“We aren’t open yet,” a girl’s voice objected.
“You very nearly are. Did you cut me off before?”
“We weren’t open.”
“I’d call that extremely unprofessional behaviour, and I know what I’m talking about. I’m in the same job. This is your Hoylake branch. May I speak to Dudley, please?”
“He isn’t here.”
“Of course, I should have realised. I’ve been away but I know he’s had a particularly demanding weekend. I should say I’m his mother.”
“It’s Dudley’s mother.”
“I’d like a word with her.” This was an older woman, who arrived with a rattle of the plastic of the receiver. “That’s Mrs Smith, is it?” she enquired.
“I suppose Ms might be more like it. Dudley’s father has been out of the way for really quite a few years.”
“That’s no excuse.”
Kathy felt as if the conversation had tilted, robbing her of the balance she’d achieved. “Sorry, excuse for what?”
“Don’t you know what he’s like when you’re not there?”
“I’m sure I do. I’m sure he’s just the same as when I am.”
“Then I don’t think either of you have got much to be proud of.”
Mr Stark was raising his thin greyish eyebrows to enlarge his ostentatiously patient gaze. Kathy met it with a stare that might contain some of her growing anger. “Am I meant to ask why?” she said. “I don’t even know who I’m speaking to.”
“I’m Vera Brewer. Another of the people your son insulted. Told us he was better than all of us. What do you say to that?”
“I’m not sure,” Kathy said, too busy trying to cope with the woman’s tone to be other than honest. “I haven’t met you, after all.”
“So you’ve brought him up to think he’s superior to everyone else in the world.”
“He’s already done more with his life than I have with mine. I’m sorry if you thought he was rude. He’s been under quite a bit of pressure lately, you may not know. Anyway,” Kathy said as Mr Stark took hold of the latch of the entrance door while straining his left eyebrow and the same side of his mouth high at her, “has he called in?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“I just wanted to let you know that with the weekend he’s had he’s unlikely to be in today. You can put him down as sick.”
After more of a silence than Kathy thought was called for, Vera said “You’d better speak to Mrs Wimbourne.”
“Can’t you—” When a thump made it clear that Kathy would be addressing a deserted receiver, she wondered with as little patience as Mr Stark was exhibiting how much she would have to repeat. She was trying to consolidate her thoughts when a further voice said “How can I help you, please? We’ve just opened for the day.”
“So have we,” Kathy said and looked away from Mr Stark’s compressed face that a frown was cramping even smaller.
“I understand you’re Dudley’s mother.” This sounded no more favourable than “Did you have something to tell me?”
“Just that I want him to take the day off. Nervous exhaustion. I hope that counts as sickness.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Off from what?”
“From you.” The conversation seemed to be tilting again, and Kathy tried to regain control. “From work, I mean,” she said. “From his day job.”
“Can I stop you for a moment? Are you under the impression that your son still works here?”
The room grew charred—hot and dark—and Kathy had to find the breath to speak. “Doesn’t he?”
“Not since the middle of last week.”
Kathy heard her words becoming stupid with panic. “Do you think there could be some misunderstanding? I’m certain he’s been going to work.”
“Not here, I’m afraid.”
“Then where?” Kathy barely managed not to ask that, and had to force herself to substitute “What happened?”
“He was insubordinate, and on top of that he was abusive to his colleagues and myself, and then he flounced out before I could deal with him.”
“I do apologise. I apologise on his behalf. He’s had a few difficult weeks, I should say, because I don’t think he would tell people.” Yet more painfully she continued “If he comes and says he’s sorry, would you—”
“I’m afraid matters have progressed too far for that. I can’t operate this establishment with two empty positions. I’ve taken on a replacement for him. An official letter is on its way to him.”
“Did he really do anything so bad? I thought we had to behave a lot worse than that to be thrown out of this kind of job.”
“Perhaps you should spring to his defence a little less and learn a little more about him. Now you really must excuse me. I have an office to run,” Mrs Wimbourne said, and was gone.
Kathy closed her eyes as she switched off the mobile. At least inside her eyelids it was supposed to be this dark. The phone in her hand felt both hollow and burdensome, very much like her thoughts. She was beginning to wonder what else she mightn’t know about Dudley when Mr Stark spoke, closer than she had realised he was—virtually in her ear. “Ready for work now?” he said.
THIRTY-SEVEN
“I’m not answering,” Dudley mumbled. “I’m busy. I’m asleep. Don’t wake that either.” Before he’d finished the ringing fell silent, and he settled back into the comfort of the mattress. At least the ringing hadn’t roused the package. Perhaps it was indeed asleep or simply couldn’t hear. He knew it was safe in the bath; if it had tried to escape again it would have tripped over him. He didn’t need to check, and he was sinking towards the vision of the premiere of Meet Mr Killogram—of his own regal walk along the red carpet as autograph hunters held out copies of his book like petitions to him—when the bell shrilled afresh. Its identity was underlined by a hammering of metal on metal. It wasn’t the phone downstairs. It was the front doorbell.
