Devil in Disguise

by Julian Clary

  ‘Turn left here and follow the signs.’

  I’ll wait until after the service before I get down to business, he decided. Attending church first seemed poetic and correct, so he followed Lilia’s directions and a short while later they arrived at Bilsington. The twelfth-century church was pretty but crowded. They managed to get a seat, and sat in silence for a few minutes, inhaling the smells of damp and incense and listening to the sad, tuneless organ trying its best to be jolly and festive.

  ‘I must light a candle for Molly,’ whispered Lilia. She got up, stepped out of the pew and made her way to the back of the church. She fished in her handbag for some coins, popped them into the metal money-box, lit a night-light and put it with the many others already flickering on the three-tiered candelabra. She stood in thoughtful silence for a moment, crossed herself and nodded, her prayer complete. Simon Was behind her, waiting patiently for her to finish. He purchased two night-lights, lit them and placed them next to Molly’s candle. Lilia looked at him inquisitively.

  ‘For you and me,’ he said, lowering his head and closing his eyes in silent contemplation. When he opened them, Lilia was still studying him. ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘There are tears in your eyes.’

  ‘What a shame you can’t mind-read,’ said Simon. ‘Come on. Let’s go back to our pew. The priest is on his way. Lovely robes.’

  They scurried back to their seats just ahead of the procession, which consisted of four pre-pubescent altar-boys followed by two portly, bald, stooping men, with simple faces and pale, waxy skin. Behind them, holding aloft a large, decorative crucifix, was a tall, beautiful youth, with full lips, a tangle of brunette curls and broad, athletic shoulders. The priest, a fresh-faced forty-year-old with a pleasing smile and a surprisingly smart but trendy hairstyle, brought up the rear.

  Simon leant over and spoke softly in Lilia’s ear. ‘Get her, ‘he said.

  ‘It’s like a scene from Death in Venice,’ murmured Lilia.

  When it reached the altar, the procession fanned out to either side of the tabernacle. Once the priest was in the central position, they took their cue from him and turned as one, like a Busby Berkeley chorus, to face the congregation.

  Simon snorted. ‘It’s Girls Aloud,’ he said softly to Lilia, who lowered her head and shook with companionable laughter.

  In another life, we might have been friends, Simon thought, almost wistfully, as the rusty choir groaned into life. I must remember that she is evil incarnate.

  The singing over, Mass got under way. Father Edmund’s sermon was about the sanctity of the family, as highlighted by the birth of the baby Jesus. ‘The family is God’s way, the Christian way. And you and I are part of God’s family, too. The Nativity teaches us to cherish our children. The miracle of birth is always worthy of celebration but the miracle of God’s own birth, of God made man, without stain on Mary’s immaculate soul, is the happiest, the most joyful of events and we thank the Lord our God. Let us pray.’

  I’ll drink to that, thought Simon.

  During the Mass, Lilia took communion. Simon watched as she went up to receive the Holy Sacrament while the choir sang ‘The Holly and the Ivy’. Having swallowed the paper-thin wafer and sipped the sweet red wine, Lilia turned, head bowed, and returned down the aisle to her seat next to Simon. When she arrived at his side she knelt, resting her elbows on the back of the pew in front of her, clasping her hands and pressing the knuckles to her forehead. Her eyes were closed and her lips quivered a little, like cat’s whiskers.

  Is she confessing her sins? he wondered. Does she seek forgiveness for what she intends to do? A line from Hamlet floated into his mind:’… am I then revenged, To take him in the purging of his soul, When he is fit and season’d for his passage?’

  Considering his plan of action, Simon felt that attending Mass was appropriate, a kindly final gesture, in light of what was to follow — but it also delayed matters and made the immediate future a more calculated act. Would he have the gumption to go through with it?

  I must, he told himself, looking at Lilia’s saintly profile. It’s the only way to be sure that Molly is safe. It’s the most sensible, foolproof course to take.

  He must think of Molly whenever his nerve faltered. Dear Molly. The things you’ve done for me. The debt I owe you. We are a part of each other.

  Once the Mass had finished, the procession made its stately exit down the aisle to more carol singing.

  ‘That was like a gay Moonie wedding,’ said Simon. ‘Talk about mince pies.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Simon,’ said Lilia. ‘Now, shall we go home?’

