Cut Out

by Marcia Woolf

It was busy in the café. I was lucky to find a single seat in the corner on a high stool. I sipped my coffee and tried not to look as though anything was amiss, although the cup rattled slightly in the saucer as I put it down. Undoubtedly, now, I was in a hole, possibly more than one. A hole inside a hole, and getting deeper all the time. Whoever Miss Black Jacket was, she must have been following me. She knew Nilsson, she knew about Sullivan and she knew about Project Alphabet. It was pretty evident that she wasn’t police, so who else could she be?

  As I made my way home to make the 4pm assignation with Jack, I watched the other faces on the tube. For the most part they were couples and young families, and it seemed that happiness and harmony was the order of the day. My father used to say that you make your own happiness, but then he used a lot of platitudes. Quite a lot of them were inherently contradictory little homilies about work, hope, patience, getting out what you put in, expecting nothing and receiving – what was it? I don’t remember. I don’t suppose I was listening.

  It was dark, and raining again when the DLR pulled into Canary Wharf. I didn’t really feel like going home to the empty flat, although it was quarter to four and Jack would be fidgeting by the phone. I forced myself in a homeward direction, dodging puddles and idiots with golf umbrellas. Shops were still open; restaurants and cafés still doing a trade. There was a bar that Jack and I used to go to sometimes, a self-consciously trendy place, a chrome and leather pleasure palace called the Wharf We’re In. They sold a cocktail that Jack was particularly fond of, which I imagine was the main reason we went there: a lethal mix called Rat Poison. I dread to think what was in it. I had one once but it had a strange, unpleasant tang: like acetone: probably only crème de bananes. At least, I hope it was. For no other reason than it was cold and I couldn’t face talking to Jack, I stopped when I got to the Wharf We’re In and hovered in the doorway for a moment. A couple bumped into me as they left; he apologised, but got his words mixed up, and she giggled as they supported each other towards the taxi rank. Sunday in London. What would my father say?

  After a minute of indecision, I pushed open the door and wove my way through the groups of very tall, very loud people in their weekend smart-casual. Mostly they were traders, middle-rank toilers in the temples of Mammon. A couple I knew were dealers. It’s been said that every twenty pound note in London is contaminated with the white stuff and, listening to the rubbish that was being guffawed around the Wharf, I could believe it. I stood on tip-toe to get attention. The barmaid, the sort of Aussie blonde who could drink the entire clientele under the table, gave me a look that suggested she knew me, but I couldn’t think how.

  “How’s yer brother?”

  I was startled; didn’t know how to respond.

  “Jack? Haven’t seen him in a while?” She put my drink down and handed over the change.

  My blank expression confused her.

  “Sorry. Must have got the wrong person?”

  “Yes. No. Sorry.”

  I prised myself away from the crowd at the bar, feeling distinctly uneasy. Jack, I suspected, had not been entirely truthful with me about the amount of time he’d been spending at the Wharf, nor what he’d been doing there. I was a bit indignant at the idea that, whatever it was, he might have been doing it with the barmaid. He’d obviously made quite an impression: he’d not been out and about, as you might say, for over two years. It’s a long time for a girl like that to be holding a torch. Her batteries must be running low by now. I finished my drink quickly and marched back to the flat through the driving rain, arriving furious and soaking wet. It was well past four, and the little red message light was blinking. I stood in the hallway, drip-dripping onto the tiles like I’d just been for a swim. Bastard. Lying little bastard. On top of that, how come he’d told her I was his sister? I thought we were supposed to be low key.

  After I’d dried off and warmed up, I thought I’d better listen to the message. I was going to delete it and pretend it didn’t exist but then I wondered if it might be a message from Ollie so, reluctantly, I pushed the button and waited. Oh, how I hate surprises. Not Jack. Not Ollie. A voice I’d not heard in ages, though it was as familiar to me as my own.

  “Miss Charlotte? Miss Charlotte? Oh, I thought it was you. You must be out. It’s Dora here. I’ve been... I’m sorry you’re not there. I’ll call you again later, about seven o’clock tonight? Seven o’clock London time. Bye, Miss Charlotte. Bye.”

