The Mystery of Mercy Close

by Marian Keyes

  And hey, I still had two chances left with the password. All wasn’t lost.

  Slowly I got to my feet and went into Wayne’s beautiful bathroom. I opened the cupboard and picked up his bottle of sleeping tablets, wondering if I could steal them. How important were they to him? Like, with me, I knew to the very last milligram exactly how many I had, but he mightn’t care, he mightn’t even notice they were gone. I made myself put the bottle back on the shelf and I shut the cupboard and went back down to the living room.

  I resumed my by-now-familiar position lying flat on my back on the rug and tried to marshal my thoughts on Wayne. What exactly had I? In terms of actual, like, facts?

  I’d hit a wall on Gloria, I’d hit a wall on Docker, so in terms of facts I was left with very little. What I had was that on Thursday morning, shortly before noon, someone called Digby had rung Wayne on his landline. That was a fact. I visualized a rubber stamp saying ‘FACT’ in big black letters thumping on to a classified document. I liked that, it felt satisfying. What was also a fact was that Wayne had gone away in a car a few minutes later with a fiftyish, heavyset, baldy bloke. FACT! Again with the imaginary rubber stamp.

  It was probably safe to assume that the fiftyish, heavyset, baldy bloke and Digby were one and the same person. Therefore Digby was the last person that I knew had seen Wayne. Therefore it was an elementary line of enquiry to talk to him. But I’d rung him twice – when was it? Had it really been only yesterday? So much had happened since then. He hadn’t rung me back and I knew he wasn’t going to. I needed to find out more about him. What was he to Wayne? Was he just some sort of hired driver? Or was he a friend?

  So who could I ask? The obvious people were the Laddz. They had vehemently denied knowing any fiftyish, heavyset, baldy blokes. But I hadn’t asked them if they knew anyone called Digby. Or if they’d ever heard Wayne talking about such a person.

  In fairness, all of this was just me spinning my wheels because as soon as I got the reports in from the credit card and phone hackers I’d have Wayne nailed. I’d know exactly where he was. But I wouldn’t have that information until Monday at the earliest – another thirty-six hours – and in the meantime I needed to be doing something, anything.

  I reached for my phone – I’d ring Parker and ask him to put me on to each of the Laddz in turn – then I hesitated. Maybe I shouldn’t do these mini-interviews over the phone. There were all sorts of visual ‘gives’ that you missed when you couldn’t see the person. I should really ask the Digby question face to face.

  God, though. That would mean standing upright. And leaving Wayne’s lovely house. But perhaps that was for the best; perhaps I was getting too attached to the place.

  Either way, I couldn’t keep lying here on the floor. If I didn’t go and talk to the Laddz I’d have to resume my door-to-door enquiries in Mercy Close, canvassing Wayne’s useless neighbours, and I really didn’t have it in me.

  A more insistent thought broke the surface, something I’d been thinking on and off since the wild goose chase to Leitrim: maybe I should leave Wayne alone. He obviously didn’t want to be found. And clearly he was okay, going off in a car with a packed bag. The decent thing was just to leave him be, and let him come back when he was ready.

  But I was being paid to find him. A job was a job. And I desperately needed something to do. Besides, I was curious. I really wanted to know where Wayne was. And despite my contempt for Jay Parker and my dislike of John Joseph and my downright fear of Roger St Leger, I had to admit I was mildly infected with the whole Laddz comeback drama – the clock ticking down to Wednesday night, the rehearsals, the thousands of fans who’d bought tickets in the hope of seeing the Sydney Opera House on Wayne’s head …

  Okay, let’s go with the facts. Digby. I’d talk to the Laddz about him.

  They were probably at the MusicDrome rehearsing, but I rang Parker just to check.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said.

  ‘Good morning? It’s ten to three.’

  Was it? Excellent.

  ‘Are you with the Laddz?’ I asked.

  ‘Am I with the Laddz?’ he asked, in a tone of voice that alerted me that some sarcasm was coming my way. ‘Would that I were, Helen, oh would that I were. However, I’m with only three-quarters of the Laddz because, despite the hefty wedge you’re getting paid, you still haven’t found the missing quarter.’

  ‘I haven’t time for point-scoring with you, Parker. Where are you all? In the theatre?’

