The rescuer’s got to be The Bloke. He’s not a shepherd any more. Shepherds are passé. He’s a lifeguard like in Baywatch. Cool. Okay, haul away, mate, and give my love to Mary Magdalene, patron saint of prostitutes, who of course is standing by looking just like Pamela Anderson. Phwoar! Ultra-cool.
Thinking of Pammy’s cleavage reminds me of Susanne. What was it she said in her kitchen? “If you weren’t so like a little boy who’s lost his mum and clings to the first stranger who pats his head . . .” That was a terrible thing to say, and so was that other remark of hers: “You couldn’t take care of me because your Elizabeth fixation means you can’t even take care of yourself.” Bloody cow, insulting me like that! How could she have said such shitty things about me? How could she?
Because they’re true, is the answer. And they’re truths I have to face to survive.
So this is what it’s like to follow Nigel’s advice and come out of denial! I’m sitting unshaven, unwashed and dressed like a Welfare creep in Victoria Station and realising in despair that I may be too bloody vulnerable to reach the shore where my new life’s waiting to begin. The Bloke may be reeling me in but supposing Jaws closes in for the big chomp? Disasters do happen. It’s that kind of world, and there’s nothing I can do except wait in a stupor of dread.
But then I remember something Gil Tucker said at the end of that row I engineered. I can’t recall the clerical language he used but he definitely argued that you’ve got to be active, not passive, when dealing with the world’s messes. So I can’t just cling to the lifebelt and freeze at the thought of being chewed up. I’ve got to swim as hard as possible to relieve the strain on the lifeline, I’ve got to do all I can to help the lifeguard, I’ve got to work at being rescued.
I’m still thinking of the lifeguard when he beams me a telepathic message. He says: “Forget Jaws. Concentrate on me.” Which is sensible advice because you function a lot better when you’re not scared shitless.
I feel I ought to say something now he’s made direct contact, but what words can I use? Can’t connect with all that religious stuff. But if I think of him as a bloke only a little older than I am but a billion times more streetwise . . . “Hey man,” I say in my head, “I know you’re the boss, I know you can make everything pan out, I’m sorry for all the bad stuff I’ve done, I want to start over, save me from the psychos, help me get out of this jam in one piece, you’re a superstar and I know you can do it. Thanks, mate. Cheers.” And The Bloke says: “Hang in there, chum. We’ll get the sickos sorted. And whatever you do, don’t lose hope.”
So I sit there, clutching on to hope with both hands. But at last I stand up. It’s time to be active. It’s time to work at my own rescue. It’s time to start swimming in the shark-infested sea.
Having bought the Sunday Times for Susanne I drive to Norah’s house five minutes away.
“Trouble with Elizabeth,” I say to Susanne as soon as I cross her threshold, and I tell her about the scene after my return home. Susanne’s wearing a magenta-coloured wrap with matching high-heeled slippers, and she looks pasty-faced, hungover and cross.
“God, that’s all we need—you going nuts!” she says. “Listen, pinhead. Unless you brush up your talent as a liar we’ll both be up shit creek. What’s Elizabeth going to think now you’re suddenly convinced she’s shagging Norah? She’ll figure that either Serena’s been gossiping or I have, and let me tell you, you’d better bloody well pin it on Serena!”
“I protected you. I said—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s too early for all this, my brain’s not working yet.” Grabbing the Times from my arms she tramps off to her bedroom. “Why don’t you have a shower?” she adds, confirming my suspicions that I reek.
Muzzling my impatience, which by this time has reached agonising levels, I sluice off last night’s sweat and emerge, fully dressed, to find the situation looks more promising. Susanne’s wearing a sweatshirt and jeans and cooking scrambled eggs. I smell bread browning in the toaster and spot a large jug of coffee on the counter.
“I wasn’t going to cook you anything,” says Susanne, “because I was feeling mean, freaked out by your flakiness. And I don’t mind telling you I’m scared too of this information exchange we agreed to have. But then I thought of the Savoy and felt more forgiving. Now sit down and don’t get under my feet.”
