The Loop

by Anabel Donald

  Carl Nabokov first. The hostel office put me through to his room. No answer I left a have-rung-back, please-ring-back message.

  I rang Alan Protheroe next, gave him ten minutes of reassurance and logged the call as twelve, for expenses.

  Then I tried Jams and left a please-ring message on her answering machine. She should have been back by now; she was probably asleep.

  Fourth time lucky with Maggie Whittaker. ‘This is Alex Tanner . . . Hi. No, I’m in London. There’s one or two things I’d like to ask you. Is this a bad time? . . . Great. Could you describe Janet Stone to me?’

  I looked at Jacob’s graduation photograph on the action board as she talked. That was the woman, all right. I crossed ?foto off my list.

  ‘Brilliant, thanks. Now, Janet wasn’t his biological mother, was she?’

  Maggie laughed, a hearty studio-audience bellow, and I held the receiver away from my ear. ‘No chance, me love. Them being Tubbies. They don’t hold with the flesh. It wouldn’t do me, I can tell you, but they never do no harm to anyone, more than you can say for most of us.’

  ‘Who was Jacob’s real mother?’

  ‘I dunno, me duck. Ask Sandra.’

  ‘Why? I didn’t think she and Janet saw each other after Janet’s marriage.’

  ‘They did until the baby arrived. Sandra made the arrangements, but it wasn’t hers, I know that.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll talk to her about it . . . Next thing – does “the loop” mean anything to you?’

  Baffled burble from distant Armthorpe.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Jacob mentioned it to his girlfriend, he said “the real him was in the loop”. I thought it might be a place round you, or a Yorkshire expression . . . No?’

  ‘Not that I’ve ever heard, me duck.’

  ‘Last thing. Tell me about Sandra.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Anything. What’s she like? Who are her friends? What did she work at? I saw her last night and she was quite helpful, but I don’t know what to make of her.’

  I made notes while Maggie talked, and when she’d repeated herself three times, I thanked her and rang off.

  Then I looked at my notes. Bossy. Full of herself. Own business in London. Balmer Leisure Services.

  You never know. I fetched the telephone directories and started looking. I found Balmer Leisure Services in London, North West, an address in Queen’s Park. About a mile north-east of me.

  I scribbled the address on a piece of paper, stuck it on the board. Maybe later I’d snoop, although on a holiday weekend the chances were it would be closed. Whatever it was, it sounded shady.

  While I was at it I added ?Tubbies’ children to my action list. Then the phone rang, inches away, and made me jump.

  ‘Alex? Carl.’

  ‘Hi, Carl.’

  ‘Great to hear your voice,’ he said.

  Uh-oh. ‘Just business,’ I said.

  ‘Business?’ he said.

  He sounded so let down that I repented and warmed up my tone to friendly/playful. ‘Jacob’s my case, remember?’

  ‘But it’s a holiday weekend. The British Library’s closed Monday, and I thought maybe we could spend the day together. How about it?’

  No way. But I didn’t want to offend him either because I wanted his co-operation. ‘I’m very busy,’ I said, ‘but I’d like to see you . . . Can I come back to you on it?’

  ‘Would you like to see me? Really?’

  His ‘really’ was a charming, furry American sound. I remembered his skin and his wonderful eyes and his body between my legs and felt my grip slipping. ‘Really,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back to you. But I have a question. Your apartment was Jacob’s forwarding address, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Was there no mail forwarded at all?’

  Pause. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Not even any letters from Jams?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Otherwise I’d have given them to you . . . When will you be back to me? About Monday?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ I said.

  It took me a while to disentangle myself. When I put the phone down, I sat and thought.

  The letters worried me. It was possible that International House had done no forwarding. It was possible that the US mail had malfunctioned. But it wasn’t likely.

  Either Carl was lying, or Jams was.

  I didn’t want it to be Carl, because if it was, then I’d have to see him again, and I didn’t want to.

