The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid

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The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid Page 29

by Catherine Robertson


  Patrick emerged like Hades from the underworld, eyes thun derous, black coat swirling out behind him as he stalked towards us.

  He stuck a finger in my face. ‘Remember! This is only because I like you.’ Then he glowered at the others. ‘Who are you?’

  I said, ‘This is Ruth. And this is Michael–’

  It was a slightly surreal moment, Patrick and Big Man’s first meeting. On the surface, apart from physical size, they had so little in common. But as they exchanged a curt nod, I saw a tiny spark of recognition leap between them.

  Patrick said, ‘So what’s the deal?’

  ‘We need to get in the house,’ Miss Flaky replied.

  ‘You know, if he’s dead, we could save ourselves a lot of effort and just call the police?’

  ‘He’s not dead,’ she said. ‘You gonna help us or not?’

  Patrick blew out a breath. He eyed up the front door. ‘All right, but you never saw me do this!’

  Up by the door, he took what looked like a leather pouch from his coat pocket, and extracted some sort of metal instrument from it. He bent down, stuck it in the lock and fiddled for less time than I expected. There was a click. Patrick stood up and stepped back.

  ‘It’s no wonder the burglary rate is so fucking high,’ he said indignantly, as we clustered around. ‘These locks are rubbish!’

  He shoved the leather pouch back in his pocket. ‘Don’t forget.’ He gave me a quick grin. ‘I was never here.’ And he strode back to his car.

  Slowly, Miss Flaky pushed open the door. It didn’t creak at all. I imagined even the smallest squeak would be anathema to Claude. He probably oiled its hinges every day.

  ‘Hey!’ Miss Flaky called out. ‘Where are you?’

  There was no response.

  ‘Sure he’s not dead?’ Big Man asked. ‘A crypt would have much the same cosy cheer as this place.’

  He was right. As we walked from room to room on the ground floor, I started to goggle. Every wall and ceiling was painted white, and there was so little furniture, I initially wondered if the reason Claude wasn’t here was because he’d moved out. But if you looked, you could see he had everything he needed. A couch. A desk. A chair. But no ornaments. No paintings. No books, even. I’d seen more cluttered ice-cube trays.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Miss Flaky. ‘This is some serious disorder.’

  ‘Looks pretty fucking ordered to me,’ said Big Man, gazing around in dismay. ‘It’s like I’m his evil twin.’

  ‘No, I meant the guy himself. I thought it might be OCD, but I dunno. Something else going on here. It’s like he’s trying to disappear–’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I said, suddenly struck. ‘I think you’re right.’

  They both stared at me.

  ‘What – you mean be like the Invisible Man?’ Big Man asked.

  ‘Yes. In a way.’

  Miss Flaky folded her arms. ‘He doesn’t like who he is, does he? I mean he really doesn’t like it.’

  Big Man raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘The man is rich and a nob. What’s he got to complain about?’

  ‘Is he a fraud?’ Miss Flaky suggested. ‘Is he putting it on after all, and all that ex-duke shit is just that – shit?’

  ‘He’s a duke?’ Big Man was gobsmacked.

  ‘Ex-duke, Tex.’

  ‘How the fuck do you become an ex-duke?’ Big Man demanded. ‘Shag a royal corgi?’

  ‘He’s definitely not a fraud,’ I broke in. ‘I’ve met his mother.’

  ‘Then what the heck is it?’ Miss Flaky tapped her foot impatiently. ‘What’s the deal?’

  Big Man tilted his head to one side and regarded her. ‘Why do you care?’ He grinned slyly. ‘Do you fancy him?’

  ‘You know what?’ Miss Flaky mused. ‘I guess I do.’

  ‘Really?’ I couldn’t help myself. It seemed so – unusual.

  She gave me a look. ‘Yeah, it’s a mystery to me, too. But there you go.’

  Big Man was frowning at her again in disbelief. ‘Do you ever decide to keep your thoughts just to yourself?’

  ‘Where would be the fun in that, Tex?’

  Big Man blew out a breath. ‘Well – unless he’s lost the power of speech or become really fucking small, I think it’s safe to say he’s not here.’ He started to move towards the front door. ‘I, for one, don’t want to hang around until the cops come. Plus, I’m starving. Can’t imagine there’s so much as a water cracker in this sanitised hell hole.’

