When the Siren Calls

by Tom Barry

  Isobel had to restrain herself from running to the front as the old lady’s speech concluded. She wanted to scream, to yell at the top of her voice, “How can you do nothing?” But Geoff gave her no opportunity to do so. He jumped on Eileen’s suggestion, keen to have reached some resolution by the end of the meeting, and backed it wholeheartedly.

  “It has been a long meeting but I hope you will agree worthwhile. I believe as a group we are all now much better informed on the situation at Capadelli.” The room nodded as he bumbled on. “Mrs. Carragher’s idea is a good one. If we are all in agreement, I will take responsibility for organising the meeting she has proposed. I will write to everyone, including to all the many owners who, unfortunately, couldn’t be here today in person. Is that ok with everyone?”

  Isobel could have cried as she looked at person after person indicating their consent, their faces radiating temporary happiness and confidence in the knowledge that something was being done, and someone else was doing it.

  “As regards the rental scheme,” Geoff concluded over the rising noise, “I will leave what people want to do as a personal decision. Rosie and I have made up our minds; we are particularly disappointed with some of the visitors who are being allowed to rent our apartment — not our type of people at all. So on Monday we will be writing to formally withdraw our apartment from the scheme. I personally encourage others to do the same, but that is your choice.”

  “Yes, yes, that is what you all must do!” screamed Isobel, but it was only the voice in her head and even that seemed drowned out as the owners left the hall in noisy confusion, not much wiser than when they arrived, and she had no choice but to follow them. She glanced at her phone as she stood outside the hall to find seven missed calls — two from Peter and five from Jay. How she wished Peter were here to help now; to be cool and clearheaded, to see a solution without being blinded by the aura of emotions — pity, sadness, and fear — that lingered from the meeting.

  She had been dreading her next encounter with Jay, and wracking her brains how best to avoid it. But now she was torn between anger and fear; the only right thing to do seemed to be to confront him with the litany of charges that had been laid against him and his cohorts. She needed to find out for herself whether he was the callous con man that some in the room alleged, or whether some case for the defence existed, that he was a victim as much as the rest, exploited by the miserly and ruthless moneyman Skinner, as the sallow-skinned lady from south London claimed. Whatever his other faults, she was certain that a streak of generosity ran through Jay as surely as the colours in a stick of candy. She imagined herself confronting him: she would hear him out, but if he was guilty as charged, she feared she would be unable to contain her anger, let alone feel his touch on her skin. And as she imagined the scene, of being again at the mercy of his powerful hands and hypnotic gaze, her resolve to confront him weakened.

  Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Mrs. Carragher walking towards the square where the taxis gathered, and on a whim of mercy ran after her, intent on saving at least one innocent. But as Isobel closed in behind her and reached out her arm to say hello, the old woman held her phone to her ear. “Hello, Eamon dear,” she sang into the mouthpiece, “I do believe you will have to get me another bottle of your champagne, because you won’t believe what I’ve got to tell you.”

  Isobel shrank back in shock. Was there no limit to the duplicity that she was caught up in like a fish in a net? She so wanted to call Peter, to hear his reassuring voice, and to ask to be allowed to free herself from the miserable task he had set her. But what reason could she give, that her detective work was exceeding his expectations? She looked again at the list of missed calls, hesitated, and then hit the speed dial button.Forty-eight

  Isobel had already tried Peter’s mobile three times without success. “Please, please, please answer,” she said aloud, desperate to speak with him, to share her news from the owners’ meeting, but more importantly to have him resolve her dilemma, whether to see Jay or to continue to evade him. It would be so much easier to have Peter make the decision for her.

  “Damn you,” she exclaimed as the automated message kicked in. She looked at her watch and began to wonder where on earth Peter could be. His phone was always with him, clipped to his belt like some miniature life-support machine when it was not being nursed in his hand or pressed to his ear. Exasperated and confused, she called the home number but with little expectation. Peter routinely let it go to voice message, as the calls were invariably for her. Just as despair took hold, the phone was answered. It was a woman’s halting voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Who is this?” demanded Isobel, half thinking she had somehow hit the wrong button, but trapped in the terrible knowledge that she hadn’t.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Isobel, it’s Rachel.” A discomforting silence followed as neither woman seemed to know what to say next; Isobel’s heart and mind raced, she saw her sprawled on her sofa across Peter in ownership. She sought to recover her composure; whatever was the shameless wretch doing in her home, answering her phone? She didn’t even work for Peter anymore. It was the younger woman who spoke next, offering no explanation for her presence.

  “I suppose you’re after Peter, I’ll just get him.”

  You suppose! And who the hell else do you suppose I could be after, the window cleaner? Isobel was ready to explode. And you will get him? Get him from where? From what? But she was unable to bring the avalanche of questions from her mind and into her mouth, and before she could say anything, she heard a tap as the handset hit the table. More questions flooded in. Why didn’t Peter just pick up another phone, why didn’t she take the handset and deliver it to wherever he was? What were the two doing, she wondered as she waited for what seemed an eternity, imagining them conspiring across the handset, their lips shaped like love and deception.

  She wrestled her imagination under control, knowing it to be fed by her own guilt. Peter came to the phone. She searched his voice for some inflection, some nuance, some difference, but could detect nothing, only the bland, almost business-like tone in which he so often spoke to her on the phone.

  “Sorry, darling, I was just in the bathroom. Everything ok?”

  Isobel’s imagination immediately flew back into overdrive. Was Peter now in the habit of going to the bathroom without his trousers, without his belt that held his precious machine, and in the middle of the day? Isobel tensed herself as she sought to appear calm, unable to hold back the obvious question.

  “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

  “Oh, that, I had it switched off.”

  Isobel’s mind went to Florence airport, and her confusion that Peter had switched off his phone, and her pleasure that he had done so. It seemed wonderful then but was hollow now.

  “And why is Rachel there?”

  “I thought I mentioned it. She’s helping me organise the leaving do, and we’re just going over a few things together. Everything ok your side?”

  She listened intently to every aspect of his speech, his tone seemed deadened, and she wanted to pounce on the inflection like a cat, to force him to unveil himself. She was becoming something of an expert in recognising such signs, but normally in her own voice. The thought struck her that Rachel might well be listening on the other line, that she in all probability was listening, if she were not lying next to Peter, tickling his privates and daring him to laugh, as she had once done when Jay had taken a call from Rusty.

  “Everything’s fine,” she said, the lie falling from her lips both fluid and natural. “The horses and everything ok?” He told here they were. “Peter,” she said with emphasis, seeking to alert him to the possibility that they were being listened to, “is this a good time to talk about what’s happening?”

  He seemed to understand her question; he was good at reading signals, when he was minded to.

  “Don’t worry, Rachel’s in the kitchen, making some coffee.”

  “Make sure she uses f
resh water,” said Isobel with malice, determined not to surrender the rights of her domain to the usurper.

  Peter laughed. “Tell me how things went in Capadelli.”

  She pushed from her mind as best she could the image of Rachel lying spread-eagled in her marital bed, and relayed the events of the morning. Peter listened with great interest, an interest that she had not sensed in him for years. He made sounds of encouragement at all the right times, asked questions when something was unclear, and was genuinely touched by her account of personal suffering. His response was lightening her mood, and easing her fears for what the afternoon held, when she was pulled back to reality with a bump, as Peter thanked Rachel for the coffee. She gritted her teeth remembering every time she had placed a coffee on Peter’s desk only for him to continue writing as if she were invisible to him.

  Isobel’s temporary calm was destroyed when Peter took over the conversation. “There’s still some information I need, so I’ve had to send the accountants back in to Capadelli. I need you to go in this afternoon and see them.”

  “This afternoon?” she said, desperately trying to master all emotion in her voice. “I really don’t think I can do that. Brooke will almost certainly be around, and me being there will only raise his suspicions.”

  She bit at her thumb while Peter was silent in thought. “Do you know where Brooke lives?” he asked.

  She heard her own intake of breath and belatedly clapped her hand to her mouth to muffle it. He gave no sign of having heard it. Isobel pulled her hand away, letting lies pour in a torrent from her mouth. “I’m not sure. Maybe San Miniato. Yes, I think Gina mentioned it.”

  “San Miniato?”

  “Yes, you remember, we had lunch there. A charming place on a hill. It’s about half an hour from Capadelli.”

  “Couldn’t you call Brooke and ask to meet him there? That will keep him away if he’s at home, and if he’s already at Capadelli then he will probably pack up for the day and not return, leaving the accountants a free hand to dig around.”

  “But if I did that, and I don’t know why he would agree, then it would tie me up too—” Isobel’s mind momentarily returned to the last time she was tied up with Jay, or rather by Jay “—so then I wouldn’t be able to see the accountants.”

  Peter had already solved that problem in his head and he relayed the answer in triumph. “You are in Capadelli now but Jay doesn’t know it, right? Arrange to meet him in San Miniato for a late lunch, and slip in to the development behind his back when he leaves, and then shoot down to meet him!”

  “This is not some west-end farce, Peter,” Isobel exclaimed, trying to channel her fear into anger, “anything could go wrong. Why can’t I just stay where I am, check-in with Gina every so often, and whenever Jay does leave, go in and see the guys from BB&T?”

  She heard an impatient sigh on the other end of the line. “But I need you to see Brooke too; you’ve got to find out if he’s planning to do a runner, and if so, when. Now be a good girl, and give him a call.”Forty-nine

  The morning sun had given way to dark clouds, and rain began to fall as Isobel turned off the main road and began the long ascent to Castello di Capadelli. The rain soon became relentless in its dullness, a grey drizzle that added no drama or poignancy to her mission. Everything seemed to droop beneath a film of moisture, not a single person was to be seen, and the white umbrellas outside the bars and cafés sagged in misery. The roads too were deserted and Isobel turned on the wipers, which rhythmically revealed the landscape and hid it again as she drove slowly and unwillingly towards her destination.

  As she entered Capadelli village itself she pulled over onto the dark wet cobblestones, brought to a halt by a strange mix of fear and nostalgia. She pressed herself against the seat and took in the scene, almost alien in the greyness, with all its dirt and colours washing into the overflowing drains. Her eyes rested unconsciously on the local bar and she became lost in crushing and unforgiving memory of when she and Jay had stolen into the back room and he had kissed her and run his hands over her body, and she had enjoyed letting him. Isobel screwed her eyes tightly shut, fighting off the images, but they were unyielding. She saw him daring her to follow him into the toilet, and saw her laughter — so hard that she felt she would explode — when he reappeared after waiting for ages, convinced she would follow him. Isobel gripped the wheel until her hands lost all colour, as if forcing the memory from her body, but it was pointless. She saw him feign sadness and demand she go into the bathroom and remove her panties in punishment; she saw herself disappear and coyly reemerge, letting him caress her under the table with reckless abandon. Tears fell into her lap as she saw him drive home, the panties on his head in retribution for his forwardness. She restarted the engine and shattered the silence, wanting to break it and unable to bear the memory of her own happiness.

  The rain grew heavier as Castello di Capadelli came into view and, to her surprise, Isobel started to notice people on the side of the roads, a slow trickle at first but quickly turning into groups then crowds as she neared the gates. They all trudged doggedly through the rain, their heads bent beneath hoods and heavy hats. A white van screeched up behind the car and Isobel pulled over to let it pass; the letters on its side seemed familiar but she could not place them. As she turned the final bend, driving at a snail’s pace for fear she might hit someone, the lines became a crowd and she saw the familiar iron gates above their heads, swamped in a black mass of human beings.

