What a Carve Up!

by Jonathan Coe

  ‘Mr Sloane and I have been out to check the driveway,’ Michael said. ‘It’s covered with mud, so any tyre tracks would show up quite clearly. But you can still see my footprints: they’re the most recent marks on the drive. There’s been no police car here since I arrived.’

  Hilary seemed momentarily chastened. ‘Well you saw this policeman, and so did Mark and Dorothy. Are you saying he was an impostor?’

  ‘I think it was Mortimer himself. I only ever met your father once, so I can’t be sure. They, of course, hadn’t seen him for years. But it’s what happens in the film. The man who’s supposed to be dead turns up and pretends to be a policeman, to throw them off the scent.’

  ‘I don’t know about anybody else, but my head’s beginning to spin with all this theorizing,’ said Mr Sloane, breaking the uneasy silence which followed this exchange. ‘I propose that we all go to our rooms, lock the doors, and stay put until the storm blows over. Explanations can wait until the morning.’

  ‘What a splendid idea,’ said Tabitha. ‘I’m quite worn out, I must say. I wonder if someone would be so good as to fill me a hot-water bottle, before they retire? This house seems so frightfully chilly tonight.’

  Phoebe said that she would take care of it, while Michael, Pyles and Mr Sloane decided to make one final search of the house, to see if there was any sign of Dorothy.

  ‘We still haven’t talked about your book, Michael,’ Tabitha reminded him, just as he was about to leave. ‘Now you won’t disappoint me tomorrow, will you? I’ve been looking forward to it for so long. So very, very long. It will be just like talking to your father again.’

  Michael stopped in his tracks when she said this. He wasn’t sure that he had heard correctly.

  ‘You’re very like him, you know. Just as I expected. The same eyes. Exactly the same eyes.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Mr Sloane, pulling at Michael’s sleeve. He added in a whisper: ‘She’s not all there, poor soul. Take no notice. We don’t want to confuse her even further.’

  Hilary was left alone with her aunt. She stood for a while in front of the fire, biting her nail and doing her best to make sense of Michael’s latest baffling suggestion.

  ‘Aunty,’ she said, after a minute or two. ‘Are you quite sure it was my father you were talking to in here?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Tabitha. She closed her book and put it away in her knitting bag. ‘You know, it’s very confusing, with everyone saying that he’s dead one minute and alive the next. But there is a way you could prove it beyond question, isn’t there?’

  ‘Really? How would I do that?’

  ‘Why, you could go down to the crypt, of course, and see if his body’s in the coffin or not.’

  Hilary had never wanted for courage, and she thought that this plan was well worth putting into action; but the journey involved was not one to relish. She was determined to complete it as quickly as possible, and so didn’t stop to fetch her raincoat before unbolting the front door and throwing herself into the heart of the howling storm, which had been continuing now for two hours or more. Barely able to see through the thick sheets of rain, almost thrown off her feet by the buffeting wind, she struggled across the forecourt and made for the bulky outline of the family chapel, which stood in a small glade near the head of the densely wooded driveway. All around her the trees groaned, creaked and rustled as the gale came and went in a series of wild and unpredictable gusts. Very much to her surprise, the door to the chapel was open, and there was a light flickering inside. Two candles burned on the altar. They had been recently lit, even though the chapel itself appeared to be deserted. Shivering violently – half with the cold, half with apprehension – she hurried across the aisle and pushed open a small, oak-framed door which gave upon a steep flight of stone steps. These were the steps which led down to the family vaults, where generation after generation of Winshaws had been interred, and where one vacant but elaborately inscribed tomb bore witness to the memory of Godfrey, the wartime hero, whose body they had never been able to recover from enemy soil.

  Hilary descended the steps in complete darkness, but on reaching the entrance to the vault itself, she could see a thin band of light coming from beneath the door. Fearfully, hesitantly, she eased it open: and saw –

  – and saw an empty coffin raised on a dais in the middle of the chamber, its lid removed, and beside it her father, Mortimer Winshaw, standing at a rakish angle and smiling warmly in her direction.

  ‘Come in, daughter dearest,’ he said. ‘Come in, and all will be explained.’

  As Hilary stepped forward and opened the door to its fullest extent, she heard a sudden whirr above her head. Glancing upwards with a short scream, she had the briefest impression of a bulky parcel falling towards her on the end of a rope: a parcel compounded – although she was never to know it – of all the newspapers for which she had written a column over the last six years. But before she could guess what had hit her, Hilary was dead: crushed by the weight of her own opinion, and knocked to the ground, as senseless as any reader who had ever been numbed into submission by her raging torrent of overpaid words.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Five Golden Hours

  ALL was quiet at Winshaw Towers. Outside, the wind was beginning to die down, and the rain had dwindled to a soft patter against the windowpanes. Within, there was no sound save the reproachful creaking of the stairs as Michael made his way back to the upper floor, his final inspection of the house completed.

  Whether from simple fatigue, or confusion at the dizzying events of the last few hours, Michael once again let the labyrinthine corridors get the better of him, and as he walked into what he had assumed was his bedroom, the first thing he saw was a large and unfamiliar item of furniture: a mahogany wardrobe, with a full-length mirror fixed to its open door. Phoebe had her back to the mirror and was reflected in it, bending over and about to step out of her jeans.

  ‘What are you doing in my room?’ said Michael, blinking in confusion.

  She turned round with a start, and said: ‘This isn’t your room.’ She gestured at the hairbrushes and make-up laid out on the dressing table. ‘I mean, those aren’t your things, are they?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Michael. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t seem to get the hang of this place at all. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Phoebe pulled her trousers back up and sat on the bed. ‘Perhaps it’s about time we had a talk anyway.’

