Devil in Disguise

by Julian Clary

  ‘I’ve told you.’ Molly put a teabag into her mug, trying to hide her trembling hands. ‘The tour is cancelled.’

  ‘Oh, no, my dear. The tour will go ahead with or without you,’ said Lilia, coldly. She turned to look at herself in the mirror on the far wall and softly patted her hair.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s simple, really. I shall do it.’

  Molly stared at her, astonished. ‘You?’

  ‘Yes. Me. I shall go in your place. We look identical and have practically the same name. Only a small typographical error, in truth. Who will tell the difference? You have never been to Canada before, after all. I shall go out there, slay them and bring home the bacon.’

  Molly laughed. Was she teasing? It was too absurd. ‘Don’t be silly. You don’t have my voice for one thing.’

  Lilia spun round to face her, livid. ‘How rude! Your cracked vintage voice is indistinguishable from mine. I have already done several telephone interviews on your behalf. The Canadians can’t wait to see me.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ said Molly. ‘You can’t be me!’

  ‘Why not?’ answered Lilia. ‘You have become me, after all. Fair exchange is no robbery.’

  ‘Let me get this clear. You think you’re going to appear on stage as me in Canada and no one will notice the difference?’

  ‘I did the same thing with Anne Murray in the seventies.’

  ‘You’re a raving lunatic,’ Molly said again. As she said it, she realised it was true. She’d always known Lilia was eccentric and, over the years, she’d learnt to take her stories with a pinch of salt, but suddenly she knew for certain that the old woman must actually believe her own lies.

  ‘It happens in showbusiness all the time. Tracy Barlow in Coronation Street — they had a different actress every other week. And there have been at least five Tony Blackburns to my knowledge.’

  Molly wrapped her fingers round the warm mug of tea, feeling suddenly vulnerable in her light nightdress. ‘What is it you plan to do, Lilia?’

  Lilia stalked to the window and stared out over the garden. It was the dead of winter — the lawn was a dull grey and the geraniums that had flourished until a few weeks ago were now blackened entrails twisting, agonised, down the side of their pots. The trees were bare and frozen against the sky. She turned back to Molly. ‘You had to know eventually, my dear. And the time is now. I have a feeling that you’re about to ask me to leave your house and your family. Well, I have a little surprise for you. The one who is going to leave is you.’

  Molly felt cold and shivery. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she managed to whisper, through trembling lips.

  ‘You see, I won’t leave. I refuse to,’ said Lilia, defiant and proud. ‘I have made a life for myself here now. Here, in this house, with Rupert and Leo and Bertie.’

  ‘You don’t mention me. Am I not in the picture?’

  ‘Not for much longer.’ Lilia smiled amicably. ‘Please don’t think I’m not grateful. I couldn’t have done it without you. You have been the host, the chariot that has wheeled me to my rightful place in life. I give you my grateful thanks, but you may go now.’

  ‘I heard what you said to Rupert last night,’ countered Molly. ‘That I don’t love him, that I’m a heartless money-grabber who’s going to move on to the next man very soon, that I’m a bad mother.’

  ‘I was simply paving the way for your departure. The last thing I want is him being all heartbroken and trying to get you back.’

  ‘So, you think that not only are you going to step into my career, you’re somehow going to replace me in my own home? Take over my husband and children?’

  ‘We will have to change the lighting, obviously. I’m not unaware of the unseemly age gap, and I can’t expect Rupert to get used to it immediately.’

  Molly’s mouth dropped open and a cold chill swept over her. ‘You can’t do such a thing!’

  ‘Of course I can. There’s a very well-stocked lighting shop in Canterbury. I’m just waiting for the January sales.’

  Molly began to laugh in a high-pitched tone, with an edge of hysteria. It was utterly absurd. Lilia must be completely deluded. ‘I’m sorry, Lilia, but we need to get you some help. You’re a sick woman.’

  Lilia’s expression changed. It became hard and determined. ‘No. I have been preparing for this day for eight years. Everything is now coming to fruition. I will not let you stop me.’