  Isobel peered through the mist at them, her windscreen fogged by the anxiety of her quick breath. The degree of the chaos became apparent as she wiped it aside; people shouting and holding placards, standing in regimented lines outside the gate whilst many others stood and watched. Isobel leant forward and squinted to read a sign. The words ‘ENGLISH PIGS OUT’ were blazoned across the cardboard in a bloody red. Anxiety now seized her and she tried to reverse but it was impossible, so she started to turn as the spectators shuffled grudgingly out of her way and the people with signs turned, moving in unison to converge on her car. Their faces were ugly with anger, the water sliding from their grimaces like sweat, and genuine fear gripped Isobel as they advanced. She turned towards the white van, her eyes drawn to its paleness amongst the mess of limbs and leering faces, and as her survival instinct took over her she recognised the painted letters — it was the TV station. She steered towards it as an attractive young woman brandishing a microphone ran towards her, hoping to be safe from harm beneath the camera’s lens. But she was overtaken by two hooded figures that rushed at the car, wielding their placards like staves. The first, a heavily built man with rabid eyes, struck his sign against the windscreen as Isobel screamed, desperately wrenching the steering wheel to complete the turn. An angry looking young woman, her hair bedraggled from the wet and her face contorted with contempt, was pulling at the door handle next to her. But Isobel accelerated and the woman let go, mouthing curses, as she sped off into the rain.

  The car lurched and roared as Isobel tore down the winding roads, her legs and arms shaking as she struggled to hold the wheel steady. As soon as the last walker was out of sight she pulled over and threw herself from the car. She landed on her hands and knees on the verge, took a deep breath, and then vomited violently as her whole body contorted into inhuman shapes. She crouched on the grass for a moment, cold and shaking, before scrambling back into the car. She leant for a long time against the seat, waiting for the nausea to release its grip on mind and body and for her heart to stop racing. When some semblance of calmness finally returned to her she took out her phone and called Peter. She held on, imploring him to pick up, but the call went to voice message and she threw the phone at the back seat in terrified rage and cursed him for her aloneness. But as the rage subsided and Isobel dwelt on the owners’ meeting, an entire room full of useless wrath and worry, her spirit and courage seemed to rise up in her, and she was overcome by indignation and the injustice of everything. Resolution grew within her and she flung herself
onto the back seat, scooped up the phone and rang reception, hoping to get hold of her old ally. When no one answered she left a message, asking Gina to meet her at the back entrance, hoping and praying that she received it in time.

  Isobel put her foot down and carved a frantic and inefficient path through the side roads and their bewildering confliction of signposts. She had only been through the back gates once and that was in the dark, with Jay guiding her, his hand tight round hers as he led her into depravity beneath the stars. She shook him from her mind and drove by instinct, cautiously navigating the maze of roads until trial and error delivered her to her destination. She edged up stealthily, trying to appear innocuous in front of the few locals that milled around with their hands in their pockets, and they made no move to stop her.

  But, as she approached the final few yards to the gates, a man in a hooded anorak stepped out before her, the palm of his dirty hand held towards her. He was wearing some kind of plastic ID badge in an attempt to convey authority, but his shabby dress belied the effort and she wound down the car window with confidence, looking down her nose imperiously with a condescending ‘yes?’

  “Who are you?” he demanded, pushing his stubbled face almost into Isobel’s.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Isobel, startled and pulling back from the smell of alcohol and garlic.

  “Who is she?” someone shouted from the rag-tag onlookers behind.

  “Are you Italian?” asked the man. “Media?”

  “It’s none of your business who I am,” said Isobel, “now let me pass.”

  “You are a very pretty lady, but I am an official from the workers council, and we are checking everyone before they go through,” he said. His eyes raked over her body as he spoke.

  “My name is Isobel Roberts, now kindly let me pass.”

  The man stood his ground, his elbow pressing down on the open car window. “You must wait,” he said drawing on all his assumed authority and without explanation, turning to his friend. “Signora Isobel Roberts, English I think,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Is she on the list?”