  I listened to it again. Dora sounded odd: very downbeat, like she had bad news. The logical explanation was that something was wrong with my mother. Other than the usual, that is. It had been a long time since Dora had bothered me with calls about falls, brawls and trips to the hospital. Maybe the selfish old bitch had finally managed to drink herself to death. That would be typical: dying and leaving me to sort out all the financial mess while Jack sat staring at the walls in Wandsworth. I checked the time. Nearly six. There was some cold chicken in the fridge and I made myself a sandwich. It was okay.

  Sitting there in the dark with only the glow of the pretend fire for company, I suppose I was starting to feel a bit sorry for myself. Things were not going to plan. Well, to be fair, there wasn’t a plan, as such. Not in writing, anyway. But there were definitely things that didn’t belong on the not-plan. Like Jack being locked up. He used to say to me, when he was having one of his human moments, that we’d always be together. I’d generally been inclined to see that as a positive thing, but just recently I’d been having a few doubts. Maybe he meant it in a different way. We’ll always be together. I tried saying it out loud, and then again. After a while it stopped sounding like a promise and began to sound like a threat.

  Of course, I loved Jack. Love Jack. How could I not? He’s always been there for me. But then, our way of life isn’t easy. We have to be very careful. In a way, I wished Sullivan didn’t know about Jack and me. There was a tiny question mark at the back of my mind about Ollie’s motivation. On more than one occasion I’d had to insist that I didn’t want to be saved, and he’d go off into his big brother routine (like I needed another brother!) listing all the reasons incest is wrong – and he used to use that word, too – incest, in a very prim and prissy way, like he’d said fuck in front of his granny, but only in an academic context. He couldn’t get his head around it.

  I turned on the lamp and checked the time. Nearly seven. It was weird that Jack hadn’t called. Maybe he had, at four as arranged, and hadn’t bothered leaving a message. Unlike him to miss the opportunity for a rant. Where are you? What are you doing? I was a bit put out that Ollie hadn’t called either, but he at least would have an excuse. Jack could hardly say he’d had a better offer. Which reminded me about that bloody barmaid. God alone knows what Jack had been up to. I mean, shifting drugs around in your car is one thing, but retailing in a bar is a whole different matter. Too hands on, too dangerous. The boy had been getting reckless.

  At one minute past seven the phone rang. I must have fallen asleep and I knocked my glass onto the floor going for the receiver.

  “Shit.”

  “Miss Charlotte?”

  “Dora, Hi. Sorry – I just broke something.”

  I watched helplessly as purple wine was drawn inexorably into the cream wool of the hearth rug.

  “Miss Charlotte, I’m afraid I have some news that is not very good.”

  “Mother?”

  There was an intake of breath at the other end.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  A long pause. The wine continued its steady osmosis, opening towards me like an orchid.

  “Mrs Garrity passed at nine o’clock this morning, Chicago time. It was very peaceful, Miss Charlotte. I was with her. She just slipped away in her sleep. Didn’t suffer at all, and that’s a blessing.”

  “Why didn’t you let me know she was so ill?”

  Dora gasped.

  “But we did, Miss Charlotte. We did.”

  I was astonished.

  “Dora, what are you talking a
bout? We haven’t spoken in weeks.”

  I could hear muttering at the other end of the line, and another voice, a man. They talked almost as if I wasn’t listening.

  “Dora? What’s going on?”

  After a few moments the phone was handed over, there was some more whispering, and then the familiar voice of Dirk Brenninkmeijer, my father’s partner from the days when they had an architectural practice together. I’d always liked Dirk: a tall, thin stick of a man with white-blond hair and a penchant for Harris tweed jackets with elbow patches. He was never too busy to talk to me when Jack and I were kids: used to kneel down on the parquet floor of the dining room and inspect my doll’s house, making me shriek with jokes about taking the front off the whole building and seeing what the dolls were doing in the various rooms; things they shouldn’t be doing, he said. I’d not seen him or spoken with him since the day after Jack’s trial.