  To Miss Flaky, he said, ‘You should stay here. Leap on him when he comes home.’

  She sniffed. ‘That’s not a bad plan, Tex. But you know what?’ To his utter and somewhat comical dismay, she stepped up to him and slipped her arm through his. ‘I’d rather tag along and annoy the living crap out of you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake!’ exploded Big Man. ‘What’s wrong with this place?’

  Miss Flaky sniffed. ‘You want a side of faecal coliform with your bacon roll, you go right ahead.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Big Man muttered, but he let himself be led past.

  ‘This place!’ He gestured to a small Italian café tucked between a magazine shop and a real estate agent. ‘Come on. Surely–’

  Miss Flaky peered through the window. ‘I dunno. Don’t like the look of that refrigerator unit. The seals have a touch of mould.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s touched,’ said Big Man. ‘You are certifiably fucking nuts!’

  He shook his arm loose of hers. ‘I’m starving. I’m going in.’

  But he got no further. The bell on the café’s front door jingled as it was opened from the inside. And out stepped Claude.

  His reaction was pretty composed, considering. The three of us were lined up in a row, rather like expectant policemen. I almost expected Big Man to place a hand on Claude’s shoulder and say, ‘You’re nicked, Sunshine.’ But all any of us did was gape. And all Claude did was stop and then stand very, very still.

  There was a short pause. Claude’s eyes darted back and forth between us. Finally, he said, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘We’re stalking you.’ Miss Flaky had recovered from her initial surprise and was now grinning. ‘How d’you like them apples?’

  Claude blinked at her, bewildered. ‘But why? What do you want from me?’

  ‘I dunno, Champ,’ Miss Flaky replied. ‘An indication you actually possess a pair of balls would be a start.’

  Claude lifted his chin. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you mean by that.’

  ‘Well, it looks to me as if you’ve run away,’ Miss Flaky told him. ‘Which is always the first resort of the gonad-free.’

  ‘I have not in the least “run away”,’ Claude fumed. ‘I was – I simply felt in need of a change of scene.’

  ‘Right,’ said Miss Flaky. ‘Yeah.’ She glared pointedly at the café. It was small, Italian and had a plastic awning over the front. ‘Looks pretty much identical to the last scene if you ask me, Champ.’

  Claude stiffened. ‘Really, this is none of your business! In fact, I feel it is a rather severe violation of my privacy!’

  ‘Oh, stop clenching,’ said Miss Flaky in her bored drawl. ‘You’re tight enough as it is.’

  I heard Big Man suppress a snort of laughter. Claude’s eyes focused on him and me for the first time since we’d met in the doorway. His mouth went all tight and petulant.

  ‘Enjoying ourselves, are we?’ he asked us.

  ‘Bloody am not,’ retorted Big Man. ‘Thanks to this nutbar here–’ He gestured at Miss Flaky. ‘I’m half bloody starved!’

  ‘Yeah, he could “kill” for a sandwich,’ said Miss Flaky. ‘Right, Tex?’

  ‘Tex?’ Claude was a mix of disbelief and resentment. ‘You’ve awarded him a nickname? You barely know the man.’

  ‘I call you Champ to your face and Fauntleroy behind your back,’ Miss Flaky replied. ‘What more do you want?’

  Their eyes met and, j
ust for a moment, Claude flushed beet red. He turned away immediately – but it was too late.

  Slowly, Miss Flaky’s mouth turned upwards. ‘Well, well–’ she murmured. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘What do you know?’ demanded Big Man.

  ‘He fancies me,’ said Miss Flaky.

  ‘Terrific,’ said Big Man. ‘Can we eat now?’

  Claude blushed again. ‘Really!’ he spluttered. ‘This is absolutely–’

  ‘That’s why you ran away,’ Miss Flaky said to him. ‘Thought it might help stuff all those inconvenient urges back into their box.’ She waved her hand dismissively. ‘Fair enough. I mean, God forbid you should peel off any of those zillion layers of repression. Who knows what horrifying normality you might unleash?’

  ‘It is not why I ran away!’ Claude protested. ‘If I ran away at all, which I did not!’

