Duty and Delusion

by Shawna Lewis

  About to give up, he spotted a glimmer of light beneath the front door, and made a note. He measured the gap and judged that a very small mouse – or maybe a shrew – might squeeze itself into the hall that way. He would have something to say about the need for a brush strip, but that wasn’t really enough to satisfy him.

  If Environmental Health was to assert any authority, he needed to find something serious to pin on her, and Guy was a ferret of a man. Looking up, he spotted a hatch, high up on a corridor wall. Its geography told him that there must be a loft above the lounge.

  Without asking Belinda, he located the long pole used to draw down the loft ladder. Belinda sat in terror as he removed his jacket and began to climb.

  The game was up! There would be an investigation. Another investigation. Panic set in.

  She could hear him moving overhead; wanted to follow him up and feign surprise. Instead, unable to sit still any longer, she went outside to search for litter in the car park.

  Shortly, the inspector appeared at the back door, briefcase in hand. She approached him in terrified silence.

  “Just one little thing, Mrs Lowe.” He mentioned the gap under the front door and instructed her to go to a DIY store for a strip that would keep mice out. “Not that I found any evidence of rodents. I was aware, however, that there was a high level of birdsong audible in the loft. I suggest you get your roofer to check the felting. We don’t want any bird ingress, do we now?” He smirked, disappointed, but relishing the strain he’d put her under. He relented a little. “On the whole, Mrs Lowe, you seem to run a tidy set of premises. I won’t issue any notice on this occasion. Just see to those little matters within the next month or two, if you would, and I’ll be back to check.”

  He’d left her puzzled, he could see, but Guy knew she was hiding something. That loft was unnaturally clean. She’d obviously had a clearout before he arrived.

  Next time. He’d get her next time.

  As soon as the sound of the inspector’s car faded away, Belinda pulled down the ladder. How had he not seen Drago’s camp? She clambered up and peered in. The space was empty, except for the generations-old gym bench. No sign of the lodger. No sign of his cosy nest. No footprints in the dust… in fact, there was no dust. Drago and his stuff were gone. Her young man (as she liked to think of him) had left without saying goodbye…after everything she’d done for him. Relief washed over her mind; loss stabbed her heart. She sat down at the small square table and sobbed, overwhelmed with both.

  The council van in the car park did not escape the notice of grown-ups passing the hall on their way to collect infants from school that afternoon. One of them, who worked part-time at the Chinese takeaway, recognised the driver as he pulled away. Before the little ones reached home after their day’s education, local wisdom had it that not only was the Toddler Group in trouble with the police, but the village hall was under investigation by Environmental Health as well. When the big kids got home, supplementary information had it that the woman who ran the hall had, the previous day, tried to poison her daughter. They’d heard it from the horse’s mouth: the daughter herself.

  There would be fewer attendees at Martial Arts and Toddlers over the next few weeks.

  21

  Having seen what he had seen through the crack in the loft floor, and with his pet sparrow dead, Drago had seen no point in staying.

  He’d expected to find cultural differences between the British and his own people. In general, the English in particular were thought to be rather odd by continental standards, and yet people like him kept coming. Maybe it was curiosity that drew them to this cold, damp island. But was it really worth all the effort? He’d almost made up his mind to go home, before he thought of his lovely Samantha.

  He would confront her and demand an explanation. It was better to know the truth than spend the rest of his life wondering, though he no longer knew where she lived.

  His mind kept replaying the glimpses of the night before. The woman in white intrigued him – the one who looked like an American nurse. Seen only from above, she seemed familiar somehow.As he lay there musing, another face came into his mind’s eye. A man’s face. The man seemed inextricably linked to the woman in white.

  Drago scrolled down the short list of numbers on his phone, which he’d recovered from the drawer late last night after the clinical proceedings were over. He had a feeling that he’d find the answer there. Chapel man: that was it. The woman was married to the chapel man. They had both been so kind to him, although he suspected that this was not their real name. Drago’s cousin Stevan had put them in touch; there’d been some link or other with Stevan’s employer.

  Drago’s thumb hovered over the Select button. He pressed and waited.

  The “Hello” was terse. Marnie had tried to forget the man in the loft. The woman’s voice, however, was enough to convince him that the chapel man’s wife and the American nurse were one and the same person.

  He explained his need to move out of the village hall and his desperation to speak to Samantha again. The voice instructed him to go to work as usual and await instructions.

  Around lunchtime, Marnie took a ride past the car wash on Michael’s bicycle and stopped across the road. She waited until no customers were around before texting the immigrant again.

  “Behind the chapel after work.”

  Knowing that Sallby Village Hall would be unoccupied that lunchtime, she pedalled the four miles and let herself in. Knowing the building well by now, it took only half an hour to remove all trace of the lodger and stow his gear in the outside meter cupboard for collection.

  Marnie deduced that the Serb must have seen the business conducted the previous night, and was sorry for his hurt. Still, business was business, and it was time he sorted himself out, anyway.

