“Sal,” she said. “I wondered where you’d got to. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Mother,” I answered. I could tell by the way she was looking at me that she was trying to figure out if I’d seen her and Uncle John arguing earlier. I tried to give nothing away.
“You’d better get ready,” she said. “It’s nearly time for your ballet lesson.”
“I’m ready,” I told her. And I was. I had my tutu and my ballet shoes packed in my backpack.
“Bennett will drive you,” she said.
“Where’s Father?” I asked.
“Your father’s playing golf,” she said. “He went with Uncle Tony.”
“OK.” I knew that Uncle Tony sometimes came by and picked Father up. He had a brand-new Mercedes-Benz and he liked to show it off. Uncle Tony’s all right, though. He always gives me chocolates or comics when he visits.
Mother paused and wiped her hands on a towel. “Sal,” she said, “you know what tonight is?”
“Father’s birthday. Of course. I’m going to get him a present after ballet. A box of his favorite cigars.”
“That’s nice, sweetheart. But, you know, I was just thinking how nice it would be if you did something special for him, too.”
“Like what?”
“Dance for him. You know how much he loves to see you dance.”
It was true. Father did love to see me dance, and he would always offer me any present I wanted in the whole world when I danced especially well for him. “What sort of dance?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something new, something he hasn’t seen before. How are you doing in those belly-dancing classes?”
“Not bad,” I said. “It’s fun. I don’t have much of a belly, though.”
Mother smiled. We both knew that I was a bit on the skinny side, but she always told me it was a fine balance, and the last thing a pageant judge wanted to see was folds of puppy fat. Maybe with belly dancing, though, it’s different. I just don’t feel I have anything to roll around, if you know what I mean. No belly to dance with.
“Well, what about some ballet?” she said. “What are you learning at the moment?”
I told Mother about Swan Lake, which is my all-time favorite ballet, even though we were just doing boring exercises in class.
“Maybe you can dance something from Swan Lake, then?” Mother said. “If you’d like. I’m sure your Father will just love it.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do something from Swan Lake. I have to go now.”
She pointed to her cheek, and I walked over and kissed her, then I went outside and found Bennett in front of the garage, waiting, already in his uniform, the engine of the Rolls purring.
Ballet class was boring, as I expected, just doing the same movements over and over again. I have to admit that I spent most of the time daydreaming of the coming evening’s performance from Swan Lake. It would have to be a short and fairly easy piece, I knew—nothing complicated like the dying swan—because I’m not that good, but I also knew I could do such a fragment justice. I pictured myself dancing really well, hearing the music, imagining Father’s pleasure. Sometimes when I do this, it helps me when the time comes for the real thing.
I could hardly wait to get home, but I hung around for a soda with Veronica and Lisa for half an hour, as usual, then I remembered the present and got Bennett to go into Father’s favorite cigar shop and buy a box of Coronas and have them wrapped. All the way home I was almost jumping up and down in the seat with excitement.
Even though it was still only late afternoon, the house was starting to fill up. I knew most of the people and said hello as I went up to my room to change. There were marquees on the grounds and people already swimming in the pool. There must have been a hundred barbecues grilling hamburgers, steaks, chicken and hot dogs. It was going to be a great party.
When I had put on my party dress and was heading out to get something to eat at one of the barbecue stands, Mother pulled me into her room and asked me about ballet class. I told her it was fine.
“I suppose you’re excited about tonight?” she said.
“Yes.”
She turned her eyes away from me. “Look, Sal,” she said, “do you think you could do your mother a favor? A big favor?”
“Of course!” I said, anxious to please her after I’d seen her upset with Uncle John that morning.
“You know when you dance well and your father promises you anything you want?”
“Yes.”
“Well, when that happens, will you ask him for Uncle John’s head?”
“Uncle John’s head?”
“Yes.”
“Yuk.”
“For me.”
“Is it a game? Like in Alice? ‘Off with his head!’”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Mother. “A game. Like the Red Queen. Will you ask him?”
“Uncle John’s head! Uncle John’s head! Yes, I’ll ask him. I can’t wait to hear what he says.”
“He probably won’t say very much,” said Mother very quietly, “but he’s a man of his word, your father.”
And with that she let me skip down the stairs to join the party. My cousins Janet and Maria were both there, and their creepy brother Marlon, so we found some earwigs in the garden and put them in his hot dog. That was fun, but all the time I was excited about dancing. I looked around for Uncle John, but I couldn’t see him anywhere. When the time came, I went upstairs and changed quickly while Father gathered with his closest family and business colleagues in his den. Uncle John wasn’t with them, but Godfather was there, an old man with dry, wrinkled skin and a voice like a rasp file on stone. He made me a bit nervous, but he had a kind smile.
And how well did I dance?
It’s hard for me to judge my own performance, but I did feel that my movements seemed to go with the music. There was no hesitation, the dance flowed from me, and there were no wrong moves or trips. I didn’t stumble or fall once. On the whole, I think I danced rather well, if I say so myself. Father certainly enjoyed it, for he started clapping the moment I finished, and it took the others a couple of seconds to join in with him. Mother sat on the other side of the room with the womenfolk, smiling and clapping along. When I’d finished, I curtsied for Father and he beckoned me to come closer. I stood in front of him and he gave me a little kiss on my cheek.
