Boiling Point

by Frank Lean

  ‘Dave, get real!’ she ordered.

  ‘Yeah, real is as real does,’ I said, retreating to my own flat to send the reply to Brandon Carlyle.

  Life is never perfect. Not having to worry about where the next pound was coming from had robbed life of a certain flavour, and now Janine was showing signs of becoming ‘adult’ and ‘realistic’. I wasn’t sure that I liked the change, but my recent close brush with death had induced a mood of acceptance. I scribbled hasty replies to the invite and to Marti’s letter.

  Christmas came and went in a blur, and on a very wet New Year’s Eve I found myself driving down the Cheshire lanes past Nantwich towards Brandon Carlyle’s mansion. South Pork was hard to miss: a lot of other traffic was heading in the same direction and crowds of onlookers were waiting at the gates. They peered into our car but turned away when they saw that we weren’t celebs or footballers. I flashed my ticket at the uniformed security man and he waved us on. The black and gold gates slid open.

  ‘The gates of hell,’ I muttered, ‘suitably wide and open.’

  Janine suppressed a laugh, but I was more than half serious.

  ‘What have you got us into?’ I said to her. ‘This is worse than Blackpool Illuminations.’ All the garden ‘features’ – busty Greek maidens, industrial-sized barbecue areas, water works and tinkling little dells – were lit up like a fairground. The glaring white lights and the lashing rain created a weird effect in the dismal night.

  ‘Lighten up, Dave,’ she said crisply. ‘This is the place to be. I can’t wait to get in. Think of the column inches.’

  ‘Lighten up,’ I echoed sourly. ‘Is that what you’ve been doing all week?’ Janine had spent the days after Christmas in a frenzy of preparation – skin, hair and dress, all had had a complete and expensive makeover. ‘It’s only a New Year’s party at the Carlyles, not a command performance at Buck House.’

  ‘You sound more and more like your father with every day that passes,’ she countered, proving that she knew how to wound.

  We joined the queue of cars heading for the mansion and proceeded slowly along the drive. Janine was unable to resist the temptation to snatch her pocket recorder out of her bag and begin making a few notes. It was certainly worth it. The pillared portico alone demanded a paragraph – few new homes for the wealthy in this part of the world are complete without a pillar or two, but this place had them in spades. There were even free-standing pillars lining the drive. All the mansion lacked was a massive neon sign on the roof saying ‘FABULOUSLY WEALTHY’. I had to admit that Brandon Carlyle was no hypocrite. He wanted everyone to know that he was rich. There was no half-apologetic cringe from him, no fake olde worlde reticence.

  When we arrived we found the entire coaching and playing staff of the Pendlebury Piledrivers standing in the brilliantly lit entrance courtyard like slabs of rock from Stonehenge. Each man was wearing a grey suit. The fountain was blasting away and iridescent spray was being blown towards the impassive sportsmen who doggedly stood their ground. I wondered if they were drugged. The sight of them irritated me intensely.

  When I pulled up by the portico one of the slabs stepped forward for the car keys. His smile revealed a lack of front teeth. He had the sort of shoulders they invented wide-screen TV for.

  ‘Still in a Mondeo, Cunane?’ Charlie Carlyle said. He was standing under the pillared entrance of the mansion greeting guests as they detached themselves from their cars. It was true enough that most of the other cars were in the luxury class. There was an edge of contempt in Charlie’s voice. ‘I’d have thought you could have gone a bit more upmarket.’

  ‘At least it’s mine,’ I said aggressively. I found that the desire to bust his fat lip was as strong as ever. Janine gripped my arm fiercely and tried to steer me away. I resisted the firm tug she gave me. ‘Tell me, Charlie, did your dad get a job-lot on the suits for his livestock?’ I asked, gesturing towards the ranked rugby league players.

  A middle-aged couple pushed up behind us, waiting to be greeted by the son and heir. The man coughed impatiently.

  ‘Why? Do you want one?’ Charlie asked. ‘No deal, I’m afraid, but I think the old man could have a word with a car dealer if you were thinking of something classier than an old Ford.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t have to ask my daddy for a sub to buy it,’ I gibed.

