by Paula Daly
‘Frankie, I wasn’t alone,’ I said playfully. ‘I had two small children to hinder my progress as well, remember?’
Frankie shot me a doleful look. ‘I didn’t tell Oona you had the kids. Shit,’ he said emphatically. ‘I don’t think it occurred to her either that you’d have to bring them along too.’
I took a quick glance over my shoulder to check on Jack and Martha and saw that the scooters had been abandoned around fifty yards away and they were squatting down on their haunches. They were greatly absorbed in something on the ground, probably a dead worm. Martha had a knack for hunting them out.
‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘Leon’s OK. I’m OK. And I’m not about to tell Oona about the kids so just forget about it.’
Frankie smiled. ‘You’re too generous.’
‘Anyway, did you really think I asked you here to berate you?’
He shrugged. ‘I didn’t know what to think.’
‘I have a problem,’ I said. ‘I know, I know, you’re thinking I have many problems … but this is serious, Frankie.’
Frankie arched an eyebrow. ‘What is it?’
‘Remember Alistair Armitage?’
Frankie looked blank.
‘The writer?’ I said. ‘The aspiring writer who’d heckle Leon at events?’
‘That dickhead?’ he said. ‘What does he want? He’s not been bothering you, has he? Because, honestly, Jane, I know Leon was always reluctant to really frighten the guy, but if a lunatic like that was bothering me, I wouldn’t hesitate. What’s he done this time?’
‘He’s not done anything. It’s the quite opposite really.’
Frankie looked at me questioningly.
‘I found a manuscript,’ I explained. ‘What I thought at first was a very rough draft of one of Leon’s early manuscripts. I thought it was what would later become Dark River, because there were some elements that seemed familiar—’
‘God, I loved that novel,’ Frankie cut in wistfully. ‘It’s still his best work, I think. D’you know, after all the years we spent struggling to be published, we finally got the news we were going to be published within less than three weeks of each other? Special time,’ he said. ‘Nothing gets anywhere near that feeling.’
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘it wasn’t Leon’s Dark River. Frankie, the novel I found wasn’t Leon’s at all. It was Alistair Armitage’s.’
Again, Frankie looked completely blank.
‘He copied Alistair’s work. He copied elements from his manuscript and turned it into Dark River.’
‘No.’ Frankie shook his head. ‘No, that’s not possible.’
‘I know you don’t want to think it’s possible … but honestly, he’d marked the entire thing up with notes and edits, I saw it with my own eyes and—’
‘No, Jane,’ Frankie said again. ‘I mean it’s not actually possible, as in I was with him. I was with Leon for the entire time he was writing that book. We were together. We were writing buddies. We critiqued each other’s work as it was being written. Christ,’ he said, ‘I lived that novel with him. It can’t be someone else’s work, Jane. It really can’t.’
‘Well, it is.’
He shook his head. ‘You seem so certain.’ Frankie examined my face in a way that suggested he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.
‘What?’ I said.
‘I just find it really hard to believe that you could doubt Leon so readily. He’s not a plagiarist. You know that. He’s one of the most original crime writers alive today. You know that too.’
I shifted uncomfortably. ‘I know what I saw.’
Frankie looked across the water. He was frowning. He didn’t buy it. He didn’t think his friend was capable of such treachery.
‘OK,’ I said, ‘you don’t believe it, but what if it is true? And worse, what if someone finds out?’ My words were coming out in a rush as I explained the real reason for my asking him here. ‘Alistair’s been calling him a liar and a thief for years. What if this somehow emerges now and, I don’t know, Alistair Armitage sues us? Is that possible? Can someone sue an author for stealing their work? What am I saying – of course they can. I know that. I don’t know why I’m asking … But would it mean we’d lose our assets? Can they take what’s ours? Could we lose the house, Frankie? That’s what I’m really worrying about. That’s why I asked you here. I need your advice. What would you do if this was happening to you?’