  ‘Except for one thing: I am not going to disappear into thin air.’ Molly set her jaw. She was going to fight every inch of the way. Once, she had submitted to Lilia, done everything she wanted, subsumed her identity to realise the old woman’s dreams. Not now.

  ‘I was thinking about that,’ said Lilia, as if this were a happy reminder. ‘It would not be healthy for the children if you did. Visitation rights will be arranged. You will not be completely exiled. You will be their mother in the same way you are stepmother to Rupert’s other son — a distant, benign presence who dutifully sends cards and presents at Christmas and birthdays.’

  ‘And where am I to go?’

  ‘Obviously I have considered this. It occurred to me that Kit-Kat Cottage is empty. I never did rent it. You may go and live there.’

  ‘A home full of such lovely memories,’ said Molly, her voice dripping with scorn.

  ‘We can sort out the terms of your rent once you are settled in. It is a property of considerable historic interest so we are not talking peppercorn. I expect the garden has become horribly overgrown, so sorting that out will obviously occupy you for a good few weeks. I wonder if my bird-bath is still standing.’

  ‘You ramble on for as long as you want,’ said Molly. ‘When Rupert comes back we shall see about getting you some help.’

  Suddenly Lilia raised her voice. ‘I want you to leave this house. Within the week.’ There was a pause as the two women studied each other.

  ‘I will not,’ said Molly. ‘There is nothing you can say, no threat you can make, that will induce me to leave.’

  ‘What about the truth?’ asked Lilia, jutting out her chin bullishly.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I have an ace in my hand,’ said Lilia. ‘I know something that will have you walking out of that door as swiftly and meekly as a whipped dog.’

  ‘What?’ demanded Molly. ‘Bring it on.’

  ‘The secret. The secret about what happened that night, years ago, down by the river. You and Simon.’

  Molly gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth. She tried to scream but no sound came out.

  Lilia smiled with satisfaction. ‘Yes. That’s right. You see, I know all about it.’

  ‘Wh-who told you?’ stammered Molly.

  ‘You did, my dear.’

  ‘No!’ Molly managed a quiet, terrified scream this time, and then she ran out of the kitchen, away from Lilia, as fast as she could, towards the safety of her bedroom. But Lilia came after her, slow but steady, like a yeti, bellowing at the top of her voice as she went.

  ‘So much for a devoted wife and mother! I know every detail of your sordid secret. You told me when you were delirious that first night at Kit-Kat Cottage. You’re a murderess! A callous killer!’

  ‘No, no!’ cried Molly, as she ran up the stairs. ‘I won’t listen, I won’t!’

  But Lilia’s words followed her, impossible to shut out.

  ‘Your words were quite disjointed that night. It took all my powers of deduction to piece things together. Then I did a little research to see if such an outlandish tale could be true. Local news archives, a bit of research. And, yes, your story hung together very well.’

  Molly raced along the landing to her bedroom and ran inside, slamming the door. She turned the key in the lock and leant against it, sobbing with fear and horror. Did Lilia really know about that terrible night? She had never told another soul! She had erased it from her memory, locked it far away inside her mind. The awful voice kept droning on, getting closer and closer, spilling out the det
ails she’d tried so hard to forget.

  ‘Murder. A boy found with his head caved in floating in the Thames. March 1996. Remember? That thug had lured your best friend Simon under a bridge with the promise of sexual congress while you sat on a bench, waiting impatiently. You heard a scuffle and ran to the rescue.’

  Lilia had reached the bedroom door now and her voice came through it clearly. Molly covered her eyes and sank to the floor.

  ‘He was sitting astride Simon, beating him to a pulp. He had robbed him and stolen his St Christopher medal and now he was enjoying himself. Beating the life out of the dirty, pretty queer boy. Gay-bashing. Dear, fragile Simon was already unconscious. He knew nothing of what happened next.’

  ‘Please, stop,’ moaned Molly.

