Duty and Delusion

by Shawna Lewis

  “Hey up, Mr Batty! How’re you doing? Grand carol service you put on last week – one of the best, I were telling Stu, weren’t I, Stu?” Stu nodded.

  “You know this man?” asked Mr Martin.

  “Know him? He married me and my missus a couple o’ year ago, and baptised t’babby nine months later. Actually, Michael, I were meaning to ask when you can do the twins. They’re two-month old now.”

  In his mind’s eye, the store detective saw his productivity graph descending.

  “What are you doing here anyway, Michael – er – Reverend Batty?”

  What Michael was doing was struggling for breath. He had not had an asthma attack since his teens, but was now wishing he still carried an inhaler. Oblivious, Mr Martin interrupted.

  “This man here is the shoplifter, officer.”

  Both policemen guffawed. “Nice one! Is this our Christmas present? Were you feeling sorry for two lonely coppers sitting in the cold and thought you’d invite us over for a warm-up and a laugh? Any mince pies going?”

  Mr Martin remembered why he was an embittered man. That these buffoons should represent the long arm of the law; that despite their idiocy they were afforded respect and deference by the bulk of society; that he, educated, focused and man of principle, should be passed over time and time again in favour of go-getting upstarts, was just too much to stomach.

  The flow of the manager’s thoughts was interrupted by the noise of Michael’s wheezing. The more he fought for breath, the more he worried about what Marina would be thinking. Words came out singly. His lips, his earlobes were blueing, deepening. He hunched forward in his battle. A call was put through to the store’s First Aider, who set off from the canteen at a fast waddle. A wheelchair appeared from somewhere and Michael was wheeled into the cold night air. This seemed to help a little, but an ambulance was on its way, and shortly the First Aider puffed up with the emergency inhaler. Michael had not forgotten how to use it, and by the time the flashing blue light turned into the car park he was calmer, out of immediate danger.

  As the ambulance drove round the car park, PC Daley asked Michael if there was anyone they needed to call on his behalf. The patient pointed to his inside pocket, struggling to reach a mobile phone tucked in the depths of his anorak. It was an ancient device, of the sort that would court derision in happier circumstances, but the policeman fiddled around until he got a signal. Between them, with hand signals and pauses for breath, Michael managed to indicate Marnie’s number, and scribble a few words on the back of the supermarket receipt.

  It was a difficult call to execute. The officer was aware of the minister’s widower status; he did not know the nature of the relationship between Reverend Michael and the recipient.

  “Hello. My name is Police Constable Robert Daley.”

  Silence.

  “Mr Michael Batty indicated that I should inform the owner of this number of certain circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “Well, among other things, Mr Batty has been taken ill in the Denswick branch of Asda. An ambulance has just arrived to take him to hospital.”

  Silence again. Michael scrawled another few words on the scrap of paper.

  “Mr Batty is indicating that you are not to worry and should stay where you are. Someone will keep you informed.”

  Marnie ended the call in disbelief. She should have known better than to believe things would turn out well. When had that ever happened to Marina Thorne? Marina. That was what Mick called her. A name that ought to command respect… but it seemed he didn’t respect her after all. He’d put someone up to this. Rare tears ran down her cheeks. Hurt and disappointment overwhelmed the habitual staunchness. Marina curled up in her fiancé’s old armchair, smelt his body in its fabric, and sobbed.

  An hour later, the tinny ring of the doorbell brought her to attention. Should she answer or not? What if it was someone needing spiritual guidance or a funeral arranging? Eventually, she shuffled to the door, drying her eyes on her sleeve.

  A pile of bulky plastic bags, surrounded by a pair of navy-clad arms, seemed suspended in mid-air. After a second’s hesitation, she noticed a pair of legs below… and those were plods’ feet, she could tell at a glance. A muffled voice said,

  “Good evening. I’m Police Constable Daley. I rang earlier. Just thought I’d drop off Reverend Batty’s shopping and fill you in on the situation. May I come in?”