Frankie turned and regarded me sadly. ‘Jane,’ he said, ‘this is not you. This is not who you are.’
‘No, stop. Answer me. I need to know. Are you a limited company? Leon’s not. That means they could take our personal stuff. That means they could take the house, Frankie.’
‘What’s going on?’ he said.
‘I’m trying to explain—’
‘No. What’s really going on?’ he said, only more softly this time. ‘You need to talk to me.’
He held my gaze.
‘Come on, Jane.’
Tears began to pool in my eyes and I had to look up and blink to stop them from running down my cheeks.
‘It’s this,’ I said, gesturing helplessly, meaning the plagiarism situation.
‘It’s not,’ he said.
‘OK, then it’s nothing.’ I felt like a fool. ‘There’s nothing wrong. I don’t even know why I’m bloody crying.’
He handed me a tissue from his inside pocket. ‘How is it?’ he asked.
‘How’s what?’
‘How’s your life? How’s your life now with Leon?’
‘Oh, Frankie, please don’t ask me that,’ I said, blowing my nose.
‘Well, we can see you’re trying to be brave and soldier on,’ he said. ‘But is that really the best thing for all of you in the long run?’
I stopped and looked at him wide-eyed. ‘You’re suggesting I leave him?’
‘I’m suggesting that staying isn’t the only option.’
‘Well, it kind of is.’
He smiled. ‘Are you lonely?’ he asked.
And I nodded, suddenly unable to reply.
‘You must be lonely,’ he said.
‘I am. I am incredibly lonely. I miss him. And I’m scared to death all the time. I’m scared in the house, scared when I go to bed, scared when I take the kids to school. And nobody seems to care! Everyone’s so focused on Leon getting better, on Leon getting the help he needs. No one seems to care that I don’t have Leon, that we don’t have a life any more, and no one cares that the person who did this to him is still out there. What if he comes back, Frankie? What then? I’m virtually on my own in that house. Leon sleeps like he’s dead now … and I just feel so bloody vulnerable.’
Frankie pulled another tissue from his pocket but instead of handing it to me he reached up and wiped the tears away himself.
‘Don’t,’ I said, sniffling.
But he didn’t pull away.
‘I can’t bear to be touched right now,’ I said.
‘You seem like you’re starved of touch.’
‘I am!’ I cried out, and I took a step away from him. ‘But I can’t take it, OK?’
I dropped my head, embarrassed.
After a moment I leaned my back against the railing and turned to check on the kids. They were on their scooters again now and Martha was trailing behind Jack trying her best to keep up. Her little face was full of determination.
‘So, what are you going to do?’ asked Frankie.
‘About the manuscript?’
‘About all of it.’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. So far in my life I’ve always known what to do. Life throws up options and I always know which way to head. This? This, I have no clue how to navigate. I wish someone would just tell me what to do, give me a set of instructions to follow, and I could get on with it.’
‘Forget the manuscript.’
I did a double take. ‘Really? That’s your advice?’
‘What’s to be gained?’
‘You mean bury it?’
<
br /> ‘I mean forget you ever saw it. I still don’t believe for one second that Leon copied that loser’s work, but let’s say for argument’s sake that he did. What’s to be gained by revealing it?’
I blew my nose again.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘you’ve got enough shit on your plate. And Leon can’t exactly defend his actions, so let it go. Honestly, you don’t need this.’
It wasn’t what I’d expected him to say.
I’d expected him to be shocked, yes. Disbelieving, yes. But then I’d expected he’d tell me to contact Leon’s agent and come clean. Frankie, for all his minor vices, had a lot of integrity.
He smiled at me encouragingly and I moved towards him, leaning my weight against him heavily in a gesture of thanks.