  ‘According to the newspaper archive reports, which I have taken the trouble to read, the deceased was called James Bellwood, from Sheffield. He was twenty-one years of age and had come to London that day to watch the football. Open the door, Molly.’

  ‘Enough, Lilia, I can’t bear it!’ Molly was sobbing now.

  ‘His girlfriend was eight months pregnant at the time of his death. Open it!’

  ‘He was trying to kill Simon,’ Molly managed to say. ‘He had his hands round his throat!’ She picked herself up, beaten. She turned the key and opened the door. Lilia came in, a half-smile on her face. She patted Molly’s arm with something like sympathy.

  ‘I expect he did. And who could blame him? He was a simple northern lad on his first trip to London and had somehow become separated from his friends. Being propositioned by a grinning queen was outside his field of experience.’

  ‘It was dark under the bridge. All I could see was this man on top of Simon. I didn’t even have time to think. I picked up the first thing I could see to stop him.’

  ‘A brick?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Molly was talking softly now through her tears, as if remembering that terrible evening for the first time. Lilia helped her into the chair by her dressing-table. ‘I panicked —he was killing Simon and he wouldn’t let go even though I was screaming at him. So I picked up a brick and hit him as hard as I could, to make him stop, not to hurt him. Then blood poured out of his head and he groaned and let go of Simon. He got up and I thought he was going to attack me, but he seemed dazed, as if he couldn’t see straight. He staggered to the river edge and the next moment, he’d fallen in — just vanished into the water as if he’d never been there at all. I didn’t mean to …’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘So Simon has no idea of the brave, foolish thing you did to save him?’

  ‘No. By the time he regained consciousness the boy had sunk into the water. I got him to his feet and away from there as quickly as I could.’

  ‘So. The secret is out now,’ said Lilia, with a subdued air of triumph.

  ‘And I told you all this?’

  ‘You did. You unburdened yourself while in a vulnerable state. The police suspected a local gang of the murder. Turf warfare. But it was you — sweet, theatrical Molly. Who’d have thought you were capable of such a vicious, bloodthirsty murder?’

  ‘And you’ll tell all of this if I don’t comply with your wishes, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But how will you prove it? The police investigation would have gone cold long ago.’

  Lilia shrugged. ‘I have two things in my favour. First, when James Bellwood was pulled from the river, he still had Simon’s St Christopher in his pocket. The one you bought him for Christmas and engraved with his initials. An unfortunate detail, but enough to sway the case, should it come to court, in favour of the prosecution when records show that Simon attended hospital the day after. The second is the recording of your confession I’ve just made on my new mobile phone.’ Smiling, she held out a square, luminous iPhone. ‘In fact, I have filmed the whole thing. Your tragic confession could be on YouTube in minutes, if I so desire.’

  There was a long pause while Molly stared at the tiny lens on the phone. She could see now that she was trapped. ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked, in a small voice.

  Lilia smiled and turned off the phone. ‘Good girl. Follow my instructions and you will retain your liberty and see your sons again. Any funny business and you’ll be on the bottom bunk below Rosemary West. Understood?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Molly, hopelessly.

  ‘Call me a sentimental old fool, but I have decided that I wish you to have a final Christmas with your family. So you have two more weeks with your family culminating in Christmas Day — a joyous occasion, though poignant for those of us in the know. On Boxing Day, you have breakfast as normal, then announce that you are going to pop out in the car to deliver a festive greeting to some nearby friends. In fact you go to Kit-Kat Cottage and begin your new life as an eccentric recluse.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘To survive,’ said Lilia, simply. ‘Jungle law, you understand. I want your life — after all, I’ve worked hard enough to get it. And for that to happen, you have to go.’

  ‘You can’t expect Rupert to believe all this,’ said Molly, incredulous. ‘He knows a vindictive, evil harridan when he sees one. Suppose I tell him what you’re planning?’

