by Jess Kidd
He laughs; the small points of his teeth remind me of some kind of sinister fish. He has a pale clamminess to him, as if he’s spent his life skulking around in the bottom of a tank avoiding daylight.
‘What about a day trip?’ he ventures. ‘To the coast perhaps?’
I appear to consider it. ‘It would do him the power of good. You’d want me to take him?’
Gabriel grins. ‘Of course, all expenses paid.’
‘Wonderful! Mr Flood will be so excited. I’m sure he’ll be grateful to you for wanting to treat him.’
Gabriel’s grin falters. ‘Let’s not tell him it was my idea. You know, he might think there’s something cloak-and-dagger going on. Which there’s not, of course.’
I smile benignly. ‘Of course not, but there will be procedures. I’ll have to write a risk assessment and run it past the agency for permission.’ Just to see him hop, I add, ‘It should only take a couple of weeks to set up.’
And hop he does. ‘Would you really need to go to all that trouble, Maud?’ he asks, the pitch of his voice rising with a pleasing note of hysteria.
The waiter arrives with his all-day breakfast sandwich.
Gabriel studies it with dismay until the waiter is back behind the counter. Suddenly a thought appears to hit him. He feels around in his breast pocket and pulls out his wallet.
‘What if I gave you an advance, you know, to help you get started planning the trip. Would that speed things up a bit?’
As I watch him count out a pile of notes I wonder what he wants from Bridlemere. It must be something really valuable: a big rock of an uncut diamond, the Holy Grail in a presentation box? If the Antiques Roadshow ever featured weird shit there would be ten episodes on the bottom step of the staircase alone.
Gabriel puts his wallet back in his pocket and picks up his sandwich. He eats with a kind of passive guzzle while he watches me. He gestures to the pile of money on the table. ‘Take it. For your expenses.’
‘What is it you’re looking for, may I ask? Maybe I’ve come across it when I’ve been clearing the house?’
He smiles patronisingly. ‘I doubt it.’
‘I’ve had a good root around.’ I pause for dramatic effect. ‘I’ve even gone upstairs.’
‘Really?’ An expression of panic crosses his face.
‘Really.’
He squints at me as if he is making a quick calculation. Then takes another bite of his sandwich. ‘As I said,’ he says, chewing, ‘I doubt it. It’s just something trifling.’
‘Your father . . .’ I hesitate.
‘Yes, Maud?’
I look into his eyes, wondering if I can trust him. ‘Would you say he is largely harmless?’
A smile stretches thinly across his suddenly reptilian face. Perhaps there’s really a little green lizard inside his fat man’s suit.
‘Of course. Utterly harmless,’ he says. ‘A pussycat.’
I frown.
‘So, Maud,’ he says. ‘All I need is one day and a key. You have the back-door key? If you lend it to me I can have one cut ready.’
‘You don’t have a key to your father’s house?’
‘No. He’s a little paranoid about that. He doesn’t want people spying about the place.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Why? No reason. He likes to keep himself to himself.’
He smiles sourly. ‘Or else maybe he thinks I want to lie in wait, bump him off.’
Gabriel lays into his sandwich.
I imagine him, loafers oiled, his footstep quieter than a light-stepping mouse. It’s the dead of night and the new-cut key turns silently in the lock. Then Gabriel is inside, slinking through the house with his nasty father-murdering ways. Clad in a black polo neck and a balaclava, plump and deadly, like a homicidal blood pudding. A length of fuse wire and a filleting knife in his manbag.
Does Cathal Flood deserve that?
I look at Gabriel and he looks back at me, as rancid as the fried egg that decorates his chin.
He finishes his sandwich and wipes his fingers on a napkin. ‘Of course, who wouldn’t want to bump him off at times? He’s a difficult man.’ He taps the money on the table. ‘So, Maud. Do we have a deal or not?’
I see the look in his eyes – cold, dead eyes. I may be about to swim in a dirty ocean with a badly coiffured shark.
‘For work like this you need a relic.’ The knight puts down the sack in his hand and lowers himself into Gabriel’s vacated seat with a great clanking and scraping of invisible armour. ‘Just think of the level of protection you could achieve with the hem of St Bernadette’s shroud or St Joseph’s phalanges.’
