by Morton Bain
‘So you were willing to work as a prostitute if you had to?’
‘I was confident that fate would intervene before that happened – as has happened. But yes, I would have worked in this way. In India we have sacred prostitutes – devadasi – I would have approached my work with this attitude.’
‘I’ve heard about these sacred prostitutes,’ I say. ‘But that involves both participants having a respectful and spiritual attitude towards the sex act. If you were working over here that wouldn’t be the case. You’d be sleeping with sweaty men whose idea of spirituality is getting drunk on whiskey.’
‘The lingam is the lingam, whoever it belongs to . . .’
‘And what do you think of me then?’ I ask. ‘A priest that would lure you into prostitution?’
‘I don’t have an opinion. Life must have some important lessons for you in this incarnation.’
I feel like I could sit here talking to Chanda for hours, but just then the doorbell rings. Opening up, I see Joey and Courtney standing before me. Joey steps forward and gives me a hug. ‘How you holding up buddy?’ he asks.
‘Not too bad,’ I say. I suddenly feel protective of Chanda, not wanting her to be contaminated by the presence of these other two. ‘Place is a bit of a mess,’ I say. ‘Want to grab some lunch at Entwhistles?’
The two men nod. ‘Give me two secs,’ I say. I walk back into the kitchen and say to Chanda: ‘Popping out for an hour or two. Relax. Don’t worry about tidying up or anything.’
Chanda nods, and I return to my companions.
At Entwhistles, famous for its seafood and a waitress who supplements her income by turning tricks, Joey pumps me for information about Lucy’s demise. I answer his questions with an economy of words and information. I think he soon realises I’m not going to talk at length about my wife’s death, and the subject changes.
We talk crap for some time, before, on the spur of the moment, I decide to see how good an actor Courtney is. Looking directly at Joey I say, ‘You know that guy I’ve mentioned who has it in for me?’
Before he can reply I switch my gaze to Courtney. The expression on his face is serene. He’s either very stoned, a great actor, or it wasn’t him I saw at Jake’s place recently.
‘Yeah.’ Joey says. ‘What’s happened?’
‘No, it’s just it might have been my imagination, but I could have sworn I saw him a couple of times when we were in Vigo. Plus, he’s been causing me some trouble with the Church. If it carries on I think I’m going to have to step in. Might need your guys’ help with that.’
‘Step in have a word or step in break his neck?’ Joey wants to know.
I glance at Courtney again. Still nothing. ‘I think maybe break his neck. I’m worried he might try something stupid. Hurt the kids or go for me.’
‘Let me know if you want to some help,’ Joey says. ‘That’s no problem.’
‘You be able to lend a hand?’ I ask Courtney.
This time I catch a glimmer, just a glimmer, of something – embarrassment? shame? – before he answers: ‘Yeah, sure. Always happy to help. I already hit him once, I guess.’
Lucy’s funeral takes place on the Saturday following her death, conducted by Joey at St. Joseph’s. The choice of a Catholic church for her farewell service no doubt causes some mutterings amongst the many members of my congregation that attend, but their misgivings aren’t a concern of mine. Arthur and Gloria are quite direct in their opposition to my chosen venue, to the extent that I’m quite surprised they turn up. Chanda looks after the kids. I’m not opposed to them attending, but I throw a crust to Gloria in having them stay at home; she’s adamant that the experience would be too upsetting for them. According to Gloria a death by natural causes would have permitted their attendance, but not death by suicide. I wonder what Gloria’s stance would have been had she known that Lucy passed at my hands.
Joey seems a bit rusty as he leads the service. I know for a fact that he’d been up half the previous night with his latest squeeze, which I’m sure isn’t helping matters. He keeps clearing his throat and his delivery is stilted. I have Courtney sitting to my right in a front pew. To my left is Arthur, and to his left is Gloria, splendidly decked out in black and with a box of tissues on her lap.
