The ‘yes’es and ‘hmm’s which had abbreviated her speech were gone, her words were stream of consciousness – a watercourse of misery. ‘…It’s not because they’ve chosen a different life – a more bohemian one; they just might be disabled, disfigured, be social wallflowers, or any one of a multitude of reasons which are no fault of their own. That’s real life…
‘People despise you because you’re childless. Women are the worst, women despising women… They’ll tell you that having children is the ultimate act of creation and if you’re not part of it then you’re not creative. Rubbish! They’re no more than consumers and absorbers. There’s nothing creative about having children even if they all turn out to be Picasso, it’s a biological process, it happens. Creativity is searching for and finding what’s unique and original about you and the world, not just doing what five billion other people do. “…Begotten not created”, remember!’ She was screaming, I was gawping.
I tried to move my leg, the black blood-red leather creaking as I did so.
‘…But of course, you, Pulse my dear…’ Her voice took on the deviant air of someone else’s parody of a toffee-nosed gent. ‘…You will go on, living as you think fit, doing things by the book, doing what you believe is right, doing what others tell you, just as you were brought up to do; and you will die loving no one, and loved by no one.’
She took a deep breath as if her lungs were being filled through every pore of her skin.
‘Chance and coincidence.’ She said slowly. ‘It’s they who are the real miracle to which we owe our existence. It’s they who we should be giving thanks to, and who we should rejoice in, not some mish-mash mismatch notion of a universal creator… And by the way, I can assure you that the earth is older than eight thousand years, I know, because I’ve fucking well been here all the time… Christ’s death on the cross – my fault.’ She gave a throaty laugh which seemed to come from the corners of the room.
What! She’d never once mentioned religion and with all her blethering I’d assumed she was an atheist. She saw me looking.
‘Don’t look so dumb, Pulse. “Our sins nailed him up there.” It’s symbolic. Everything Man is given he fucks up. Some people do it less well than others, some get paid more for doing it but it’s all a balls-up. Life is one almighty balls-up!’
Chance and Coincidence, she spoke as if they were people, as if they were long-awaited guests at a party, and the embodiment of a perfect ideal – gods… The gilded ones. And she had said those three words so quietly, as if she were popping shut the lid on a casket of precious jewels and locking it for ever.
Outside the window I could see pale sun, could hear the wa wa, wa wa, chir, chir of a song thrush.
‘Don’t you ever consider what other people think about you?’ She was calmer now, the question no less unnerving.
‘Well, now I know, don’t I? You think I’m shallow.’ My voice petulant, I felt it.
‘Not me, I mean other people.’ She looked at me as if she were teacher, and I were her tiresome pupil. All I could think of was something which had been rambling through my mind since I was eighteen.
‘If you want to know I’m haunted by those words of Arthur Rimbaud. His greatest fear was that others would see him as he saw them.’
‘H – h – h,’ her voice was a series of truncated hiccups.
‘Well, Pulse, dahling…’ She leaned across and placed her thumb and forefinger on my wrist – against my pulse, as if she was in the act of proving that I wasn’t well. I noticed that she was no longer wearing the amber ring.
‘…The prognosis is worse than you think because what they think of you is what you are and what you will be – no more, and probably a good deal less than you think you are. That is all you are, and all you ever will be.’
I couldn’t take it in. I would memorize her words and store them for understanding later when I was feeling better.
‘…So, you can forget your ambitions, your aspirations that folk will think of you as “a good fellow”. You can set aside the pompous notion that your actions will be speaking louder than your words, and that you will be judged by what you did rather than by what you said…’
I suddenly realized I was terribly thirsty and I thought of that first day at my interview when she’d given me the glass of water.
‘…That you “lived life to the full”, that you “didn’t suffer fools gladly” – that you “were strict but fair”; or that you were a man of principle, or any other of the wearisome parade of funeral clichés. You can discount all those hours which you might have spent in doing charitable works.’
The eyes hadn’t blinked – still didn’t blink as she ploughed on with her grim oration.
‘Oh, I admit you can’t control what others think, but do you really think that other people are interested in you? I mean you, what makes you you; the inner personality – as opposed to you the commodity, or you the earner, you the provider, the consumer, the member of the congregation, the ally, the sexual liaison, the status symbol… You, as opposed to you the fall guy, you the stooge.
‘When they send you “the invite” they’re not interested in you. They want someone to adorn their party, compliment them on their taste; they want someone to prettify their dinner table. They’ll only ask you your view so they can tell you theirs.’
The eyes had still not blinked, the irises practically the same size as the pupils. ‘…And there’s a payoff for them, they want to patronise you, pay for you, to show you how they live their lives. They’re confident because they know you can’t pay them back – oh I don’t mean money, I mean because you’re always outside, outside their bubble looking in. You’re an extension of them, and what they want you to be, no more.’
‘What about family and friends… they know you better than anybody?’ I hoped I was throwing her a lifeline but my interruption was a stupid one and I realized it as soon as the words left my mouth.