  ‘Rehearsing the opening number. The swan costumes have just arrived.’

  Swan costumes?

  ‘Five days before the first show and the swan costumes are only after arriving now. Trouble getting the steel harnesses into them, they tell me. They were meant to have arrived a week ago. At the risk of sounding like Frankie, my nerves are in shreds.’

  ‘This sounds fantastic,’ I said. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘They’re for the opening number. The boys are flying in like swans. Do you see why we need Wayne? These things need to be practised.’

  ‘I’ll be right over.’

  Out in the world, the day was warm. There was a smell of cooking in the air. Burgers, sausages, that sort of thing. Someone nearby was having a barbecue. For an exquisitely strange moment I was able to believe that the Irish government had passed a law to increase our happiness quotient by making everyone in the country go to a barbecue and enjoy themselves today. Maybe they’d send inspectors around to make sure that people were demonstrating acceptable levels of conviviality, and if they failed they’d be taken away and sent to a re-education camp tricked out like an Irish bar and they’d have to spend six months there, eating all-day Irish breakfasts and learning how to correctly ‘have the craic’. And not just any old craic, which could be a challenge in itself, but the ‘mighty craic’, which was a far more daunting prospect. A weekend of the ‘mighty craic’ was a risky business, not recommended for breastfeeding mothers or anyone prone to psychotic episodes.

  Christ alive, what terrible places my brain took me to.

  I checked that Wayne’s Alfa hadn’t moved. I mean, if he had snuck back and driven it off, I’d have got a text, but sometimes it’s nice to check something with your own two eyes. It was still there and nothing had changed.

  As I made my way to my own car, I heard someone say, ‘Hey, Helen!’

  I turned round. It was Cain and Daisy. They were advancing on me like zombies. They looked like they hadn’t brushed their hair in a year. And maybe they hadn’t. What had looked like surfer-chic bed-headness only yesterday, looked like incipient insanity today.

  ‘We’re sorry we scared you yesterday,’ Daisy called.

  ‘Can we talk to you?’ Cain said.

  ‘Feck off!’ I said. ‘Leave me alone!’

  My hands were shaking as I opened my car door and I drove away quickly, leaving them staring after me like a pair of mad madzers.

  38

  The roads were almost empty – which only increased my suspicion that everyone must be at a compulsory barbecue – and I got to the MusicDrome in fifteen minutes.

  Like the last time I’d been there, most of the place was in darkness, but the massive stage was ablaze with lights. People were running around, looking purposeful and anxious. A lot of clipboard action.

  I couldn’t see the boys, but I could sense something going on. I climbed a set of steps to the stage and wove through the clusters of choreographers, costume people and pony-tailed roadies to the epicentre of all the energy. In a clearing of people stood John Joseph, Roger and Frankie. Their legs were bare and white (except for Frankie’s – his, of course, were orange), but their torsos were covered with leotards made of snowy feathers. They looked pitiful and ridiculous, like overgrown toddlers. Even loose-limbed, louche Roger was struggling to transcend the humiliation of his situation.

  As I looked closer, I saw that a metal harness seemed to be built into each feathery leotard. Two steel wires extended out of the back of each costume and d
isappeared up into the shadowy infinity of the theatre ceiling, many miles above. I followed the wires with my eyes as they travelled further and further upwards, bending my neck so far back that I almost fell over.

  As I straightened myself up, someone cried, ‘Here come the bottom halves!’

  Three pairs of trousers made of feathers were being ferried in by a small army of people and the boys were helped to climb into them.

  ‘I’ve a thing about feathers,’ Frankie was telling the wardrobe woman. ‘I’ve an irrational fear of them.’

  ‘Sure, what could a feather do to you?’ The wardrobe woman was warm and reassuring.

  ‘It’s an irrational fear.’ His voice was high and shrill. ‘That’s the whole point of an irrational fear! It’s irrational!’

  Jay Parker had popped up by my side. I could feel his tension. ‘Where’s Wayne?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m working on it,’ I said. ‘I need to ask each of the boys a quick question.’