  Back to the phone. I dialled Jams’ number and talked through the answering machine. ‘Jams? Are you there? This is Alex. Pick up, please, pick up.’

  No response. I left it a minute, then dialled again. ‘Pick up. I need to speak to you. Pick up.’

  This time, a sleepy voice. ‘Alex? Alex?’

  ‘Hi . . . No news, I’m afraid. But something I want to ask you. You said Jacob had told you he came from “an ordinary home”. Is that true?’

  Pause. Then: ‘No. He told me about his faith.’

  ‘So why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because I knew what you’d think. I’m a believing Christian too, and I know what people think of us, now. They think we’re peculiar’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I said.

  ‘Are you a Christian?’ she said hopefully.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘What are you?’

  ‘I don’t know. But the point is, you kept information back from me. When I drew a blank in Chicago and I only had the hotel address in London, you could have told me then about the Tubbies.’

  ‘The Tubbies?’

  ‘Jacob’s church up north. Christ’s Children of the Fountain of the Water of Life. They were an obvious contact point.’

  ‘Sorry, Alex.’

  ‘Did you lie to me about anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You wrote to Jacob at International House?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How many times?’

  ‘Five,’ she said.

  ‘Why didn’t you write to him in England c/o the Tubbies?’

  ‘Because of what he said.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said I could write to him in Chicago but on no account to try and get in touch with him in England. He said it might be dangerous and that I should wait to hear from him.’

  ‘He said it might be dangerous? And you didn’t tell me?’

  Pause. ‘Sorry, Alex.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘No. He said he didn’t know what he might be getting into, and he wasn’t sure, but there was an outside chance it might be dangerous.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell me?’

  Pause. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He only said, an outside chance. And it was months ago. And I’d almost begun to wonder . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If maybe he’d said that to put me off. If maybe . . .’

  Pause. ‘Maybe he was planning to ditch you?’

  ‘I’ve only thought that in the middle of the night,’ she said defensively. ‘Once or twice. All the rest of the time I knew he loved me. You must understand.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said, not too sympathetically, ‘but I’m not over the moon about it. Is there anything else you should tell me? About “the loop”, for instance?’

  Long pause. ‘No. No, there really isn’t, I promise. Are you going to give up the case?’

  Fat chance, when it was just warming up, but I wasn’t going to let her get away scot-free. ‘No, but I’ll have to up my fees. For possible danger. And I’ve worked over the days you paid me for.’

  ‘OK,’ she said submissively. ‘Send me the bill, or do you want me to come over with a cheque?’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘So, what have you found out?’

  I told her that I’d seen Maggie Whittaker, and that she’d filled me in on the Tubbies. I didn’t tell her anything
else. I promised to be in touch tomorrow, and rang off as soon as I could.

  I was beginning to have serious doubts about Jams. She’d presented herself as Little Miss Integrity. Now her story was creaking and shifting like snow before an avalanche, and I didn’t want the Mountain Rescue people turning out for me. Had she seen Jacob in London, been rejected, and killed him, to preserve her dream? She didn’t look like a killer, but then they often don’t.

  Sandra Balmer was as shady as a redwood forest, but that might just be her nature. I couldn’t make sense of her involvement.

  Nor of Carl’s. But Jams had written to International House, I believed that, and something had happened to those letters, and he should know. At least part of Monday would have to be spent with him. And I’d take some condoms along, just in case.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Oh brilliant, now it’s just us, though you know I love Barty, and I’m sorry if you and he really wanted to go to bed tonight but I so want to be with you, and you two have all the time in the world together, and now we can get the duvet and snuggle up on the sofa and you can tell me what you think of Magnus and we can watch Casablanca. Do you want to watch Casablanca?’ said Polly, opening a bottle of Australian red.

  If I drank any more wine I’d pass out. ‘Water,’ I said. ‘Water, please. And a piece of bread. What time is it?’

