Martin Dash

by Andy Bailey

  “What’s that mean?” Susan suddenly felt she had an advantage to press.

  Michael sat further up in his chair again and took another drink before he continued: “I don’t suppose our Martin has told you much about his past has he?” – straight back to you, love – “Hmm?”

  Susan considered. And replied: “He told me some cock and bull story about moving around a lot and his parents dying. And you stalking him.”

  Michael let out a gleeful “Ha !” and threw his head back in mirth.

  “But I knew that was crap. And I told him so.”

  “But you got nothing more out of him?”

  “No.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would. Well, for one thing, you need to know that his name isn’t Martin Dash.”

  This was the sort of information that Susan had subconsciously been dreading. That Martin was a conman – a charlatan who’d led everyone, including her, a merry dance these last 14 months. She was now beginning to feel empty. And tearful again. But this time she held it together. She wanted to know the truth.

  All of it.

  Susan dived straight in: “What is his name then?”

  “Martin Dayton.”

  Michael allowed a dramatic pause for that one to sink in and then continued: “And he grew up in Cornwall with me; with me and Megan.” His face had darkened again and Susan could have sworn that she heard his speech crack at the end of that sentence.

  It was her turn to wait for a moment.

  “Who is Megan?”

  Not one bit of Michael moved. Not his hands. Not his feet. Nor his head. Nor his eyes. But Susan could see that beneath the solidified exterior, he was struggling to contain his emotions. And this time there was no doubt that his voice was cracking.

  “Megan is – was – my sister.”

  He looked as though he was about to cry and Susan suddenly saw the other side of Michael Green, a side that appeared hopelessly lost and vulnerable. Quite unlike what she had seen of the man so far. She found that she had connected with some sort of feeling that meant she was hesitant to ask the next question – out of consideration for Michael.

  “Was . . ?”

  “She was killed,” his voice sounded almost hoarse now and he seemed to be breathing more heavily.

  Carol and *BOB* had turned themselves into statues.

  “– by Martin.”

  None of them could help it – all three women gasped at once, eyes wide in utter amazement.

  A thought popped into Susan’s head as to how many more shocks she might be able to take in one night.

  “At least that’s what the papers said. But I never believed it.”

  Michael now had his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. There was ultimately no breakdown like Susan’s but she saw a tear drop to the carpet from the shadows of his hands on his cheeks

  And then another one.

  The three women looked at each other. *BOB* seesawed from Susan to Michael to put a hand on his shoulder but this made him jump up from his chair, in a willed act of reclamation with the words: “Need the loo,” and shot off, not to the bathroom behind him but to the ensuite adjoining his own bedroom. When he had passed through the door to the hallway, *BOB* exhaled and asked: “Christ, what have I walked into here?”

  “Good question,” said Carol, finally daring to move and slumping back into her chair.

  Susan didn’t speak for a while, giving a cushion on the floor an unusual degree of scrutiny. But, eventually, she asked: “*BOB* – how well do you know Michael?” and then, “if you don’t mind me asking.”

  *BOB* seemed slightly surprised at this and considered Susan, somewhat warily, before deciding that, no, this wasn’t the police, the press or the revenue so she could relax.

  She took another sip of tea, looked up at the ceiling for the answer, got it and turned back to Susan. “I’ve known Michael for about five years, I think. Ever since I started coming over here to do shows.”

  “You’re based in New York, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right, dear, but I do get out now and then,” *BOB* shot back and they all laughed. The atmosphere suddenly seemed rather more relaxed with Michael out of the way.

  “He owns a lot of properties round here – well, around a lot of places, so I gather – but he used to back another club I did gigs for now and then: 'The Cross'. Run by Julian Jacobs. Michael would come round after the shows, take me to dinner; put me up; look after me generally, in fact.”

  “But no, before you’re thinking it – nothing like that,” they laughed again. “No, he’s always been the perfect gentleman. I think he just took a shine to me and we got on. Anyway, I’ve got my beau back in New York and Michael knows that . . . and I don’t think I’m his type !”

