Mystery Man 04 - The Prisoner of Brenda

by Bateman

  Eventually he said, ‘What were you doing at Purdysburn last night?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Yes, I know. It was a rhetorical question.’

  ‘Ah.’ I took a Frap sip. ‘You know,’ I said, ‘in the sixteenth century, an English printer called Henry Denham invented a rhetorical question mark. It was the reverse of an ordinary question mark. It didn’t catch on, but I think it could have been very useful.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Is that also a rhetorical question? And if it is, see how useful it would be?’

  He thought about it. After a bit he gave a shrug and said, ‘Sure, if we were writing this down. But we’re not. We’re just enjoying a coffee.’

  ‘How do you solve a problem like Maria?’ I asked.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘How do you solve a problem like Maria? From West Side Story. It’s a rhetorical question. And one that is repeatedly answered with another question throughout the song, suggesting that actually the problem of Maria cannot be solved or does not require an answer.’

  DI Robinson leaned forward over his coffee. ‘Tell me, Mystery Man, does a bear shit in the woods?’

  ‘Are you being rhetorical?’

  ‘Yes. And no. You have a habit of interfering in my investigations.’

  ‘I’m sorry, am I the bear or the shit, in this scenario?’

  ‘You’re both. You were at Purdysburn last night trying to see The Man in the White Suit.’

  ‘Everyone seems to be calling him that. I’ll be very disappointed if he doesn’t have one. And trying is the word.’

  ‘How did you find out about him?’

  ‘I haven’t found out about him.’

  ‘I mean, who called you in?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

  ‘Management?’

  ‘They just wanted me to find out who he was. And by they I mean whoever it was who called me in, be they a he, she or a goat.’

  ‘And are you finding out?’

  ‘No. Once he stabbed someone, he, she or the goat didn’t seem so keen. I suppose they, he, she or the goat hoped the police would take a keener interest. Incidentally, how’s the guy who got stabbed?’

  ‘He died in the early hours,’ DI Robinson said wearily.

  I lifted the Frap. It was very good. Starbucks has a famously high standard in its beverages. I wasn’t sure if this store was owned directly by Starbucks or was part of a franchise operation. Franchise operators can be hit or miss.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said DI Robinson. ‘So it’s a murder investigation.’ He nodded at me. ‘Although fairly open and shut.’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  I raised one back.

  We were at something of an impasse, while my Panini, which they had thoughtfully heated for me, was getting cold. I still couldn’t bring myself to take a bite. Instead I sipped Frap again. I dabbed my lips with a napkin and said, ‘I have to get the shop open again.’

  I began to get up.

  ‘Hold your horses,’ said DI Robinson, and made a waving-down motion with his hands.

  I am, in fact, also allergic to horses. But I did not mention this. I settled back down. I did not need to get the shop open. It was a device for cutting to the chase.

  ‘This is a murder investigation,’ he said. ‘But it’s not just one murder.’

  He let that sit in the air for several moments.

  Eventually I said, ‘In the hospital, last night?’

  ‘No. Beyond that, I’m not prepared to say.’ He leaned on the table, his shoulders forward. If he meant it to be intimidating, then it was. ‘All I know,’ he said, his voice slightly deeper, ‘is that somehow you’re attempting to become involved in this, and although we have collaborated successfully in the past . . .’

  ‘Well, if by collaboration you mean that I’ve solved cases and you have taken the credit, then yes, we—’

  ‘This time I don’t want you sticking your nose in. I’m not warning you off, exactly, I’m just saying – you are now a family man with responsibilities. Don’t put your loved ones in danger, because if I’m right, this Man in the White Suit is not only a psychopath who deserves to spend the rest of his life locked up exactly where he is, in the nut house, he’s also going to be a target for some very nasty individuals who will be looking for revenge – and you don’t want to put yourself or your family in the way of that, do you?’

  ‘Obviously not,’ I said.

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘I really mean it.’

  ‘So do I.’

  DI Robinson nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. He gave another hand signal, palm out, towards the door.