  Polly scuttled down to her kitchen, calling to me as she went. ‘It’s only just before midnight, not late for you, Alex, please, you don’t want to go to sleep yet.’ She reappeared with a bottle of Perrier, a glass and a stick of French bread. ‘What did you think of him? Tell me, tell me everything, you must have had a good time because you drank a lot, didn’t you, more than I’ve ever seen you drink in a restaurant, so you must have been relaxed – he has that effect on people, he’s so easy to get on with because he’s so charming, people say they feel as if they’ve known him for years, and he’s such a generous host, and he knows such a lot about wine—’

  ‘True,’ I said, nibbling the bread, visualising branches of Alcoholics Anonymous springing up all over the world in Magnus’s charming wake as he drove his guests to drink. I gulped a glass of water, then another, and the room stopped rotating, though the sofa was still heaving gently.

  Polly sat down beside me and anchored the sofa. ‘I know you’ll be honest,’ she said. ‘Tell me what you think. Please?’

  Difficult. Magnus was the kind of non-person my memory-banks reject. All façade: a polished nothing with empty eyes. I hoped I’d never have to have dinner with him again. ‘He’s extraordinary,’ I said.

  ‘Isn’t he?’ Polly was looking at me eagerly. ‘Do you think Barty liked him?’

  I drank some more water and made an effort. ‘Polly, why don’t you follow your heart?’

  ‘That’s what Richard says.’

  ‘Who’s Richard?’

  ‘I’ve told you, he’s my boss.’

  So she had. Only this morning. I must be even drunker than I’d thought. I closed my eyes. Bad mistake: the sofa heaved. I opened them to find that Casablanca was flickering away on the TV screen and that Polly had fetched the duvet from her bedroom and settled it over us. ‘It’s nice to be alone, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Odd thing about Magnus, he’s a terrific person but he’s not actually fun. For instance, I can’t relax like this with him.’

  I had to get into the girlie spirit somehow. ‘What’s he like in bed?’ I said.

  ‘Guess,’ she said.

  ‘No idea,’ I said, and I didn’t snap, which should have earned me all kinds of credit.

  ‘The thing is – it’s not exactly – that’s sort of changed, hasn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Relationships. Casual sex.’

  ‘You mean you haven’t bonked?’ I said, gulping water.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t use that word.’

  Deep breath. Mistake. Shallow breath, more water. ‘Polly. I’m blasted, OK? Have a heart. Do you mean you haven’t made love?’

  ‘No,’ said Polly defensively. ‘Not that he doesn’t want to.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He told me. Of course he does, anyway, he wants to marry me, he loves me. And we’ve kissed, of course.’

  ‘Is he a good kisser?’ I said. I’d last asked that question of my then best friend the year I turned twelve, and it had sounded fairly juvenile even then.

  ‘He’s a great kisser.’

  ‘Great how?’

  ‘Considerate.’

  ‘Considerate,’ I said, and then I lost it. I started to giggle and couldn’t stop.

  She began by pokering up, then she hit me with a cushion, then she giggled with me, till we sobbed to an exhausted halt.

  ‘Considerate,’ she said, and we started again. Finally, she gasped out. ‘You hate him, don’t you?’

  ‘Not hate.’

  ‘Don’t like.’

  ‘Don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t want to know,’ she said.

  ‘Not my type. Too perfect.’

  Pause, while we watched Humphrey Bogart’s raincoat turn in an Oscar-winning performance as Humphrey Bogart’s raincoat.

  Then she said, ‘What’s Barty like in bed?’

  I began to giggle. ‘Considerate,’ I said.

  She hit me again, with two cushions this time.

  ‘OK. He’s bloody good. Better than Carl.’

  ‘Who’s Carl?’

  ‘A graduate student I met in Chicago.’ She looked shocked. ‘Can it, Polly, he’s only a one-nighter.’

  ‘But I thought you loved Barty.’

  ‘I probably do,’ I said impatiently.

  ‘Does Barty know?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Haven’t told him.’