  ‘Yeah?’ Miss Flaky raised an eyebrow. ‘What set you scuttling then? Farmer McGregor and his gun?’

  Claude flushed again, but this time, his gaze slid ever so briefly to mine.

  ‘Oh!’ I said, as I realised why.

  ‘Oh?’ Miss Flaky glanced between Claude and me, intrigued.

  My expression in response was pleading. And, fairly obviously, ridden with guilt – because Miss Flaky twigged right away.

  ‘You tried it on with Darrell here?’ she smiled at Claude. ‘How far’d you get?’

  By this stage, the poor man was mortified down to a molecular level. I felt I had to rescue him.

  ‘It was just a kiss,’ I said, and added hastily, ‘a very small one.’

  Miss Flaky threw Claude a look. ‘Yeah, that figures.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘What gives, Champ? You may as well tell me now, because you know I’ll only hound you till you do.’

  I saw a number of emotions flit across Claude’s face, but the one that finally settled was resignation.

  ‘There have always been beautiful women in my life,’ he said. ‘They rather come with the territory. The trouble is, I have not been attracted to any of them. Not one. Ever. And before you ask,’ he added, ‘I am equally unattracted to men.’

  He shot me a quick glance. ‘When I met you, Darrell, I liked you tremendously. You are so sweet and so very pretty. But I simply could not find you desirable. Seeing you and Marcus connect so easily, so naturally – that was the last straw. I couldn’t deceive myself any longer: I knew there must be something wrong with me. That’s why I kissed you. I wanted to find out once and for all. And because I have found out, that’s why I – well, let’s dissemble no longer – ran away.’

  ‘But you find me desirable?’ Miss Flaky said to him.

  Claude eyes switched frantically from side to side, but there was no escape. ‘Well, er – since you insist – yes, I do.’

  ‘Which must mean,’ Miss Flaky continued slowly, ‘that you don’t find me beautiful.’

  ‘Oops,’ I heard Big Man mutter beside me.

  ‘Well, no,’ Claude replied, unthinking. Then his eyes widened in horror. ‘No! I don’t mean no! I mean– Oh Lord …’ He ran his hand over his face, on which there was a distinct sheen of sweat.

  Miss Flaky studied him narrowly. Big Man put a hand on my arm, as if readying us both to run for cover.

  But then her face broke into a grin, and she lifted her fist and punched the air. ‘Yes!’

  ‘Look, I really must go–’ Claude seemed not to have heard her. He was green with distress, and already moving away. ‘I’ll– We’ll– Perhaps later–’

  And he strode off briskly down the street, as fast as dignity would allow him.

  ‘Well, would you look at that,’ Miss Flaky said after a few moments. ‘He’s forgotten something.’

  Both Big Man and I turned around. ‘What?’

  ‘Me,’ she said.

  And we watched her speed like a mini blonde Exocet up the road, her gingham tablecloth dress flapping about her feet as she inexorably closed the distance between herself and the tall, straight figure further on.

  Big Man and I walked in silence until we reached the high street. On the corner where we needed to turn, there was a kebab shop. A smell of old oil, boiled meat and onion sweat wafted outward. It was delicious.

  ‘I still haven’t fucking eaten,’ Big Man muttered. ‘God damn the pair of those nutters to hell.’

  ‘I don’t know if I want to eat or not,’ I said. ‘I’m so hungry I’ve stopped feeling hungry.’

  ‘No excuse.’ He eyed the kebab shop. ‘But not here.’ He hooked his thumb up the street. ‘We could find somewhere nicer–’

  I was touched. I doubted Big Man had been to a restaurant in over twenty-five years, and the prospect was probably causing every atom of him to shriek with awkward embarrassment. Yet he still offered.

  ‘Or we could get pizza and go back to my place?’ I suggested.

  His shoulders sagged with relief. ‘Brilliant,’ he said. ‘Do they still make that one with pineapple on it?’

  When we got home, there was a message on my phone.

  ‘Hello, Darrell.’ The voice was American. ‘This is Chris Peters at–’ She named my publisher, and I instantly felt like throwing up. Oh God. Here it comes …

  ‘Could you give me a call whenever you’re free? There are a few things I need to go over with you.’ She rattled off her number. I wrote it down with numb fingers. And gazed at it, unseeing, until Big Man came over to me.