  I got up, clutching my Panini.

  ‘How’re you getting on with that girl of yours anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Although I think she may well be possessed by the Devil.’

  DI Robinson shook his head wistfully. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said.

  6

  I stood by the window, watching.

  I take copious amounts of sleeping pills, but they never seem to work. They are properly prescribed, though sometimes I had the notion that Dr Watt, one of my current GPs, had been supplying me with sugar-coated placebos. In fact, it is probably the sugar that was keeping me awake. He believed that I was taking too many tablets, and that was without me letting on how many herbal remedies, pick-me-ups and potions I was also purchasing from the health-food store downtown. Though, it has to be said, I had recently cut back on these.

  The store was run by a nice Indian gentleman who wooed me by joining my Christmas Club. It was kind of a quid pro quo – an ‘I scratch your suppurating back and you rub my engorged stomach’ kind of a deal. We became so pally that he gave me first dabs on whatever new wonder medicine came into the store. He called me his little guinea pig, although coming from a devout Muslim I wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or an insult. I pulled him on this and he went off to consult the Koran, but before he could report back he suffered a massive coronary thrombosis which killed him stone dead. So he left me in the lurch on that one. It wasn’t much of an advert for the benefits of his health-food store either. His son took over the running of the store, but refused to honour his father’s commitments to my Christmas Club, so I had lately taken my business elsewhere, mostly onto the internet. Alison, for her part, was pleased that I’d apparently cut down on the pills. She believed that 99 per cent of herbal remedies were ‘pish’.

  That night, however, I could not sleep mainly because I was thinking about The Man in the White Suit and why DI Robinson had given me a warning-off which he claimed was not a warning-off, but which was a warning-off. I had simply been asked to identify a lost soul, and he would have it that my baby’s life, my girlfriend’s life and more importantly, my own life would be in danger if I chose to pursue the case. He had also said, on the pavement outside my beloved Starbucks, that this was not some kind of a double bluff and that by trying to dissuade me he was not actually really trying to encourage me because he had come to a dead end and realised it was time to call on my superior investigative skills and to take advantage of the fact that I was unfettered by the need for warrants or permissions or respect for constitutional rights, and that, furthermore, he believed I could not only successfully identify The Man in the White Suit but also expose those who were plotting revenge against him while bravely ignoring what would surely be a desire on their part to exact bloody retribution against my family for daring to stick my nose in. He was saying that this was definitely not what he was suggesting.

  I said, ‘That’s what you call a bluff, not a double bluff.’

  ‘Are you sure? I mean about it being singular?’

  ‘Fairly,’ I said.

  ‘Either way, I don’t want you involved.’

  ‘Does that make it a double bluff, now that you’ve warned me twice in thirty seconds? Or if it’s the same bluff, does it count as double? Or does saying e
ither way negate the . . . Never mind, these are rhetorical questions.’ I made the sign of the reverse question mark, to emphasise the point.

  He said, ‘Alison was right. You are a fucking space cadet.’

  ‘When did she say that?’ I not only didn’t like that she was talking about me behind my back with someone who clearly fancied her and wanted to have sex with her, but also that she was getting so close to the truth.

  DI Robinson, for his part, ignored my question. ‘Just take this on board, Mystery Man: keep your big nose out of it. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ I had said.

  Alison joined me at the window. There was a steely greyness to the sky, which was as close as we ever got to the sun coming up. This high up in the house, the view was reasonable. Most nights I get to see people getting changed for bed across the road, and some mornings as well, when they forget themselves and open their bedroom curtains before they’ve thought to put many clothes on. I also like to keep an eye out for unfamiliar cars, gypsies and mother ships.

  Alison slipped an arm around my waist and nestled her head into my pigeon chest. ‘What’s wrong, baby?’

  ‘Nothing. I was just thinking.’

  ‘Usual shit?’

  ‘No.’ And then: ‘I was thinking that nose cartilage continues to grow your whole life. In ten years’ time I’m going to need scaffolding.’