  ‘You’re taking a big risk,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you? Don’t you think? What would Barty do if he knew?’

  ‘No idea,’ I said.

  ‘That’s the thing about Barty, isn’t it, he’s very closed in, just like you.’

  ‘Closed in? Barty?’

  ‘You never know what he’s really thinking. At least I don’t. He’s all smooth on top, and nice, and great company, and when I was so upset about Clive he was absolutely sweet, but his real deep feelings never come out. Or maybe they do with you.’

  Through the wine, I tried to focus. I knew Barty well, but I couldn’t predict him on this. Last year when he thought I’d slept with my old boyfriend Peter (which I hadn’t) he’d been angry. I supposed he had, because although he hadn’t said anything he’d flounced off in a pique. We’d never talked it through, though, because so many other more urgent things happened that the question got buried.

  What would he do about Carl? ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘He’s not going to find out.’

  ‘You’re safe enough if Carl’s in Chicago. What does he look like?’

  I described him. ‘He sounds like Johnny Depp,’ she said.

  ‘The problem is, he isn’t,’ I said.

  ‘Isn’t like Johnny Depp?’

  ‘Isn’t in Chicago. He’s in London.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Polly.

  Sunday, 3 April

  Chapter Twenty

  I woke up at five with a medium hangover, knowing I wasn’t about to go back to sleep.

  After thirty minutes, two paracetamols, three glasses of water, two cups of coffee and a shower I felt at a loose end. Not only was it too early to ring or visit anyone, but it was also Easter Sunday, as the silent and empty streets outside testified.

  I had the day to myself. Nick was in Oxfordshire with Grace. Polly was going to her parents in the country, Barty to lunch with his brother’s family in Holland Park. I’d been asked to that as well but I sure as heck wasn’t going to join posh family knees-ups until I’d married into the posh family. If then.

  I checked through my action list.

  see Abraham Master re sighting of Jacob, any other info

  (?Tubbies’ finances)

  ?Chicago for Eng Lit

/>   the loop

  Sandra Balmer true/false? motive if lying?

  Balmer Leisure Services, 2 Copthorne Square, Queen’s Park

  merchant bank stuff – Nick

  Jams ?any more secrets

  grandparents: ring/visit ?father

  Time I thought some more about ‘the loop’. It could be metaphorical, as Barty’d thought. It now seemed more likely to me that Jacob had been referring to something specific to do with his adoption, maybe his biological mother, but I couldn’t guess what.

  When in doubt, look it up. I took my biggest dictionary from the shelf over my desk, and as I settled down with it at the kitchen table thought with a pang of premature nostalgia that soon, when the reference CD-ROMS I had on order arrived, I’d be using the computer for this.

  Not knowing it was a redundant technology, the dictionary obligingly disgorged its information. A loop could be a round or oval shape formed by a line, any round or oval shaped thing that is closed or nearly closed, a piece of material curved round and fastened to form a ring or handle, or an intra-uterine contraceptive device. It was an aerial, a flight manoeuvre, a branch line for trains, or a term in electronics for closed circuits. In maths and physics it was a closed curve on a graph or an antinode. In anatomy it was a major pattern found in fingerprints and a shape in a kidney tubule. In computers it was a series of instructions performed repeatedly until a specific condition is satisfied. In skating it was a jump.

  For one little word, it sure got about a bit. It would have been a lot easier if Jacob had said that the real him was in something unique and concrete, even if large, like the Grand Canyon. But one thing was obvious. Because ‘the loop’ described such a commonly occurring shape, it would be used in the jargon of plenty of subject areas that the dictionary hadn’t caught. Barty had given me two: a dubbing loop and the inner circle of a government decision-making process.

  If I kept asking different people, I’d get it eventually. But even when I’d got it, I wouldn’t necessarily know.

  I pinned up my loop notes on the action board, put the dictionary back and thought.

  Balmer Leisure Services in Queen’s Park. I could look round there, see what I could see. It’d surely be closed so I could snoop.