He could still lie low. The door was bolted, and only the police would be able to batter it down. They had no reason to be there: he wasn’t one of the addicts they were chasing, nor was he hiding any in his house. Suppose the insistent caller was the postman with an important delivery? Not knowing nagged at Dudley, and so did the thought that the clamour might waken the package. Presumably it was tired from walking, as if he hadn’t walked just as far. He floundered off the mattress, blinking his sticky eyes, and had to sprawl on his hands and knees to hoist himself above the surface of the insubstantial yet clinging medium of sleep. The doorbell continued to shrill as he wobbled to his feet and shut the bathroom door on the way to blundering into his room.
He could hardly see for daylight. As he collided with the end of his depleted bed, the bell and the clanking of the knocker hushed at last. He rubbed his bruised shins and then his eyes, and stumbled to the window. Leaning over his desk, he saw Brenda Staples at the gate.
How dare it be her? She had nothing to complain about—no excuse whatsoever to have disturbed his sleep. He unlatched the window and flung the sash as high as it would rattle so as to thrust his upper half over the sill. He was naked from the waist up, and hoping to embarrass her. He took a hot breath to demand why she’d made so much noise, and then the breath turned dusty in his mouth. The person at the door had moved into view below him. She was his mother.
His instinct was to dodge out of sight even though she’d seen him. He tried to believe she was raising her gaze in admiration, but her face was too guarded for his liking. She held out her hands and curled the fingertips up. He was close to imagining that she expected him to jump into her arms until she said “Don’t stand there. Come and let me in.”
Panic made him blurt some of the truth. “I’m in the bathroom.”
“Then hurry up and put something on and come down.”
“She can’t come in,” he said in case the protest gave him time to plan. “She can’t see me when I’m not dressed.”
“Brenda only came to see why I couldn’t get i
n my own house. You’re satisfied now, aren’t you, Brenda? Stop wasting time, Dudley, and open the door. I’m tired and I want to talk.”
He was unable to grasp how the two were meant to fit together. If she was anxious to sit down, why couldn’t she in Brenda Staples’ house? He was almost desperate enough to suggest this, but it might make her suspicious. He withdrew into his room and leaned on the sash to slam the window, and wished he could feel safer now that his mother wasn’t watching. Mightn’t she leave him alone if he refused to unbolt the door? She might be so concerned for him that she would have someone break in—someone else who would learn about the package. It was going to be bad enough if Kathy did, but how was he to prevent her? The only way she could fail to notice it would be if it was making no noise—and at once he saw that he still had a chance. He simply had to silence the package.
Everything was ready. Reality was on Mr Killogram’s side as usual. Perhaps he’d been preparing this solution without knowing. Once the package was dealt with he could store it in his room until he had an opportunity to smuggle it out to the graveyard. He strode into the bathroom and grabbed his towelling robe from the hook on the door. The package was lying on its side as if to hinder its own escape. Dudley leaned over it and pressed the plug into the hole, and then he turned the taps on full.
The package didn’t react at once. He watched the tape and its clothes darken as the water inched higher. He was wondering if the package had expired without his intervention when it lurched awake. He was able to observe how it tried for several seconds to understand its situation before it commenced thrashing about. Presumably having realised that this wouldn’t save it, the package struggled onto its back. It attempted to kick and claw itself into a sitting position as the water sloshed around it and spilled into its nostrils. For the moment the lump of a head was winning the race with the rising flood. Dudley was poised to trample on the scalp if it succeeded in clearing the edge of the bath when the doorbell rang curtly twice.
Couldn’t his mother even wait until he’d finished? Another ring told him the opposite. The longer he kept her waiting, the more distrustful she would be. He only had to bluff her into staying downstairs until he completed his task. The package would take minutes to lever itself out of the bath, if it could at all. Though he was frustrated to miss any of its antics, he dashed downstairs and threw the bolts out of their sockets. “It’s open,” he shouted and ran for the stairs.
He was hoping to be in the bathroom by the time his mother reached the hall. He wasn’t even halfway up when she unlocked the door and stepped into the house. Without bothering to close the door she said “No need for you to run away, or is there?”
She couldn’t know there was. She was only talking the way women talked. “I told you,” Dudley said with all the impatience he had in him. “I’m having a bath.”
“Have it later. You aren’t even wet. You haven’t been in yet. We’re overdue for a talk.”
“I want to relax. I’ve been working all weekend.”
“So do I, Dudley.” He thought he’d won her over until she said “Let’s talk first and then maybe we both can.” She turned from retrieving the keys from the lock and gasped as if she’d been punched in the stomach. “What’s that?” she cried.
He felt shrivelled by panic for as long as it took him to recognise that there was no sign of the package. Kathy might have heard its struggles, even if he’d thought the sounds were unidentifiable. They were; that was why she’d asked the question. “Just the water running,” he said.
“Then turn it off.” Before he could move she said “I don’t mean that. What on earth have you been doing?”
“I said,” he said and managed to do so again. “Writing.”
“You’ve decided that’s all the work you’ve time for now, have you?”
That sounded so disparaging that he twisted to face her. “I thought you wanted it to be.”