  ‘Give them a few minutes,’ he said. ‘This is the first time they’ve tried on the swan costumes. Let’s just …’

  Zeezah had appeared out of nowhere, wearing extremely tight yellow jeans – who wears yellow jeans? – and was flitting about, swishing her swishy hair, pouting her explodey lips and adjusting and fixing the boys’ swan trousers. She ran her hands down along John Joseph’s legs, gently smoothing the feathers flat in an almost motherly fashion. Then she moved on to Roger St Leger and, before my astonished eyes, she cupped her hand over his groin and gave it a tight little squeeze, so quick and cheeky, and over so fast that I was left wondering if it had really happened at all. Very startled, I looked at Jay’s face, and at the faces of other people standing near me, and nobody was registering the surprise – shock, even – that I was feeling. Nobody had seen anything.

  Had I imagined it? Was I starting to see things that weren’t there?

  Zeezah had moved on to Frankie, who was anxiously telling her that he was afraid of feathers.

  ‘You must be strong,’ she said, shifting his waistband a millimetre or two. ‘You must be a hero.’

  Finally Zeezah finished her ministrations and stepped away and we were faced with the essential truth: the Laddz looked more like snowmen than swans. They had looked raw and pathetic with their naked legs, but they looked worse now.

  ‘Christ Almighty.’ Jay swallowed hard. ‘You’ve no idea how much these bloody costumes cost.’ He squared his shoulders and called out to the wardrobe woman, ‘Lottie, put the wings on.’ In quieter tones he said to me, ‘They’ll look better once the wings are on.’

  Massive pairs of white wings were being carried on to the stage and Lottie and her minions set about attaching them to the backs of John Joseph, Roger and Frankie.

  A fourth set of wings lay to one side. Waiting for Wayne, I realized. I’d really better find him. Or not. Wouldn’t it be better to protect him from all of this?

  That little insistent thought started up again: I should leave Wayne alone. There was nothing sinister in his disappearance. He just didn’t want to be in Laddz any more and, frankly, who would blame him?

  But I tamped down the thought. I wouldn’t allow myself to think it. Because if I wasn’t looking for Wayne, I might go out of my mind.

  ‘We’re finishing up here at about five today,’ Jay said to me. ‘John Joseph is having a barbecue. He says everyone needs some downtime and a beer, a break from the carb ban. He wants you there. Says it’ll be a good chance to talk to Roger and Frankie about Wayne.’

  ‘How does he know they’ll be there?’ Roger St Leger struck me as a man who’d use his precious downtime enjoying some light erotic auto-asphyxiation in a manacle-walled dungeon, not eating half-raw chicken wings and talking about lawn mowers.

  ‘John Joseph says they have to come,’ Jay said. ‘He says that so close to the gig we have to “contain the energy”.’

  ‘So John Joseph is giving them a few hours off, but they all have to go to his barbecue? A bit power-mad, no?’

  ‘He’s trying to keep a grip on things,’ Jay said tightly. ‘We’re down one man already.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ I said. I couldn’t decide if John Joseph was just a power freak or if he was actually mired in some sort of bad business. He’d been so passive-aggressive about giving me – or rather, not giving me – Birdie Salaman’s phone number. And he’d been so weird when I’d asked him about Gloria. As had Zeezah. What was the story?

  ‘They’re on telly tonight,’ Jay said.

  ‘Who? The Laddz?’

  ‘On Saturday Night In.’

  Saturday Night In was a very popular Irish television chat show. I say ‘very popular’ – I personally wouldn’t watch it if you threatened to garrotte me, but a high proportion of the Irish public seemed to enjoy it. It was presented by Maurice McNice (Maurice McNiece was his real name). He was an ancient old duffer, who’d fronted up Saturday Night In for so long that Paddy Power offered short odds on his keeling over and popping his clogs while live on air. It was the only reason people still tuned in, in my opinion.

  ‘So if you could find Wayne by nine this evening, I’d appreciate it,’ Jay said.

  ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath,’ I said.

  My phone beeped with a text. It was from my sister Claire.

  N hairdrsr. Delayd. Dey r d LZIEST, mst USLSS gbshtes! Need u 2 buy chikn 4 d bbq.

  She could feck off and buy her own chikn. I was busy. You had to admire her nerve, though.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ I said to Jay. ‘Is it the law that everyone in Ireland has to go to a barbecue today?’

  ‘Ha ha,’ he said flatly.

  But what did that mean? Was it a Ha ha yes? Or a Ha ha no?