  ‘You all right? You look like someone died.’ Suddenly appalled, he said, ‘Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean–’

  My brain ground slowly back into gear. ‘Are you referring to Tom?’ I asked him. ‘You remembered!’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ he said. ‘My response to that little revelation earned me a slap in the face. Hard to forget that.’

  I blushed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t be. I deserved it.’

  ‘Is that you apologising to me?’

  He scowled down at his shoes. ‘Yeah, well I’ve been doing a bit of that lately.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He hesitated, and then said in a rush, ‘Desmond came to see me–’

  ‘Did he now?’ Suddenly, I felt a tad happier.

  ‘His wife died a few years back.’

  ‘Yes. We talked about it.’

  ‘I know.’

  He met my eye. His expression was his usual defensive bordering on hostile. But I did detect a tiny note of entreaty. Don’t ask me, it said. Let me tell you in my own good time …

  ‘I’ve got beer in the fridge,’ I said. After Marcus’ surprise visit, I had decided to stock up.

  ‘I haven’t had a beer in years,’ Big Man said.

  ‘Health reasons?’ I asked with a straight face. ‘Given up the booze like you’ve given up smoking? You have given it up, haven’t you?’

  He gave me a look. ‘Got to look after yourself,’ he replied. ‘After all, I’m not getting any younger.’

  Halfway through my second slice of pizza, I started to flag. I dropped it onto the plate and leaned back in my chair.

  ‘What’s up?’ Big Man asked. ‘You still upset about earlier?’

  ‘Oh …’ I stared up at the ceiling. ‘Not just that. A bunch of stuff …’

  ‘The message on your phone?’

  Seems Big Man was also Observant Man. I supposed if he hadn’t been born that way, he would have had to become so in prison. I thought about Patrick’s story. Patrick was only in jail for six months. I could not even begin to imagine how someone would survive twelve years.

  ‘How did you get through it?’ I asked Big Man. ‘Prison, I mean. When you knew you shouldn’t be there?’

  ‘Who said I shouldn’t have been there?’

  His voice was quiet, calm, but there was a warning in his eyes that told me not to push it. I couldn’t help thinking about it. Our time was so short, so precious. It seemed inexcusable to waste even a minute.

  Oh, damn it. I needed to talk to him. I needed to hear his voice,
hear him laugh. I needed the tonic of his self-confidence and his capacity for joy.

  ‘Who are you calling? That American bird?’ Big Man asked me.

  I held up a finger as the call was connected.

  ‘Allo?’

  It was a woman’s voice. No, not even a woman. A girl.

  ‘Is Marcus there?’ I managed to keep my voice steady.

  ‘Marcus?’ In any other circumstances, her accent would have been delightful. ‘Non. No, he eez not ’ere. Who eez thees?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said dully. ‘Thank you.’ And I hung up.

  Big Man was watching me, but I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eye.

  My phone ringing made me jump.

  ‘Darrell.’ Marcus sounded slightly out of breath. ‘You called me.’

  ‘Yes.’ I girded myself. ‘Your secretary answered.’

  He actually laughed!

  ‘No, that’s Berenice. My little French writer.’ I could tell from the smile in his voice that she was still there with him. Wherever they were. ‘Who has a terrible habit of answering my phone. She thinks it’s amusing, curse her. Next time I go to the bathroom, I will take the damn thing with me.’

  My mind was churning furiously. He simply would not be this relaxed if there were anything going on between them.

  ‘What did you want, Angel? Are you all right?’

  And he wouldn’t call me Angel in front of her, either.

  Or maybe he would. Marcus did whatever pleased him most of the time …

  I needed to get off the phone. Now.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I lied. ‘I just wanted to let you know that I – um – finished my latest book.’

  ‘Ha! Excellent!’ He sounded genuinely amused. ‘Were you planning to read it out to me?’

  I lied some more. ‘I was. But – some other time?’

  ‘It would certainly add a further element of excitement to Friday night,’ he said. ‘You’re brilliant, Angel. I look forward to it with eager anticipation.’

  I hung up. And threw the phone across the room. It clattered against the bookshelf. The Dance quartet toppled over like fat, dusty dominoes.

  ‘Want to get it off your chest?’ Big Man asked, eventually.

 

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