“Don’t try and blame it all on me, Dudley. Perhaps your father’s right, though, and I’ve encouraged you a little too much. I talked to your boss this morning. She says you’ve left your job and didn’t even give in your notice.”
How many people had his mother discussed him with? His resentment almost overcame his dismay at having been found out, which only aggravated his fear that she might discover the rest. “There’s no room for it in my life any more,” he gabbled, desperate to learn what was happening upstairs and to complete his task. “I’ve got my writing and my film.”
“There are proper ways to do things, Dudley. I’ll support you if I can, you know that, but you could have discussed it with me first,” Kathy said, and then her gaze veered past him once more. “You still haven’t explained that. Are you seriously telling me it has to do with your work? You aren’t taking drugs, are you? Say you aren’t taking drugs.”
All at once he realised that she was looking at the armchair and the wardrobe doors. “I needed them for research,” he said and grinned. “The furniture, I mean, not drugs.”
She looked so relieved he found it pitiful. “Did you think up a good story?”
“Obviously. All mine are.”
“Just the same, I hope nothing got damaged.”
“Nothing we need to be bothered about.”
“I’ll trust you and not ask.” Her gaze was still beyond him when she said “Well, see to it for heaven’s sake.”
She wasn’t referring to the package, he had to remember. She must have tidying away the furniture in mind. “I want to have my bath first,” he said.
“That’s what I’m talking about. Turn off the water or you’ll have it through the floor.”
“You shouldn’t have kept me so long, then,” he objected, suddenly afraid that if the water overflowed she would use that as an excuse to invade the bathroom. All the same, she’d offered him a reason to sprint upstairs, and he did, to see that the package had almost succeeded in tricking him.
It had hooked its bound hands over the end of the bath and was straining to lever itself to its feet. He supposed he should admire its effort, which deserved to be put in a story. He slammed the door and strode to the bath. As the lump of a head swung blindly to acknowledge the slam he used a foot to shove the package away from the end of the bath until the hands lost their purchase. It slithered into the water, and he could have taken it for some amphibious creature returning to its chosen medium. He planted his heel on its forehead to keep it on the bottom, and saw that he ought to tread on its ankles as well to prevent the legs from sloshing water out of the bath. He should also turn the taps off before the water spilled over the edge, but first he needed to bolt the door. He was reluctantly lifting his foot as the nostrils of the wrapped head gave vent to a gurgling bubble when he heard his mother call “I’ll put these doors back. Before you lock yourself in there I just want to say—”
Her voice was too close. He jerked his foot out of the bath, splashing the mattress, and raced for the door. His hand was nearly on the bolt when the door opened an inch, and then another. “If you’d like me to—” Kathy said, and was silent for a moment that felt to Dudley like the beginnings of suffocation. “Who’s that?” she said in a voice that sounded unconvinced of its own existence, and shoved the door wide.
“Nobody.”
For as long as it took him to say it he was able to believe that enough of a denial might convince his mother. Then the water heaved up, drenching the mattress, and two bare feet reared above the surface. “Just someone that’s helping me with my research,” he said and stared so hard at his mother that his eyes stung.
When he saw her falter he was sure that he had a chance. “Leave us alone or they’ll be embarrassed,” he said.
Kathy was still on the landing. He took hold of the bolt and moved the door steadily towards her. “If you want to help,” he said, “go out for a while or I’ll lose my inspiration. I won’t have a story any more.”
Her eyes winced, and he saw that she would do as he asked if he could think of on
e more reason. He hadn’t managed when she moved. She retreated a step, and then she took it back, and her face stiffened with a clarity he had never seen before. “They can’t be embarrassed,” she said. “They’re dressed.”
Dudley glanced at the package. It had raised its denimed legs beside the taps, either trying to find them and shut off the flow or in a confused attempt to shove itself into a less fatal position. The distraction was all Kathy needed. She pushed the door aside and marched past him. “For the third time,” she said, “this wants turning off.”
She grasped the taps, but seemed capable of forgetting to wield them as she gazed into the bath. He was thinking that she might collaborate with him again, however inadvertently, when she twisted the taps shut and hauled on the chain to unplug the hole. Part of his mind urged him to flee, but she was still his mother. If she wouldn’t trust him, who would? She gazed at him with worse than disappointment, as if she hardly recognised him. “What on earth have you been up to while I’ve been away?” she said.
“I keep telling you, research and lots of writing. There’s the research.”
He heard the water draining and the package floundering about in it, and had to remember that the package couldn’t speak. Of the many questions his mother visibly had in mind, she chose “Who is she?”
“She wouldn’t want me to tell anyone. That’s why she’d be embarrassed. Don’t worry, she agreed to do this. She’ll be fine.” He ventured to the bath and grinned at the package, which was stranded on its back. “She’d tell you herself if she could,” he said.
It writhed onto its side, displaying its bound hands as it snorted water out of its nostrils. “See, it’ll be all right,” he said. “She will.”
His mother stared at him, and something left her eyes. “She’ll have to,” she said and stooped to the package.
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