  She gave me a squeeze. ‘Oh, love, don’t be daft. With all your ailments? In ten years’ time you’ll be eight years dead.’

  ‘I’m serious, it just keeps growing.’

  ‘I know you are. You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t have something to worry about. But the length of your nose is the least of your worries.’ Before I could react properly to that she kissed the side of my head. ‘Joking,’ she said. ‘I’ve never met a healthier man, at least physically.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I mean, you have great empathy with people who suffer from severe mental illness.’

  I studied her. ‘Elucidate,’ I said.

  ‘I know you, I know what you’re thinking about. That poor man in Purdysburn.’

  ‘I am not,’ I said. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, not much. I’m just curious.’

  ‘I know you are.’

  ‘Why do you say, poor man?’

  ‘Because if you don’t know who you are, it must be very confusing. It would be very easy to lash out.’ I nodded. ‘Or he might even have multiple personalities. You can relate to that.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘I’m joking. I just think that if anyone was able to tease something out of him, it’s you. Being locked up in there, no friends or relatives to turn to, he could probably do with a friendly face, and you have a lovely friendly face.’

  ‘I was never locked up,’ I said. ‘What do you think I am?’

  ‘I know exactly what you are.’ She gave me another squeeze. ‘You’re my Love Bug.’

  ‘I’m allergic to—’

  ‘Don’t spoil it,’ she said. She let go of me and sauntered back to our bed and crawled under the quilt. She reappeared at the headboard end and threw the corner of the quilt back to reveal her topless self. ‘Our offspring has not yet awoken, we should make hay while the sun shines.’

  Hay and sunshine.

  She was trying to kill me with kindness.

  So we had the sex and it was good. I told her as much. ‘That was good,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t damn me with faint praise,’ she replied.

  ‘No really, it was nice.’

  ‘Jeez.’

  ‘It was fine.’

  ‘Never say fine. Girls hate fine.’

  ‘Fine is a fine word. It’s wonderful.’

  ‘Then say wonderful. Don’t say fine.’

  ‘But it was fine. A fine wine is a great compliment.’

  ‘You’re saying I’m old, now. Vintage.’

  ‘No, I’m—’

  She put a finger to my lips. ‘Stop.’

  I stopped. I had been contemplating raising the subject of her devil pictures. I decided not to. It did not feel like the right time. Instead, I would keep her under observation.

  After a while, she said. ‘Did you ever have a nickname at school? I’m sure you did.’

  ‘Where did that come from?’ I asked. She gave a little shrug against me. I said, ‘Why, did you?’

  ‘Briefly, yeah. They called me Frida. After Frida Kahlo. She was a Mexican painter who—’

  ‘I know who she was. Was it because you have a moustache like hers?’

  She dug me in the ribs, which was a dangerous thing to do with someone who suffers from Brittle Bone Disease.

  After a bit she said, ‘I don’t have a moustache, do I?’

  I studied her face for a long time. Eventually I said, ‘N . . . ooo.’

  She giggled. It was nice to see.

  She said, ‘It was because I loved art so much, and was briefly infatuated with her. I was fourteen.’

  ‘And that was it? Your only nickname?’

  She nodded against me. ‘You? More than one?’

  ‘A couple, yes.’ I thought for a moment. They were never far from the surface. ‘Well, they called me Snorky. And SpeccyFourEyes. And Gormless. And Thickfuck. Snout Honker. Beaker. Spine. Spineless. Spinefree. Sickboy. Mentalboy.’

  ‘God, you—’

  ‘Biafran, Bostik-head, Joey Deacon, Moron, Maggot, Gayboy, Fruitcake, Shirtlifter, Albino, Sambo, Space Cadet . . .’

  ‘You—’

  ‘Shit-kicker, Ballet Scrotum, Barnacle Arse and Spastic.’

  She nestled closer and stroked the single red hair on my chest. ‘God. Love.’

