The Concubine Affair

by Quig Shelby

  ‘Terrible shame,’ he said, whilst thinking of the insurance policy he had taken out on Verity years ago.

  ‘I understand,’ he said ‘but what about ...’

  ‘Don’t worry darling I’ll be fine. Now don’t be late for work.’

  Marcus owned an art gallery. He checked his cufflinks one last time, and headed for the Tube.

  ‘By the way I’ve booked us a table for tonight,’ he said on his way out of the door.

  He was quickly on his mobile.

  ‘Look I’m sorry, but she’s back. I’ll have to see you at the weekend.’

  Alain emptied the contents of his pockets onto the kitchen table; a stolen half bottle of haloperidol, and a blister pack of procyclidine. He then scavenged the cupboards for something to eat. Margaret was right; it was time he found someone to share his life. But things had never quite worked out. His less than sweet hearts were either unromantic, or unimaginative. Though there was one, but she never understood his need to be alone. Perhaps he should have confided; of the voices that swam in his head, and the rivers of light that flowed before his eyes. He glanced at his self-prescribed medicine - it helped. He was just a little fish, but he wouldn’t swim in a glass bowl for anyone.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Mr and Mrs Forster so good to see you both again,’ said the grinning attendant. ‘Please, let me take your coats.’

  The Chrysanthemum Chinese restaurant was a breath of fresh air for Verity after weeks spent cooped up at Treetops, in spite of missing the rather dishy Alain Fontaney.

  ‘Seat my dear,’ said Marcus pulling out her chair.

  He could be quite charming when he wanted, but it was all false; be it his wife, a mistress, or any one of his customers. He was almost sociopathic.

  ‘Thank you darling,’ said Verity smiling.

  She was wearing her pearl necklace this evening, and Marcus’ favourite pencil skirt with the back split. Marcus as always was dressed to kill, in his Ozwald Boateng pin striped suit and bespoke loafers.

  ‘You choose,’ said Marcus handing Verity the menu. ‘You deserve it after all those disgusting hospital meals.’

  ‘Actually the food wasn’t all that bad,’ she said. ‘And it was a clinic, not a hospital.’

  ‘And the staff?’ he enquired.

  ‘They were charming,’ she replied.

  Marcus folded his arms on the table, covering the wine list.

  ‘It’s alright dear I’m not the faintest bit interested,’ she lied.

  ‘In that case there’s a party at the weekend, do you think you could manage it?’ he asked.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  It had been Marcus’ idea for Verity to dry out; some very important clients had become perturbed by her drunken behaviour. But when she was on form she was his best advertisement.

  ‘Ready to order Sir?’ asked the waiter.

  ‘Actually my wife’s ordering.’

  ‘Of course: Madam?’

  The Chrysanthemum did the best chow in Chinatown, and Marcus only brought Verity. He didn’t want to confuse the waiters and cause a scene.

  Marcus was wiping his forehead with the warm wet flannel, as Verity put the last morsel of the delicious meal, in her more delicious mouth.

  ‘You’ll have to teach me,’ said Marcus.

  Verity looked blank.

  ‘The chopsticks; you make it look so easy. So you did learn something at Treetops,’ he said.

  Verity looked down at her hands.

  ‘I had no idea,’ she said, quickly placing the chopsticks on her plate.

  ‘Darling, you must have picked it somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, I guess you’re right.’

  ‘Late night takeaways perhaps?’

  ‘It must have been,’ she replied.

  But in truth she’d never used chopsticks before in her life.

  ‘Mr Forster I’m so sorry to intrude, but the chef wants me to show you this,’ said the waiter placing a large box on the floor.

  ‘Really how preposterous,’ said Marcus ‘I’m dining with my wife.’

  ‘Many apologies Sir, but it’s an old vase, maybe Imperial.’

  ‘Oh alright let me take a look,’ said Marcus frowning, and peering inside the box.