I glance up at the waiter; he’s playing with his mobile phone and looking bored. I’m the only customer and I’ve been nursing my coffee for nearly an hour.
St George (cavalry, chivalry, herpes) levers off his helmet and pushes his gauntleted fingers through his mid-length bob. It’s a style that doesn’t suit him and that he wears resentfully; it strikes an incongruous note against his unshaven jowls and the great burgundy bulb of his drinker’s nose.
He studies me; his gaze is pitiless. ‘You think you’re tough, kiddo, but you’re not.’
‘I do all right.’
‘Do you know what you’re taking on, Maud?’
He looks over his shoulder then heaves up the sack, unties the mouth of it and rolls the contents out onto the table. The teaspoons and the saucers are undisturbed by the bloody head of a mammoth reptile that comes to rest with one glazed yellow eye staring up at me. Its mouth is open in a razor-toothed smirk; its forked tongue flops through the sugar bowl.
‘Killed that.’ St George produces a rag from the skirts of his chain mail and wipes his hands. ‘Slippery little shit. Quick on its claws.’
‘Fair play to you.’
‘Could you do the same? Don’t lie to me now, Maud, look at its teeth.’
‘With the right equipment, a lance and so forth.’
St George gives a cynical laugh. ‘You have grit.’ Then he stops and leans forward, his face deadly serious. ‘Which is just as well: I’ve seen your dragons.’
He stands up with the grating sound of wrenching iron, bangs his breastplate and lurches off through the window of the cafe. The reptile head fades too, its grin last of all. It hangs a while in the air, ancient and malevolent amongst the dirty coffee cups.
Chapter 14
I help Renata fill the vol-au-vents. From time to time we study Sam through the serving hatch. He is on his knees fixing Renata’s video recorder; he has the television unit pulled out and is swearing softly. St Valentine is standing behind him making encouraging remarks he can’t hear.
Today Renata told Sam a story about a boy from Rotherhithe. A boy who loved to feel, from a very early age, the swish of nylons, the delightful pinch of a bra strap and the silky bliss of a slip. A boy who found solace in make-up and the thrill of accessorising freely. Who enjoyed moving his hands, swinging his hips and talking in a widely modulating pitch. It was a story about a boy, who, through many trials and tribulations, grew up to become an originative, yet tastefully understated, woman.
I glance at Renata’s sparkle-dazzled cheekbones as she adjusts her headscarf. Tonight she’s relaxing in a pair of cork wedges and a kaleidoscopic viscose kaftan. Sam is an old friend now, so she has dispensed with the wigs.
‘And Sam’s response to your story?’ I ask, shovelling an unidentifiable filling into its pastry home.
‘He told me that he was aged five when he first set eyes on his big sister’s swimsuit. Red polka dot, with a frilled skirt and a halter neck.’ Renata smiles. ‘He said it was a garment of incomparable cuteness and if he could have got hold of it he would have put it on there and then and never taken it off again.’
‘Good answer.’
‘He was very close to his sister growing up.’
‘He said that?’
‘It’s obvious. It’s why he’s so in touch with his yin.’
We watch Sa
m crawl round the television set. St Valentine points at Sam’s backside then gives me the thumbs up.
I raise my eyebrows and snip the spring onions.
I tell them about Mary Flood’s portrait in the hallway, the white bedroom and the gowns in the dressing room. I don’t tell them about the sound of the song sung in the hallway, half a phrase: high and pure, sad and wistful. Or about the letters written in the dust. Or about how I ran from the room like a gobdaw.
Over by the sideboard Renata is mixing a Staten Island Ferry and frowning.
St Valentine, however, looks to be enjoying himself immensely. He is stretched out on the hearthrug, his halo flaring from time to time with smoky orange light.
Renata tastes her drink with a flinty eye on me. ‘And that’s all that happened?’
I stop biting my nails and shrug.
‘No sign of Maggie Dunne?’
I shake my head.
St Valentine scratches his chin thoughtfully. ‘She’ll have been dispatched long ago.’ His eyes wander to the bookcase where Renata’s crime novels roost in their shabby jackets. ‘You’ll never find that wee girl. He’ll have her hidden away in some dark corner.’
Renata spears a pineapple garnish. ‘So, can we draw any conclusions from Mary Flood’s clothes?’