  The perfect timing of the professional got another laugh out of the girls.

  “Now he’s opened this place – I think he fancied himself as a bit of a Rick Blaine.” She looked at the girls for a sign of recognition.

  “Casablanca,” from Susan.

  *BOB* nodded – “Well done, sweetie. So I play here and The Cross now. And one or two other places. But I only get over here now and then, as I say. So what I know of Michael is that he’s a tough cookie – he can be hard on people. And difficult to read sometimes, but, like I say, I’ve never had a problem with him. We’ve always got on.”

  “Once he decides you’re on his side, he’s very loyal – he’ll look after you. So if your guy, Martin, is in trouble he could have a lot worse of a friend to look out for him than Michael.”

  “I’ve always looked after Martin,” this from Michael, standing in the doorway, made them all jump.

  “Jesus, Michael, why don’t you knock?” quipped *BOB*.

  Michael grinned and sauntered back into his chair, recomposed. Though Susan noticed he was still sniffing a little. But then again, perhaps he’s sought some aid to brighten his mood, thought Susan.

  He rubbed his finger across his nose and sniffed again, as if to confirm.

  ‘Didn’t think to share with us,’ mused Susan. But, then again, perhaps he was being purposely discrete, cautious.

  Anyway, he was certainly more voluble now and launched straight back into his story.

  “I’m sorry to have shocked you like that, Susan,” he started, “but there is a lot to stir up once you get into it, to be honest. Me and Megan knew Martin from when we were kids. We all grew up together in St Ives. Martin was like my brother and he and Megan . . . well” . . . . He looked at Susan from under his eyebrows, she gave him her poker face back and he carried on – “My mum and dad liked Martin too. Looked after him a lot; we all did ‘cos of the trouble he had . . . with his own family, you know?”

  Susan wasn’t sure if he was asking her the question but, in any event, said: “Martin’s never told me any of this,” and – again – felt a sharp twinge of annoyance. Seeing he’d have to explain, Michael went on: “Martin had a lot of trouble at home with his own mum and dad. Jack Dayton was an artist, part of the colony around St Ives,” at this he gave an almost involuntary snort of derision, “and drank a bit – well, a lot, actually. Like all of them. And the rest. But, anyway – his mum was lovely: Sonia. But she battled Jack all the way. Lots of fights. And Martin caught in the middle. Then it started that she’d go off for periods, with the gypsies.”

  “The gypsies?” this from Susan.

  “Yes, gypsies. I know it all sounds a bit . . .,” he struggled for the word, “. . . . exotic but, yeah, rumour had it that Sonia had a bit of a thing for one of them. But, whatever, she always came back after a while. For Martin really. She loved Martin like you don’t know. She actually took Martin with her once or twice. He had a friend amongst them himself, as it happens. Little girl called Molly.”

  Michael paused, obviously pondering which fork to take next. “But it was hard for her with Jack. Whether he drank because of what she was up to or he drove her away with his drinking and what not . . . I don’t know which
came first. But, anyway, she always came back, eventually."

  “And Martin was in the middle of all this.”

  “Hmm, it did take its toll, I think. He started going off the rails a bit.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He was acting strangely. You couldn’t talk to him. He was doing various drugs, I know.” Michael flicked his gaze up at Susan. She didn’t oblige him with a reaction.

  “Well, we all were,” he conceded, “It all went a bit mental that summer. Martin had actually had some sort of row with his mother. And with Megan.”

  “Why with Megan?”

  Again, Michael looked directly at Susan as he said “Megan loved Martin . . . mightily.”

  “And did Martin love Megan?”

  “Yes,” he snapped back, (rather emphatically, Susan thought). “We all loved Martin,” (rather obliquely, Susan thought).

  “That may have been the problem,” he continued, “everyone loved Martin. They all wanted a piece of him. But there was a complication,” and here he paused again, apparently unsure of which direction to take. Then finally: “Molly.”