‘They’re worse. They label you from birth, are obsessed with your genetic inheritance… and spouses…’ she spat out the old-fashioned word. ‘They swear they want you to stay the same when in reality they plan to all but genetically engineer you, then curse you for not growing along with them.’
‘…You’re talking as if people have no personality, no free will, what about being true to yourself?’ My voice was whining, but why should it? I might have been feeling like death warmed up but out of the two of us she was undoubtedly the real invalid.
‘How many people do you know are prepared to get into the river, swim over, and find out what the vegetation is like on your side? Tell me that! Get out!’
I suddenly felt that I was a waste of space sitting there in the leather armchair and that she was telling me to go.
‘Go on, ask the question; shout it across the cemeteries!’
Her voice had become so distorted that I wasn’t sure whether she’d said cemeteries or centuries. Either way I felt a chill pass through my body as if someone far below had prised the lid off the inspection chamber, and the ancient subterranean stench was rising through the building. It was as though the incongruous display of emotion was coming from outside her body. To get out was what I knew I had to do.
From somewhere above our heads came a metallic click, followed by a gentle sucking noise as if the lid of an exquisite jewellery box were being removed. There was a slow tap, tap, tap, like the sound of a snare drum. Every other tap was accompanied by the squeak of brogue shoe leather.
I looked up as Patrick appeared in the doorway of the antechamber. He was dressed as I had always seen him dressed, but he wasn’t looking at me, and he wasn’t looking at Lauren. He turned and walked past without speaking, and with the curious air of a somnambulist he closed his office door behind him.
‘What was that all about?’ I feigned indignation.
‘If you don’t know that then you’ll never know anyth
ing.’ The words sounded like a stick of celery being snapped in two.
‘I’m going to go in, ask him for my directorship, and if he won’t give it me then I’m handing in my notice.’
Her mouth made a sound like an old kitchen tap being turned on. I patted the letter which lay in my inside pocket, struggled painfully out of the chair and knocked twice on the door. There was no reply. I could feel the thousand-year-old eyes on me as I opened the door and went in.
As I closed the door behind me the truth hit me. After Lauren’s bizarre outburst there was no longer any doubt in my mind as to who had made the decision to have Freia killed. She’d known, felt used, felt like Patrick’s stooge. Exhausted as I was it gave me a new feeling of confidence.
Patrick was sitting behind his desk, his blazer-clad arms in front of him and his hands clasped over his stomach. He looked like a friar but a rather shrivelled one. All his attempts at a commanding relationship with the walnut desk seemed to have come to nothing. Sitting there he reminded me of one of those creepy chess set pieces which consisted of miniature medieval ecclesiasticals. He looked as if he should be sitting on top of the mighty desk rather than behind it.
‘…Morning Patrick!’ I sounded nauseatingly perky.
‘Good morning.’ He said it in the way that a less original personality might have replied, what’s good about it?
‘I’ve been wanting to ask you again about the directorship. You said you’d think about…’
‘I didn’t. I never make employees directors.’
‘Okayyy… In which case I’ve got something for you.’ I walked round the desk so that I was standing between desk and window. As I pulled the envelope from my pocket I noticed that somehow it had acquired a diagonal crease. I handed it to him, leaning as I did so across the corner of the desk. He peered at me as if I was a tiny child who had innocently picked something unpleasant out of the gutter and was holding it up for his approval. I stayed standing, thought it was better that way.
His right hand reached for the stainless-steel David Mellor paperknife, inserted its point into the top of the envelope, and deftly slid it along its edge. He replaced the knife on the table and pulled the paper from the envelope with his wedge-shaped finger and thumb. There were two rectangles of paper. One remained between his fingers, the other floated down onto the desktop and I realized that in my haste I had put the folded edge of the single sheet of notepaper to the top of the envelope and that the paperknife had neatly sliced the sheet of paper in two. He picked up the fallen half from the tabletop, held them both in the air, staring stupefied at them like a conjurer who pretends his trick has failed before mesmerising his audience with the unexpected.
The daylight was hitting the letter in such a way that I could see in detail the surface texture of the cheap notepaper. There were a series of hieroglyphs embossed onto its surface. Marks made on the sheets of the pad below when I had sat in the car pressing the ball point pen in agitation while writing the brief report for the police. From where I was standing four feet from his eyes I could see, plain as anything FREIA LLOYD LEWIS… LAURIE FOURNIER.
Patrick put the two halves of the letter on the desk, turned to the right, leaned forward in the swivel chair and buried his face in his hands. He was in exactly the same pose as he had been the first time I’d seen him, with the rampant lion on the wall tapestry directly behind him looking as if it were about to swallow his salt-and-pepper-haired head. He turned towards me without moving his hands.
‘I did it for you, Pulse.’
I must have looked at him as if he was demented. At first, I thought he meant conspiracy to murder, but he hadn’t seen the hieroglyphs – or if he had, he was ignoring them. He meant the opportunity, the chance he’d given me to better myself in life. Okay it was histrionic but he seemed genuinely dismayed.
‘I did it all for yoooou…’ he repeated.