“Bravo!” he said. “That was marvelous. What a talented girl you are. And because you’ve made me so happy you can have anything you want in the world. All you have to do is ask.”
I paused for a moment and looked over at Mother. Father saw me do this, and he also looked her way. She didn’t turn to face him or say anything, but I could tell by her eyes that she was telling me to go ahead and ask him. Then I said, “I want Uncle John’s head.”
Father’s face changed, and he suddenly seemed older and sadder. Everyone else was completely silent. You could hear a pin drop.
“Are you sure that’s what you want, sweetheart?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “Off with his head!”
Father looked at me in silence for a long time before answering, then he looked over at Mother, who kept her eyes on me. Finally, he looked at Godfather, who gave him such a brief, tiny nod it could have been a twitch.
“Very well,” Father said sternly. “You shall have what you want.” Then he clapped his hands. “Now away with you, before I change my mind.”
But I knew Father never changed his mind, and Mother said he was a man of his word.
The party was still going on, so I changed into jeans and a T-shirt and rejoined my cousins and friends, who were now playing hide-and-seek in the shrubbery. There were lots of bushes shaped like animals, and sometimes you could even work your way inside them and find a clear space to hide. As I hid in the peacock, holding my breath for fear that Janet would find me first, I thought about the dance and the strange request Mother had asked me to make.
I know that Father still liked Un
cle John, despite the problems he was causing, but Uncle John was getting more difficult to keep in line. I had actually heard Father saying this to some of his colleagues not long ago, the same time I overheard him telling Bruno, who I don’t like at all—he’s got no neck and has shoulders like a bull—to “clip” someone, which sounds like something they do at the hairdresser’s, and to “take care of” Mr. Delasanto. I never saw Mr. Delasanto again, and I guessed he must have been taken to the hospital. But they didn’t want to clip or take care of Uncle John, and now I had asked for his head. I began to feel just a little uneasy and nervous about what would happen. They had all seemed very serious about it, for a game. At that moment, Janet peered through the branches, shouted my name and ran back to the tree where she had counted to a hundred. By the time I got through the branches I hadn’t a hope of beating her.
The party wound down later in the evening—at least for me it did. Janet and Maria went home, taking with them the horrible Marlon, who hadn’t said much since he bit into his hot dog earlier in the day. I was still too excited to go to bed and there were plenty of adults around. Nobody paid any attention to me. The pool lights were on and some people were even swimming, others sipping drinks and talking at the poolside. There was music coming out of a pair of big speakers outside the pool house, but it was grown-up music, all violins and smoochy singing. Frank Sinatra, probably. Father loves Frank Sinatra.
I was feeling hot and I thought a swim might be nice, so I went to my room to change into my bathing costume. On my way I passed Mother’s room and heard raised voices. I paused by the door, unsure what to do. I had been brought up not to spy on people or listen in on their conversations—Father was very particular about his privacy—but sometimes I just couldn’t help it.
“It was your idea,” Father was saying. “You put her up to it. How could you?”
Mother said nothing.
“It’ll have a bad effect all around. There’ll be trouble,” Father went on. “He still has his uses. And he’s got a lot of followers.”
“Rubbish,” said Mother. “He’s a madman and everyone knows it. An embarrassment. He’s losing it, baby. You’ll be doing us all a favor. Next thing you know he’ll be talking to the feds.”
“That’s crazy. Johnny would never do that.”
“You haven’t been paying attention, sweetie. You’re blinded by loyalty. I had to do something to bring it to your attention. God knows, you wouldn’t listen to me. I tell you, if you don’t do something soon, we’re all down the creek without a paddle.”
At that moment, I heard one of them walking toward the door, so I made off quickly and hurried to my room. It was odd, finding Mother and Father together like that, I thought, because they don’t talk much anymore. I haven’t seen them laugh and hold hands for ages. Still, I don’t suppose they have much time together: Father has his empire to keep him busy, and Mother has me and all my contests and lessons and pageants.
Nobody seemed to mind me swimming with the grown-ups, and I even had a cool splashing fight with Uncle Mario, who’s so fat it’s a wonder all the water doesn’t go out of the pool when he jumps in. After that I ate more food—cakes and ice cream and Jell-O—until I was too full to eat another bite. I was feeling tired by then, and even some of the grown-up guests were starting to say their good-byes and drift away.
When most of them had gone, Bennett came along the driveway in the Rolls and parked in front of the garage. One of Father’s colleagues got out, a man I didn’t like, and leaned back in to pick something off the seat. It was a large metal plate with a domed cover, the kind they use to keep food warm, but bigger. He saw me just about to go back inside, walked over and said. “I think this is for you, little lady.” I hate it when people call me little lady. After all, I am eleven. Then he offered me the plate. It was heavier than I expected.
“Or maybe you should take it to your mother,” he said, with a nasty grin.