St Valentine starts up. ‘She’s likely scattered through the house, poor kid. Feet in the basement, arse in the bedroom, scalp in the attic.’
I throw him a look of unmitigated disgust. He winks back.
‘They weren’t the kind of things I expected Mary Flood to own. I mean, they weren’t everyday.’
‘She liked to dress up, all power to her elbow.’ Renata adds more rum and sits down with her glass. I wonder if she’s a little drunk. ‘Well, eyes peeled.’
‘A delicacy.’ St Valentine grins.
‘More clues will appear.’ Renata purses her lips. ‘Mary won’t let us down.’
‘Enough with the pleasantries,’ mutters St Valentine. ‘Tell ’em about the bribe.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ says Sam. ‘Gabriel Flood is a piece of work.’
‘You’ve met him?’ Renata asks.
‘I threw him off the property. Flood Senior told me he was an imposter.’ Sam’s face is grim. ‘Gabriel Flood caused a lot of trouble for me at the agency.’
‘Then I think you ought to go along with Gabriel’s plan, Maud.’ Renata wavers. ‘Or at least make him think you are likely to.’
‘I agree,’ says Sam. ‘Don’t make an enemy of him.’
I decide not to answer.
St Valentine, sitting cross-legged picking his remaining teeth, pipes up. ‘You should have taken his money, Twinkle. Didn’t I tell you to pocket it?’ He points at me with his toothpick. ‘What’s he even looking for?’
‘You have to wonder what he’s after, from the house,’ I volunteer.
Renata looks thoughtful. ‘Mr Flood’s insurance policy, that’s what he wants. The old man said the son couldn’t touch him, that he had something on him.’
‘I don’t trust Gabriel. I haven’t heard a true word from him yet.’
Renata turns to Sam. ‘Maud can always spot a liar, even a very good one. That’s why we had to stop playing poker.’
‘Is that so?’ Sam smiles.
‘Even with this.’ Renata waves her hand in front of her face. ‘Inscrutable.’
Sam laughs. ‘So you won’t let Gabriel into the house, Maud, fair enough. But if you took the old man out for the day maybe we could look around.’
‘We?’
‘Well, me. For the sake of the investigation,’ he adds.
St Valentine stops picking his teeth. ‘It’s a plan.’
‘It wouldn’t be right,’ I say, before I change my mind. ‘I can’t let anyone in without Mr Flood’s permission.’
St Valentine rolls his eyes.
‘I understand how you feel, Maud.’ Sam’s face is easy, reasonable. ‘But wouldn’t a quick search of the house set everyone’s mind at rest?’
‘As much as I disagree with her, Maud’s right.’
‘Thank you, Renata.’
‘And she won’t be persuaded otherwise, Sam; she has great integrity when she isn’t playing poker.’ Renata adjusts her headscarf. ‘So now we have three questions: what does the old man have on his son, what does Gabriel want so badly from the house and what have the Floods to do with the disappearance of Maggie Dunne?’
I take a small square bundle from my handbag and untie it, spreading the Mass cards out on the coffee table.
‘Maybe these will help to enlighten us. Let’s see if you can read another set of cards, Renata.’
Sam studies the notepad in his hand. ‘So now we have it. The Mass cards were issued by four different churches in London and two in the southwest of England, specifically Dorset. The earliest card was issued in March 1977 and the last card was issued in January 1990, just weeks before Mary Flood’s death.’ He glances up at me. ‘We are all agreed that, for the most part, the majority of the Masses were offered by two churches.’
Renata nods. ‘St Joseph’s, East Twickenham, and Our Lady of Lourdes, Wareham.’
Sam continues. ‘Most of the Masses were requested on Gabriel’s behalf between August 1985 and January 1990. Many were offered on consecutive days or even on the same day at different churches.’ He glances up at us. ‘In addition, there were a number of Masses offered for Marguerite between 1977 and 1990.’
‘At Our Lady of Lourdes,’ adds Renata.
‘With difficulty we have made out the signatures of the priests who issued these cards: Father Quigley and Father Creedo.’
‘Good,’ says Renata. ‘So we start with these two priests and see what they can tell us.’
Sam puts down the pad. ‘I’ll take Father Quigley.’
‘No,’ I say, ‘I’ll do a detour on my way home.’