  “Cookie. I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “In what way?”

  “About your mother being ill. A couple of weeks ago, we knew she was fading. It was her liver, of course, but it became total organ failure. She was on morphine. I don’t think she felt anything towards the end.”

  “So what was the misunderstanding? Why didn’t Dora tell me all this?”

  “It’s my fault. We knew Shirley was dying and I had to come over to the UK on business, so I came around to your apartment, but there was no-one at home. I wanted to tell you in person. I didn’t know what to do. So I went—”

  “You went to see Jack.”

  “Yes. Didn’t he tell you?”

  The bastard, I thought. The little bastard.

  “He told me he’d had a visitor.”

  “A visitor? You mean, he didn’t tell you about Shirley?”

  “What do you think? No, not a word. He didn’t even tell me it was you who’d been to see him. If he’d said it was you then I’d have known straight away something was up.”

  I could hear more muffled conversation between Dora and Dirk. I waited. Dirk came back on the line.

  “Okay, Cookie, the funeral is on 21st November, at St Michael’s, Lincoln Park.”

  Hilarious. Only my mother. She wasn’t going quietly.

  “Right. I need to organise a flight. Jack can’t come, obviously.”

  “No. Are you okay, Cookie? I’m so sorry, I really thought Jack would tell you. I had to come back to Chicago right the next day and he promised me that he’d call you and...”

  “Well, he didn’t. Dirk, out of curiosity, how did Jack react when you told him?”

  “He seemed very – what’s the word? Not that surprised: angry, preoccupied, like something was worrying him. You know, it’s difficult in a place like that, with everyone listening.”

  “Yeah, tell me. I just love visiting days.”

  “I can’t believe he didn’t tell you. Have you two fallen out?”

  “Not so far as I’m aware.”

  Dirk gave a little laugh.

  “Oh, Cookie, you’re so… you always were, even as a child. Nothing seems to get to you, does it?”

  “Things get to me, Dirk. A lot of things get to me. I just don’t like to show it, that’s all.”

  He sighed. Dora was fretting in the background.

  “Let Dora know which flight you’ll be on and I’ll meet you at O’Hare. Come early: we can go get something to eat, catch up. I spoke to Clive Godwin. He tells me you took a job?”

  “News travels. Well, some of it, anyway.”

  Dirk sounded uncomfortable. I guessed he was feeling guilty for the way things had turned out, but I could hardly blame him for Jack’s behaviour. Even if I had known about Mother, I doubt I’d have felt the urge to go and share her dying moments. It wasn’t as if either of us had missed out. What was a mystery, though, was why Jack hadn’t told me that night when he’d called. God knows he’d had the opportunity. Maybe he couldn’t face it.

  “Look, Dirk, thanks for calling. Give my love to Dora and I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  “You’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Oh, and Cookie? There’s going to be the reading of the will, the day after the funeral. So you need to stay over for that.”

  “Do I, really?”

  He coughed. Poor guy. Come on, Cookie, don’t shoot the messenger.

  “Sorry, Dirk. But we both know what it’s going to say. Jack gets the fatted calf; I get a fat zero.”

  “You need to be there.”

  “Like I said, we know what—”

  “No,” he said, “No, you don’t know. Nobody does. I understand from Dora that your mother made some sort of a codicil.”

  “A codicil? Oh, great. You’re sure she didn’t say she was making a cocktail?”

  Dirk let out another sigh.

  “Don’t joke, Cookie. I want you to be there, okay? It’s important. Why don’t you show some respect for your mother, for once?”

  Well, that told me.

  “Right. I’ll be there for the funeral and the reading of the will, and I’ll be showing plenty of respect, don’t you worry. Never let it be said that the Garritys don’t know how to do respect.”

  “Now, Cookie...”

  “I know. Thanks for calling, Dirk. See you soon. Goodnight.”