Lucy’s sister Emma shares her memory of my wife with the congregation. They spent a year travelling the world when they were in the early twenties, and I cannot believe my ears when the woman recounts their experiences in New Zealand, where the duo spent a month ‘walking, white-water rafting and bungee-jumping’. Bungee-jumping! Is the woman mad? The mention of this activity sets Gloria off. I struggle to keep a straight face.
I say my piece. I keep it short, hoping to make my words poignant and precise. I try to set my face with an expression that reveals sorrow tinged with promise. Refreshments are provided afterwards in the church hall. Joey gets one of his more motherly bitches to take care of the catering, and I have to say she does a good job. It’s with relief that the event draws to a close.
When I get back home I go into the kitchen in search of a sip of something alcoholic and experience one of those moments of incongruity as I see the evidence of a break-in. There’s shattered glass on one of the kitchen worktops, and I stupidly think someone must have broken a glass before I look up and see that a window has been broken. The broken window has enabled a window latch to be turned, in turn enabling the intruder’s access.
I head straight for the living room, expecting to see a missing TV and a hole in my CD collection. Instead, everything looks as it should. I rush upstairs and check my bedroom. None of Lucy’s jewellery is missing. Confused, I go to my study. This, it seems, was the intruder’s main focus. There are papers strewn all over the floor, the drawers of the desk are open and have obviously been rifled and my PC is on. I know it had been switched off before I left that morning.
I realise quickly it must have been Jake. The expensive Swiss watch my father left me remains in the top drawer of the desk. Whoever has been in the house was after information, not valuables. I try to think of anything incriminating that could have been found in the house. I don’t keep a diary of my criminal and immoral activities. There’s the clip I took of Joey and company discussing cocaine importation in Spain on my computer, but I doubt Jake or anyone else would know to look for it. There are five coloured snooker balls on my desk; leaving them on display is sloppy, I have to admit. Whoever broke in must have known about Lucy’s funeral. Chanda has taken the kids out for the day, so the intruder’s timing was perfect.
Chapter Fourteen
A week later I’m back in the kitchen, talking to Chanda. Over the previous days I’ve got to know the woman much better. I’ve tasted her cooking (good), observed her interaction with my kids (firm but kindly) and come to appreciate her sense of humour. There is definitely something unearthly about her. Sometimes when I’m looking at her, her face seems to pixelate, as if she’s trying to turn into someone else; other times when I look at her I seem to be looking at all of Womankind, both good and bad. This doesn’t faze me, however, simply increasing my curiousity.
‘Did I tell you I spent time in India when I was younger?’ I ask Chanda.
‘No. Were you on holiday?’
‘Yes, an extended holiday. I went there to meditate and find myself.’
‘And did you find yourself?’
‘I don’t think I did . . . though I did have some interesting experiences.’
‘Maybe that’s why I’m in England,’ Chanda says wistfully. ‘To find myself.’
‘You think so?’
‘Not really. I found myself when I realised there was no-one to find.’
‘And how did you realise that?’
‘I didn’t seek the realisation. It came to me unbidden.’
‘Sometimes I don’t really have a clue what you’re talking about,’ I admit.
‘Words have their limitations,’ Chanda says. ‘Maybe there’s a picture I could paint that would enable me
to express myself better.’
I feel like telling Chanda all about my murderous exploits. I stop to analyse why this might be. It’s not as if it would be a means of unburdening myself, because I don’t feel bad about what I’ve done. Except about Lucy, and only because of the impact her death might have on my kids, and only because that in turn might have an effect on me. No, I think it’s curiousity more than anything – an interest in what she would say if she knew.
‘I still can’t quite understand how you allowed yourself to be trafficked to England,’ I say. ‘If you knew what you were letting yourself in for, surely it would have been much simpler just to say “no”?’
‘My guru taught me to grasp any opportunities that arise . . .’
‘Would you have lain on a railway track if your guru had recommended it?’
‘Probably. The train could only damage my body.’
‘Were you not tempted to tell the other girls at the convent what lay in store for them? They probably won’t have your philosophical attitude towards prostitution.’
‘One I did tell, and she ran away. The others I judged could handle what awaited them. Either that or they would flee once they realised the truth.’
‘Not as easy as that. Passports confiscated, threats of violence . . .’
‘These women aren’t really left without a choice. They just need to put their head out the window and start screaming . . . it wouldn’t be long before they were rescued. Or they could bite the penises of the men that come to them, and be discharged that way.’
‘That or have a gun discharged at them . . .’
We lapse into silence for a while, before I say, ‘Are you not curious as to what a Minister of Religion is doing being involved in prostitution? Do you not wonder what else I might be up to?’
‘My life has been full of strange happenings and people, so I have learned to accept that surprises are not very surprising.’
‘You sound like Yoda a lot of the time,’ I say, grinning.
‘Yoda?’
‘You haven’t seen Star Wars?’
Chanda shakes her head.
‘Now that is seriously strange . . . It’s a famous science fiction film. One of the characters is a shrivelled up little goblin with strange syntax and a knack for talking shit that sounds deeply philosophical.’
‘No, I haven’t heard of this character.’
‘Well, you remind me of him anyway.’ I look at the fingernails on my right hand as if I’ve never seen them before for a few moments, before fixing my eyes on Chanda. Again, I experience a sense of a loss of individuality or ‘Iness’ and a merging with my surroundings, and in particular Chanda. For a brief moment I see myself as if looking at my body through Chanda’s eyes. The sensation is disorientating and scary, and I shake my head as if trying to break a spell. This seems to work, and now I’m being fed with images from my own eyeballs. I feel like crying. What the fuck is going on with me?
‘Are you alright?’ Chanda asks.
‘I feel a bit strange,’ I admit.
‘I sense that. The illusion might be slipping.’
‘Which illusion?’
‘This that one.’
‘What?’
Just then I hear the letterbox flap slap with its spring recoil. I get up to investigate. Lying in the hallway by the front door I find a large A4 envelope. I pick it up and walk back to the kitchen. The envelope doesn’t have an address or stamp on it. I open it, and pull out a single sheet of white paper, which has a red, blue, yellow, pink, brown, green and black dot on it. I hold up the sheet of paper for Chanda to see.
‘Who would that be from?’ she asks.
‘I have a hunch who might be the sender . . . or deliverer,’ I say, but don’t provide any more information. Jake’s definitely onto me. In the preceding week I’ve spent a couple of mornings staking out his house in the hope of seeing if Courtney would make a return visit. He didn’t turn up on either day. I’ve reached the conclusion that I might have to get rid of the pair of them.
Later that day I get a phone call from Sussex police. They explain that there will be an inquest into Lucy’s death, date to be confirmed, but in the meantime there are a few more questions they have for me, and would I be available if they visited the following day? I can’t really say no. We agree to meet at ten the following morning.
It’s one of the officers that attended at Beachy Head and another policeman I’ve not met before who turn up the next day.
‘This is just a formality,’ the officer who introduces himself as Detective Ringer explains after we’re seated in the living room. ‘We really just wanted to follow up on a couple of things.’
I nod.
Ringer continues: ‘You mentioned on the phone the other day that your wife had been upset on the day of her death, that there’d been some sort of argument. Can I ask what the argument was about?’
‘Someone I knew many years ago messed up on drugs and ended up working as a prostitute,’ I say. ‘Since entering the Church I’ve made a point of trying to help woman who sell their bodies, and this has caused . . . caused some tension between us. Someone was anonymously trying to suggest that I had a more . . . sordid interest in prostitutes.’
Ringer: ‘Was anyone else aware of these tensions?’
‘My parents-in-law know that we’d had a bit of a row the morning of the day of her death . . .’
‘So your wife suspected you of using prostitutes?’ Ringer asks.
‘I don’t think she really thought I had used them,’ I reply. ‘But you know what women can be like. If they’re feeling a little bit insecure it doesn’t take much to set them off.’
‘There’s something else,’ the other officer, says. ‘When the body of your wife was recovered we found something in her pocket.’
‘And what was that?’
‘It was a letter. A letter from someone called Jake. Do you know this person?’
