Shape of Snakes

by Walters, Minette

  Did I feel guilty about making an ally of my son? Yes. Did I remember Dr. Elias's words of warning about Sam's sense of betrayal when he found out? Yes. Would it have stopped me using Luke? No. I had enough faith in my husband to believe he would never blame his children for something they had done for their mother.

  This patient ... is obsessive ... manipulative ... and ... frightening...

  Danny wasn't the most attractive young man I'd ever seen, but I put on my best smile and shook his hand warmly as Luke took his leave and wandered over to the barbecue. "You won't remember me," I said, "but my husband and I used to live at number 5 Graham Road. You can't have been more than three or four at the time, but I knew your elder brother very well ... Alan ... I was his English teacher at King Alfred's."

  He shook his head. "It won't have been my brother," he answered. "Alan's thirty-five. You're thinking of someone else."

  "No," I assured him. "It was certainly Alan. I taught him in '78 when he was fourteen. He was a bit of a handful," I finished with a laugh, "but I expect he's calmed down by now." Danny examined me closely for a moment, before pulling a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. "You must have had an easy life then," he said, more in criticism than compliment. "My mum's not much over fifty but she looks a damn sight older than you do."

  I smiled. "It depends whether you think teaching is easy. I don't, but then I've never taught art. Perhaps that's less stressful than trying to force Shakespeare down the throats of reluctant adolescent boys."

  He rose immediately to the bait and I listened with patience to five minutes of complaint about the intolerable necessity of an artist having to earn a regular income ... about the wear and tear on the nerves caused by the arrogant egotism of students who hadn't a creative bone in their bodies ... about how, if he'd been lucky enough to live in a country where culture was valued, he'd have been given a grant to make his own art instead of teaching brain-dead morons how to make theirs...

  I nodded sympathetically when he drew breath. "And I suppose your family isn't in a position to help you?"

  "I'm not married."

  "I meant your parents. I remember your father quite well." I thought of the photograph of Derek Slater that Wendy Stanhope had lent me. "Dark-haired, rather good-looking. Very like you, as a matter of fact."

  He wasn't easily flattered. "There's only my mother," he said, "and she's on invalidity benefit." He offered me a cigarette and lit one for himself when I shook my head. "Dad abandoned us years ago ... can't even remember what he looked like anymore."

  "I'm sorry."

  He shrugged. "It was for the best," he said unemotionally. "He took his belt to all of us at one time or another. Alan worst of all. Dad used to beat him about the head when he tried to protect Mum, and Alan's still got the scars to prove it."

  "I did wonder," I said, equally unemotionally. "More often than not he was sporting a black eye at school, but he always told me he'd been in fights with boys from rival gangs. 'You should see the other guys,' he used to say."

  For the first time Danny smiled. "He was a good kid. He took a hell of a lot of punishment till he got to fifteen and slammed a baseball bat into Dad's face. That's when Dad took off." Another shrug. "I don't remember him but everyone says he was a right bastard. He got in touch with one of my sisters a few years ago but nothing much came of it. He was only after money. Sally tried to persuade Alan to help him out, but he refused and we haven't heard from him since."

  "Do you know where he is now?"

  There was a small hesitation. "Somewhere in London, I think."

  Prison? I wondered. "And what of Alan?" I asked in the sort of reassuring tone that said I was more interested in my ex-pupil than I was in his father. "How's he getting on? Is he married?"

  Danny nodded. "He's got a couple of kids, a girl and a boy. Never raises his voice to them ... won't even give them a smack." He sucked moodily on his cigarette. "It fucks my head to visit him. He lives in this great little house in Isleworth and his wife's brilliant. She's called Beth ... plain as a pikestaff and wide in all the wrong places ... but every time I go there I think, this is how families are supposed to be, with everybody loving each other and the kids feeling safe. It makes you realize what you missed." His eyes strayed toward Luke and Tom, who were arguing over which CD to put on next. "I'd say your sons are pretty lucky, too."

  I realized suddenly how vulnerable he was, and felt ashamed of the way I was using him. Until that evening he had been a name on a computer screen, an unremembered child from twenty years ago who had responded to an e-mail in the innocent belief that he was helping a lad in Cape Town complete a thoroughly trivial IT project. Yet he had no responsibility for Annie's death, and I wondered if he even knew that a black woman had died in Graham Road in '78. Certainly the name Ranelagh meant nothing to him, which suggested that both Annie and I had been long forgotten by the time Danny was old enough to understand that one woman had died on his road and another had accused her neighbors of racially motivated murder.

  I followed his gaze. "Luke and Tom might argue that you're the lucky one," I said.

  "How do you make that out?"

  "Because their upbringing means they will never have your creativity or your commitment to proving yourself. Internalized pain is always a stronger motivator than security and contentment. Contented people take happiness for granted. Anguished people struggle to find it through self-expression. At least you have a chance of greatness."

  "Do you honestly believe that?"

  "Yes."

  "Then why aren't you making your son's lives hell?"

  The question was simplistic enough to bring a smile to my face. At the very least, it was predicated on the assumption that parental love can be switched on and off according to circumstance ... although perhaps for him that was the reality of childhood. "Shouldn't you ask me first if I think greatness is a sensible ambition for a mother to want for her children?"

  "Why wouldn't it be?"

  "Because the odds are stacked against it. Anguish doesn't guarantee success, it merely offers the possibility. After that it's down to genius. In any case, as far as Luke and Tom are concerned, I'm guided entirely by selfishness. I want them to like me."

  He was unimpressed. "Everyone's motivated by selfishness," he said, "including Luke and Tom. They behave the way you expect because they think they'll get something in return. Alan used to kowtow to my father to avoid a thrashing, but I'll bet Luke and Tom only kowtow for money."

  I nodded. "More often than not."

  "Alan's kids are the same. They're barely out of nappies but they've got him wound 'round their little fingers." He dropped his cigarette butt on to the terrace and ground it out under his heel. "All they have to do is burst into tears and say they want ice cream and he starts emptying his pockets. I told him he's making an ass of himself, but he's so fucking paranoid about the way Dad treated us that he won't listen to reason."

  I wondered if Danny realized how confused his views on parenting were and what he meant by "reason." Spare the rod and spoil the child, presumably, although why, like so many people, he believed harshness was a better educator than kindness was a perennial mystery to me. "How does your mother feel about it?"

  "Christ knows. She's a Prozac junkie," he said bitterly, "so it depends what mood she's in at any given moment. It's a good day if she can drag herself out of bed ... as for having an opinion on something..." He fell silent, staring at the ground.

  "I'm sorry," I said again.

  "Yeah, it's a mess." He gave a mirthless laugh. "I guess you're pretty disappointed."

  "About what?"

  "That a type like me responded to Luke's e-mails. You were probably hoping for something better."

  "I never make those kinds of judgments," I replied truthfully. "If I did, I'd have to wear a label 'round my own neck, and that's not something I'm prepared to do. In any case, I'm not sure what type you think you are."

  He kicked at a flagstone, refusing to meet
my eyes. "Fucking useless," he muttered. "The last I heard of my dad he was banged up in the Scrubs for assault, but we've all been there at one time or another. I got six months for twocking-that's taking cars without consent. Alan got four years in juvenile for dealing ... both my sisters have done time for shoplifting. We're bad news. Poor old Mum used to get the cold shoulder every time she left the house because of the stuff her kids did." He lapsed into a brief, unhappy silence. "I guess that's why she doesn't get out of bed anymore."

  The admission clearly wounded him, and I wondered if he hadn't looked for us-or people like us, uninfected by anti-Slater bias-just as assiduously as we had looked for him. Yet, if that were true, why had he confessed to his family's failings so readily? The sly glance he gave me when he raised his head persuaded me it was a cynical test of my refusal to label him, and my sympathy waned a little. I guessed he enjoyed holding grudges and sought rejection for the purpose of fueling them ... and I wondered which of us was the more manipulative.

  "I thought you were going to classify yourself as a struggling artist," I said with a small laugh. "I hadn't bargained on 'fucking useless.' Does that mean I'll be wasting my time if I visit you at the sculpture workshop?"

