In At The Deep End

by Anabel Donald

  He was speaking again. ‘What is your star-sign? When were you born?’

  ‘April, Guru,’ I said. ‘I’m an Aries.’

  Claudia said nothing. She didn’t even twitch, though she knew it’d been my birthday party on Monday.

  ‘A fire-child,’ said the guru/Freedom. ‘You have brought truth to us. Saturn is in Aries. You were guided by a spirit greater than ours.’

  And the shit is in the fan, I thought. Not just a crook.A completely unintuitive crook. I’ll get away with it.

  ‘In the matter of the letter,’ said the guru/Freedom. ‘My daughter Freedom wrote a letter to her son just before he died. We wish to know whether he received this letter.’

  ‘He never opened it. Guru,’ I said. ‘The letter arrived after he died. It was destroyed by the boy who shared his room.’

  Freedom started to cry. I hadn’t thought she was capable of so much emotion. I didn’t warm to her, exactly. I just despised the guru more. She didn’t translate for him: she said directly to me, ‘Honestly? Is that really true?’ For the first time she sounded English, like Mary Anne Pertwee from Sydenham.

  ‘Honestly,’ I said. ‘My word of honour.’

  She leant towards me, took my hand and kissed it. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Half an hour of spiritual uplift later, she showed us out. I found walking difficult, at first: the damp cushions and the cross-legged posture had hammered my bad leg. I exaggerated my difficulty to slow us down on the way to the car. I wanted to talk to her. ‘Where’s Olivier buried?’ I said.

  She waved at the grass under the central tree. ‘All around us,’ she said. ‘We scattered his ashes here. In a simple ceremony. We all chanted and then I sang two of my songs. And the Guru blessed his ashes so he can breathe pure air.’

  The pure air of fraud, I thought. ‘Freedom,’ I said, ‘tell me about Olivier. When he left Eton—’

  ‘I was glad,’ she interrupted. ‘I didn’t want him to go there. But it was part of the divorce settlement. Michel insisted. Well, his father insisted, because his father paid. And his father pays my allowance. Not that I need it, because my records sell well, but I’m glad, because I can spend it on helping the Guru with his work.’

  ‘Why doesn’t Michel pay?’

  ‘He’s an artist. He can’t handle money.’

  ‘When Olivier left Eton, what kind of trouble was he in?’

  ‘It was only because he was so clever.’

  ‘So clever?’

  ‘Yes, so clever with his hands, just like my father. With wires and microphones and things.’

  ‘Electronics?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He fixed up electronic equipment? And then he used it to listen to other people’s conversations?’

  ‘He was a seeker after truth, like me. He wanted to know. He wanted to understand. In his own way, he was looking for a higher plane of awareness. He was a very religious boy. He had a spiritual guide too, at Rissington. A priest. When he first went to school there, he was lonely, and the priest was his friend. Olivier wrote to me every week, then.’

  ‘The priest? Martin Kelly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’

  We’d reached the car, and stopped. ‘But he was young,’ said Freedom. ‘Olivier told me he was young, and handsome. Looks mattered very much to Olivier. And youth. He always said I was more like a sister than a mother I was very young when he was born. Young, and unwise.’

  And no wiser now, I thought. On the other hand Martin Kelly was no longer young and handsome.

  ‘He stopped writing to me,’ she said. ‘Last year, he hardly wrote at all. And he didn’t come here for Christmas. When he died, I hadn’t seen him since August. Seven months. Seven months . . .’

  ‘That’s sad,’ said Claudia, as we drove away. ‘Imagine not seeing him for so long, and then he dies. Your only son.’

  ‘Imagine getting on a plane and going to see your only son,’ I said, ‘instead of getting stoned on pot and lapping up the drivelling of a third-rate crook.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, unconvinced. ‘Maybe it’s even sadder, for her, because she feels guilty. And you lied about the letter.’

  ‘So sue me.’

  ‘But you lied on your word of honour.’

  ‘I think what I told her was probably the truth. It might have been. But anyway it’s better all round if she believes me.’

  ‘You shouldn’t do evil that good may come of it. The end can never justify the means.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘It’s basic ethics. I was taught it by the Jesuits.’

  ‘Some people don’t want or deserve the truth. That’s basic ethics too.’