  “The gypsy girl?” Susan had remembered that bit.

  “Yeah, the gypsy girl,” the corners of his mouth turned down in an ironic grimace at this. “He seemed to have a thing about her.”

  “And your sister was none too impressed?”

  “No, she was not.” Michael gave a short, dry laugh at this and shook his head “Mind you, neither was Sonia, which was a little odd ‘cos she wasn’t too keen on Megan either.”

  “Why?” It seemed to Susan that Michael was slowly peeling back the layers of an onion gone bad inside to reveal a whole sorry morass of collapse and resentment and she wondered how much more there was.

  Michael looked like he was regretting having said this but then found a way out: “I’m not sure Sonia would have thought anyone good enough for her Martin,” and again surveyed Susan for any effect his words were having. But Susan had read the game and resolved to give him nothing. And Michael, in turn, pulled a wry smile at her defiance.

  “So . . . what happened?” Susan had to know.

  Again, Michael’s gaze drifted off elsewhere until he could speak the words. “An accident. Fire. There was a little cottage on the beach at the foot of the cliffs. It was actually my parents’ but they didn’t use it. It had been left empty for years – I was never sure why. But we had keys, me and Meg. And Martin did too. We used to have some good times there, the three of us. Barbeques out on the beach, got friends round, had some brilliant parties – can you imagine? We were only 17, 18 and it was like our own little home. The three of us.”

  Susan noted that he’s used that phrase more than once and for a little while now she’d wanted to ask whether there was ever a fourth, a girlfriend of Michael’s, but something of what she had seen of Michael thus far – as short a time as it had been – suggested to her, somehow, that this wouldn’t be a good idea. So she let that one pass. At least for now.

  Susan looked to her companions. Both had their attention riveted upon Michael but returned Susan’s glance with raised eyebrows and then back to Michael to encourage him to continue the tale. The lights and noise from the street outside had lessened now and it was so quiet in this room that you could hear the low murmur of the fridge in the kitchen.

  Michael looked up and seemed to come out of his reverie, realise that they were all staring at him, and decide to finish the story rather peremptorily –

  “So, one night the cottage caught fire. Burnt to the ground with my sister in it.”

  *BOB* broke the silence that followed this: “How awful, Michael. I am sorry. You weren’t there?”

  “No. But Martin was.”

  Susan leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the arms – “And you said that Martin was blamed for it?”

  “He was tried for it. For her murder.”

  Just the voicing of the word sent a charge through the group.

  It was Susan who spoke the word again but as a question that was evident in the faces of all three of the women.

  “Murder . . ? But . . . why? . . . how?”

  Michael blew through his lips as if he needed a breather before starting to explain.

  “Well, he was there with her, for a start. That was a clear fact. He came out of the burning house in full view of a group who had been further down the shore and came when they saw the fire. But the real problem was the accelerant.”

  “The what?”

  “Fire accelerant is what the police called it. A big gas cylinder in the house that blew up and did the real damage. They reckoned that it had been doused in petrol to make sure it blew and that meant there was so much more heat; like I say, everything – including my sister – was burnt to ashes. So it looked deliberate.”

  “They asked me if I’d ever seen the cylinder in the cottage before and I had to say that I hadn’t. Martin was put in the frame for it. They said there must have been a row and he’d killed her. It sounded ridiculous to me that Martin would do such a thing and I’m sure now that he didn’t do it but at the time I didn’t know what to think, I was in shock from losing my sister anyway. And then to have my best friend charged with her murder . . . but Martin’s version of events was even crazier – he said that Megan had tried to kill him !”

  All three pairs of the women’s eyebrows were by now getting tired with being pushed ever higher up their foreheads.

  “I know – it was fucking unbelievable. He said they had rowed – about Molly, of course – and that Megan had hit him from behind with something and knocked him out; that the next thing he knew he’d come round, he was lying on the bed and the building was on fire. Just managed to get down the stairs and outside before the beams started collapsing.”

