, and one more had died in hospital. Three were wounded. One was in a critical condition. The man, a local resident, who had tried to escape in a red car, had crashed into a police roadblock and was dead. His name was Barry McCarthy. He was unemployed, a loner. No one knew anything about him. As they would say about Tim.

  ‘Makes your flesh creep.’ Gail and Lilian were excited and jumpy. They jabbered together, instead of getting dustsheets pulled off and folded.

  ‘I might have been there,’ Gail said. ‘That’s not far from where my cousin lives. Suppose I’d been there? Look at his picture, those staring eyes.’ They were ordinary eyes, and the picture, taken some years ago, was blurred.

  ‘He does look a bit familiar, though,’ Tim said, in the casual voice he used for inventing. ‘I could swear I’ve seen him. Here, perhaps, in the store.’

  Gail squealed, and Lilian said, ‘Knock it off, Tim.’

  Tim prowled the aisles between the tables and the racks of cloth rolls and hanging samples, brooding on the terrible event. Two children walking home with their mother – all shot outright. A man with his dog (the dog had survived: they had its picture). What sort of maniac would do a thing like this?

  A sort of maniac like – wait a minute, suppose Harold had … No, of course not. They knew the man, Barry McCarthy, and he was dead.

  But if it had been Harold, Tim would have been a star witness.

  Tim decided to go down to the Boathouse anyway, and he had a beer and a bit of a chat about the crime with the barman during the first act. He felt out of it, not having a job to do, being only a customer.

  Sheila, the front-of-house manager, came through the foyer. ‘Didn’t expect to see you, Tim.’

  ‘Just thought I’d come down to see if you needed a hand.’

  ‘Can’t stay away, can you?’

  In the interval, he hung about on the boarded terrace between the theatre and the river where the audience walked about with drinks and discussed the play. Tonight he heard many of them talking about Barry McCarthy. One of the wounded had been discharged from hospital. One was worse. Tim sneaked into an empty seat in the gallery for the second act, and stayed on to count the ice-cream and coffee money for Sheila. He went through into the theatre to look for lost property. Craig was at the side of the stage, checking a music tape that had not cued in at the right point.

  While Tim went forward along the rows, they talked back and forth, about the play, and about Barry McCarthy and the Uzi gun. Everyone was talking about Barry McCarthy and Green Ponds.

  ‘Good thing he’s dead,’ Tim said.

  ‘Not really,’ Craig said from the stage. ‘The psychologists could have had a field day, trying to find out what makes a quiet man suddenly do a random, violent thing like that. Now they’ll never know. Nobody seems to know anything about him.’

  ‘I do,’ Tim said suddenly.

  ‘You?’ Craig looked down at him as if it were a joke.

  ‘Well, yes, I do, as a matter of fact. But it’s nothing. Not important. I’ll keep it to myself.’

  ‘No you don’t.’ Craig jumped down from the low stage and pulled Tim upright as he was bending under the third row to pick up a lipstick.

  ‘Well … one of the things I do (as if he had innumerable pursuits) is a sort of, you know, sort of role-playing adventure that you play by mail. Carrier Pigeon Games, they call it.’

  ‘Sounds fascinating.’ Craig pushed down a seat and sat on it. ‘Go on.’

  Tim leaned against the back of another seat. ‘It sounds daft, but this man, Barry McCarthy, he was involved in it too.’

  ‘You met him?’

  ‘No, but I knew he was in it. Point is, everyone’s saying he was such a quiet man – never harmed anyone. But he invented this really wicked character, see?’

  Craig was absorbed. He leaned forward, hands on knees, nodding rapidly.

  ‘Black Monk. An evil friar. Killing was his bag. Cut down, hack and slay.’

  ‘Barry McCarthy?’

  ‘Yeah.’ But it was Harold’s face Tim saw above the monk’s black blood-stained robe, moving mercilessly through the forest.

  ‘My God.’

  Having made his effect, Tim went along down the row. ‘It’s only fantasy, after all. Not important.’

  ‘Oh, but it is. This ought to be reported.’

  ‘No, don’t tell anyone. This is just chat. I thought it would amuse you.’

  ‘I am not amused.’ Craig stood up. ‘I’m horrified.’ He looked at Tim attentively. Then he nodded and said, ‘Thanks,’ and went away up the aisle to the front of the theatre.

  ‘Good God, who’s that?’

  Jack and Brian were up, Brian making the tea, and Jack at the table with a dressing-gown over his night-dress, reading the paper.

  Two pairs of feet were going up the stairs to Tim’s flat. It was not yet eight o’clock in the morning.

  ‘First, our boy has no visitors at all. Then he has this stream of men with big feet up and down the stairs at peculiar hours.’

  ‘Police.’ Brian lifted the tea-bags out of the mugs and flipped them into the bin. ‘They’re on to you at last, Cindy dear. You’d better run up and put your trousers on.’

  Actually, it was the police. Detective Sergeant Miles, Special Squad, and Detective Constable Something, incident room, looking for Timothy Wallace Kendall.