  Marnie was always wary of the fuzz but restrained the urge to kick this pillock in the groin. Was this a sick prank? Yet the chap seemed genuine. Reminding herself that she was now affianced to a clergyman, Marina altered her demeanour.

  “Do come in, Constable. Let me help you with the packages.”

  PC Robert Daley, duvet, pillow and the rest were ushered through to the shabby sitting room and deposited on sofas and chairs. Marina sat neatly by the fireside viewing the policeman expectantly. She had not yet introduced herself or explained her status in this house.

  “Er… Miss… er…?” attempted Robert.

  Marnie stayed schtum.

  “Are you a relative of Mr Batty?”

  “Friend.”

  “I see. Well, Michael was in the supermarket when he suffered an acute attack of asthma. He didn’t have any medication on him. The store’s First Aider supplied an emergency inhaler, which alleviated the symptoms, but an ambulance was called as a precaution and he’s been taken to hospital.”

  “But why are you here?” Marnie was not so naïve as to expect police attendance at every asthma attack.

  “A call had been received due to an incident in the store.” Robert did not want to wash the Reverend’s dirty linen in front of this ‘friend’ until he knew a bit more about her. She was not what you’d call open or approachable. “Myself and a colleague responded to the call. The items I’ve brought were in Michael’s trolley when he was taken ill.”

  “How did you know where to bring them?”

  “I know Reverend Batty personally – in fact he conducted my wedding. He’s a familiar sight in the community, him and his bike. Even those who aren’t chapelgoers know who he is. Um… how long have you been friends?”

  “Several years,” was as much detail as Marnie was prepared to give, thinking of Mick’s reputation. “He’d offered to put me up for the night as I have business in the area tomorrow, which is why he went to buy new bedding. I gather the spare room in this house has never been used since he moved in.”

  That should scotch any rumours before they started and keep things respectable, in case Robert Daley was loose of lip. Her tone made it clear that the conversation was at an end.

  He got to his feet. “Right then, I’ll leave you in peace. I expect Michael will ring you when he’s feeling up to it. If you’re worried you can ring the infirmary.” He jotted a number on the back of a Christmas card, nodded farewell and left.

  Marnie sat in silence for a while, assessing her options. Tired out, she lugged the new bedding upstairs to the spare room, made up the bed and climbed in, undressed, unwashed and unimpressed by her first night as an engaged woman.

  14

  Belinda knew there was a booking in the village hall diary for February, but couldn’t recall the details. Since Dad’s stroke five weeks ago her life had become focused on hospital visits and caring for Mum, Melanie, the library and the house. By mid-January, Doug had returned to Sunderland, where the job had been extended, Aidan was back at university and her daughter was being no help at all. This change in her darling was as much of a shock to Belinda as her father’s terrible transformation from a sprightly and capable man to a pitiable cripple. Mum was coping admirably, but her daughter was not. Belinda’s sister Fiona had managed to get across twice, which was nice, but the closeness the sisters had enjoyed when young had faded as their lives diverged.

  “I’d love to help,” Fiona would claim each time
she rang, “but you know how it is. The NHS needs me more than Dad right now and I have every confidence that you’re coping just fine. I’d only be in the way. You have your routines, I know, and Melanie must be a great help. You’re so lucky to have such a close bond, and you’re so much closer to Mum and Dad than I am.”

  Her sister tried not to mind – Fiona had a good career, after all – but it rankled.

  With the diary open on the kitchen table, she took a break for tea and biscuits, trying to remember the circumstances surrounding this booking.

  4th February – Saturday evening. Private party.

  The details were not written in her own hand, but in Aidan’s, and the contact number was not a local code. Dimly, she recalled that Aidan had taken the booking on behalf of a mate’s family, which was throwing a surprise party, so everything was to be kept hush-hush. Her son had taken care of the hire agreement and the deposit and was coming home especially for the weekend, so it would be fine to leave everything to him. Each time they spoke on the phone, she was struck by his increased confidence and composure. At least something was going right.