I sit down instantly and concentrate on the task of being well-behaved. Now I know fear’s at the bottom of her bad temper, it’s not so hard to control my impatience but I still want to pace up and down the room like a tiger at the zoo.
Susanne plonks down in front of me a glass of orange juice, a cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs on toast. I say a fervent “thank you” and we eat in a silence broken only by the sound of the cat-flap as Alexis goes out. Susanne’s pulled the blinds down so that no one strolling in Norah’s garden can see us, but the blinds are pale so we don’t need artificial light. The scrambled eggs are perfect. Despite my extreme tension I wolf everything down and wish there was more.
“I like cooking,” says Susanne when I take care to praise the eggs. “I’m going to do a cookery course one day if the sickos don’t punch my lights out.”
“Talking of the sickos—”
“Yeah, let’s get down to business. You go first and tell me about St. Benet’s.”
I long to insist that she goes first, but I can’t risk making her bad-tempered again.
When I finish explaining how my fascination with Carta lured me into fundraising, Susanne’s only comment is: “All I know about Christians is that they wear crosses with a man on them and do funny things on Sundays with a bloke that cross-dresses.”
So much for the Church. “Okay,” I say, unable to control my impatience a second longer. “Your turn. Tell me about—”
“Seeing as how you were in so deep with St. Benet’s you must have really freaked out when the Cobra turned up at that dinner party! Hey, this Sir Colin sounds a real goer, punchy and ballsy with a wacky sense of humour—I like the way he knocked everyone’s heads together before walking away with his moneybags intact!”
By this time I’m fit to burst a blood vessel. “You should try having sex with him. Look, unless you tell me right now this minute about my Cayman account, I’ll—”
“You don’t have a Cayman account,” says Susanne abruptly. “The money’s there all right, but the account’s in Elizabeth’s name, not yours.”
When I can speak I say: “But I’ve got the statements. Every month Elizabeth passes me the statement from the bank and the account’s always in my name.”
“She gets me to forge it. It’s easy with a computer. You lift the heading and the lay-out and type in what you want.”
“But how did she explain why this had to be done?”
“Said it was all for your own good and she was just looking after your money for you. Said young men could be stupid moneywise and she didn’t want you going on a binge and blowing it all.”
“And you believed her?”
“Course not, but she was giving me a proper job, wasn’t she? I wasn’t going to rock the boat.”
I try to justify myself so that I’m not written off as a complete prat. “She was very convincing when I was starting out. She said there was no need for me to declare all my earnings because as a new taxpayer I was in a situation where I was establishing a profile, a pattern which the Revenue could refer to in the years ahead. ‘Start as you mean to go on,’ she said, and told me I could get away with an undeclared offshore account. Then she slipped in the bit I told you yesterday, the bit about how it’d be safer if the correspondence went to her and not to me—”
“That’s the point where she conned you. If the Revenue’s allowed to grab letters from offshore banks, loads more people would be done for tax evasion.”
“I just assumed she knew what she was talking about. After all, she’d had her own Cayman accounts for years.”
“Yeah, Asherton set them up for her, didn’t he?
Funny to think of him being in banking before he diversified.” Susanne collects the coffee-jug and tops up our cups, but by this time I’m beyond speech. I just sit there at the kitchen table like a boxer who’s successfully gone the full fifteen rounds only to be deprived of his prize on account of a technicality.
“I can understand why you were so dead keen to build up a retirement fund in double-quick time,” Susanne’s saying, “but of course it gave her a golden opportunity to control you long-term. You know what I think? I think she’s reckoned all along that you’d do a burn-out eventually on the Austin Friars number, and I think she’s had this porn-film idea simmering for some time. There’s nothing on paper yet, I can tell you that, but she had lunch the other day with a producer Asherton knows, so I’ll bet the project’s now a priority.”
I get my tongue working again. “But how could she think I’d ever—”
“She’s sure you’ll adapt, no problem. After all, you adapted to gay piecework, and she probably figures that if you can do that you can do anything.”