  He gave me an unwilling smile. "No. I'm a good sculptor."

  "You ought to be," I told him. "Your brother had real talent at fourteen."

  He looked surprised. "Alan?"

  I nodded. "I've still got a little wooden figure he carved for me. It's in the shape of a snake with feathers 'round its head."

  "That's probably right," said Danny. "He's got this thing about an Aztec god who was half snake, half bird. It's a load of crap, but Alan reckons the bastard was an alien who came to earth to create a lost civilization in Mexico."

  "Quetzalcoatl?" I suggested.

  "That's the one. He's got a mosaic of him on his sitting-room wall."

  I learned nothing further about Alan's picture that evening because Danny was more interested in pouring scorn on his brother's belief in extraterrestrials than he was in discussing his taste in art. I clung to my dwindling patience in order to listen to the hoary old arguments on both sides, and was somewhat relieved when a six-foot-tall brunette with legs up to her armpits seduced him away with a cigarette.

  I watched them perform the opening moves of a courtship dance-an awkward affair of wriggling shoulders and pretended casualness as they dipped their heads to the cigarette lighter-and was about to go back inside when Sam appeared at my elbow with a peace offering. "It's Cloudy Bay," he said gruffly, shoving a glass of wine into my hand. "I was going to drink the lot to drown my sorrows, then I thought, to hell with it, it's not your fault Larry got me fired up."

  It wasn't a white flag exactly but I could always recognize a truce when I saw one. I responded with a chink of glasses and a smile, while wondering if Sam had used the opportunity I'd given him to find out who Danny Slater was and why he was there. If not, I feared the truce would be of short duration. It was one thing for his wife and his father-in-law to keep secrets from him ... quite another for his sons to do it as well.

  He might have read my thoughts. "Who's the dark-haired chap you were talking to?" he asked, nodding in Danny's direction. "I was watching from the window. He seemed to have a lot to say to you."

  "His name's Danny Slater," I told him. "He's working up at the sculpture park on Portland."

  "Any relation to Derek Slater?"

  "His son," I said evenly. "Do you remember Derek?"

  "No. I've been going through your rucksack." He hunched his shoulders like a boxer preparing to defend himself. "And don't give me any heartache over it because if you didn't want me looking, you shouldn't have left it on the bed."

  "My fault," I agreed, hoping he'd had the sense to go through everything. Ignorance had kept him happy for years; partial ignorance would eat away at him like a rotten worm.

  "You were right about the Rev's wife. She took some useful photographs. This lad's the spitting image of his father twenty years ago."

  "There's a lot of his mother in him," I demurred.

  "That would be Maureen Slater?"

  I nodded.

  "Mm, well, I didn't recognize her. In fact I didn't recognize any of them except Julia Charles and Libby Williams. There's a blond woman who came into the pub occasionally, I think, but other than that"-he shook his head-"they were all strangers."

  I wondered how much of the correspondence he'd read and how much he thought I'd withheld. If he knew the truth, he'd be devastated.

  He flicked an abstracted glance across the field of heads in front of the house, looking for Luke and Tom. "That's quite a file the boys have collected on Graham Road. How long have they been doing it?"

  "Since your coronary."

  He smiled slightly. "On the principle that you'd be coming home whether I lived or died?"

  "Something like that."

  He paused before his next question, as if considering the wisdom of asking it. He knew as well as I that bridges were best left unburnt, but his need for reassurance was stronger than his caution. "Did you tell them I walked out on you?"

  "No. I told them Annie was murdered and that I was trying to get the investigation reopened. Nothing else."

  He stared into his wineglass, his mouth working strangely as if trying to formulate unaccustomed words. But in the end, all he said was: "Thank you."

  Statement made by Mrs. M. Randagh in 1979

  re: an alleged assault by Derek Slater of 32 Graham

  Road, Richmond.