Sam smiles. ‘Maud, let me. We’re a team, aren’t we?’
St Valentine turns over and leans on his elbow. ‘Go on, Maud,’ he leers. ‘You’re a team, aren’t you?’
‘It’s okay, Sam,’ I murmur grimly. ‘I have a priest-wrangling background.’
Chapter 15
The age spots are moving on Cathal Flood’s face. See them slipping down his nose and sliding under his chin. They travel across his temples to meet between his brows, flickering moth-wing patterns and praying-mantis shapes. He grins, a geriatric Rorschach, and touches his finger to his lips. Then he turns his back to me and waves his arms and soon much more than his face is in motion.
All around him objects start to flutter and shake; anatomical wax models and broken lampshades take to the air, to be joined by yowling cats and revolving spiders. Glass jars bob by, filled with scrolled notes, or jittering eyeballs, or butcher’s gristle. Milk bottle tops and sardine tins twinkle and turn in starry constellations. Startling taxidermy creations hop, drag and flutter by with odd mechanical actions. Unholy medleys, from farmyard and zoo, assemble and reassemble mid-air. Photographs of red-haired children spontaneously combust and drop, smouldering, into a pond where a coy nymph holds to her ear not a conch but a skull. She winks knowingly and drinks from it. Newspaper cuttings join in the furore, waltzing round the fountain, screwing themselves up into little balls and unfurling again, on each a smiling blonde schoolgirl.
In the middle of it all stands Cathal Flood, conducting, with wet seeping through the arse of his trousers.
A woman in a yellow dress flies over, her face on fire. She turns her head with rapid jabbing motions. No eyes, no nose, no mouth, only a mask of flames that billow and spark with every movement. She is looking for something. She spots the old man, halts in mid-air, then plunges, feet first, her toes curved like claws.
I sit up in the bed. In a few hours it will be time to get up. I won’t sleep again, I know that. There is no sign of St Dymphna. Small mercies.
* * *
As I get off the bus I think about Mr Flood’s stark warning, of the consequences of going where
I’m not supposed to go, even if it is to rescue a Siamese cat.
I will be gone.
And what if Maggie Dunne is living still? Holed up in some dusty corner of the house, in the attic, or in the basement?
Maud Drennan, the last hope of Maggie Dunne.
If I don’t find her no one will.
I will have blood on my hands either way.
Maggie’s or Beckett’s. Take your pick.
I’ll be saving neither: the back door is barricaded.
It opens less than three inches on the safety catch, just enough for me to shout through. So I holler for a while then straighten up to find Mr Flood standing behind me. He has picked up my handbag and is rifling through it. He is wearing a raincoat over paint-stained pyjamas. His white hair sticks upright on his head.
‘What’s all this, Mr Flood?’
He glances up at me and flicks my bus pass into the buddleia.
‘Put the bag down, Mr Flood.’
He bares his dentures in a defiant grimace and continues digging, taking out a lipstick and throwing it over the toolshed.
Somewhere deep inside me there is sure to be anger but in this job normal responses callus over. So I sit down on the doorstep and take a half-packet of cough sweets out of the pocket of my fleece. I hold them out to him.
‘Menthol eucalyptus?’
He stops rifling and looks at me.
I prise a sweet from the weathered roll. ‘They’ve been through the wash a few times but they’re grand.’
He droops a little. ‘I don’t want you here. You can feck right away. Go on. Go.’
‘What about my portrait? You said you’d paint me today. Look. Hair up, brushed even.’
I peel the wrapper from the sweet; it has an ancient bloom to it. I pop it in my mouth; it is strangely tarry.
He drops my handbag with a sudden look of noble shame, like a wild bear caught stealing junk food from a skip.
I pat the step next to me. ‘Take the weight off.’
He studies me suspiciously, his great fists clenched, his boreal eyes gleaming under low brows.
Then, to my surprise, and with great difficulty, he lowers himself down onto the steps and sits with his long, long legs stretched out before him. His pyjama jacket is buttoned up wrongly to reveal his stomach, as soft and pale as the underbelly of a fish. There’s a powerful unwashed odour from him, strong enough to fight the medicinal ferocity of a vintage cough sweet. I breathe through my mouth. He takes the packet from my hand and puts it in his coat pocket.