  Charlie’s face darkened and he stepped forward.

  ‘It’s time somebody put some manners on you, Cunane,’ he snarled.

  ‘Are you volunteering?’ I asked. ‘Or are you only tough with women?’

  This time I’d pressed the right button. Charlie pushed against me with his face glowing like a red stop-sign and I barged back at him. Janine gasped. It looked like the party was over.

  ‘Here, what’s all this?’ the middle-aged man behind me asked in a querulous tone. He stepped between us, rain glinting on his horn-rimmed specs. A few feet away the rugby squad began stirring.

  ‘What’s it to you, Jack?’ I asked the horn-rimmed individual.

  ‘I’m the chief constable of Cheshire.’

  At that precise instant there was a detonation of uncontrolled laughter that stopped us all in our tracks. Marti stepped forward. ‘You two boys! What are we going to do with them?’ she said to Janine, and then kissed my partner as if she was a long-lost sister. Marti linked herself to Janine and me and led us into the house.

  ‘Just a bit of fun, an old friend,’ Charlie explained to the policeman, as Marti drew us away into the entrance hall. There were crowds of people in the atrium standing about in that awkward way people do before booze is flowing freely. Janine and I both snatched a drink from the waiter as Marti whisked us past. Marti declined the offer herself, sharing a knowing smile with me. I drained my glass, heedless whether it was expensive champagne or cherryade. I looked Marti firmly in the eye. She stared back unflinchingly. She was wearing a red balldress of very economical design. On a starlet on the beach at Cannes it would have been described as daring. In this domestic setting it looked as if she’d come in her skimpiest underwear. I could feel pressure from my partner’s fingers as Marti’s breasts almost bobbled loose from their flimsy restraints barely a foot from my nose. They were like a pair of frisky Shetland ponies.

  ‘Isn’t he naughty?’ Marti said to Janine, who clenched her teeth in reply. ‘But wouldn’t you rather have him as he is than like a neutered tomcat? Speaking of useless animals, come and meet my in-laws.’

  Janine seemed to be struck dumb. The best she could manage was an awkward little squeak of agreement as we followed Marti. I wasn’t overflowing with sympathy.

  Taking my eyes off Marti, I scanned the room. Familiar faces of people who were completely unknown to me met my glance on every side: soap stars, footballers, weather bimbos, politicians beaming at everyone, and lots of people I’d never seen before. It was a big room. You could have held a basketball game in there and got quite a few spectators in as well. In one corner, a chamber orchestra was gallantly flogging polite music out of their instruments. There was a bar along the whole of one wall with six uniformed staff behind it slinging out drinks as fast as the thirsty guests could collect them. It resembled a scene from the Wild West where some lucky prospector was standing drinks for the whole town. In its usual contrary way, my thirst disappeared. Brandon Carlyle had told me that I was snotty nosed the last time I was here. He was right. I scanned the heaving mob with contempt. This was no charity do. All these good folk were here for what they could grab.

  The in-laws, that is the Carlyle brothers and sisters, all nine of them, seemed a pretty nondescript bunch, all variations on the same theme as Charlie – flabby faces, blobby noses. Some were fatter, some smaller (but none taller) and some of the men had thinner hair. Their ordinariness came as a shock after Marti’s earlier description. Assorted wives and husbands were present, all wearing an odd fixed expression not so much of boredom as of expectation. Possibly they all felt that marrying a Carlyle entitled them to some form of compensati
on.

  Marti introduced me as the son of an old acquaintance of their father’s and they favoured us with weak smiles but no curiosity as to who their daddy’s old mate was. Thinking about their father, I realised that this was probably down to early training, not ignorance. While shaking hands I felt a sudden desire that the earth would open and swallow me. What was I doing here when I could be somewhere else? The Pimpernel staff were having a New Year’s party in a club. I could have been with them. I should have been with them.