I turned away and heard him laugh as I walked into the house. I was going to take his advice but I didn’t want him to know that. Outside Mother’s room, I put the plate on a small polished table under the hall mirror and knocked. Mother answered. She was quite alone.
“Someone brought me this plate,” I said. “But I think it’s for you.”
She looked at the covered plate, then at me. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking from her expression, but she seemed a bit glazed and didn’t really look very well. I thought perhaps she might have had one of her “attacks” and taken her pills. Anyway, she seemed eager enough to take the plate. Without so much as a thank you, she picked it up, turned and kicked the door shut with her heel. By then I was beginning to realize that it wasn’t just a game, that when I asked Father for Uncle John’s head, that was exactly what he had given me. I had to know. Trembling, I sank to my knees and looked through the keyhole.
What I saw then I will remember for the rest of my days.
Mother set the plate down on her dressing table beside the potions and creams and combs and brushes, then she lifted off the cover. She stepped back and gasped, putting her hand to her mouth and let the cover drop to the floor where it clanged on the hard wooden surface. Then, slowly, she moved toward the plate from which Uncle John stared at her with unseeing eyes. She stared back for the longest time, then she picked up the head in both hands and kissed him on the lips. Something dark and shiny dangled from his neck and dripped like black teardrops down the front of Mother’s white blouse. I jumped up feeling sick and dizzy and I ran up to my room, pulled the covers over my head and didn’t come out until my singing lesson on Sunday morning.
Like a Virgin
An Inspector Banks Novella
Banks held the letter between his thumb and forefinger and tapped its edge against the palm of his hand. He knew who had sent it and what it was about, but not exactly what it would reveal, what it might change. A phone call would have been quicker and easier, perhaps, but there was something more solid and satisfying about the formal sheets of paper Banks knew were neatly folded inside the white envelope. And the post only took a day. After this long, there was no hurry, no hurry at all.
As he gazed out over Eastvale’s cobbled market square—the ancient cross, the squat church, the castle on its hill in the background, children dashing to school, socks around their ankles, delivery vans making their rounds, shops opening—he realized that he had been there for over twenty years and that when he had first arrived his life had been in every bit as much of a mess as it was now.
That was a sobering thought for a man in his midfifties. In those twenty plus years, he had lost his wife to another man, his children had grown up and moved away, lovers had come and gone, and he had lost much of his faith in his fellow man. He had suffered betrayal more than once, by those closest to him and by strangers in secret, shady offices in Westminster. He had failed many and perhaps given some slight solace to others. But all in all, he felt that the tally sheet was woefully weighted down on the side of his failures and shortcomings, and it was hard to believe in the job anymore.
Now here he stood contemplating a temporary flight, as if he might perhaps leave himself behind and start again. He knew that couldn’t happen. It hadn’t happened the last time he had tried it, but some things had changed after his move up north, and many of them for the better. It was years since he had thought about those final days in London, and when he did, they had the quality of a dream, or a nightmare. His conversation with an old colleague the previous week had brought it all back with a vengeance.
Banks leaned his forehead against the cool glass. His hair had been a bit longer then, touching his collar, without the streaks of gray, and he had believed he could make a difference. He had been full of romantic idealism and knightly vigor, ready to tilt at windmills and take on the world without even noticing at first that he was breaking apart under the weight of it. If he closed his eyes, he could see it all as it had been: Soho nights, the late summer of 1985…
In the soft lig
ht of the red-shaded bulb that hung over the center of the room, the girl’s body looked serene. She could easily have been sleeping, Banks thought, as he moved forward to get a better view of her. She lay on her back on the pink candlewick bedspread, covered from neck to toe by a white sheet, hands clasped together above the swell of her breasts in an attitude of prayer or supplication, her long dark hair spread out on the pillow. Her pale features were delicate and finely etched, and Banks imagined she had been quite a beauty in life. He wondered what she had looked like when she smiled or frowned. Her hazel eyes were devoid of life now, her face free of makeup, and at first glance there wasn’t a mark on her. But when Banks peered closer he could see the petechial hemorrhages, the tiny telltale dots of blood in her conjunctiva, a sign of death by asphyxia. There was no bruising on her neck, so he guessed suffocation rather than strangulation, but Dr. O’Grady, the Home Office pathologist who knelt beside her at his silent ministrations would be able to tell him more after his in situ examination.
The room was small and stuffy, but the Persian-style carpet and striped wallpaper gave it a homely touch. It seemed well maintained, despite its location on the fringes of Soho. No sleazy backstreet hovel for this girl. The window hadn’t been open when Banks arrived, and he knew better than to tamper with the scene in any way, so he left it closed. There wasn’t much space for furniture—a small dressing table with mirror, washstand in the corner, next to the cubicle WC, and a bedside table, on which stood a chipped enamel bowl where a facecloth floated in discolored water. In the drawer were condoms, tissues and an assortment of sex aids. Did she live here? Banks doubted it. There were no clothes and no cooking facilities.
The victim could have been anywhere between fifteen and twenty-five, Banks thought, and her youth certainly added to the aura of innocence that surrounded her in death. Whether she had appeared that way in life, he didn’t know, but he didn’t think so.
The Price of Love and Other Stories Page 29