  Some man bristling with walkie-talkies and an air of authority came barrelling up to us. Jay introduced him as Harvey, the stage manager.

  ‘The harnesses are attached to the pulley system,’ Harvey said to Jay. ‘Will we go for it?’

  ‘Why not?’ Jay replied.

  Harvey gave the nod to another man, who was in charge of a long desk of computer screens and keyboards. ‘It’s a go, Clive.’ Then he called out to the three Laddz: ‘Okay, boys, are you right?’

  ‘We’re right,’ John Joseph said. Both Roger and Frankie remained silent.

  ‘Everybody, clear the area,’ Harvey called, and the multitudes on stage melted away, leaving John Joseph, Roger and Frankie standing alone, looking small and vulnerable.

  ‘Brace yourselves,’ Harvey said. ‘Right! We have lift-off.’

  Suddenly the three boys began to lift jerkily off the ground. One metre, two metres, three, four. Up and up they went. Spontaneous applause and cheers broke out among the workers in the theatre.

  ‘Flap,’ Jay called. ‘Flap!’

  ‘I don’t like this.’ Frankie’s face was red and anxious.

  ‘You’re grand,’ Jay said.

  ‘I’m not grand!’

  Higher they went, higher and higher. John Joseph was extending his arms and pointing his toes gracefully, really getting into the spirit of things. However, Frankie looked terrified and Roger was chatting away to someone on his mobile.

  ‘Okay, stop them there,’ Jay said, when the boys were maybe six or seven metres off the ground. They hung in mid-air, with their fat feathery legs and their enormous wings, looking sinister and ridiculous, like a modern art installation, the sort that you stand in front of and say, ‘I don’t know much about art, but this is a load of shit.’

  ‘I’m afraid of heights,’ Frankie was screaming.

  ‘You’re grand,’ Jay called. ‘You have to get used to it. Try singing, it might take your mind off things.’

  ‘I’m afraid of heights! And I’m afraid of feathers! Get me down! Get this thing off me!’

  ‘You’re grand,’ several people shouted up to him. ‘Frankie, you’re grand. Hang on in there, Frankie, you’re grand.’

  ‘Get me down.’

  ‘Get him down,’ Zeezah said.

 
; The second she spoke, the mood in the venue changed utterly. Immediately, everyone jumped to it, obeying her order. It was a phenomenal thing to witness, the power she had, and I was trying to analyse it, wondering where it came from. It was her arse, I decided. It was mesmerizing. It was so roundy and perfect it seemed to put a spell on people. She could control the world from that arse.

  ‘Get him down,’ Jay said to Harvey.

  ‘Get him down,’ Harvey said to Clive, the computer guy.

  ‘I’m on it.’ Clive started clicking and pressing but nothing happened, all three boys continued to hang in mid-air.

  ‘Get Frankie down,’ Harvey said with urgency.

  ‘I can’t. Something’s gone wrong with his pulley. The program isn’t responding. He’s stuck up there.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Jay said. ‘What about the other two?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Clive clicked his mouse and John Joseph and Roger began a smooth descent to the floor.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Frankie shrieked. ‘You can’t leave me up here. I have abandonment issues!’

  ‘Stay calm,’ Jay called. ‘We’re working on it.’

  ‘I can’t stay calm. I’m not calm. I need a Xanax. Has anyone got a Xanax?’

  ‘I have to reboot Frankie’s program,’ Clive said, frantically pressing and clicking. ‘It’ll take a while.’

  ‘I need a Xanax!’

  John Joseph had arrived back to earth. ‘Get me out of this fucking harness thing!’ he ordered, and a swarm of terrified hairy roadie types surged forward to do his bidding.

  ‘This is fucking ridiculous!’ John Joseph said, in a low, contained fury. ‘This whole thing is a fucking farce.’ He was conveying extreme anger, while holding his jaw closed, which anatomically took some doing. It was very, very effective, far more frightening than a foot-stampy tantrum.

  John Joseph directed the force of his rage first at Jay, then at Harvey, then at Computer Clive. They were inept, lazy, stupid amateurs and they were putting lives at risk. He flung blame around like knives, meanwhile Frankie was still overhead, yelling plaintively, ‘Help me, for the love of God, help me. I need a Xanax!’