“Yes, but my plan was always to quit the Life when I had enough money, and she agreed to that!”
“Of course she agreed! She’d have agreed to anything to keep you sweet, but you can be sure she never intended to let you quit—why kiss a goldmine goodbye? Her only problem now is getting you into the film business at the highest level. Only the top porn actors pull down loadsa-money, but with your looks and experience you should be one of the big winners provided she can get the right deal with the right outfit . . . Yeah, by this time she’ll have it all sussed out, and by controlling that Cayman account she’s got you by the balls.”
Without a word I grope my way to the bathroom and lock the door.
Back in the kitchen after the elected throw-up I say: “You’ve got to prove to me there’s been forgery. I believe you but I’ve got to see proof.”
“Sure. I’ll show you the blank bank statement forms I’ve produced. I’ll show you all Elizabeth’s Cayman accounts on the computer, even the one you’ve been thinking is yours.”
“When?”
We pause to figure this out, but no great brainpower’s required. The only reason why I can’t answer my own question straight away is because I’m still traumatised.
Susanne says: “Didn’t you tell me you had a row with her about lunch at Norah’s today?” and we agree to hit the office at one o’clock when Elizabeth will be in Pimlico.
But the biggest question of all still has to be asked. Speaking rapidly before my voice can crack I say: “And now just tell me this: how the hell do I get hold of that money?” To prevent her slamming back a negative reply such as “God knows” or “Get real,” I manage to keep talking, giving her some essential background. “I’ve had minimal contact with that bank. Elizabeth always handled the deposits because they had to go via Switzerland, and I’ve never withdrawn a single penny because I’ve been so focused on saving. Elizabeth did give me a password for transferring the money out by phone, but since she knew I wouldn’t use it—”
“It’ll be a fake—the bank would just warn her that someone was trying to access her account.” Susanne pauses but I’m sure now she’s sympathetic. She’s pausing only because she’s reached the crossroads and needs to review her decision one last time. Then she says: “I can get you the money. I know all the right info to pass the security checks. But once I do that I won’t just need a safe house—I’ll need money to start over as well.”
“How much?”
“Ten per cent of your account. This is my chance to go totally legit and say goodbye to the Life once and for all. I don’t want to blow it for lack of cash.”
Since she’s got me over a barrel, I’m just glad she doesn’t ask for more. Still, ten per cent of four hundred thousand quid isn’t exactly peanuts.
I think of my savings. That sum represents the gifts received by Gavin Blake Superstud (less the cuts to Elizabeth, of course). The donors were all so rich they could afford to be insanely generous, and so infatuated with me that they didn’t realise how mental they were. I had rules about the form the gifts took—for instance, I wouldn’t accept stocks and shares, which would have been difficult to dispose of without involving the Revenue, and I told the clients to give me the cash instead. But I did take the jewellery, the classic cars (fun to drive but too expensive to run), the porcelain, the antique silver and the Picasso. All these objects were turned over to a very useful bloke who was a member of GOLD, a Bond Street dealer and an old chum of Elizabeth’s, and he always got me good prices on the quiet with no questions asked.
Once I had the cash, it was easy to send it along the well-worn path to the Caymans because Elizabeth had established the route years ago. Asherton had his route to the Caymans, but Elizabeth, not trusting him too far, soon went her own way after he had helped her set up her first account. There was another useful bloke who belonged to GOLD, this one a Swiss banker who worked in the City but spent two days a week in Geneva where GOLD had a numbered account. The bloke took the cash there and popped it in GOLD’s bank. Elizabeth then made a phone call to GOLD’s treasurer in London, and before you could say “tax evasion” the money would be wired out of the GOLD account and off across the Atlantic to that loyal outpost of Great Britain, the Cayman Islands.