  ‘He’d be grateful for an honest appraisal from a distinguished expert,’ said the waiter. ‘Shall I take it out?’

  Verity looked him up and down, and smiled wryly to herself.

  ‘No, tell him to bring it to the gallery tomorrow morning, when I can take a proper look.’

  ‘Anything else Sir?’

  ‘Just that: I need to see it clearly to make any kind of decision.’

  ‘Thank you Mr Forster, and have you finished Sir?’

  ‘Indeed we have, and thank this chef of yours for a terrific meal, even if he did interrupt it. What’s his name by the way?’

  ‘Hui Lin. He’s new Mr Forster, but comes highly recommended.’

  ‘Well tell Mr Lin I shall look forward to seeing him first thing tomorrow morning. And the bill if you please.’

  ‘Certainly Sir,’ and the waiter scuttled off with the box. He disappeared into the kitchens and, to the amusement of most patrons, a heated discussion soon spilled out into the dining area. Marcus raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ asked Verity.

  ‘Perhaps: It’s an old Chinese vase, probably a fake, but I could always turn it into a lamp for the bedroom.’

  ‘Let’s open our fortune cookies,’ said Verity as they waited for the bill to arrive.

  ‘Must we?’

  He wasn’t a man of superstition.

  ‘Please, humour me darling. You do like the way I look tonight don’t you?’

  He smiled.

  Verity snapped the cookie in two, waiting to unravel the small parchment.

  ‘You first,’ she said.

  Marcus sighed.

  ‘For what it’s worth, mine says when an Emperor cry’s hearts will rise. Now whatever is that supposed to mean? And yours?’

  ‘You have met your true love.’

  ‘There what did I say,’ said Marcus ‘I told you everything would be alright.’

  ‘Have a safe journey home,’ said the attendant handing them their coats.

  Marcus looked at Verity, his jaw wide open.

  ‘What did you just say?’ he asked.

  ‘Thank you, and have a pleasant evening.’

  ‘But you can’t speak Chinese,’ he said.

  ‘Guess I picked it up,’ she said, realising what she had just done.

  ‘At Treetops?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course, one of the patients was Chinese,’ she lied again.

  But as she did up her fur collar she wondered; where on earth had it come from? And why was she using chopsticks?

  Verity dazzled all evening, and if she had been gorging on takeaways it hadn’t affected her figure. Marcus had noticed the heads turning in her direction, and tonight they would sleep together; after all he did deal in beautiful objects.

  Fortunately the handsome Alain had intruded into her thoughts once more, and sweetened the grunts of Marcus.

  Chapter Four

  Days off were to be cherished in both prayer and research. Alain showered in ice cold water, and underneath the flood he held a rosary in heavenly communication. He stepped out of the cubicle focused; Dr Jekyll was ready.

  Pills, pots, and potions were scattered in the kitchen: On the tiled table, the spotless window ledge, and on the roof of the empty fridge.

  Alain feverishly unscrewed a bottle of risperidone, pouring the contents into a small graded beaker. He added 5ml of haloperidol, before running the concoction down a smoky green glass spiral, perched pre
cariously on the draining board; the morning sun refracted through its chips. He halted abruptly, scribbling furiously in his notepad, before loosening the solitary brass screw. The elixir dripped into an onyx dish, like a saucer of cream for a spoiled cat.

  Alain was concerned that one day his voices would talk him into a hospital bed, and searched for a cure before that moment arrived. The carefully chosen wild mushrooms were ground with a marble pestle and mortar. Then, before he could adjust the perspex goggles, and light the hand held burner, there was a knock at the front door.

  ‘Orvid,’ said Alain, and they hugged one another instantly.

  Orvid was wearing a striped waistcoat over his crisp white shirt, with his linen trousers tucked into a pair of soft sheepskin boots.

  ‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ said Orvid, craning his neck into the kitchen.

  He was tall and lean, with a brown goatee and shoulder length hair.

  ‘Never,’ said Alain, genuinely pleased to see him.