  The way it was, I felt like a prize animal at a cattle show as Marti led us to each of her in-laws in turn. She was expert at introduction and I soon found myself discussing the prospects of the Pendlebury Piledrivers with Bungalow. He didn’t seem especially thick or any more interested in rugby league than I was, and he had no trouble stringing a polite sentence or two together. I couldn’t help glancing at his shoes. They didn’t have any laces. The wives and sisters, not at all the ugly monsters that Marti had led me to expect, pressed forward in ranked battalions and soon Janine’s ears were buzzing as she downloaded information.

  Other couples in the room looked at us enviously as we seemed to be monopolising the company of the favoured family. Again, I got a sensation of unreality as heady and sudden as a narcotic rush. Why should people feel excluded because they couldn’t chat with Brandon Carlyle’s offspring? I’d have paid good money to be somewhere else. The room was crammed with party decorations, masses of cheap tinsel put up by some firm and not out of place in that setting. There was nothing in the room more than a couple of years old. Here and there along the ceiling line, on the overarching dome and behind ornaments and fixtures I caught a glint of reflected light. CCTV cameras were recording the scene for posterity.

  Maybe Bungalow was as thick as Marti had claimed. Certainly his attention span wasn’t what you’d call long, but perhaps that was just me being boring. He informed me in vague terms that there was a jazz group in the gym and a famous Manchester boy-band in the covered swimming pool.

  I was exchanging further inanities with him, saying whatever came off the top of my head and looking round for more drink, when someone touched my sleeve.

  ‘I’m so glad you could come,’ Brandon said. He reached round and took hold of my hand. He didn’t shake it, just took it and led me away from the noisy female crowd. He looked neither right nor left at any of his offspring. The multitude parted in front of him and we seemed to be in a little island of quiet. Janine looked at me and raised her eyes pleadingly but she was attached to the little group of Carlyle females, now chattering about children and the price of eggs, and stood by helplessly as Brandon removed me.

  As I left the main reception area I took a backward glance, hoping to spot my partner. Instead my eyes fleetingly met those of Insull Perriss. He looked startled to see me and then his expression contorted, whether with hatred or fear I couldn’t tell at that distance.

  ‘Come through here,’ Carlyle invited, leading me to a side door. ‘I need a chat with you and you’re a hard man to pin down.’

  ‘You should have no trouble pinning anyone down with all these slabs from the Piledrivers here,’ I said.

  ‘Never stop making jokes, eh?’

  ‘Not really, I’m not feeling very humorous.’

  ‘Have you had a good year? I’m told you’re prospering.’

  ‘So-so,’ I agreed grudgingly.

  Turning his back on me, Brandon punched numbers on a security pad by another door, made of reinforced steel. Bolts shot back and he ushered me through.

  ‘I come here when I want real privacy,’ he said roguishly. The room was dominated by a series of garishly coloured boxes which I recognised as an old-fashioned mainframe computer. It took up at least half of the room. ‘That’s a souvenir,’ he explained, ‘like the ice-cream cart downstairs.’

  ‘That’s not, though, is it?’ I said, pointing to the mass of screens set along the opposite wall. I watched fascinated for a moment. Janine was on one screen. On another I could see the rapidly receding back of Insull Perriss. He was attempting to make a stealthy exit through the French windows.

  Following my glance Brandon touched the controls and we got a close-up of Perriss’s fat neck. A fold of flesh hung over the businessman’s collar. His hair was cut in a neat straight line. I could hear the sounds of his struggle with the door lock.

  ‘Do you know him well?’ I muttered.

  ‘A business acquaintance. He seems to want fresh air.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s sick.’

  Carlyle touched a button and on various screens Pendlebury Piledrivers all touched their ear-pieces at the same time.

  ‘Let him go,’ I said.

  Turning to me, Carlyle gave an elaborate shrug – hands, arms, whole body in motion.

  ‘It’s a free country,’ he murmured, chuckling as he turned back to his screens. This time he put a finger on a large touch screen showing a plan view of the ground floor. The window that Perriss was by now attacking frantically sprang open. A light began flashing on the monitor. ‘I was only opening the door so he could get out,’ he explained. ‘It’s all controlled from here. I shall have to tell the stewards to close it and escort him off the premises if he wants to leave. You know, I’ve got the kit here to keep a track on everybody.’