He put his arm around me, pulling me in close. ‘Keep putting one foot in front of the other, Jane,’ he said. ‘Keep waking up, keep tending to those kids, keep doing what needs to be done. Do that day after day and eventually your life will look different … When I don’t know what to do, I do the basics, the essentials, and if you get through each day, sooner or later life will present you with more options. That’s just how it all works.’
28
Eden arrived on Monday. I was supposed to pick him up from Lime Street, but he’d overslept, missed his train, and something to do with the tickets not being transferable meant that Juliana and Meredith ended up bringing him. I made dinner for everyone. Invited Gloria and my own mother too, as the busier I made myself, the less time there was to think about Leon’s plagiarism.
I’d not slept since discovering the manuscript. And though I wanted to believe what Frankie had said, that Leon was incapable of such underhanded dishonesty, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he could be.
I, of all people, knew the desperation involved when wanting to become a published author. Could it be possible that Leon had also felt that same desperation? Had he reached his aim by entirely fraudulent means? I knew I wouldn’t be able to let it drop, knew I’d have to talk to Alistair Armitage and find out for sure.
The doorbell rang, and Gloria arrived in the kitchen wearing a platinum-blond wig and some sling-back, peep-toe stilettos that she could barely walk in. ‘Jesus Christ, Mother!’ exclaimed Juliana upon seeing her. ‘Have some self-respect, will you?’
That Juliana was all riled up about something was evident in her snippy manner, but when I enquired if she was OK, she replied, ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
Later, I was ladling chilli into bowls when she began asking questions about the investigation.
‘Why is nothing happening?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I replied.
‘Well, don’t the police tell you anything? Don’t they talk to you, tell you why they haven’t found out who did this yet?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know any more than the last time we spoke. They still don’t have enough evidence to charge anyone, so there’s not a lot we can do … Things move slower than they do on TV, Juliana.’ I handed her two bowls to deliver to the table, but she stayed where she was.
She was frowning. Looking at me in a way that was both doubtful and accusatory. ‘I can’t help feeling that you’re being remarkably uninvolved in all this, Jane,’ she said, and she held my gaze, waiting for me to defend myself. ‘Don’t you want to know who attacked Leon? Couldn’t you be doing more instead of being so … passive?’
Passive.
I wanted to laugh out loud.
Oh, Juliana, if only you knew where my enterprising pursuit of information had got me.
I wondered how she would cope: Toonen in her face, his hand around her throat. What would she make of the hours of video footage on Leon’s computer? What would she do if she were to find out her beloved brother had stolen another man’s work? That his career she so often boasted about was built on a lie?
I sprinkled some more chopped coriander on top of the chilli and stirred.
‘Don’t you ask the police what’s going on?’ she said. ‘Don’t you demand answers?’
Her voice was rising and the other guests were beginning to notice. There was a hush from the table.
Gloria tried to change the subject. ‘I love your nail polish,’ she said to my mother and my mother told her it was OPI’s I’m Not Really A Waitress, which Gloria was totally charmed by.
Juliana set the bowls down hard on the counter top. ‘Does anyone actually care about who did this to my brother?’ she said loudly and motioned to Leon, who was happily forking chilli into his mouth. ‘Am I the only person bothered about this? Because by the looks of things it seems as if the rest of you just don’t give a shit.’
‘Your language, Juliana,’ said Gloria.
‘Why are you all happily going about your lives as if none of this matters? Leon will never be the same. Ever. I’ve lost my brother. Just look at him, for Christ’s sake! Look at what he’s like now. Doesn’t that upset you? Isn’t it an issue for any of you?’
There was a moment of horrified silence as each of us considered Leon and wondered just how wounded he was going to be by Juliana’s words. She made him sound imbecilic, and she knew better than that. She knew not to talk about Leon as if he wasn’t there.
‘Why do you always have to do this?’ interrupted Eden.
‘Do what?’ replied Juliana.
‘Why does it always have to be about you?’
‘This is not about me! How can this be about me?’
‘Well, why is it always you who has to cause a scene? It’s not healthy,’ Eden said.