  ‘Merry Christmas. Yes. Let’s.’

  Outside, it was cold, with a sharp wind and dusted with frost, but the sky was clear. Simon, without thinking, placed a protective arm round Lilia’s back and guided her to the passenger door. Once they were both safely strapped inside the Land Rover, they pulled out on to the dark country lane that led back to the village.

  ‘It’s Christmas Day,’ said Lilia. ‘What a lovely service. Now let’s get back. Mince pies and port. Delicious.’

  Simon turned on Radio 2 and, without Lilia noticing, silently pressed the child-lock button on the dashboard. Instead of turning right at the T-junction, he turned left.

  ‘No,’ Lilia said at once, raising her voice above the sound of a cathedral carol service. ‘It’s the other way.’

  ‘This is just a bit of a diversion.’

  ‘A diversion? But it’s one o’clock in the morning!’

  ‘Let’s take a drive, Lilia.’ Simon lifted his water bottle to his lips and drank heartily.

  ‘What do you want?’ Lilia cried. ‘I don’t want to go for a drive. Take me home at once.’

  ‘I want to explain a few things,’ said Simon, taking another swig. ‘I have been Molly’s close friend since the day we met. I love her and there is nothing I wouldn’t do for her.’ He stopped talking for a moment. He wanted his words to sink in but also he had had a moment of revelation. The dull ache in his chest, the source of painful misery that he had carried with him for as long as he could remember, was gone. He inhaled deeply: before, when he’d done this, the pain would intensify as his lungs neared capacity. But this time there was nothing. It was as if someone had left the room. He tried a few more deep breaths to make sure. No, it was definitely gone. He felt almost giddy, definitely excited.

  ‘Are you having a heart-attack?’ asked Lilia.

  ‘No, I think not,’ he replied. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact.’

  ‘Can we please turn back now? You’re making me feel most uncomfortable.’

  ‘That’ll be the body of Christ glowing within you.’

  ‘What was it you wanted to explain to me?’ asked Lilia, plainly. ‘Presumably you’re not driving me around Kent at this time of night just to discuss our health.’

  ‘Not exactly. But I’m ill and you’re old. I thought perhaps we could find some common ground.’

  He turned the car on to the main road towards Folkestone and Dover. He checked the rear-view mirror, then drank some more from his water bottle. He sent out a psychic summons. Hurry up! We’re almost there!

  The signpost did not go unnoticed by Lilia. Before the car gained much speed, her hand darted towards the door handle. She pulled it and pushed her shoulder against the door but she was trapped. She turned, wide-eyed, to Simon. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Why? Come on, Lilia. I know all about you. I know everything! And I know your plans for Molly, how you want to steal her life.’

  ‘So she told you,’ spat Lilia. ‘I should never have trusted her —she was bound to tell somebody. And you want to come to her rescue, make amends for your betrayal all those years ago? How quaint. But it doesn’t change anything. I have proof that she murdered that poor boy.’

  ‘It’s all a bit pot and kettle, isn’t it? If you want to start talking about murder, how about poor old Joey?’ Simon said jovially. ‘The point is, it doesn’t matter what proof you’ve got or whethe
r you’re willing to give it to the police. You see — you’re not going to get the chance.’

  Lilia looked alarmed. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she whispered.

  ‘Have a guess. I was contemplating Beachy Head but I’m afraid it’s in East Sussex and I try not to go there. I fell in love with Brighton once and we moved in together. But it didn’t last.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Lilia, adopting a soft, soothing tone. ‘But at least it wasn’t Eastbourne. Now, please stop the car and let me out.’

  ‘Oh dear! I seem to be accelerating!’ said Simon, breezily. He swigged down the last of the contents of his water bottle.

  ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’ Lilia asked, suddenly suspicious. ‘That’s not water!’

  ‘No.’ Simon tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder into the back seat. ‘It’s vodka, as it happens. Grey Goose, if you must know. If ever there was a need for a special reserve, it’s now.’

  ‘But you’re a recovering alcoholic — you can’t drink!’

  ‘I’m having a brief relapse. Most unfortunate, yet somehow predictable.’

