The Awful Truth About the Herbert Quarry Affair

by Marco Ocram

  “Oh my God it’s Markie. You’re safe. Let me see you.”

  She withdrew a handkerchief from somewhere up her sleeve, spat on it, then started to wipe my face.

  “Mom!”

  I fended off her unsanitary grooming maneuvers.

  “Aren’t you going to come inside? Imagine, keeping your poor mom out in the cold. All the heat, Markie—it’s pouring out of the house. My cakes, my cakes!”

  My mom ran off to do something she’d forgotten to do with her cakes. I checked through the post to see if there was anything for me, then followed her to the kitchen.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “Where he always is, in the park playing chess. I told him he was a lazy bum and he was getting in the way, so he says he’s going to the park, and I say what about Markie, what’s Markie going to say when he gets in and finds his mom’s here but not his bum of a dad? And he says Markie’s not coming home, so don’t kid yourself, and yet here you are, you came to your mommy, Markie, you came to your poor old mommy like a nice boy. Here…” She gave me a big slobbery kiss that tasted of nutmeg. “Have you had any lunch? You’re looking very thin, Markie. Have you been eating?”

  I assured my mom I’d been eating.

  “What’s the news about Herbert? I need something to say at the salon, Markie. On the TV they keep saying he’s a sick pedo who’s murdered that poor girl. I’ve told everybody at the salon it’s wrong, that my Markie is going to prove it all wrong. Have you proved it all wrong, Markie?”

  “Not yet, Mom, but I’m working on it with Como.”

  “Como, who’s Como?”

  “Como Galahad. He’s a police lieutenant.”

  “Como Galahad? That doesn’t sound like a nice Jewish name, Markie.”

  “It probably isn’t, Mom.”

  “Does his mom look after him? Does he get enough to eat?”

  “I don’t think he needs looking after.” I thought of Como’s colossal frame and burger intake. “I’m pretty sure he gets enough to eat.”

  “Here.” My mom passed me a huge sandwich, a glass of milk and four different types of baked confectionary the names of which I refuse, on principle, to research, this scene being tedious enough without us all getting bogged down in extraneous detail. “I met Phyllis Bugolyakov’s middle daughter, Alexandra. Such a sweet girl. She’s Russian, but she’s very nice.”

  “Mom! You can’t say she’s Russian but she’s very nice.”

  “Why not? She is very nice.”

  I flourished my sandwich in the manner of Socrates holding aloft a scroll. “Because you’re implying Russians aren’t usually nice.”

  “Who says they are? You should see her house, Markie. Her kitchen’s to die for. Four ovens, Markie, and she doesn’t know how to use any of them. Mister Bugolyakov’s one of those oilygarks, all money but no taste. I do her hair Thursdays. She doesn’t come to the salon much since she married him, so I go to her. She shows me around the place. Markie, you never saw so much money spent on a house.”

  She lifted my plate to wipe away a crumb I’d dropped, while I chomped my snack and wondered why a Russian oligarch would have a house in the Bronx and marry one of my mom’s salon customers. Maybe I’d have to write a prequel to explain that.

  “While I’m drying her hair, I say to her, Phyllis, what’s that meant to be, over the fireplace? You never saw anything like it, Markie. It looked like a mess the decorators had made. I don’t know, she tells me, but Van paid forty million for it. Forty million, Markie, for some splashes of paint. Van’s her husband. Very nice man. And he’s Russian—who’d think it? That’s when Alexandra comes back from her mom’s, her real mom’s, with some flowers for Phyllis. Isn’t that nice, Markie, flowers for her stepmom? I know someone round here who never buys flowers for his stepmom.” Lest I be in any doubt about the identity of the someone, she hit me on the back of the head with a wooden spoon.

  “Ow!”

  “She’s such a nice girl, says Phyllis, not like those other two stuck-up fairies, meaning Van’s other girls, Markie. I can’t say they are stuck-up—I never met them. She says they never say thank-you for anything. Imagine that. No breeding. That’s Russians for you. If I was their stepmom, I’d sort out that nonsense in three minutes flat, and they’d thank me for it, mark my words.”