  He spoke into a mike and Piledrivers began moving. If only their on-field manoeuvres were as well co-ordinated.

  ‘Nice way to run a party,’ I commented.

  ‘Ha! I detect a note of scorn,’ Carlyle said with a grin. ‘Security, that’s what this is. You can’t do anything without security these days. You should know that. No one can get within five hundred yards of this house without being electronically scanned. I have important people here tonight . . .’

  ‘I saw the chief constable.’

  ‘He’s small fry . . . the local head bobby. I said important people.’

  ‘Nice to know where one is on the pecking order.’

  ‘Oh, stop being the detective for once, Mr Cunane. Can I call you David?’

  ‘Call me Shit-for-brains if you want, because that’s what I must be.’

  ‘You know why I like you? Your refusal to be impressed is impressive.’

  ‘I’m deeply touched.’

  ‘David, I think it’s time you and I got on the same side. Good and evil, all that tiresome old stuff – nobody goes for that any more.’

  ‘Don’t they?’

  ‘No! Look, sonny, they’ve sent ships into space. There’s nothing up there. No heaven. When did you last go to church? Churches are empty. People want what they can see and touch.’

  He flicked his hand towards the screens.

  ‘Let me show you.’

  He sat at the console and began working the controls again like an organist at a Wurlitzer.

  ‘There you are!’ he said triumphantly. A screen showed a couple copulating vigorously. The man’s shiny bald head reflected the light into the camera as Carlyle zoomed in for a close-up.

  ‘Stop it,’ I muttered. The screen showed the woman’s face. Carlyle switched to another screen showing a man snorting a line of coke in a cloakroom.

  ‘No, this is reality. If you can’t fuck it, or see it, or eat it, or smoke it, or put it up your nose, then it doesn’t exist. Those two know what life’s about.’

  ‘I thought you were a family man?’

  ‘I am! Marti’s back with her husband – what a blessing, eh? You’re doing well in your business. I’m doing well and my children seem to have settled their differences. This is a time of goodwill.’

  ‘Do you include Clyde Harrow in your goodwill? I heard he’s been declared bankrupt.’

  ‘A foolish man; but forget him – your future, that’s what you should be thinking about.’

  ‘Mr Carlyle . . .’

  ‘Brandon to you, David.’

  ‘I only came tonight because my partner thinks she’s going to get a good story out of this party.’

  ‘You know, I like you, David
. You don’t beat about the bush. Straight from the shoulder, eh? Shall we see what she’s up to?’

  He fiddled with his controls again and picked out Janine. She was speaking to one of the soap stars. Carlyle zoomed in on her hands. As we watched, Janine slipped her hand into her bag and switched on her tape recorder.

  ‘Ha!’ Carlyle cackled. ‘That’ll do her no good. It’ll be wiped electronically before she leaves. I can fix up an interview for her, if you like.’

  ‘Brandon,’ I said scornfully, ‘it’s fine by me if you want to stop beating about the bush. Why did you invite us here? The last time I was here, you made all kinds of bloodcurdling threats.’

  ‘Be fair! That was when you were poking your nose into things that didn’t concern you. We’ve all come on a bit since then. Marti’s settled down at last, and even that mad father of hers seems to accept that he’s not going to walk from prison till he admits his crimes.’

  ‘Mr Carlyle, or should I say Colonna, there are still several outstanding crimes unsolved, or had you forgotten?’

  ‘Oh, so that’s it? The dreaded Mafia, eh? I’m proud of my Italian heritage and for your information my family doesn’t come from Sicily. My grandfather and a friend walked here from Italy in 1891, right across Switzerland and France, they came. They were both good Catholics who didn’t want to serve in the King of Italy’s anticlerical army. Grandfather came from a small village near Genoa and I still have relatives there. I’ll tell you another thing. When they reached Manchester they found lots of Irish bullies waiting to oppress them but my grandfather wouldn’t let anyone get the better of him.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning that it’s you and your father who’re the ones keeping up a vendetta, not me. You wouldn’t take a reward for not dropping me in it over poor Sam’s death. I respect you for that, but won’t you at least shake hands and let bygones be bygones?’