  The rest of the committee were nowhere to be found at the moment. Two of them were enjoying winter cruises, the Su’s had gone to Hong Kong for a family wedding, another was swotting for Open University exams and John was still not back on his feet after his op. Responsibility lay heavy on Belinda’s shoulders.

  Dunking another ginger biscuit in her tea, she let tears run down her cheeks and drip onto the diary. If only she had someone to comfort her, but those on whom she’d depended now depended on her.

  The door handle moved and a ringed knuckle rapped on the glass half-pane. A brilliantly bronzed face topped by orange and black hair craned in.

  “We’re back! Brought you a pressie!”

  Patricia Street didn’t wait to be invited in, but dumped an airline carrier containing a bottle of spirits onto the table before looking round for an empty socket and inserting a plug. A thin cable ran to the small electronic photo frame she was carrying.

  “I’ve brought our holiday snaps for you to see. Ooh! Ginger-nuts. I had a fella with them once!” She hooted at her own joke and delved her hand into the biscuit jar. “Get us a cup of tea then!”

  Belinda filled a cup and numbly returned to her seat. Patricia was on her third biscuit before she launched into a loud account of the holiday, punctuated regularly by cackles of laughter and itemised lists of the alcohol consumed. Only when her tale was coming to an end did she comment on Belinda’s reddened features.

  “Have you got something in your eye?”

  Belinda dabbed her face with a pink tissue. “No, I’m OK. It’s just that I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

  “Oh, tell me about it! I said to my Gerrard, I says, ‘Everything’s always down to me’. I think they’d all stay in bed all day if it weren’t for me. Don’t talk to me about having a lot on your plate! You’ve no idea!”

  “Mm… mm” A hiccupping sob prevented more.

  “You want to leave off that village hall an’all.” The visitor was on a roll now. “Needs pulling down. Folk don’t want to go to no brick shed to enjoy themselves. Bet it’s got mice and rats and all sorts.” She shuddered in disgust at the thought.

  “Have you ever been inside?”

  “Me? No way! My standards are way higher than that. Even when we go caravanning we only ever go to the top-notch sites – the ones with a club and a resident entertainer. We don’t go in for no home-grown entertainment or roughing it. We like everything to be professional.”

  “But your children make their own music,” Belinda exaggerated.

  “Means to an end. They’re only practising in’garage until they hit the big time. They came third in the Happy Vanners Talent Contest at Skeggie last summer, and our Sloane had only learnt the song a week before. They are so talented, though I say it myself.”

  The proud mother pulled herself up as she recalled what Belinda had said.

  “Anyway, enough about me. What’s your problem?”

  “My father had a stroke just after Christmas.”

  “Oh, I see. Dead, is he? Well, it’s for the best, I say. You don’t want ’em lingering, do you?”

  “No, he’s not dead.”

  The tears flowed freely into the palms pressed against Belinda’s eyes. For once, Patricia had no retort. Belinda took a deep breath and concentrated on the electronic photo frame, now displaying the cycle of holiday snaps for the third time.

  “That’s pretty,” she commented, as a shot of crimson sunset filled the screen, then whispered, “He’s partially paralysed, almost blind and can’t make himself understood.”

  “Ooh, poor old beggar. Euthanasia, that’s what I want if I ever get like that. Pull the plug, I’ve told my lot!”

  She leant across the table and pulled the plug from the socket, wrapped the cable around the frame and made for the door. She turned. “Is there owt you want me to do?” Her expression did not bear out the generosity of the question.

  “I’ll let you know,” Belinda answered weakly.

  “Maybe I’ll join that committee of yours, if it’d help!” Patricia let the door slam behind her.

  A silent prayer ascended. “Please… NO!”

  That said, malevolent thoughts took over. She emptied the crumbs from the bread bin into a basin, added two tablespoonsful of peanut butter, some shrivelled boiled ham from the back of the fridge, a tin of sardines, and mixed them to a paste.

  Later, hearing Patricia’s car drive away, she climbed over the fence, wriggled under the caravan and applied the mixture to the cracked tarmac. She pulled the plastic pipe away from the van floor and peered in. Her earlier food parcels had been consumed and there were encouraging signs of rodent traffic.