I’m aware that I am now faced with a critical moment in my life, and how I answer this question is going to have a huge bearing on the rest of my life. The problem is that the correct answer is dependent on information I don’t have – and asking for said information might be as harmful as answering incorrectly. In particular what I want to ask is, What does the letter say? and Do you know the sender of the letter’s full name?
I clear my throat and say, ‘Jake? I probably know a few Jakes. Jake who?’
‘That we don’t know.’ My heart lifts. ‘But he seems to know you and seems to think you may have committed some murders.’ My heart drops.
‘What?’ I say. I have so many questions. ‘That’s preposterous! Who am I meant to have killed? Why wasn’t this mentioned before?’
‘The note was missed on our first search of your wife’s clothes, plain and simple. It was addressed to your wife, but unopened. I’m sure she’d have said something if she had read it.’ It’s Ringer talking. ‘I can’t give you any more information about the contents of the letter, for operational reasons. That doesn’t mean that we necessarily suspect that the letter’s allegations are true; it’s just how we have to handle matters. What I would like from you, by tomorrow, is an email with a list of all the Jakes you know or have known.’
‘Do you realise what I do for a living?’ I say. ‘That I’m a vicar?’
‘I do realise that, and as I said, in asking you for this information I’m just following procedure. If you want my honest opinion, I don’t think you’ve ever killed anyone. Unfortunately, given the circumstances, my opinion isn’t enough.’
‘Fair enough,’ I say.
Ringer hands me a business card. ‘Email address is at the bottom. I appreciate this. We’ll try and get this resolved as quickly as possible.’
We all stand up. When we get to the door Ringer says: ‘Just one more thing. If, as you say, the letter is rubbish, you need to ask yourself who might have sent it, and why. If you have any thoughts on this, please include them in the email.’
My hand
is shaking as I close the door on the cops. I go straight into the kitchen and help myself to a huge glass of port, then head upstairs to my study. Seated, I take a large gulp of the liquid and stare out the window that overlooks my desk, taking in the large oak tree at the bottom of the rear garden, behind it the backs of the houses that line the road that runs parallel to mine. I curse myself for being so taken by Chanda over the last week. I’ve taken my eye off the ball and forgotten about the real threat facing me – Jake. What has that fucker been up to? It sounds like he has been following me for weeks – probably was in Vigo during my stay there. I’m certain now that it was he that broke into the house.
I’m pleased that the cops don’t know which Jake wrote the letter. The next question is, could they work out who the author of the note is? Jake’s prison sentence is a matter of record, but as I was never charged in connection with the murder he was convicted of, I can’t see how a link between the two of us could easily be established. Jake is going to have to die, however, and when his murder hits the papers there’s a chance the spotlight might fall on me.
That leaves the question of Courtney. I still don’t know what, if any, relationship there is between him and Jake. I wonder whether I should go to Joey and get his advice. What if Courtney’s an informer? Joey seems sure he’s kosher, but how can anyone really tell for sure?
Courtney, Courtney . . . On the spur of the moment I pick up my mobile and dial his number. Four rings – a good, average number of rings – before he answers. ‘Courtney! What are you up to?’
Thirty minutes later I’m sitting in Courtney’s living room. I’ve only been to the man’s place once before, and have forgotten what a strange approach to interior design he has. The kitchen, where I spent a couple of minutes while Courtney poured drinks, is all chrome and white, with sleek appliances and a tiled floor so clean you’d swear the builders had just given it a final buff after laying it. The hallway seems to be trying to portray rustic charm, with autumnal colours, real wood flooring and prints of English rural idylls on the walls. The living room is a hallucinogenic jungle nightmare. Walls painted three different shades of green in a kind of tiger-stripe pattern, slate floor tiles and a profusion of tropical pot plants, many doing their best to punch holes in the ceiling. Despite the weather being quite mild the radiators in this room seem to be on full blast. The moisture escaping from the plants means the room isn’t just hot, but also humid. On one wall, in a prominent central position, is an oil painting of Haile Selassie.