  The first AID clinic had been very successful, grossing over thirteen grand for the two-session course of ‘treatment’, paid in advance. Of course, Ambrose, Bud and the others had no idea that the girls had paid so much for their sperm; the men had received more than the official medical rate, so were satisfied with what had been agreed. Then there had been overheads, of course: secondhand clinical couches, trolleys, plus disposables, but she reckoned she’d cleared a good eight grand profit.

  It was money she didn’t want or need. She’d give Drago £500 to help him set up home with Samantha (who had been demanding rather too much spiritual succour from the Reverend Michael for his wife’s liking). Each of the donors could have an extra £50, by way of an introductory bonus. The chapel would receive an anonymous donation – not enough to arouse suspicion, but enough to sort out the problems with the drains.

  She’d keep a thousand for herself, in case things ever went wrong with Mick. Maybe she’d take out one of those ISA things. The thought gave her a thrill: never before had Marnie thought of opening a bank account.

  The rest of the money would be stuffed through Belinda’s door in a padded envelope. Marnie was having the time of her life and, after all, she had another AID clinic arranged for a fortnight’s time. Her waiting list was getting longer by the day.

  Michael Batty believed his wife to be developing a wellbeing outreach group for young women. He was delighted by the recently increased size of his congregation, and put it all down to the gusto of Marina’s efforts, being unaware that regular attendance at Sunday morning service, plus first refusal for the chapel on any forthcoming baptisms, were conditions of membership of the Wellbeing Club.

  In his ignorance Michael was, at last, a happy and fulfilled man and he thanked God hourly.

  *

  Glad to get away from domestic issues, next day Belinda hoped for a busy afternoon at the library. At the start of her shift, an athletic-looking newcomer approached the recently installed triangular desk (the removal of customer-facing staff being the latest edict from Denswick’s Culture and Leisure Department). The woman took her t
ime examining all the notices and posters displayed, then, dissatisfied, flicked through the rack of leaflets on the wall.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Maybe. Do you have anything about places to hire? Church halls and that? For groups and classes.”

  “I think I have a few leaflets about Sallby Village Hall, somewhere.” She made a pretence of searching.

  “Don’t bother,” said the woman. “They’ve closed it down.”

  “Oh really?Who have?” Belinda’s heart paused. “When did that happen?”

  “Yesterday. T’police. They’re investigating ’Mother and Toddler Group – folk reckon it might be a paedophile ring. And it’s failed an Environmental Health inspection.” She edged closer. “The woman who runs it’s been arrested for child abuse. It’s all ovver ’village.”

  The librarian gave a squeak of horror and sank onto the wheeled swivel chair, which skidded away from her on the polished floor. She reached out for the desk to steady herself.

  “My ’usband, he runs ’Martial Arts classes there. ’As done for years. Now ’e’s nowhere to go. My ’ubby, he’s not surprised. Always thought there was summat odd about the ’ole set-up. But it’s the kids I feel sorry for, them as ’ve been training for their exams and belts an’ that. All that work for nothing. Our Liam,” she swelled with pride, “’e’s got ’is black belt now. Learnt it all from ’is dad.” She leant back, happy to be the bearer of both scandal and success story.

  Belinda kept quiet. This woman would find a place on her little list, along with her treacherous husband, with whom for fifteen years Belinda had enjoyed a friendly and co-operative working relationship, or so she’d thought.

  She couldn’t lose Martial Arts. Where would the hall be then?

  The door swished shut behind the woman.

  Paedophile ring? Child abuse? All round the village? Belinda wept quietly.

  *

  In her beige coat and unobserved behind the Large Print Romantic Fiction, Dorothy Simmons had been listening in. She’d been watching Belinda all her life, but had never seen the lass cry since she was in her pram. Her observation had been driven by bitterness, although, Christian woman that she was, Dorothy would have claimed merely to be taking an interest in the younger person’s welfare. Dorothy did not have a daughter, but if things had worked out differently when she was younger, maybe she would have done. One the same age as Belinda, who had her father’s slightly bowed legs and toothy smile. As it was, her son Dave was all she had, and he were as much use as a stick of celery when it came to keeping her company and talking about stuff. He was just like his dad. Awkward. And since he’d broken his leg, there was no living wi’ ’im.

  Dorothy always softened at the sight of tears, and ever since the new minister got married she’d felt more inclined to judge others kindly. She’d been very suspicious of him for the first three years, but the invitation to his wedding had won her loyalty. It had been a long time since anyone made Dorothy Simmons feel important.

  Hefting three stout volumes under her arm, she waddled to the self-service Swipe and Stamp machine, which she got wrong every time. Knowing Belinda’s involvement with Sallby Village Hall, she would admit overhearing the bad news and maybe get to know the truth behind them. She’d love to have some new gossip to share at the Cup of Cheer Club the next afternoon. It would make a change from grumbles about ailments, government and inadequate bus timetables. Not that she was a scandalmonger, of course. She smoothed her hair, put a smile on her face and approached the Swipe and Stamp.

  “Hello, dear. I can see you’re upset, but could you help me with this machine?”

  Belinda looked up, startled to find she was not alone. She fumbled in her pocket for a tissue and dried her eyes, wondering how much the woman – God, it was Dorothy! – had overheard.