  ‘He’ll never believe you. I’ve already done the groundwork so he sees me as a kindly adviser and regards you as unreliable, unstable and selfish. He’ll soon realise he’s better off without you. Anyway, any hint of the truth to another soul and this phone goes straight to Scotland Yard. Will your darling husband feel the same way about you when he learns you’re a murderess? Will he really want to bring his sons to prison to visit their mother? I don’t think you should risk it, my dear. Your options are plain. Do as I say and see your children. Disobey and lose them for ever. It’s make-your-mind-up time.’

  ‘Keep away from my sons!’ shouted Molly, with all the primal ferocity she could muster. ‘You can’t get away with this! Do you really think you can expel me from my own family? Run me out of town?’

  ‘Don’t be so dramatic!’ said Lilia, striking a mocking pose. ‘I envisage a very agreeable and modern solution. Web cams are marvellous, these days.’

  ‘Bitch!’ cried Molly.

  ‘When I’m not touring as Mia Delvard, I will remain in the marital home to add the feminine touch. I will happily feed your children, play with them and put them to bed at night and, of course, see to Rupert’s masculine needs. It is the perfect arrangement, don’t you think? Our swap-over is complete. Don’t forget to pay your TV licence when you get to Long Buckby, will you? And you might as well put yourself down on the electoral register as Lilia Delvard. That way you can claim my widow’s pension. It only seems fair. I’m going to be using your bank account from now on, after all.’

  ‘I thought you were my friend, my mentor, but you’re nothing of the kind. You’re a monster!’ said Molly, suddenly grasping Lilia’s utter resolve. ‘You’re the devil!’

  ‘The devil? Yes, maybe I am. But I am the devil in disguise, ‘said Lilia, looking decidedly pleased with herself.

  Simon’s phone chirped to announce the arrival of a text message. It was from Molly.

  I need to see you URGENTLY.

  At once he was filled with worry. He had been sensing for some time that a crisis was approaching. Was this it? He called her at once. ‘Molls? Are you all right?’

  ‘No,’ sobbed Molly.

  ‘Where are you?’ He could hear the sound of a car engine running.

  ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m going to lose everything! Lilia’s going to take it from me. What am I going to do?’ Molly was hysterical, and Simon could hear angry car horns and screeching brakes.

  ‘Pull off the road, Molly, before you kill yourself. Where are you?’ He tried to sound calm but firm.

  ‘I don’t know — I don’t know. I just got into my car and went.’

  ‘Is there a road sign or name? A postcod
e?’

  ‘I’m in SE4. Breakspears Road,’ said Molly, after a pause. ‘Oh, my God. I’m just along from Goldsmiths.’

  ‘Stop the car and wait for me. I know where you mean. I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  In fact, it took him forty minutes to get there from Camden Town, but Simon eventually jumped out of the minicab and into the passenger seat of Molly’s car. She had calmed down now and was listening to a CD of the Priests singing ‘Ave Maria’.

  They hugged each other.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Molly, desolate now. ‘What a mess everything is. I’ve been such a fool. I’ve walked blindly into her trap and now there’s no way out.’

  ‘Whatever you have to say, hear me out first. You have to get Lilia out of your house. She is not who you think she is. She’s a con merchant. She never was a successful cabaret singer. All her showbiz stories are just lies. She’s a pathetic fantasist who’s no more a faded star than my sofa cushions.’

  Molly closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

  ‘I went to Kit-Kat Cottage. She’s fabricated her entire career. I don’t think a word of it is true.’

  Molly said slowly, ‘I think I’ve always known that. At first I believed her, but gradually, over the years, I’ve guessed that she made most of it up. Her stories became more and more outlandish. And then, at the Ivor Novellos, I took her to meet her old pal Julie Andrews, who didn’t know her from the waitress. I guessed then she’d embroidered her past but I made excuses for her because of the trauma of her childhood and what she suffered. But now it’s gone too far.’

  ‘Throw her out!’ declared Simon. ‘Right away! You don’t need that old vampire — you’ve got everything you need on your own.’

  Molly gave him a stricken look. ‘That’s just the thing. I can’t throw her out. It’s too late.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ said Simon, placing his hands on Molly’s shoulders and giving her an encouraging shake. ‘Why are you in such a state?’