My money always made the journey safely, and after a while I stopped having nightmares of the useful Swiss bloke disappearing into the blue with a suitcase of my cash. So much for my savings. Meanwhile I was living comfortably on my declared-to-the-Revenue earnings. Of course in addition to the taxman I had to pay Elizabeth’s percentage and Nigel’s wages and the Austin Friars expenses, but in another world I’d have been paying a mortgage, wouldn’t I, and supporting a family, so although my outgoings were heavy they were no big deal. I still had plenty of money to spend on clothes and CDs and grazing in Covent Garden—in fact I even managed to send some of this after-tax money regularly to the Caymans to join the non-taxed stuff in the account which had never been mine . . .
“Wake up, pinhead! You’re not listening!”
With a jolt I return from the affluent past to the bankrupt present. “You want ten per cent of my account, yes—”
“—and I must come with you to St. Benet’s, but you’d better make sure they really can keep us safe.”
“I know it’ll be okay.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Nicholas Darrow’s helped other people escape from bad scenes. Also he knows just what Asherton’s like and he won’t underestimate him. And don’t forget he’s dealt with Elizabeth before and he won’t underestimate her either.”
“So once we get to St. Benet’s—”
“—we gain the upper hand. Elizabeth’ll be too busy doing her disappearing act to come after us, and Asherton’ll be in a pink funk destroying the worst of his hard-core porn and pretending the S&M group members just get together for tea and biscuits.”
“Okay, that’s the rainbow’s end. Let’s just hope we can arrive there— and with your pot of gold intact.”
We sit in silence for a moment, both overwhelmed by the nightmare ahead. A creepy, Asherton-like voice purrs in my brain: “What are you going to do without Elizabeth looking after you and giving you a reason to stay alive?” But I don’t answer that question because it’s addressed to Gavin Blake Prostitute who’s such a wimp that he has to have a Mummyfigure in order to function. Instead I say silently to the creepy voice: “I want my money. I’ll not be cheated out of what’s mine.” This is the right non-wimpish reply. This is my real self, wanting justice and determined to tell Mummy Rip-Off goodbye. And yet . . .
The emotional reaction slugs me at last. My vision blurs as I stare down at the table.
Susanne’s talking about moving her possessions into storage but I’m barely listening. I feel as if a black pit’s opened in front of me and I’m standing with my feet half over the edge.
“Hey!” says Susanne sharply. “You dying or something? You’d better l
ie down on my bed before you pass out.”
I escape to the bedroom and lie staring at the ceiling. I want to go on feeling angry with Elizabeth but I don’t. I just feel worthless. My whole life’s been justified by the belief that Elizabeth genuinely cared about me and thought I was wonderful. I ought to have known right from the start that this belief was nothing but a grand illusion. I’m not worth caring about, never was. I’m useless, a failure, a total waste of space. What’s the point of trying to get my savings back? Even if I have the money to start a new life, I’m bound to mess everything up. Better to jump into the black pit right now and make an end of it. Then I won’t need anything any more, least of all love.
“I can cook you some more scrambled eggs,” says Susanne from the doorway, “but will you keep them down? I’m not slaving over a hot stove just to give you a second innings at the toilet.”
I roll over on my front and bury my face in the pillow. I did so love Elizabeth. I can tell myself till I’m blue in the face that I’ve been bloody stupid and totally pathetic, but it makes no difference. I hate myself for not being good enough for her to love me. I really did think that at last there was someone who cared.
The bed jolts as Susanne sits down on it. “Listen, pinhead. Don’t let your brain go on the blink and serve up a major depression—that’s the surest way to get wiped. Just focus on how bloody LUCKY you are, having friends at St. Benet’s who care whether you’re dead or alive. I’ve got no one but that cat, but am I puking into a toilet? Am I sobbing into a pillow? Am I considering topping myself because I’ll never dance at the Savoy again? No, I’m bloody not! I’m saying thank God I’m still alive and thank God for this new chance to move on!”
I remove my face from the pillow, prop myself groggily on one elbow and demand: “Who says you’ll never dance at the Savoy again?”
“I do!”
“Well, you’re wrong. One day I’ll take you back.”
The Heartbreaker Page 42