  “He said he hadn’t realised that Megan was lying in the bedroom with him – he’d just come round, thought he’d been left to die and just legged it out of the house to save his life. Said that after knocking him out she must have decided to commit suicide and die with him in the fire.”

  “To me that was just as crazy a story as Martin killing Meg. Thing is, though – he was acquitted by the jury. In his favour they did find a head injury on him that matched what he’d said; they reckoned that the explosion of the gas canister may have brought him round; and the people on the beach did say he only just got out in time, so if he was trying to kill her it was a hell of a risky way to do it. I didn’t know what to think – I was all over the shop.”

  Susan hesitated before she asked the next question – “So the jury believed Martin’s story?” This whipped Michael’s head up to meet Susan’s gaze. Fiercely. “What? That my sister tried to murder him?” he spat at her.

  Susan tried to mollify him, “Well, she wouldn’t do that, would she?”

  “No, she fucking wouldn’t,” he replied, in a manner that suggested any further enquiry upon the matter would be unwelcome. Michael lit a cigarette and sank back into his chair.

  “So, then he disappeared. And I never saw him again until I came across the two of you at the Tube.” Michael’s smile now seemed to be as much for his own benefit as Susan’s.

  This was now where she feared to go but knew she had to: “So what’s happened to him? At the start of that day he was suffering from a condition that had robbed him of any personality whatsoever and now – what? You’ve cured him? What?” She was trying hard to dampen the indignant tone in her voice that even she could hear. Michael’s smile broadened as the balance of inconvenient truths had, of course, now shifted.

  “Well” – he settled back, taking a moment to blow a couple of imperfect smoke rings towards the lantern – “Martin Dayton’s ongoing mental state has always been a thing of wonder, to be honest and, to me, this is just the latest episode.”

  Susan really was now struggling to keep her indignation in check (simply hearing Martin called by that name sunk her spirits low) and she could see that the bastard was beginning to enjoy this. Throu
gh a tight larynx she managed, “How’s that?”

  It was true that Michael did appear to enjoy having the exclusive hoard of information and familiarity with whole swathes of Martin’s life that gave him the clear advantage over Susan.

  “He’s got the strangest turn of mind of anyone I’ve come across, quite frankly. He was always different right from when he was a kid. I mean, quite apart from the . . . well, you know – good looks.” Michael’s eyes darted momentarily between Carol and *BOB*. “Well anyone can see he looks a bit different from the norm,” he offered, sheepishly.

  ‘Even a red-blooded het like you,’ thought Susan. And Carol. And *BOB*.

  Michael ploughed on: “You never quite knew where you were with him from one minute to the next. I always thought of him when I heard that Style Council song, ‘My Ever Changing Moods’. Always made me chuckle that did. And I told him. And he’d give me 'Fuck off!' back and laugh with me . . . " Michael looked wistful for a moment.

  It was completely disorientating for Susan to hear this sort of thing about the Martin she knew and she wondered, even at this stage, if they were talking about the same person.

  “He was always reading.”

  Susan’s eyebrows did the job of registering surprise and raising the question.

  “All sorts of shit,” answered Michael. “I can’t remember much of it.” He struggled and looked to the space above Susan’s head for aid. “Kafka – that was one.”

  ‘Interesting,’ mused Susan.

  “Sartre.”

  ‘Cool.’

  “I had a look at some but it didn’t do it for me – and he took the piss out of me for it,” Michael didn’t seem to be bitter about this but was laughing.

  “Oh, Nietzsche !”

  Susan smiled inwardly. She’d had a boyfriend at University who was forever quoting Nietzsche and, she found, had been typical of a type of person (usually male) who railed against the restrictions of social norms and would use the philosopher’s theories as intellectual cover for the full range of tiresome self-indulgence. Actually it had to be conceded that she had, at one point, entertained some of this herself, but she generally viewed the phenomenon as a necessary and harmless phase that one normally grew out of.