  Luckily my phone rang before my mom could further alienate my Russian readers. It was Jenna Duplessis, PA to a famous British rockstar who lives in Mustique and asks me to any parties he’s holding. I shushed my mom and answered the phone.

  “Marco Ocram speaking. How may I help you today?”

  “Oh, Marco, great. It’s Jenn. How are you?”

  “Hi Jenn. Fine thank you, fine. I’m writing a book about Herbert Quarry, but I’m fine thanks.”

  “Well good for you. It’s about time someone shamed that sick pedophile bastard. Listen, Mick’s having a party tonight in Mustique and wants to know if you can make it. I’ve checked the flights and there’s one leaving Kennedy in an hour and a half. I’ve booked a first-class ticket and sent a stretch limo to your mom’s in case you’re able to come. It should be with you any minute now.”

  “Sounds good. Alright then. Tell Mick I’ll see him later.”

  “Great. He’ll be really pleased. He wants to finish that conversation you were having about the tau muon. He’s got a crazy idea it might be possible to create an entangled quantum state of a tau and a muon, and that could account for the neutrino scattering transients. Simple when you think about it. See you later.”

  “Mom, I’ve got to go. A car will be calling for me any minute now.” The doorbell rang. “That will be it.” I grabbed my satchel, but before I could scoot, my mom had me pinned against the sink, brandishing a cake-slice laden with menace.

  “But, Markie, you can’t go now. You only just got here. What about these cakes? When can I get you to see Phyllis Bugolyakov’s beautiful daughter if you keep going off in cars like this, Markie?”

  “I’m sorry, Mom, I’ve got to go. I’ll miss my flight.” I inched along the drainer, planning my escape to the door.

  “Flight? Flight?” She thew up her hands, giving me a chance to edge past a pile of recently greased baking trays. “Where are you going?”

  “Mustique.” I had reached the corner unit, heading for the oven.

  “Musteek? Don’t talk to your mom in riddles, Markie. Where’s Musteek?”

  “Don’t ask me, Mom. It’s where all the popstars live,” I explained, sidling across the front of the oven—next objective, the ironing board.

  “But look, Markie, you’ve got mayonnaise all down your anorak. You can’t go where all the popstars live with mayonnaise all down your anorak. What will all the popstars think about a mom who lets her boy go out like that?”

  While my mom eyed the mayonnaise all down my anorak, I circled to the washing machine. “I’ll get it cleaned, Mom, I promise—on the plane.” Not far now.

  “They clean anoraks on planes?”

  “It’s a special service they do, for all the popstars.” Phew! The door at last. I risked a quick peck on her cheek, forcing my way through the bristles. “Gotta go now, Mom.”

  “But, Markie!”

  I raced out through the living room, snatching a couple of cookies as I went.

  As I was ferried to the airport, I wondered why my mind had picked Mustique as the setting for my next chapter. I had an idea it was in the same part of the world as Nassau, where Professor Sushing had his headquarters. Could there be a link? Could there be a… Just in time, I stopped myself. I was on the very brink of the trap Herbert had warned me of countless times, the trap of thinking about the plot. I must remain Pollock-like. To distract my mind from my writing, I pondered Mick’s idea that the transients in the neutrino scattering could be due to an entangled quantum state involving a tau and a muon. It was a stroke of utter genius, and I was sick in the pit of my stomach that an elderly British rocker, probably ston
ed out of his brain, had thought of it before I had. There was only one thing to do that was in keeping with the long and noble tradition of science. I’d try to make out I had already thought of it.

  LESSON THIRTY

  ‘Herbert, if a reader is to like a book, must they like the lead character?’

  ‘Absolutely, Marco. Suppose the protagonist were a repulsively self-obsessed narcissist with an absurdly high opinion of himself; can you imagine anybody liking such a book?’

  ‘I suppose not. It’s lucky I decided to make myself the central character.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  In which Marco is at his unlikeable worst in the run-up to a major twist.

  “So I said to Shaughnessy, what did the nouveaux romans ever do for us? Ha ha ha ha ha.”

  “Ha ha ha ha ha.”

  At Mustique, Mick’s party was going with a swing. We were exchanging stories about our dealings with the New York Times, which gave me a chance to insert the pun I’d conceived on the flight while my anorak wasn’t being cleaned. Which reminded me of another loose end from the last chapter…

  “Mick, Jenn mentioned you’d had an idea about the tau muon being an entangled state of a tau and a muon.”

  “Just a sec.” He asked me to wait while he wiped his eyes after my hilarious wordplay. “You’re so quick with those quips. Would be great to have you in the band. Yeah, the tau muon thing was something I kicked round with Keith at the Havana gig while we were setting up. I said it was probably a crazy idea, but he said he’d heard something about entanglement from the guy who does his ear candles, and there might be something in it. Hang on, I’ve got a word.”

  Mick put a W and two Os next to a D on the Scrabble board we were sitting around, the word so-formed sparking irreverent merriment among his mischievous bandmates.

  “Ha ha ha, Mick’s got wood,” said Keith.

  “First time in thirty years,” quipped Ronnie.

  “Someone wake his missus!” Charlie played an imaginary drum roll to celebrate his cheap joke.

  “Fuck you.” Mick cuffed him on the head.

  “Eight points—good going.” I updated Mick’s total score to 32 and took the opportunity offered by the W to lay down all seven of my tiles along the top right edge of the board. “With the double letter score and the two triple word scores, I think you’ll find that’s three hundred and sixty points.”

  “Qwizling? Fuck—is that a word?”

  “Indeed, Mick; it means a traitor or collaborator. If you doubt it, let’s ask Alexa. Alexa, is qwizling a Scrabble word?”

  “Yes, the word quisling can be played in Scrabble,” said the disembodied voice of the tinny virtual assistant. “Definition of quisling: a traitor who collaborates with an enemy power occupying their country. Quisling is spelled Q…”

  “Ooops, sorreee!” I apologized to Mick for accidentally knocking Alexa off the shelf with a kung fu kick and accidentally standing on her and accidentally emptying my glass of wine into her electronic innards before she ruined everything by revealing the correct spelling of quisling. Not that I was cheating, but who’s to say what’s correct in a mold-breaking book?

  “Fuck, I only just got that, you clumsy twat.” Mick bent to examine the damage.

  “Anyway, your idea about the tau muon being an entanglement…” I said to his back as he knelt over the remains of his Amazon Echo. “I had it myself already. Five years ago. Just hadn’t got around to publishing it. Been too busy. But I’ll probably publish it when I get back, so don’t be surprised if you see it in Physics Review soon.”

  “Whatever.”

  Piecing together the shards of his Echo, Mick was too pre-occupied to argue, so that was all sorted.

  I left him to it, abandoning the Scrabble game in a sensational display of mold-breaking narrative discontinuity. I felt overdressed in cardigan and corduroys while everyone else was in swimwear, but I loosened my tie and my inhibitions and danced among the actresses and models who had been waiting all evening for a chance to talk with me. The DJ was spinning some hot discs, so it wasn’t long before I was drenched with sweat. To cool down, I strapped-on one of Keith’s guitars, cranked the amp to eleven and jumped on a table.

  “Hey, everyone. Everyone, listen.”

  Once I had the attention of all within sight, I strummed the classic riff from Smoke on the Water, knowing Mick and Keith would enjoy its heavy vibe.

  Dum dum duuuuh, dum dum…

  “Hang on.”

  I hadn’t quite got it right. The third dum had been a semitone off. I started again.

  Dum dum duuuuh, dum dum du duuuuh…

  “Sorry. Must be this stupid plectrum.” My seventh strum had missed its mark, producing a feeble duuuuh without the power-chord crunch I was aiming for. “One more go.”

  Dum dum duuuuh, dum…

  “Hang on.”

  Somehow the plectrum had found its way into the f-hole of Keith’s vintage Gretsch. I shook it out like a pro after only five goes. “Okay. Let’s rock.”

  Dum dum duuuuh, dum dum du duuuuh, dum dum…

  I was just on the point of nailing the riff when my phone rang. I grinned ruefully at all the actresses and models to let them know I was as sad as they were that I had to stop playing to take the call.

  I looked at my phone. I recognized the Clarkesville area code but not the rest of the number.