  Eyeing her silently with suspicion, Belinda took the library card, ran it through one part of the machine and waited for the sliver of paper extruded by another. She didn’t feel inclined to chat to the woman who’d been stalking her for thirty-odd years.

  Dorothy, having got so close, couldn’t miss the opportunity to make verbal contact at last.

  “Bad news about that hall in Sallby. Isn’t that where you live?” The question was disingenuous.

  “Mmm. Probably all just rumours, I’m sure.”

  “Terrible how some people gossip.” The old woman gathered up her books and dared a slight smile. “Hope you feel better soon.” She fumbled with her gloves as she pushed the door open. “Goodbye.”

  Belinda was stunned. After all this time, why was Dorothy being nice to her? No good would come of it. But then, what good ever came of anything? The rumours were out there, and Belinda Lowe, respectable wife, mother, library assistant and servant of the community, was at their epicentre.

  The library was now empty. Taking from her drawer a lost library card to conceal her unauthorised access, she ran the words Clap Clinic Denswick UK through a search engine on one of the public computers. No results found. She would need to find the correct terminology.

  *

  At about the same time, Teenage Sexual Health Practitioner Tracey Jubb was installing herself in the Medical Room at Truetrust Academy, aka Denswick Comprehensive, on one of her twice-weekly visits. She hated this aspect of her work, having been moved from Smoking Cessation in the Area Health Authority’s latest restructuring. Tracey didn’t like teenagers, and she certainly didn’t like to think of what they got up to in their spare time. But a job was a job, and Tracey had mouths to feed so, school by school, she displayed her leaflets, handed out protection and pretended not to be judgemental.

  This was not the practitioner’s first consultation with Melanie Lowe. Tracey blamed it all on The Mikado. Since rehearsals began in September, no fewer than fifty percent of the operetta’s cast had knocked on her door. This common feature became apparent when a list of rehearsal times and cast members was posted on the notice board outside the Medical Room. Tracey harboured a niggling suspicion that the adjacent sexual health counselling poster had been misconstrued as a complementary therapy for the thespians. When Nanki-Poo brought Yum-Yum along for a Couples’ session, her worries had been confirmed. This time, however, Yum-Yum arrived alone.

  “Come on in, Melanie.”

  *

  Mealtime that evening began in silence, despite the mother’s forced attempts at flippant chat. There was no eye contact, no closeness, no encouragement to mention the big issue. Setting the cutlery together on her empty plate, from her pocket Belinda withdrew a folded piece of A4 paper, covered in black and green print. She cleared her throat. Her voice came out two tones higher than normal.

  “I’ve brought you this.” She cleared her throat again, terrified. “After what happened the other day… you know… with Jermyn… I thought perhaps we should have a little talk.”

  Melanie ignored the leaflet. “’Bout what?”

  “Well, you know… boys.”

  The girl raised an eyebrow but continued to push burger and chips around her plate.

  “I’m sure Dad was mistaken about what he saw, but… you know… if ever you need to ask me anything…” She trailed off.

  “Why would I ask you? Anyway, I know everything.”

  “Well, you might think you do…” She was trying to be gentle and open, but it was so difficult.

  “We do it in school, for heaven’s sake. I think the teachers know more about sex than you do! Doh!”

  Her mother’s internal voice mused, That’s probably true, but what is it they know that I don’t?

  Aloud, she said, “What your dad thought he saw…” She just couldn’t find the words.

  “You mean, what he did see.” The girl’s tone was an offended brag. She stood up and pushed her chair back.

  “Surely not, Melanie? You probably don’t understand as much as you think.”

/>   Why was her daughter rolling her eyes as she pushed back her chair?

  “You’re so patronising!” The girl gave a final shove and picked up the TV remote. The strains of the BBC news intro filled the room.

  “But do you realise… you might get pregnant.” Her mother struggled to stay calm.

  “Not possible.” Melanie feigned interest in the issue of female bishops being debated on screen.

  “You see, you don’t know as much as you think, Melanie. You’re still a child.”

  “Yes I do understand, and I know it’s not possible. Miss Jubb sorted me out.”

  She turned up the sound and briefly flirted with the idea of becoming a bishop herself, whatever one was.

  “What does Miss Jubb teach?”

  “Sex.”

  “Just Sex?”

  “Well yeah! She’s an expert. She’s in the Medical Room. What’s a bishop?”

  “How can she have sorted you out?”

  Surely they didn’t do lunchtime abortions nowadays?

  “Morning-after-pill. Everyone gets them. She does condoms as well, but no-one uses those. They’re gross. Why shouldn’t a woman be a bishop?”

  She ran upstairs to Google the word bishop, leaving her mother trembling with failure and the loss of her child’s innocence. Having read a definition of the word, the girl quite fancied being a bishop. The uniform would certainly make her stand out in a crowd, which was the essence of celebrity.

  Belinda cleared the plates and returned to the TV, flicking through the channels until she found something noisy enough to drown out the screaming in her head. She stretched out. Eventually, she slept.

  Seeing her mother thus a couple of hours later, the girl left the house carrying a heavy bag. Her eventual destination was her grandparents’ bungalow, but she might make a few detours en route that no-one needed to know about. She was thoughtful enough to leave a note: