by Leo McNeir
Marnie sighed. “I need some fresh air.”
*
Ralph was standing at the stern door of Thyrsis, looking out at the still black waters of the canal. The cordless phone was in his back pocket, and he fumbled to extract it when it began ringing.
“Hallo?”
“It’s me. Hi.”
“Marnie, I was just thinking about you. How are things going?”
“Anthony’s got cold feet. He won’t go along with the plan.”
“Why not?”
“Says it’s too risky, too far-fetched. Need I go on?“
“I get the picture. How do you feel about it, Marnie?”
“Thwarted. It may not be a brilliant plan, but at least it’s better than just accepting defeat and giving up. Anyway, it looks as if he’s going to have to make his own way from now on.”
“Is that how you’ve left it?”
“I’ve come out for a walk on the towpath with Anne. The others are in the butty.”
“Do you want me to come and fetch you?”
“No. I want to come home, but it’s been a tiring few days and I need some sleep.”
“Can you do one thing before you turn in? Simon rang. He’s about to leave on a business trip. Could you call him and bring him up to date? He lives in Docklands, apparently.”
“Okay. Have you got the number?”
Anne wandered back to Shardlow while Marnie rang Simon who was packing for his trip. She explained the situation, and he listened without comment while she spoke.
At the end of her narrative, he said, “So, the end of the road. Oh well, you did your best, and he’s probably right. But I know you, Marnie, probably better than anyone else, and I guess you’ll be feeling miffed that he isn’t following your plan.”
“I’m not miffed.”
“But you are sorry he’s not going ahead with what you intended, aren’t you?”
“Only because I’d gone to a lot of trouble to work it all out.”
“It sounded a half-arsed scheme to me.”
“Thank you. Well, I’m dropping with tiredness and ready for bed. You’ve got packing to do, so I’ll say good night.”
“Look, I didn’t mean to pour cold water on things. Get some rest. I’ll phone you when I get back, if that’s all right with you.”
Marnie hesitated. ”Sure.”
*
As Marnie walked slowly back along the towpath, she could see Anne perched in the entrance to the cabin, waving to her. She quickened her pace. Anne stepped onto the bank and took her by the arm to whisper in her ear.
“Anthony may have changed his mind.”
Marnie nodded and made to return to the boat, but Anne kept hold of her arm to hold her back.
“You haven’t said anything about the police suspecting you – us – of assaulting that photographer and trying to get evidence to incriminate us.”
“Things are complicated enough as it is, Anne.”
“Don’t you think they ought to know we might get arrested at any minute?”
Marnie smiled. “The police aren’t going to find any evidence to link us with the attack. Don’t worry.”
Anne shrugged. “Sure. After all, they’re only detectives from the CID. What chance do they stand against an interior designer?”
She pulled a face and they linked arms. They walked back to the butty and slid into their places.
“So,“ said Marnie. “What’s new?”
“Perhaps,” said Anthony, “I’ve been a little hasty in my judgment. No-one seems able to come up with a better idea than yours, Marnie. I’m sure I can’t, apart from surrender. I know I’m supposed to be a hard-nosed politician, but believe me you can’t imagine what it’s like to be attacked in public in a national newspaper.”
“Okay. Go on.”
“Andrew and Kate have said they’re willing to keep me on, while we see how your plan shapes up. So tell me what you want me to do.”
“For starters, talk to me about the girl, how you met her, what happened that evening, where she is now, everything you know.”
Anthony sat back in his seat. “I haven’t been totally truthful with you.”
“Just tell us about the girl, her name, her background, who introduced her to you.”
“It wasn’t really like that. She was planted. It was that very wet spell back in March.”
They settled back as comfortably as they could in the cramped cabin to listen to the story.
The first encounter was on a rainy Friday afternoon. Anthony left his car in a secure parking lot to walk to his constituency office round the corner from the old Limehouse Town Hall in East London for the regular weekly meeting with his agent, Reg Haslam. The traffic between Putney and Docklands had been even heavier than usual, and he was running late. Walking the familiar route on auto-pilot, he almost tripped over the girl as he rounded the corner. She was sitting with her back against the wall, a cardboard box lying on the pavement. The box contained a sprinkling of coins, mostly copper. She did not look up as he checked himself from stumbling and skirted round her. He hated to see beggars in the streets. They could get work if they wanted it. There were hostels. He knew they only begged to get money for drugs.
The second encounter came the next morning, Saturday, while he was on the way to his surgery to meet a list of constituents with problems. This time the girl was in conversation with a man. She had pulled up the hood on her cagoule against the drizzle, and Anthony could guess what kind of conversation she was having. She was trying to look away, trying to get away from the man. As Anthony approached, she bent down to pick up her begging box and was gathering the mat that she had laid on the ground. The man made a grab at her, and she shook her arm irritably away from his grasp. Anthony heard her exclaim, wondering if he should intervene.
When Anthony was only a few metres away from them, the man suddenly noticed him, growled something indistinct at the girl and made off in the opposite direction, pulling up the collar of his raincoat as he went. Anthony acted as if nothing had happened. The girl gave him half a glance as he passed her.
The third encounter was on the following Friday. It was raining again, and this time it was Reg Haslam’s turn to be late. He rang to say he was stuck in a traffic jam the other side of Tower Bridge. A lorry was blocking the road.
There she was, standing on the corner, hood up, as the rain began to ease off. It was the first time he spoke to her, and that was how it all started. They went to his office. He eventually gave her a job.
“The rest you know from the papers. That’s it.”
“No it isn’t,” said Marnie. “It’s not even a beginning. All you’ve told us is that you met her in the street. You’ve told us nothing about her, what she was like, how you came to offer her a job, anything.”
“I thought you knew the basic details from the press,” said Anthony.
“And I thought you said it was all lies. Anyway, I want to know more about the girl as a person, and more about the story from your angle.”
“Okay. Where shall I begin?”
“She was standing on the pavement in the rain. Your agent was held up in traffic. Take it from there.”
Anthony leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes half closed.
*
As Anthony drew level, the girl put out a hand without looking at him, asking for some change. She had a pleasant voice with a hint of north country. Her outstretched hand had long fingers, gently tapering. He had an umbrella in one hand and a briefcase in the other. The girl noticed, too.
“Oh, it’s all right,” she muttered. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have troubled you.”
“No, no,” he stammered. “It’s just that I’m rather ...”
“Yes, I can see that. Please don’t worry.”
She was almost as tall as he was. Green eyes, a pleasant face framed by the hood of her yellow cagoule and wisps of corn-coloured hair.
“Look,” he began. “It’s none of my business, of course, but
do you have to do this? I mean, isn’t there a better way of earning a living?”
To his surprise, she smiled. “A thousand better ways. I don’t do this through choice. It’s not a soft option.”
On an impulse he said, “Look, why don’t you come in out of this rain?”
She became wary.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m the local Member of Parliament, here for a meeting with my agent. My office is just down the road, number thirty-four, blue front door ... of course.”
He tucked the briefcase under his arm, reached in his pocket and took out a business card. “I might be able to help you.”
*
“So you did make the first move,” said Marnie.
“I took the bait. They made the first move by setting the trap.”
“How could they – assuming it was a they – know your routine?”
“Easy. It wouldn’t take the CIA or MI5 to find out when I see my agent. Everyone knows MPs go back to their constituencies on Fridays and take surgeries on Saturday mornings, usually once a fortnight, the conscientious ones at least. You’d have no problem knowing where I park the car and the route I take to the office.”
“Did you often see beggars on your walk to the office?”
“Not usually round there. It wasn’t what I’d call a regular pitch. But there are homeless people all over London, so it didn’t surprise me.”
“You refer to homeless people. I find that interesting.”
“Getting to know her made me see them in a different light. I got to know how they lived.”
“What was she called?”
*
“My name’s Marlene,” she said, standing in the office while Anthony fiddled with the venetian blind to let more light into the room. She pronounced the name so that the ending rhymed with ‘lane’, not ‘lean’.
“Nice name,” Anthony said without looking round. He pulled on the strings and adjusted the slats. “That’s better. Let me take your, er, jacket.”
“Cagoule.”
“Cagoule.” She pulled it over her head. Underneath she was wearing a red sweatshirt and blue jeans. Her trainers looked sodden. He hung the cagoule on a coat stand together with his raincoat. “Coffee?”
She nodded. “Where’s your agent?”
“He’s on his way, held up in traffic near Tower Bridge. He rang me on the mobile to tell me. He’ll be here soon. Have a seat. I’ll do the coffee.” He went out and she heard him clinking cups in the kitchen.
Marlene slipped off the trainers and laid them upside down under the coat stand. On the wall hung a row of portrait photographs: the Queen, Margaret Thatcher, John Major. She walked to the window and looked out over the back garden. It had been paved over, and there were flower pots standing in clusters. After a minute or two Anthony appeared carrying two mugs.
“My agent will be here soon, any minute.”
*
Marnie frowned. “But I heard your agent in that interview on the radio. I thought he said he’d never met her.”
“That’s right. He never did turn up. After a while he rang and said it was a waste of time trying to reach the office, and we were going to see each other anyway the next morning.”
“So you were alone together, you and the girl.”
“Yes, but it was all completely innocuous. I actually did want to help her, if I could.”
“If she’d been knock-kneed, flat-chested with a squint, would you have felt the same?”
Anthony smiled. “I had no ulterior motive. Until the ... incident in my garden took place, I did not entertain inappropriate intentions towards Marlene, and I didn’t initiate them even then.”
“All right. So how did you get into that mess?”
*
“So how did you get into this mess, Marlene?”
“It really is a mess. I hardly know where to begin. And don’t think I’m expecting you to be able to do anything about it. Nobody’s helped in the past, well, nobody from your side of the fence, at any rate.”
“You think the Opposition would do better? Don’t count on it. They’re all talk, believe me.”
“I don’t mean them. I mean the sort of official side of the fence. They’ve never been any good to me.”
“Well, when I know some details, perhaps I can help.”
“I come from Leeds. Dad’s an accountant, got his own firm. Mum’s a teacher. We live in a big house in the suburbs. I wanted to go to drama school in London, where all the action is.”
“And that’s what brought you here?”
“No. Failure brought me here.”
“I don’t follow.”
“You interrupted.”
“Sorry.”
“I was in the sixth form doing A levels when it happened. I’d always been self-conscious about my height. I’m five foot ten and I worried about getting too big to be an actor. You’d probably think of that as an actress.”
“You’re assuming I’m a dinosaur.”
“Definitely.”
“Thank you.”
“So, I worried about my size, became obsessed with my dimensions.”
“They look great to me.” He noticed her expression. “Do go on.”
“You’ve already guessed. I became anorexic, almost starved myself. When I‘d lost two stone in a couple of weeks, my mum took me to the doctor. He prescribed some tablets, but because of all that, I made a mess of my studies and left school last year without completing the course.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“How did your parents feel about you giving up your studies?”
“Good question. My mum was supportive, sympathetic. Dad went ballistic. Said I was wasting my life, throwing my chances away, ought to get down to some hard work, never did him any harm, bla-bla-bla.”
“You didn’t get on well with your father.”
“Wrong. I’d always been daddy’s girl. Funny, isn’t it? That’s what made it harder to handle. So, blazing row. I stormed out.”
“They expected you to go back.”
“I suppose so. But I had a friend who was doing a secretarial course in London. She offered me her floor for a few nights, and I stayed for a month. I trailed round all the agencies.”
“Secretarial?”
“Modelling. My dad had said I was all skin and bones, so I figured I could try to be a model. That’s what they look like.”
“How’d you get on?”
“Not bad. One or two single shoots: hairspray, sandals. I’ve got good feet, they said. My left armpit even featured on a poster for underarm deodorant in Boots. I thought the armpit stood a good chance of making a solo career.”
“You were hoping for the big break.”
“I got it, or I thought I got it. I’d met this photographer. It was doing the sandals shoot. He gave me his card, said keep in touch. I gave him my phone number. One day he rang me, said he had a job where he needed a model quick, beachwear, not bad money. I went round to his place. He had a studio all set up.”
“You had a few drinks,” Anthony joined in.
“Yeah. Glass of wine while he set up the lighting. There was music playing. It was just like that old film, where the photographer moves around shooting different angles, saying yes! yes! all the time. Then he had to put more film in the camera, poured me some more wine. It seemed great, like proper modelling for a magazine. I knew the wine was going to my head and I was worried my nose might be going pink. All the time there was the music and the lights. It was great. Then he just said, all sort of casual, to slip the bikini top off. I thought I’d heard him right. Then he said, just like people do on the beach. This is swimwear. All reasonable, like. And there were so many lights shining on me. He seemed a long way off. There was just me and the music and the lights ... and my head going round. I thought so what, he’s just being creative and artistic.”
“Was that all?”
“Course not. It sort of went on from there.”
&n
bsp; “And he filmed it, everything.”
“Yeah. I didn’t even know he had a video camera running. He kept saying don’t move away, stay here, turn round this way, that sort of thing.”
“You’re telling me that you were being set up.”
*
“You’re saying that you were set up just as she’d been?” said Marnie.
“Of course. That’s where she got her first lesson. I must’ve been stupid not to realise at the time what was going on.”
“You’d only just met her.”
“Not then. I meant when they took the photos in the garden.”
“But why did they pick on you?”
Anthony shrugged. “The tabloids are always on the lookout for scandal.”
“But they must’ve got you marked down as a target for a reason.”
“There was a rumour I was having an affair, untrue as it happens, and the paper kept tabs on anyone in that position. Must’ve been a very big file.”
“Hardly earth-shattering these days,” Marnie interjected.
“True. But hypocrisy is the British malaise, our national sport.”
“All this aggro just because they thought you were having an affair?”
“Well, no. There was more. I’d made outspoken comments about inaccurate and unfair reporting. That didn’t endear me to them. Also I’d been involved in drafting a policy document on family values: ‘Back to basics’. It kept us backbenchers occupied and gave us a chance to get noticed. It also gave the tabloids a field day trying to expose our weaknesses. They got their fingers burnt trying to prove one member of the Cabinet was a serial womaniser. Hilarious. He was actually a raving woofter!”
“Let’s get back to the girl,” Marnie said. “What happened to her?”
*
“What happened to you next?” said Anthony.
“My friend where I was staying wanted her boyfriend to move in. I’d be in the way. She didn’t say it, but I knew how she felt. I told Bruno – the photographer – and he said I could move in with him.”