The ‘oooou’ of the ‘you’ seemed to undergo an unearthly tonic blend with another very different pitch of sound. It was the unmistakable wail of a siren. It stopped and was followed by the slamming of car doors coming from below the window – four slams.
I turned and looked through the long window. Below me and standing in the middle of the road were two black limousines, and further down the street to my right I could see the familiar orange and blue striped Ford Granada – parked diagonally, blocking the street.
In the front limo I could see a driver and directly behind him a passenger – both uniformed. The personnel in the rear car were sitting in similar arrangement, and I could just make out the driver in the Granada, also uniformed. There was a loud report from the front door accompanied by the sound of Tyrolean cow bells, and it occurred to me that in the whole two months I’d been here that was the first time any visitor had dared pull on the bull’s head.
I hadn’t called the police.
I crossed the room to the door and opened it to find Lauren standing in the antechamber facing me. She seemed to have undergone a transformation. She looked tall, elegant, commanding, and I was abruptly aware of something I had failed to notice before, a distinct swelling to her belly under the close-fitting jumper.
‘Would you mind answering the door!’ She spoke to me as if I were a servant. ‘I’ll go to him now, he needs me.’
Downstairs I opened the door to two bareheaded men in tight-fitting suits. A further two uniformed officers stood behind them, one male the other female and standing either side of the top step.
‘Come in!’ In spite of feeling bemused I said it as if I had added ‘I’ve been expecting you.’ The first two men entered and I shut the door leaving the uniformed man and woman outside. I gestured to the first two to stand at the bottom of the stairs.
‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting there, Mr Lloyd Lewis will be down very shortly.’ Feeling like a rather dishevelled butler I retraced my steps to the antechamber and sat in one of the dried-blood leather armchairs – this time choosing the one near the window. It would give me a better view when Patrick emerged.
After some moments, the door of the office opened wide and the two figures appeared, standing side by side. They passed me looking straight ahead, walking slowly and sedately as if they were members of a procession at a coronation. I noticed that they were holding hands.
Twenty-eight
The footsteps descended. There was an exchange of words, inaudible to me but in tone resembling the call and response of the Anglican creed of affirmation. It was silenced first by one slam of the front door, followed by four slams from the limousines. The hush which followed was broken only by the distant subterranean rumble of a tube train and the frantic chip chip chip of a blackbird racing past the window.
After a unit of time that I was unable to measure, I heard the sound of a key in the front door, the slam, footsteps mounting the stone stairs – rapid purposeful, and possibly two at a time.
‘Hello, Pulse.’ Laurie seemed to fill the door of the antechamber and I was glad. He said it as if the two of us were exchanging mutual condolences at a funeral but there was a smile on his face. ‘…Just going up to be with mum,’ it was as if he’d said, ‘it’s going to be tough on her but it’s for the best.’
I sat there in a trance until I heard the front door again… Footsteps in the downstairs studio followed by movement in the hall, rattling down to the basement, kettle on, back up to studio. By the time I entered the downstairs room Shem was sitting at his drawing board.
‘…Morning!’
‘…Morning!’
‘I’ve just resigned.’
‘You, bastard!’
He put the same emphasis on both words, nodding his head in time, and as if he’d intended to follow with a lengthy diatribe, but it didn’t come. I collected my few belongings; scale rule, set square, set of Rotring pens, clutch pencil, two notebooks; that was it – into shoulder bag and I was out of the studio door. I walked
to the front door, opened it and suddenly realized I had forgotten to leave the knobbly key on Lauren’s desk for her to find. I’d guessed that the police would release her later in the day. I also needed to take my office front door key off my key ring and leave that, so I closed the front door with me still standing inside.
‘Good fucking riddance!’ I heard Shem’s voice coming from the studio.
I walked towards the butler’s pantry glancing through the studio door as I went. Shem looked mildly surprised to see I was still there. Then I stopped, about turned, and climbed the stairs to Patrick’s office.
I couldn’t resist the thought of opening the locked drawer for the last time. There wouldn’t be any harm. My fingerprints were over everything but of course they were, I’d worked here. The police would eventually want to interview me and then I would hand them the Post-it notes… Or would I?
They were going to have a field day. Who knew what was in the secret drawer at the back of the desk? Perhaps there were layers of crimes stretching back into history. Maybe the police wouldn’t be interested in me – perhaps I wouldn’t have to do anything else… except wait and read the newspapers.
I walked through the antechamber, into Patrick’s office, across to the desk… Felt for the key in my pocket… into the lock… right to left… the lovely soft woodwind sound as I pulled open the drawer. Everything was as I’d left it early that morning, except the Oyez gorgonzola marbled notebook. There was something inside it.
Holding it open at the page with the 01-222-4386 telephone number and encircling the ‘222’ was a finger ring. It was silver with a large piece of glowing amber which contained the shape of an insect whose antennae and legs were outstretched, just as they were when it had been imprisoned millennia ago.
When at last I closed the front door behind me I found another uniformed male police officer standing on the front step. I nodded, he nodded; he seemed to have no objection to my leaving. This time the Granada had been parked neatly in line with all the other residents’ cars.
The Gilded Ones Page 20