  ‘Who taught you that?’

  ‘Twenty-nine years and five days. Now drive like hell to Toulouse. I want a bath.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Toulouse Wanderotel was in a main road right opposite the railway station, in a row of middle-range hotels. When we checked in, at eight o’clock, the bossy old woman at the desk gave us directions to the hotel car park, two keys, and a map. Because of the oneway system we had to drive for half a mile before reaching it, the last third of which was in the red-light district. The car park itself was down a side street which contained two strip shows, a pornographic video shop, three patrolling prostitutes, and a patrolling poodle, though the poodle may just have been a dog out for an evening stroll. Claudia was chastened. ‘Do you think it’s safe?’ she said.

  ‘Sure. We’ve only got to walk fifty yards to the main road,’ I said, more confidently than I felt. I wasn’t worried about the street but about the car park, which was very big and dark, under an apartment building. It had a system of electronic gates and separate lockup garages which suggested a high risk of theft, and if I’d been a violent petty thief who didn’t mind a bit of mugging on the side I’d have zeroed in on Claudia. I promised myself to fetch the car alone the next day, then backed us in, with some difficulty as our garage was tiny.

  We made it to the hotel without any trouble and went up to our rooms on the fourth floor. Mine was small, crammed with cheap, chipped modern furniture and a lumpy double bed, with a battered green carpet whose ugly patterns were only partly obscured by dirt. It was also very stuffy, and devoid of coffee-making equipment. I wrestled one of the French windows open and admitted a high level of traffic noise and polluted air. The balcony was only just large enough to stand on, with a view across to the backs of other hotels and down to a kitchen well and dustbins. There was, I was glad to see, a fire escape. Judging by the state of the wiring, some of which was hanging free of the decaying plaster, we might need it.

  Claudia’s room, next door, was worse. But we did have a bathroom each and we both had baths. The air was so oppressively hot that the tepid water didn’t matter. I changed my T-shirt, pants, and socks; Claudia changed everything except the silver combs. Then we went out for dinner, to a big restaurant on one of the main roads leading down to the station, chosen by Claudia.

  The food was very good but extremely rich. Our main course was a local duck dish which seemed to me ninety per cent fat. When I pointed out this to Claudia, she was scathing. ‘That’s not cholesterol,’ she said. ‘That’s proper cooking. Goose fat and butter. You can’t make confit de canard without it.’ I’d have to remember to tell Cassie.

  When we got back to the hotel the manageress spoke to Claudia and gave her a piece of paper. Because I couldn’t understand, I stood by and admired the manageress’s courageous approach to the passing years. A chestnut wig, the same piercing colour as Mrs Brown’s hair. Dyed black eyebrows. False eyelashes. A department store full of make-up, a low-cut tight black dress, shiny stockings, and spike-heeled black shoes. Perhaps she’d originally worked the side streets, and when her feet hurt too much she’d invested her earnings in a share of the hotel. A wise career-move, judging by the hotel prices.

  ‘Come on,’ said Claudia, ‘hurry. We need to get up to your room
. Polly rang and she’s going to ring again any minute.’

  Polly sounded better. Her voice had life in it that wasn’t spite. ‘Hi, Alex, how are you? I’m so sorry – really, I don’t know what came over me – I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean any of it.’

  Of course she had, but she meant the apology too. ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t matter less. I know I’m a pain sometimes.’

  ‘So’m I. You’ve been fantastic, I’ve been awful. I didn’t mean it, really. But I’m not just ringing for that. I watched the video today – the Rissington Abbey promotional thing. Have you seen it?’

  ‘No. What have you got?’ I said, lurched back into the case, which I’d been managing to ignore through dinner.

  ‘It’s probably nothing. I may just have made it up because I was looking too closely and because I was suspicious, you know how it is. I may be completely wrong.’

  The skin on the back of my neck was prickling. ‘Let’s have it anyway,’ I said.

  ‘It’s the deputy head.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Everything. He doesn’t need those glasses, for a start. You wear glasses for long or short sight, right? Well, when he’s talking to the camera he wears them and blinks as if he can’t see, which he probably can’t, they’re so thick and distorting. Then there’s a long shot of him reading the Bible in Assembly, and he hasn’t got them on then. And when he’s on the assault course – he’s the course record-holder – he isn’t wearing them either.’

  ‘Contact lenses?’ I said.

  ‘Could be. But it’s not just that. He doesn’t need to stoop, surely. He’s incredibly fit and strong, and he could be very good-looking. It looks put on, to me. Like an actor trying to look like a schoolteacher And his Scottish accent comes and goes. I told you it mayn’t be anything, but it’s just a feeling I have.’

  I thanked her, we chatted a bit, I rang off. I wasn’t entirely convinced by her arguments. She’d wanted to find something for me: she’d looked: she’d found it. That didn’t mean it was there. But it was interesting she’d picked on Brown.

  Brown. Not just a name, a colour. I knocked on Claudia’s wall: she came in. ‘Bring me the list you made from the Browns’ medicine cabinet, would you?’

  She brought it.

  Paracetamol

  Milk of Magnesia

  Several drug-names I didn’t recognize – presumably for the MS

  Diaphragm & contraceptive cream

  Hair dye – Mountain Ash

  There was more, but I stopped there. I was sitting on the bed, with Claudia beside me. ‘What colour do you think Mountain Ash is?’ I said.

  ‘Have you found something?’ She seemed to crackle with excitement.

  ‘Not sure. What colour?’

  ‘Well, it could be a pale ashy blonde.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘I suppose, a light ashy brown.’

  ‘But not bright chestnut?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She stared at me. ‘I don’t understand—’ and then she clicked. ‘Not Mrs Brown. It couldn’t be Mrs Brown’s! Which means – it’s Alistair’s? But what . . .’

  ‘He could have gone prematurely grey, I suppose, but I doubt it.’

  ‘So do you think it’s a disguise?’

  ‘God knows. Polly thinks his short-sightedness and stooping are a disguise. She watched the school video for me . . . Claudia, how old do you reckon he is?’

  ‘Mid-thirties?’

  ‘That’s what I thought when I met him. He’s supposed to be thirty.’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose. An old-looking thirty. He’s very lined about the eyes.’

  ‘Could be all that blinking.’

  But why would anyone disguise themselves in a school? It doesn’t make sense. Do you think he’s a criminal on the run?’

  ‘Two reasons for disguise,’ I said, thinking aloud. ‘One, not to be yourself. Two, to be someone else.’

  ‘Really to make yourself look like someone else is impossible,’ said Claudia dismissively. ‘People’s faces are all very different.’

  ‘Unless they’re identical twins. But if they were identical they’d have the same height and hair colour naturally . . . Don’t know. Maybe Father Corrigan will cast some light on it tomorrow.’

  Claudia sat expectantly. ‘What do we do now?’ she said.

  ‘Go to sleep. It’s nearly eleven.’

  ‘Oh,’ she wailed, disappointed. ‘But it’s only ten in England.’

  ‘We’re in France and I’m tired.’ I wasn’t, really, but I didn’t want to talk any longer.

  ‘Can I sleep in here?’ she said. ‘I know it’s only a double bed but I’m a very quiet sleeper and I’ll keep right over to my side, and I really, really don’t like sleeping alone in hotels.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ll be right back. I’ve got to fetch my handbag, and Lappay.’

  ‘Lappay?’

  ‘My pink rabbit. When I was small, my first stepfather – the French one – he was very sweet to me and he began teaching me the language, and the French for rabbit is “lapin”, so he taught me that and I couldn’t say it so I just said “Lappay” and I’ve called him that ever since . . .’

  ‘Belt up, Claudia.’

  ‘OK.’

  Sunday, June 7th

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I went to sleep at two and woke at seven, six English time. It was light but only just: the sky was heavily overcast, though it was still warm, and not much light filtered down the well and through the dirty windows anyway. I could hear traffic, and kitchen noises from below, and close by, a television was blaring. Claudia was still asleep, clutching the rabbit. Her hair, freed from the combs, covered all her square hard pillow and most of mine. As I watched her, she woke, stretched and smiled at me. ‘I had such a happy dream,’ she said. ‘Madame la Baronne went to Lourdes and she was healed. Wasn’t that lovely?’

  ‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘Did a tape rewind also take Olivier back up to the diving-board? Did it take Martin Kelly back down from his rope?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. Get up, there’s some things I want you to do.’

  ‘Great,’ she said. ‘Have you had an idea?’

  I sent her off to get washed and dressed, book us a return flight at noon or later, pack, and bring her overnight bag into my room.

  When she came back with the news that we were on a two-thirty flight, I was ready to go for coffee, but first I said: ‘Give me Kelly’s notebook, the one with the sports day notes, plus your summary page.’ She fished them out, and I compared them. One line – the line I’d remembered somewhere in my hours of wakefulness – was different.

  Claudia had written: buttocks on the diving-board spotlight.

  Kelly had written: buttocks on the diving-board Spotlight.

  ‘What is it?’ said Claudia.‘Oh, what is it, have I made a mistake?’

  ‘A small mistake. Look.’

  She looked. ‘I left off the capital letter. Is it important?’

  ‘It could be, but you weren’t to know that. My fault, I should have seen it anyway. Buzz down to the desk and ask Madame Wig if the hotel has a fax machine, and if it has, get the number.’

  She did. It had. She gave me the number, and I dialled Barty.

  He’d been asleep. He was at his worst in the early morning. It took him a while to work out who he was, let alone who I was, and that I was talking to him on the telephone. Finally he said, ‘Hell, Alex, it’s six-thirty.’

  ‘Not in la France. Do you still have those 1980s Spotlights?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s Spotlight?’ hissed Claudia.

  ‘It’s a casting directory. Ssshhh.’

  ‘You’ve rung me up at six-thirty to tell me that?’ complained Barty.

  ‘I was talking to Claudia. Barty, look someone up for me. Start 1980 and work forward. Could be one of several names: try surname Bernard, maybe Alistair Bernard. Or surname Alistair, mayb
e Bernard Alistair. Or surname Brown, with any of the other names first. Born about 1958, height five eleven to six foot, blue eyes, maybe blond hair. Probably under Young Actor but could be Leading, not likely to be Character but try anyway. Bone structure like Kevin Costner, high-bridged nose, high forehead. Muscular, athletic. Might offer stunting or a martial art.’

  ‘What are you casting?’

  ‘Evil at Rissington Abbey,’ I said. ‘Maybe. If you find him, fax the picture to me. Mark the fax with my name. Room 402.’ I gave him the fax number.

  ‘You will be careful?’ he said.

  ‘As careful as you’d be,’ I said, rather meanly, and put the phone down on his protests.

  Then I explained to Claudia.

  ‘Alistair Brown’s really an actor? Is he really Alistair Brown?’

  ‘His name doesn’t matter. He certainly isn’t Mrs Brown’s son, the thirty-year-old who got a degree from Edinburgh and then wrestled with his soul in the seminary. Whose passport probably says, height, five foot ten, colour of hair, brown.’

  ‘But why? Why should he do it? What could he gain?’

  ‘He could marry Mrs Ellis. The Major’s got a heart condition.’

  ‘Would he want her?’

  ‘She owns the school, remember?’

  ‘Why would he want to own a school?’

  ‘If you close the school, what have you got?’

  Claudia blinked. ‘Property,’ she said, with reverence. ‘Land. In an area with good road and rail links, ripe for development. That’s what Dieter said when he read the school prospectus, and I thought he was being narrow and mercenary, like a banker. But why would Mrs Brown do it?’

  ‘For a share in the profit. It was probably her idea. She was there first.’

  ‘And the contraceptives – perhaps he’s her lover!’ said Claudia, almost choking with excitement.

  ‘And perhaps she’s having a fling with the Craft, Design, and Technology teacher,’ I said. ‘Don’t let’s go mad. Time for breakfast.’

  It was a wonderful breakfast. We went to a café along the road, and I had two basinfuls of coffee second only to the Baron’s, and croissants that would have melted on the plate if I’d given them time. I felt relieved. I was sure that at least some of my questions were answered. There were plenty of details left to sort out, but the link with Kelly seemed clear enough. I didn’t know much about priests and trainee priests, but I thought theirs must be a smallish world, rather like mine, in which you bump into most people, sometime. If Kelly had known the real John Alistair Brown, perhaps while Brown was at the seminary, then he’d have spotted the Rissington Second-in-Command as a ringer.