  As they sped through Hythe and Sandgate Lilia said nothing, just gripped the dashboard and looked about, like a caged animal searching desperately for a way out.

  As they began to climb upwards towards Capel-le-Ferne and the famous White Cliffs, Lilia could not contain herself. ‘You fool! Everyone knows I am with you. If you kill me, you’ll be the obvious suspect.’

  ‘Do shut up,’ interrupted Simon. ‘Of course I know that. But I don’t have to worry about the future. My life expectancy is short enough as it is. I don’t care what happens to me. I am getting rid of you as a final act of love and devotion towards Molly. I am the self-appointed angel of death. It is time for you to go. Molly told me all about your plans to get rid of her. Well, I’m afraid it’s backfired. It’s you who are being dispatched, and in a much more thorough and final way.’

  ‘Just take me to Dover,’ said Lilia, pleading now. ‘I’ll get on a ferry to France and never come back.’

  ‘But you’ll only slither into someone else’s life. I have a public duty to dispose of you.’

  ‘Why spend your last months in prison? I swear I’ll disappear into thin air as surely as if you threw me over a cliff.’ Saying the words caused Lilia to break down in tearless cries. She reached out to him, clawing at his arm and neck as she moaned and sobbed.

  Simon flicked her away with his arm as if she were an annoying fly. ‘I’m driving, stop it,’ he said, as he turned right at Abbots Cliff House on to the Old Dover Road, a narrow sandy track named Saxon Shore Way. It was pitch dark, and Lilia took on the look of a queen on the way to her execution. She was the picture of terrified dignity, quivering with fear but sitting bolt upright, shoulders back. Simon knew not to trust her. If she sensed the vaguest glimmer of an escape route she would attack.

  After a bumpy mile, Simon took a right fork in the direction of the fierce wind, towards the big, dark sky and the gaping expanse that led towards the cliff’s edge.

  ‘North Downs Way. Here we are,’ he said, before letting the car slow down and stop. ‘There,’ he said, nodding out of the driver’s window towards the rough, wind-flattened grass illuminated by the broad beam of the headlights. There was about thirty yards of this before the sudden, terrifying drop. He turned to look at his victim.

  Lilia was crouched over, her arms clasped at the back of her neck, rocking slowly backwards and forwards. ‘No, no, no. Please, no. I don’t deserve this. It is too cruel. Let me out and I will run to my death. Give me a fighting chance. I’m begging you. Just drive off and leave and I promise — I swear — neither you nor Molly will ever hear from me again.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Do you hear the wolf’s howl of obscurity calling you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do!’

  ‘You never were a famous cabaret star, ever, were you?’

  She stared him, panting with fear. ‘All right, all right, you win. I wasn’t.’

  ‘You’ve never been bosom pals with the rich and famous either, have you?’

  Lilia struggled to speak, as though her desire to maintain her pretence, even now, was overpowering. Then she stuttered, ‘I once sat next to Jan Leeming on the bus.’

  ‘That’s the sum total of it? No chinwags with Grace Kelly? No Tupperware nights with Barbra Streisand? You disappoint me. And did you ever actually sing anywhere to anyone at all?’

  Lilia shot him a look of pure hatred. ‘Let me out!’ She banged her fists on the window, trying to smash the glass and escape.

  ‘I see. A phoney from beginning to end. No wonder you needed Molly and her genuine talent to get anywhere. Now we’re on a roll, you’d better confess all your sins. Did you kill your husband?’

  She growled with distaste at being forced to admit it. ‘Yes! I had to! There was nowt else for it.’ Her German accent seemed to be veering further and further off course, flying up the British Isles towards the north.

  ‘Admirably frank. It’s too late for honesty now, unfortunately. You see, I have some bad news and some good news.’ He felt the fluttering inside his chest grow and grow, ballooning inside him until it possessed him utterly. He knew that feeling, and welcomed it. His back straightened, his eyes brightened and he turned his head to look at Lilia. Then he opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘I am the patron saint of homosexuals,’ said Genita. ‘And you’re the fucking bitch that’s going to die. That’s the bad news. The good news is that I’m coming with you. I’ll hold your hand as we drive over the edge. Fair play, don’t you think? Any last words? In a minute, I shall release the handbrake, turn the steering-wheel hard right and accelerate at full speed towards the abyss. I don’t know about you, but I feel a strange mixture of excitement and calm. This is like crystal meth without the scabby nose.’ Genita smiled happily. ‘The terrain is rough and we must expect a bumpy ride for the few seconds that we’re crossing from here to… there. I’m not sure how much speed we can build up from this distance. Don’t expect too much James Bond nonsense. Once we drop over the edge, that’s the fun part. A sudden smoothness, probably a somersault, but it will be fast, like a fairground ride. Then, I imagine, a crunch, a millisecond of pain and that will be more or less that. We’ll be a smouldering wreck, visible on a night like tonight from Calais, I’ll be bound. I’m sure we’ll make the local papers but I’m very hopeful that the nationals will pick it up, too. I was a minor celebrity once, after all. Ready?’ Genita moved her foot from the brake to the accelerator and pressed her foot to the floor. The Land Rover leapt forward with a roar.

  ‘Heathcliff’.’ cried Lilia, the velocity pushing her back in the passenger seat, her fragile body shaken violently by the journey over rough terrain. Then, suddenly, they were floating. ‘Heathcliff, it’s me!’

  ‘Whoooaaaeeeee!’ screamed Genita, in those final, free moments before impact.

  It was five o’clock on Christmas morning when the Kent Police knocked on Molly and Rupert’s front door with the grim news.

  With Boris’s agreement Molly cancelled all engagements for a year. The story of her double bereavement was front-page news for weeks, and the sympathy for Mia Delvard was unprecedented. Her place in the hearts of the public as a torch-song singer with an impeccable pedigree was firmly established.

  With the canker in the house gone, Molly and Rupert managed to recover their relationship and re-establish their marriage, and they agreed tacitly never to talk about those terrible months when they had nearly been driven apart. Life became almost normal again.

  No one except Molly ever knew why Simon had driven Lilia to their deaths. At Simon’s funeral, Roger said to Molly, ‘He knew something, didn’t he? I’m nobody’s fool. I can’t sleep at night. This is like your TV breaking down halfway through an episode of Murder She Wrote.’

  But Molly, pale and grief-stricken, said nothing, except ‘I loved him, Roger. I’m so glad he knew that.’

  It wasn’t until several mon
ths after Lilia had been buried in Northampton in the same grave as Joey that Molly felt able to enter Lilia’s upstairs flat. She had just returned from the official opening of the Mia Delvard Music Room at Goldsmiths, and her mind was full of Lilia. It was time to face what the old woman had left behind.

  Molly went in and walked tentatively through the abandoned rooms, just as Lilia had left them. In the bedroom, draped across the bed, was her famous blue silk kimono, lying where Lilia had flung it on the last, carefree evening.

  She felt a throb of grief. Lilia might have wanted to destroy her at the end but for years there had been real love between them, too. She was, after all, the closest thing to a mother Molly had ever known. A sob rising in her throat, Molly collapsed on the bed and buried her face in the soft, comforting folds of Lilia’s mother’s robe, the one lasting connection the old lady had had with her extraordinary past.

  Once the tears had subsided, she pulled away to inhale some cleaner, fresher air. It was only then that she saw the label. It took half a second to read it, but several moments to register the implications. The label on the kimono said ‘Dorothy Perkins’.

  ‘No,’ said Molly to herself. ‘How can that be?’

  In a daze, she opened the bedside drawer and pulled out a sheaf of documents. Leafing through it, she came upon a crisp, yellowing bit of paper, which, when she opened it, revealed itself to be a birth certificate with the following information: ‘Name: Maureen Watkins. Date of birth: 20 April 1928. Place of birth: Grimsby, Lincolnshire.’

  She stared at it, unable to take it in. She saw again the little German woman opening the door to her, breathing, ‘Wilkommen,’ and spinning stories of her magnificent heritage of Berlin cabaret and her heartbreaking past.

  ‘Well, I never.’ Molly started to laugh. ‘The lying cow!’

  A moment later she glanced out of the window and saw a flock of migrating geese on the horizon.

  ‘But if Lilia Delvard never existed,’ she wondered out loud, ‘then who was Maureen Watkins? And what on earth was her story?’