Juliana was outraged. ‘I’m not causing a scene. This is my family! I’m allowed to express an opinion in front of my own family. That’s what families do. Or would you prefer we all simmered away quietly?’
During this exchange I caught sight of Leon studying his mother in her blond wig, frowning a little, as if knowing there was something different about her, something off, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
‘You look good today, Mum,’ he said to her. And she reached out and squeezed his hand.
‘Thank you, son,’ she said.
Eden got up and took the two bowls that Juliana had slammed down in frustration and delivered them to my mother and Meredith, who were looking down at their laps, trying to stay invisible. This was my mother, who could usually be counted on to speak up and say exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person.
Juliana closed her eyes tightly and pinched the skin at the top of her nose. I thought for a moment she might be about to cry. ‘What I’m trying to say,’ she said evenly, ‘and what I think I may have expressed incorrectly, is that I’m frustrated by the lack of progress. That’s all. I’m not trying to upset anybody. Please tell me I’m not alone in being concerned.’
When no one said anything, she gave a long sigh and said, ‘Raise your hand if you’re with me.’
Cautiously, everyone’s hand lifted.
Leon was still busy eating and didn’t raise his until he realized he was the odd one out; then he went ahead and raised it, but not before asking my mother what it was we were voting on.
‘You,’ she said.
Which confused him even more and so he retracted it again.
Perhaps he thought we were voting on whether to get rid of him.
‘Darling,’ Gloria said to Juliana, ‘I’m not sure what it is that you want us to do.’
‘I want you to care!’ she cried.
Gloria made a pfft sound. ‘Aw,’ she said, shaking her head back and forth as if to say Juliana was being unfair, ‘you know very well that we all care very much about Leon.’
‘So, do something!’
Gloria folded her hands neatly in her lap. ‘Can’t you see, darling?’ she said. ‘Can’t you see? Nobody … not one of us here … knows what to do about Leon.’
They left around eight.
There was much hugging and apology. Eden acted as though it was nothing unusual, that this kind of acrimony was day-to-day life with his moth
er. I’d come within inches of telling Juliana what had happened at the prison. Telling her that I was frightened to be seen poking around in Leon’s attack, that I’d been threatened to stay away. But she would have wanted to know more. She’d want to know everything and I couldn’t take that chance.
‘You’re sure you don’t mind doing this?’ I asked Eden later with regards to his babysitting Leon, and he told me he had nothing better to do. He was retaking two GCSEs in January but, other than that, he was just killing time. ‘Getting under her feet,’ he said, referring to Juliana.
We hadn’t come up with a suitable phrase for what he was about to undertake with Leon. ‘Carer’ sounded too weird, Eden said. ‘I’m not his carer. That makes it sound like I’m wiping his arse and heating up canned soup.’ ‘Helper’, he decided, wasn’t appropriate either. ‘Maybe I’ll be his PA.’
Gloria wanted to give Eden fifty pounds a week to look after Leon. She offered to pay her grandson this wage, a wage that I could not afford to shell out, as she thought it would be good for both of them. I would provide Eden with his meals and any transportation costs incurred. After Leon had taken himself off to bed, we were standing on the front step, Eden smoking. I’d asked if he was allowed to smoke and he’d said not really but went on regardless. We were on the lookout for the cat.
Bonita hadn’t come home for the third night running so I was standing on the front step calling out for her. Occasionally she did this. Disappeared for a day and then reappeared, mewing loudly, announcing her return.
She would breeze in through the kitchen window and the Leon of old would rush to her, serenading her, using his own made-up lyrics from the Peter Sarstedt song ‘Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)’? Though he’d sing it in a Northern Irish accent: Where do you go to, my lovely? … Yes I do … So you are … Am I right?
I missed his singing.
Eden returned inside, but I stayed on, in my pyjamas, calling out the cat’s name into the night. ‘Bonit-ahh.’