  “Time for breakfast, my beauties,” she muttered, wiping fingerfuls of the stinking mix into the hole before replacing the pipe. She must remember to remove it before the season for spring-cleaning caravans began.

  *

  By the time the first Saturday in February arrived, Dad had been transferred from Intensive Care to a rehabilitation unit fifteen miles away. Mum was coping less well as the days passed; there had been talk about care packages at a case conference, but nothing definite decided. Whenever Belinda wasn’t working she was in caring mode, so when Aidan came home for the weekend she was only too willing to let him deal with the booking at the hall. She could sit with Mum while Doug took a turn round the supermarket.

  *

  Aidan was there at five o’clock to admit the hirer, a tall thin man with a waist-length ponytail who examined the posters pinned to the door as he waited at the top of the steps. Hearing footsteps, the man turned and extended his right hand.

  “Ambrose Mulholland. You must be Aidan.”

  The boy was mesmerised by the man’s presence. In the orange glow of the street lamps, the skeletal face seemed other-worldly, imagined, although the handshake was firm enough.

  After a rushed housekeeping tour, Ambrose indicated that he’d like to be left alone to set things up for the evening and handed over the hire fee in a sealed envelope.

  “But you and your friends are coming back, aren’t you? I really need you here. Shall we say 6.30 prompt?”

  Aidan gulped. It had all been arranged remotely and had seemed like a laugh at the time – a chance to earn a bit of extra cash, too. Now the time had almost come he was not so sure. He nodded and left, jogging home with the envelope of cash clutched in his fist, hoping his mates wouldn’t kill him when they discovered what he’d let them in for.

  Mulholland manoeuvred his battered van as close to the side exit as he could manage, and set about unloading its contents. Cameras, screens, backdrops, lighting rigs and floor mats came first. These were laid round the edge of the room, then folding workbenches with integral vices, boxes of chisels and rasps, electric g
rinders and blocks of wood a foot square. With difficulty, he inched in a black bin containing potters’ clay, boards and tools, and finally, four easels.

  He worked for half an hour to set up this creative studio. Each side of the hall was devoted to an art form: photography, wood carving, clay modelling and painting – space for sixteen artists, though it would be a tight fit once the models were in place. In the centre, the floor-mats formed a rectangle, illuminated by the lighting rigs.

  *

  Aidan was a good-looking lad, curly-haired, quite strongly built and glowing with youthful vigour. Once or twice, girls who fancied him had suggested that he could have been a male model but he’d taken their comments with a pinch of salt. He saw himself as more of a lumberjack type, which probably had something to do with his choice of degree subject. Still, when the offer came of £100 for an evening’s work, he’d jumped at the chance. It was easy to persuade his old friend Solly to come long; then Jim and Dan had shown willing. They presumed the modelling session was a photo shoot for some ‘in-your-face’ fashion gear or sportswear.

  By the time Aidan returned with his pals, the hall was filling with artists fiddling with their equipment, but having downed a few cans at Solly’s house en route, the lads were quite relaxed and up for anything.

  Ambrose strolled over as the group walked in, extending his right hand to each in turn. In his left he held a drooping roll-up. Aidan wondered whether to point out the No Smoking stickers everywhere – his mum would have a fit if she’d seen a cigarette in the hall – but decided to let things ride. Actually, it looked as if most of the people in the room were smoking too. Smelt quite nice really, kind of dreamy and surreal.

  Talking it over on Facebook the following week, none of the lads could remember how it was that they each agreed to try one of Ambrose’s special-blend herbal cigarettes. At the time, it had seemed the companionable thing to do. Here they were, all pals together, meeting new people, trying new things – isn’t that what youth is all about? OK, this guy Ambrose wasn’t what you’d call young from the look of his face, but he moved like a gazelle and seemed pretty cool. He held their attention without effort; the four young men barely noticed the other people seated and standing at tables behind their equipment, eyeing them up.