  “Soon-to-be publishing legend Marco Ocram speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Marco, it’s Herbert.”

  “Herbert. Great to hear from you. I’m at a party with Mick and Keith in Mustique. There are hot actresses waiting to talk to me. It’s incredible.”

  “Don’t incredible me, you smug conceited wanker. Of all the people… I never thought it would be you who would stab me in the back.”

  “Hey, Herbert. What do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean. You know you’ve betrayed me to the press. And now the price you have to pay is that our friendship is over. Do you understand me? Oh-verr.”

  Herbert hung-up. I tried calling back, but the number wouldn’t take incoming calls: Herbert must have been ringing from a payphone in the prison. I wondered what caused his outburst; after all, I’d had no contact with the press other than my interview with Shaughnessy. I asked Mick if he took the evening papers; he said yes, he had all the main US titles delivered daily, and I could see the latest in his study.

  I squeezed between the revelers in the corridor to his study, wondering why I’d started to use semicolons. It was a delightful room—the study, that is, not the corridor—paneled throughout in the darkest mahogany, set-off by a mocha carpet, chocolate drapes, chestnut lampshades, tan settees, taupe cushions, walnut architraves, russet rugs and other decorative paraphernalia collectively representing all of the internationally recognized shades of brown. I picked up The Clarkesville County Evening Gazette; Herbert’s picture was on the front page; the main headline read ‘Ocram: Quarry Killed Fifteen-Year-Old Girl.’

  I couldn’t believe my eyes—two semicolons in a single sentence. I read on. The story said famous scientist, TV personality and potential Nobel Prize-winner Marco Ocram had been investigating the brutal murder of Lola Kellogg in Clarkesville, he was writing a bestseller about the heinous crime, and his book said Herbert Quarry killed a fifteen-year-old girl.

  I scrolled back through my book with finger-strokes of fury. In Chapter Three there were indeed the words ‘Herbert Quarry killed a fifteen-year-old girl’, but, as I knew in my heart, they were preceded by eight other hallowed words: ‘There was absolutely no way I could believe Herbert Quarry killed a fifteen year old girl’.

  I checked some of the other papers—The New York Evening Times, The Washington Evening Post, The National Evening Enquirer—they all had the same story. Hoping the readers would get the joke, I paced about in a brown study, hardly noticing the hot actresses peeking around the door in the hope of catching my interest. I was stun
g by the way the press had twisted my words. Well, I suppose they hadn’t really twisted them, since the words they quoted were exactly the ones I’d used, but you know what I mean.

  I decided I couldn’t stay any longer. The party had lost its appeal. I took a stretch limo back to the airport for the next flight to New York.

  At Terminal Eight of Mustique International Airport—the one reserved for TV personalities and the like—I completed the check-in formalities, had my trunks weighed, and signed copies of The Tau Muon for the delighted staff. I had a few minutes to kill before boarding, so I looked back over the chapter thus far. I wasn’t sure I had been right to punctuate the Smoke on the Water guitar chord sequences with commas between the phrases, but in true Pollock fashion I didn’t waste any time fretting about it. Get it?? Fretting—guitar chords? Ha! Eat your heart out, Shakespeare. I also spotted a minor continuity error, which I corrected by unstrapping Keith’s Gretsch and arranging for it to be returned to Mick’s place by taxi.

  Once on board the giant Boeing 797-400, a top-of-the-range model with tinted windows, I changed into a dressing gown and slippers and traipsed to the VIP lounge. Settled in an old armchair, I tried to read for a while, but my Cartland slipped from my fingers and I stared into the roaring log fire as my mind went back to the headlines I had read in Mick’s study. How had the papers come by extracts from my novel? The only copy was on my iPad, protected by a special app that locked the device if any face other than mine looked at it. Had someone managed to hack its sophisticated security mechanism? Did I have a doppelganger, who was fiendishly plotting to do away with me and take my place? Had someone assumed a lifelike Marco Ocram facemask to trick the app? Had my secret password—MyBron*M0M—been compromised? None of the possibilities made sense. Even if someone had hacked my iPad, why would they leak to the press the handful of words most damaging to Herbert’s fate? I would have to ask Barney about it—he would know how to…

  Barney!