  There was a bond between the two men, riveted when they had met a year ago, like two steel plates in a cold northern shipyard. Alain had been delivering neuroleptics from the hospital pharmacy. He usually rubbed shoulders for five agonising minutes; until he began to feed you through letterbox. But Orvid was different, odd but not oddball. He was engaging, and fascinating.

  ‘How’s the new medication going?’ asked Alain concerned.

  Orvid was a patient on a leash. A schizoid in the community, but there was little care.

  ‘It sucks,’ said Orvid.

  He was continually thirsty, and occasionally sluggish in thought.

  ‘Maybe I should give it up,’ said Orvid optimistically.

  ‘You tried that last time remember, and thought the TV was talking to you,’ said Alain.

  ‘It was. Besides, what’s wrong with thinking you’re Robespierre?’

  ‘Oh nothing. Unless you want to guillotine the Queen of England.’

  ‘So how do you manage?’ asked Orvid, gratefully taking the cup of hazelnut coffee Alain had made him.

  He knew the answer, but also that Alain delighted in telling him.

  ‘You know it’s different for me. The voices don’t malign, it’s like a radio show, or hiding at the back of a confession box listening to the whispers.’

  Orvid stretched for a biscuit with his dangerously long nails on show.

  ‘Will the noise ever stop?’ he asked.

  The noise, the gaggle, screech, or tone, were his euphemisms for the auditory hallucinations that haunted him.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Alain watching the bubbles in his coffee spin around.

  ‘Well at least the tone’s gone calm,’ said Orvid, thankful the dark clouds had shifted.

  ‘And the grandiose ideation?’

  ‘You know it actually helps with the show. But you forgot the paranoia,’ said Orvid before laughing.

  Orvid was a provincial magician and illusionist - The Great Chinesku.

  ‘How’s things with Libby?’ asked Alain.

  Libby was his wife, manager, and stage assistant; quite the package. And the wrapping was pretty good to look at too.

  ‘Not good,’ said Orvid.

  He knew they’d been having problems, and Alain could kick himself for asking. Orvid rubbed his thick head of hair, and sighed.

  ‘She’s leaving me,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Alain.

  Orvid was sitting in the chair, bent forwards, with his face staring at the floor. His hands were clasped, and opposing thumbs were circling one another like vultures.

  ‘So what happens with the show?’ asked Alain.

  ‘God only knows.’

  ‘Well this might help; I’m getting close to answering our prayers.’

  Although he wasn’t quite sure if he’d miss his unannounced friends or not. He knew their names, where they were, and what they did; he cared about them.

  ‘You’re close to a cure?’ asked Orvid sitting up.

  Alain grinned, and nodded his head.

  ‘And will this help?’ asked Orvid, delving into his carpet bag, and handing Alain a small grey plastic cage.

  ‘The missing ingredient,’ said Alain, his eyes afire.

  It did all look rather hocus pocus, but there was one chemical on the amphibians skin that Alain wanted.

  ‘How did you get it?’ asked Alain, looking through the mesh at the lime green tree frog. The little beast stared angrily back; it had guessed its fate the day it left the rainforest.

  ‘I can be invisible remember,’ said Orvid referring to one of his more famous tricks.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ asked Alain.

  ‘On the house, just deliver me from, well you know,’ said Orvid.

  He’d had a rough time of it. Not command hallucinations, thankfully, but persecutory, blaming him, but the devil was they never said for what.

  ‘I’m nearly there my friend,’ said Alain.

  ‘Then I’d better let you get on.’

  Orvid opened the front door, greeting the sunshine with a smile, and renewed vigour. He trusted Alain the shaman much more than the hospital thought police. And Alain used halo-peridol; it was a good omen.

  ‘I haven’t seen you at the theatre recently,’ he said.

  ‘I knew you’d say that,’ said Alain.

  ‘Then you’re reading my thoughts,’ joked Orvid before stepping off.

  He was getting tired when he closed the windows. He picked up his bible for inspiration, and on Leviticus he heard them. He wasn’t sure how he understood every word, only that he did - they were speaking in French. Others spoke Chinese.

  ‘But Monsignor I must protest, we cannot give him up,’ said the voice.

  ‘And you expect me to jeopardise our mission here,’ said another.

  ‘There must be another way.’

  ‘There is no other way Bertrand, Alain must face the consequences of his actions,’ said Jacques.

  ‘But surely before God ...,’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry, he will get that chance soon enough.’

  ‘Then you are going to give him up.’

  ‘Certainly, we have the chance to save millions of souls here do we not?’

  ‘But Jacques, the Emperor will show him no mercy.’

  ‘Perhaps our dear Alain should have thought of that before sleeping with a concubine, and risking the entire Jesuit mission in Peking.’

  ‘He will surely face the death of a thousand cuts. Can you not plead for a more merciful death, perhaps at his own hands?’

  ‘Bertrand, suicide is not something we profess, you must surely understand that.’

  ‘Of course Monsignor, I just thought that perhaps the Lord may understand.’

  ‘Bertrand you have much to learn dear fellow, but please stop your bleating. I already have Alain under house arrest.’

  Galloping was heard outside in the courtyard.

  ‘And I do believe the Emperor’s men are already here,’ said Monsignor Jacques.

  Alain felt a shiver run down his spine, almost as if he were the Alain the two men were discussing. The phone rang.

  ‘Hi Alain, it’s Margaret here, I’m at Treetops.’

  ‘Hi, how are things?’

  ‘Fine darling. Just letting you know that Milly’s funeral is next week, Thursday.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’

  ‘Do you want me to tell Verity, or would you like to call her?’ asked Margaret.

  Alain paused. He’d be ringing from home, but he ached to hear her voice.

  ‘I’ll call her,’ he replied, trying to stay calm.

  ‘Let me give you the number.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve already
got it.’

  Alain couldn’t see the broad smile on Margaret’s face.

  ‘Alain, just a friendly word of advice, wear your best suit; she’s high class that one.’

  For sure she was playing matchmaker, but she just knew they fitted together like a hand and its glove. Everyone at Treetops confided in Margaret, and Verity’s marriage was a sham. But Marge wondered who would have the whip hand; she wasn’t as innocent as she often pretended.

  Chapter Five

  He couldn’t be certain if they were serious buyers, but the young Chinese couple fawning over the jade horse with rider were making their second visit.

  ‘Tang dynasty you say,’ said the thickly spectacled entrepreneur.

  ‘Without a doubt,’ replied Marcus.

  ’Then I’ll take it.’

  ‘It will make a perfect present for your Father,’ said the young man turning to his wife. Marcus glanced once more at her voluptuous bosom.

  ‘And where...,’ said Marcus before being interrupted.

  ‘Have it delivered to this address,’ and the buyer handed him a card - Tiger Aeronautics, Beijing.

  ‘Naturally, and the payment?’ asked Marcus.

  ‘In your account by tea time.’

  ‘You might want to open your umbrella Sir, it’s pouring it down outside,’ said Marcus.

  Tyrone, his security guard, opened the door, and Marcus was rubbing his hands with glee before they were on the pavement.

  The rest of the day was quiet, until the eighteenth century French wall clock struck four.

  ‘Mr Forster, there’s someone outside waiting to come in.’

  ‘Well let them in Tyrone.’

  ‘Sir you’ll have to take a look, he doesn’t look like one of your usual customers.’

  Marcus stood up from his desk, glad to stretch his legs if nothing else.

  Tyrone was right, the man outside did not look like a Forster’s gallery customer. He wore a quilted black jacket, a skull cap, thin cotton trousers, and, in spite of the rain, sandals with no socks.

  ‘It’s me, Mr Lin,’ said the voice.

  Marcus shrugged in puzzlement, but the little man held up the package.

  ‘The vase,’ he said.