  Tim was both terrified and thrilled. The two men produced their warrant cards, just like in a film. One part of Tim wanted to hold out his wrists for the handcuffs. Another part wanted to crawl back into the bed that had not yet been made into a couch. Another part ducked his head and said, ‘I’ve got to get ready. I’ll be late for work.’

  ‘Shan’t keep you long, Mr Kendall.’ The Detective Sergeant had hair like corrugated iron. ‘Just like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Would you –’ Tim indicated the table and chairs. His coffee was cooling on the counter and the thermostat on his toaster didn’t work. He wanted to get nearer to it.

  ‘That’s all right, Mr Kendall. Shan’t keep you a moment.’

  They knew about Domain of the Undead, and about Barry McCarthy and Black Monk. Craig had taken Tim so seriously that he had gone to the police.

  It was tremendously dramatic. The police had come to Tim to hear something they did not know about an important crime. Wel
l, of course they didn’t know it, because it wasn’t true. The Detective Constable produced a witness statement form and sat down on the window-sill to fill in Tim’s name, address, date and place of birth.

  ‘Occupation?’

  The toast began to burn, and Tim got away to the other end of the room, had a quick gulp of coffee with his back to the policemen, and got his wits together.

  ‘We’d like to take a statement from you, Mr Kendall.’

  Tim took a deep breath. Something about the imperturbable eyes of the two men made it impossible to say anything but, ‘I, er, I’m sorry, but I’d better tell you. What you were told I’d said, well it isn’t really true.’

  ‘You didn’t say it to Mr, er, Mr Cwaig Weynolds?’

  You didn’t often meet a policeman who couldn’t pronounce his r’s.

  ‘Yes, I said it, but it – well it wasn’t strictly true.’

  ‘Is that your statement?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like to vewify it?’

  The words on the form blurred in front of Tim’s eyes. He nodded miserably. He had let it go. He had lost it, the drama of being a witness.

  ‘Thank you. You know, Mr Kendall,’ Detective Sergeant Miles said pleasantly, ‘wasting the time of the police with false information is an offence.’

  ‘Oh – I – oh, but I –’ Tim felt his mouth opening and shutting like a fish.

  ‘It could bring you before a court.’

  ‘But I didn’t give you the information,’ Tim said desperately.

  ‘That’s true, but given the nature of the crime involved, it could be assumed that you knew that Mr Reynolds would not keep your information to himself.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ There was nothing else to say.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ The Detective Constable stood up. ‘There’s thousands like you,’ he said stoically.

  ‘You mean, people who –’ The drama had vanished. Tim was only one of humdrum thousands.

  ‘Oh, yes, do it all the time. Most of them confess to the cwime itself.’

  ‘They do that?’

  ‘All the time.’ The man sighed and looked at his watch.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why did you tell Mr Weynolds about the fantasy game?’

  ‘To amaze him,’ Tim said plainly. He had been jolted out of nonsense, but even so, he liked hearing himself give the simple honest answer.

  ‘Well, then.’

  The two policemen left. Tim’s mind raced ahead of them to the station. He would walk in with his small head high – when he was in his teens, he used to measure it constantly to see if it had grown – courageous.

  I’m the man you’re looking for …

  ‘Everything all right?’

  As Tim stood at his open door to watch the detectives’ car drive away, Brian called up from the garage. ‘You’ve got early-bird friends.’

  ‘Yes. Haven’t I?’

  ‘Thought you’d got the bailiffs in.’ Brian pushed up the overhead door and went inside.

  I’m the man. At the desks behind the high counter, heads would lift, pens in mouths, a stir.

  Come off it, Tim. They’ve got him, remember? He’s dead.

  Brian’s car backed out of the garage. Jack came smartly out of the back door, pulled down the overhead door and got into the car.

  Tim brushed his hair, put on his tie and jacket, left the flat untidy, with his cold coffee and burnt toast, and was ten minutes late into the department.

  ‘Late on parade.’ Mr D. fussed. ‘It throws the whole operation out of gear. I may have to ask you to stay an extra ten minutes this evening. Your excuse, please.’

  Just this: I was helping the police with their inquiries.

  But he would never tell. Torture me, Mr D. Put upholstery tacks under my nails. In the incident room, our lips are sealed.

  Chapter Eight

  A green Webster’s envelope came through Brian’s letter-box. Tim’s rent money. He usually knocked, and handed it over.

  Brian opened the door. ‘Why so furtive?’ Tim looked as if he had been caught ringing bells.

  ‘I thought you were both out.’

  ‘School holiday.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. Well … it’s all there.’

  Poor little devil, he had been late with it only a few times in his tenancy. ‘I’m not worried,’ Brian said. As Tim turned to go, with that nervous duck of the head, he asked him, ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘What? Oh yes, thanks.’

  ‘It was the police, though, wasn’t it, the other morning?’

  Tim shook his head. But the lie was a lost cause.

  ‘Come on, I can tell the flowerpot men by their feet.’

  ‘Parking offence.’ Tim was at the end of the path.

  ‘Remember,’ Brian gave him the trustworthy smile, ‘if you ever need help …’

  He stood at the door and watched Tim walk away fast to the bus stop, thin, young, not quite filling the dark suit, the back of his neck, where the hair’s edge was clipped too high, vulnerable as a baby.

  Not fair to play games with him. It should have been funny, but it wasn’t.

  Pocket Pickups, page 92: ‘Don’t ignore the plain, unattractive girl. Chances are, she will be warmer and friendlier than the girl who can have any man she wants. She needs to be. Look inside, not outside, and if you really can’t stand the outside, treat her to a professional make-up and hair-do, and a really sexy outfit.’

  Oh, Helen, by the way. Tim could just hear himself. I’ve made an appointment for you at Beautyworks. After, we’ll go to Ladies’ Fashions at Webster’s …

  ‘Oh, Helen.’ He had left a message with the neighbour, and Helen had rung him back. ‘I was wondering. Haven’t seen you for a while.’

  ‘And the last time was so awful. With Julian. I thought you’d never want to see us again.’

  ‘Oh, well. Well, I’d like to.’ She must be waiting for him to say, ‘I want to see you,’ but in an odd, compulsive way, he did want to see the child again. The sleeping prince. The boy who would never get into trouble for making up stories, since stories were not a part of his detached world. ‘What about Sunday? I thought perhaps you might like to come to my place.’

  ‘Oh, Tim, that’s nice of you,’ Helen said in a rush. ‘But he can’t go on buses. He gets fetched to and from the school.’

  ‘I’ll fetch you, then.’

  ‘No, I’d worry about your flat.’

  ‘Well, he couldn’t bite through the cable of the television, because I haven’t got one.’

  ‘He’ll mess the place up.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind.’ Brian and Jack might. It might undo the benefit of seeing a woman’s legs – even Helen’s thick ones – going up the stairs.

  ‘You’ve got no idea. You come here. What about Sunday afternoon?’

  ‘All right. I’ll bring the supper.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Helen rang off, and Tim went into a state of anxiety that would last until he had actually bought the food on Saturday.

  *

  No, he had no idea. His memories of Julian had been softened into a few bits of odd behaviour and a temper tantrum in the supermarket.

  The child had a slight cold, so as well as spitting, he blew his nose, not even into his fingers, but snorting straight on to the carpet or the furniture or your knee, whatever happened to be in the line of fire. He dragged off his shorts and nappies and smeared their contents on the wall.

  He came back from the bathroom with a soapy sponge. He soaped his arms and hair and tongue and the legs of furniture, and Tim’s hand and arm, when he went to sit by Julian with his sleeve rolled up. Then he threw away the sponge and made patterns in the sticky soap on Tim’s arm.

  Being touched by this electric boy was pleasing, flattering. Tim wanted to hug him hard, and force understanding into him with the fuel of love. He did manage to hold the restless body briefly, before Julian scrambled back and hit him in the stomach with a soapy fist.

&n
bsp; ‘You’ve got to think ahead of what he’s going to do,’ Helen said, coming back into the room. ‘Like a boxer. Did he hurt you?’

  ‘No,’ Tim lied.

  ‘You’re quite good with him. Most people are either scared or embarrassed.’

  ‘I like him.’

  ‘Honestly? I mean, I love him, of course, but that’s different.’

  Tim had brought Julian a little toy car. When he gave it to him, the boy opened his fingers and dropped it and walked away, which Helen said he always did with presents.

  They put Julian in a corner of the small kitchen with the car, and he pushed it, not in imitation of a car, but to and fro obsessively, while they got the supper ready.

  ‘Turn up at her place with champagne and smoked salmon and a few long-stemmed roses.’

  Tim had brought a bottle of Bulgarian wine, veal and ham pie slices, lettuce, potato salad and French bread from the delicatessen counter in Webster’s restaurant, and a packet of fish fingers, because Helen had said Julian liked them.

  ‘You’re very thoughtful.’ Helen looked round from the frying pan and smiled.

  Don’t blush, Tim. It’s only Helen. He was opening the wine. Thank God it had a screw top. He poured a glass for each of them.

  ‘This is quite nice,’ Helen said. ‘I feel comfortable with you.’ She sometimes said things like that, very direct.

  Tim was working himself up to saying, ‘I do with you,’ when Helen put down the glass and the frying spatula, and dived across the room to rescue the small car which Julian was about to hurl through the kitchen window.

  At the table, Julian, in a vinyl bib as large as a surgeon’s apron, picked all the breadcrumbs off the fish fingers to see what was underneath. He ate some of the fish with his fingers, and wiped them on his hair. He grabbed for a radish, stopped chewing when he found it was hot, and exploded it over the table.

  Tim and Helen ate fast, that was the trick, to get in enough between attending to Julian, and to stop him taking food off their plates. They kept their wine glasses on the bookshelf behind the table where he couldn’t reach them.