  ‘Yes, that first day at school was difficult. But you know what they say, sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will smooth my passage to a secure mental institution.’

  ‘Is that what happened? Why you ended up . . .?’

  ‘Amongst other things.’

  ‘And your mother wasn’t any . . .?’

  ‘My mother was amongst the other things. Why do you ask, about the nicknames?’

  ‘I was just wondering how you felt about Love Bug.’

  I shrugged. ‘In the grand scale of things it’s fine.’

  ‘Fine!?’

  ‘It’s good.’

  I smiled. We smiled. Her palm was now flat against my chest. If she’d wanted, she could have poked a finger through my waxy skin and speared my paper heart. She looked me in the eye. I looked away. She guided my chin back towards her until our eyes locked. She said, ‘You are a good man, and getting better all the time. And I love you. If you want to check on The Man in the White Suit, you just do that. You have my blessing. I mean, what harm can come of it? He’s behind bars already.’

  Somehow I had neglected to tell her about DI Robinson’s dire warning of impending doom if I pursued the case. I would have, but there was no point in ruining a nice morning.

  And then I let out a sudden yell as Alison yanked that single red hair from my chest.

  ‘Got it!’ she guldered. ‘That fucker has been annoying me for months!’

  7

  I arrived at the hospital unannounced. Although I am always one for order, and planning, and have twice been nominated for the OCD Hall of Fame, when I am involved in a case it is best not to alert people to an impending visit; it only gives them an opportunity to say no or hide behind a sofa. Nurse Brenda had not actually told me that I was no longer required to solve The Case of the Man in the White Suit – and I didn’t see why the fact that he had been charged with murder should have changed anything. He was still unidentified. I was only interested in revealing who he was, not in the details of his murder or the concerns of those who apparently held a grudge against him. I wished to study him, and deduce. That was all.

  I sat outside in the Mystery Machine for a while, waiting for my heart to slow. Partly it was to recover from my fear of traffic, and signals, and pedestrians, and the possibility of asteroids, but mostly it w
as the terror of once again being in Purdysburn, and the memories it stirred. I should have been asking myself why I was there at all, if this was how it was going to affect me, but I did not, because if I started asking myself questions I would be there all day, sitting behind the wheel, talking to myself. I’d done it before. Once for eight hours. And that was me debating whether to order a sandwich or to drive home and make one. There are infinite possibilities and variations and tangents. Having an intellect superior to most humans is no easy burden to carry.

  Eventually I got out. I approached the hospital. It was no less foreboding in daylight. As I entered and crossed from the door to reception, I found myself studying the tiles underfoot. Every third one featured a series of hieroglyphics. Most people cannot read hieroglyphics. I can. I suspected that these hieroglyphics did not actually mean anything, which only served to make them more cryptic. If I let myself, I would start looking for a code, and then the key to it. Months might pass before I got to the reception desk.

  I forced myself to look up. I asked for Nurse Brenda. I said I was there to see her on a private matter, that I wasn’t a patient. The woman behind the desk said she would phone and check. She did not ask for my name. When she spoke to whoever she spoke to, however, she said my name. This was surprising. Either word of my crime-fighting exploits had spread, or she recognised me from No Alibis – or she recalled me from my time as a patient in Purdysburn. She looked old enough. I’m not great at remembering faces, unless they are bizarre. This woman had a plain, unmem-orable face. There was nothing distinctive about it at all. It was bland, dull, insipid and weak. It lacked personality, distinctive angles or anything other than coherence. She had a medium-sized mouth and adequate teeth. Her hair was a mousy brown and her eyes were exactly the same distance apart.

  She said, ‘She’ll be down in a minute.’

  Her vowels were flat and her accent middle-class, middle-of-the-road and from somewhere in the middle of the Province. I had a tremendous urge to hit her with a hammer. Instead, I said, ‘Thank you.’

  She smiled. She said, ‘Do you not remember me?’ I shook my head. ‘I remember you. You were very sweet. And I remember your mother.’ We nodded. ‘Is she . . .?’