  I hung up and disconnected the phone. The last thing I wanted now was a call from Ollie, and certainly not one from Jack. He really could be an unfathomable little shit sometimes. My father used to say, “that boy’s not normal, Shirley.” Sometimes he’d add, “he gets it from you.” My mother used to tell him to hush, and not say things so loud so that the staff might hear and spread rumours. Then she’d fix herself a Manhattan, and make her way upstairs.

  Chapter Seven

  Monday 17th November

  Watching the Detectives

  I booked a flight: LHR-ORD-ORD-LHR. Two nights at the Chicago Hilton: the last place any of our family would be staying. I could have had my old room at the house but something told me I’d feel better in the hotel. Too many memories. I emailed Dirk with the itinerary and he emailed back immediately. Why Hilton? I replied Need points. I imagined him laughing at that.

  Dawn called round again on her way home at 7.30am. She looked dog tired and I stoked her up with coffee and scrambled eggs. She asked for ketchup but it was on the Jack list of banned substances. I told her about my mother.

  “I’m sorry. Must have been tough.”

  “Not really. I’d got no idea how sick she was until it was too late. It’s going to be harder breaking the news to Jack.”

  She seemed taken aback.

  “He doesn’t know?”

  “Nope. Who’d tell him? I got the short straw.”

  “Jesus. Were they close?”

  I had to think about that one.

  “He was her favourite, if that’s what you mean. I expect she’s left everything to him.”

  “You’re joking? You really think there’s nothing?”

  “Oh, don’t worry. My father set up a fund for me.”

  Evidently, Dawn hadn’t quite grasped our financial position. It was embarrassing. My father always said don’t flaunt it, don’t make other people feel small. I shrugged.

  “Right. So you’ll be okay then?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Dawn looked around the flat like she was seeing it all for the first time; looking for the money, maybe. Not literally, of course, just for signs of it.

  “When are you going to see him?”

  “Got a visitor’s pass for Wednesday morning.”

  Yet again, Dawn Sayler surprised me.

  “Want company?”

  “You’re offering to go with me?”

  “If you like. Geraldine’s working. I’ve got a couple of hours to spare. It’s either Wandsworth or Sainsbury’s. Your call.”

  I had to laugh.

  “Yeah, why not? So long as this isn’t another undercover operation.”

  She squinted at me. �
�That’s not fair. We didn’t know there’d be a shooter.”

  “But you did know there was someone in the pub who wanted to have a go at Ollie?”

  No reaction.

  “How’s the investigation coming along?”

  Dawn put down her cup and leaned towards me.

  “Well, you should know.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re working there. With Nilsson.”

  “Yes. It’s awkward.”

  “I should say so.”

  “No, not like that. I was trying to be helpful. I thought if I got a job on the inside I could find stuff out…”

  “Oh, fuck me. Look, this isn’t a game. If Nilsson finds out you’re spying on him…”

  “He won’t. I applied for a job there, I’m employed legitimately. I go in and do my job and come home. The only way he’ll find out anything is if you lot start following me around. I think he knows he’s under observation.”

  “Knows? How?”

  “Well, I’m not sure, but there’s a receptionist, a blonde woman called Lucinda Fleming.”

  “We’re aware of her.”

  “Right. Have you got a phone tap in the offices?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  She pulled a face.

  “Okay, never mind. Anyway, I think she suspects there’s a phone tap because every time she’s called me at home or on my mobile, the call has been made from her own mobile, not the office land line.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. Dawn frowned and indicated I should go on.

  “On Sunday, I went to an art exhibition at the South Bank. 20th Century Colour – you should go.”

  “And?”

  “A woman approached me. Small, dark curly hair, black coat. Didn’t give her name. She told me to lay off Nilsson. Said, ‘we don’t need your help, it’s all under control.’ Who’s we? Not your lot, I take it?”

  “What else?”

  “She wasn’t very friendly, but apart from that I didn’t get the chance to talk to her. Oh, and she knows about Ollie and me.”

  “Bloody hell. What did she say, exactly?”