  INCIDENT REPORT

  Date: 25.01.79

  Time: 10:32

  Officer: PS Drury, Richmond Police

  Witness: Mrs. M. Ranelagh, 5 Graham Road, Richmond, Surrey

  Incident: Alleged assault on Mrs. Ranelagh at 15:00 approx. on 24.01.79

  Mrs. Ranelagh states: I went to the shops yesterday afternoon because there was no food in the house and I had had nothing to eat for three days. I thought it would be safe because it was still light. As I turned onto Graham Road, a man came up behind me and pushed me into the alleyway at the back of the even-numbered houses. I was unable to call out because he put a hand over my mouth and clamped my arms to my sides in a bear hug before slamming me face first into a fence and using his weight to hold me there. It all happened very fast and there was nothing I could do to break free. I couldn't see his face because he was behind me, but his breath smelled of drink and his clothes smelled unclean. I was wearing trousers and could feel something being pushed between my thighs. I thought it was the man's penis. He had his face pressed against the side of my head and whispered "slag," "bitch" and "cunt" into my ear. He also said he'd "do for you proper" if I didn't keep my "filthy, nigger-loving mouth shut." He was very strong and I was frightened because I thought he intended to rape me. I believe that is what he wanted me to think. Before releasing me, he forced me to my knees and pushed my head into the mud at the bottom of the fence. He said if I reported what had happened to the police I wouldn't "get away so lightly next time." I raised my head to watch him turn the corner into the main road. He was dressed in a dark jacket, blue jeans and sneakers. It was Derek Slater who lives in the neighboring house to where Ann Butts used to be. I know him by sight, although I have never spoken to him. He had disappeared by the time I found the courage to go back onto Graham Road. I saw no one else and went straight home.

  MEMO

  To: Police Superintendent Hathaway

  From: PS Drury

  Date: 29.01.79

  Subject: Advice re cautioning Mrs. Ranelagh against wasting police time

  Sir,

  As you know, Mrs. Ranelagh has made a number of accusations against Derek Slater, including: 1) harassing and murdering Ann Butts; 2) making abusive telephone calls to the Ranelagh household in the middle of the night and; 3) attempting to keep Mrs. Ranelagh a prisoner in her own home by loitering outside her front door. None of these accusations stands up to investigation. 1} The inquest verdict on Ann Butts
was unequivocal. 2)The Slaters have no telephone-nor do they have access to the Ranelaghs' new ex-directory number. 3) Mrs. Charles at 3 Graham Road-next-door neighbor and friend of Mrs. Ranelagh-denies ever seeing Derek Slater at their end of the street.

  There is no evidence that the above incident took place other than Mrs. Ranelagh's word. The clothes she claims to have been wearing are unmarked and unstained-i.e., there are no muddy marks on the knees of her trousers and no semen staining between the thighs.

  Despite the aggressive way in which she says she was held "in a bear hug" and slammed against a fence, her face and arms are unmarked. (N.B.: She waited nineteen hours to report the incident and claimed to have cleaned herself up.)

  Mrs. Ranelagh admitted to me that her husband has left her. She is clearly disturbed by Mr. Ranelagh's desertion. She says she phoned him to tell him about the alleged assault and was upset when he accused her of lying. "He said I'd invented it to make him jealous. I sometimes think the only thing he thinks about is sex." (N.B.: Mrs. Ranelagh has lost a lot of weight and appears to be anorexic. Also, her behavior is irrational-she breaks off in the middle of a conversation to listen for rats.)

  I spoke to Mr. Ranelagh by telephone. He claims his wife is "bored with being a teacher and is reveling in her fifteen minutes of fame." According to him, nothing she says can be believed at the moment. I have questioned Derek Slater and he denies being anywhere near Graham Road at 15:00 hours on 24.01.79. He says he was at Kempton Park Races until the early evening and has a ticket stub to support this. He has supplied names and telephone numbers of three friends who were with him-one supports the alibi; two yet to be checked.

  Please advise. My personal view is that Mrs. Ranelagh is pursuing a vendetta against Derek Slater because she believes him to be responsible for the death of Ann Butts. I consider this vendetta to be: a) an invention; b) paranoid; and c) strongly linked to shock and/or the failure of her marriage. I strongly recommend an official caution against wasting police time.