  He needed no further invitation to come inside.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to speak to you properly all evening,’ he said. ‘But the opportunity just never seemed to arise.’

  Phoebe appeared to regard this as an understatement.

  ‘I know,’ she said, with a slightly cutting edge to her voice. ‘There’s something terribly distracting about mass murder, isn’t there?’

  There was an awkward pause, before Michael blurted out: ‘Well what are you doing here, for Heaven’s sake? How did you come to be involved in all this?’

  ‘Through Roddy, of course. I met him just over a year ago: he offered to show some of my work at the gallery, and like a fool I believed him, and then like an even bigger fool I went to bed with him, and then as soon as he’d got what he wanted he dropped me like a stone. But while I was up here I met Mortimer. Don’t ask me why, but he took a liking to me and offered me this job.’

  ‘And you accepted? Why?’

  ‘Why do you think? Because I needed the money. And don’t look so disapproving about it: why did you agree to take on this book, for that matter? Artistic integrity?’

  It was a fair point.

  ‘Mind if I sit here?’ said Michael, indicating the space beside her on the bed.

  Phoebe shook her head. She looked tired, and ran a hand through her hair.

  ‘How’ve you been, anyway?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been looking out for your novels.’

  ‘I never wrote any more. I dried up.’

  ‘That’s a sham
e.’

  ‘Still painting?’

  ‘On and off. I can’t really see much future in it at the moment. Not while the Roddy Winshaws of this world continue to rule the roost.’

  ‘Well, there’ll be one less of them by tomorrow morning, at this rate.’ Not wanting to dwell on this macabre prospect, Michael added: ‘You mustn’t give up, though. You were good. Anyone could see that.’

  ‘Anyone?’ Phoebe echoed.

  ‘Do you remember that time,’ said Michael, not noticing her question, ‘when I came into your room and saw the painting you were working on?’ He began to chuckle. ‘And I thought it was a still life, when it was really a picture of Orpheus in the underworld or something?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Phoebe, quietly. ‘I remember.’

  Michael had a flash of inspiration. ‘Could I buy that painting? It would be so nice to have – just as a sort of … keepsake.’

  ‘I’m afraid I destroyed it. Soon afterwards.’

  Phoebe got up and sat at the dressing table, where she began brushing her hair.

  ‘You don’t mean – not because of what I said, surely?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘I mean, it was just a silly mistake.’

  ‘Some people bruise easily, Michael.’ She turned around. Her face was flushed. ‘I don’t, any more. But I was young at the time. And not very sure of myself. Anyway, it’s all forgotten now. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Yes, but I had no idea. Really I didn’t.’

  ‘You’re forgiven,’ said Phoebe, and then tried to rescue the mood by asking: ‘Have I changed much since then?’

  ‘Hardly at all. I would have recognized you anywhere.’

  She decided not to point out that he had noticeably failed to recognize her at the Narcissus Gallery’s private view a couple of months ago. ‘Do you ever hear from Joan?’

  ‘Yes, I saw her. Saw her just recently, as it happens. She married Graham.’

  ‘That figures.’ Phoebe rejoined him on the bed. ‘And they’re both well, are they?’

  ‘Fine, yes, fine. I mean, Graham was almost dead when I last saw him, but I should think he’s recovered by now.’

  This required a certain amount of explanation, so Michael told her all that he knew about Graham’s documentary and Mark’s abortive assassination attempt.

  ‘So now he’s fallen foul of the Winshaws, too,’ said Phoebe. ‘They seem to get everywhere, this family, don’t they?’

  ‘Of course they do. That’s the whole point about them.’

  She thought a little more about his story, and asked: ‘What were you doing in this hospital over New Year?’

  ‘I was visiting someone. A friend. She got taken ill unexpectedly.’

  Phoebe detected an abrupt change of tone. ‘You mean – like a girlfriend?’

  ‘Something like a girlfriend, I suppose.’

  He lapsed into silence, and she suddenly felt that her questions had been intrusive and unnecessary.

  ‘I’m sorry, I – didn’t mean to pry … I mean, it’s none of my business –’

  ‘No, that’s all right. Really.’

  He forced a brief smile.

  ‘She died, didn’t she?’ said Phoebe.

  Michael nodded.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ She put her hand on his knee for a few, embarrassed moments; then withdrew it. ‘Do you want – I mean, would it help to talk about it?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Not really.’ He squeezed her hand, to show that her gesture had not gone unnoticed. ‘It’s silly, really, I’d only known her for a few months. We never even slept together. But somehow or other, I managed to … invest in her, quite heavily.’ He rubbed his eyes, adding: ‘Makes her sound like a public company, doesn’t it? I’m starting to talk like Thomas.’

  ‘What did she die of?’

  ‘The same thing that gets everybody, in the end: a combination of circumstances. She had a lymphoma, which could have been treated, but certain people chose to arrange things so that it didn’t happen. I’d been meaning to have a word with Henry about it, while I was up here, but … there’s no point, now, is there. Nothing … more to be …’ His words dried up and he stared into space for what seemed a very long time. Finally he said one more word, very softly, but with emphasis: ‘Shit.’ Then he keeled over and lay curled up on the bed in a foetal position, with his back towards Phoebe.

  After a while she touched him on the shoulder, and said: ‘Michael, why don’t you stay here tonight? I don’t fancy spending the night alone, and we’d be company for each other.’

  Michael said: ‘OK. Thank you.’ He didn’t move.

  ‘You’d better get undressed.’

  Michael undressed down to his underwear, slipped between the sheets of the double bed and fell asleep almost instantly; just finding the time to murmur: ‘Joan asked me to stay in her bedroom once. I ran away. I don’t know why.’

  ‘She was very fond of you, I think,’ said Phoebe.

  ‘I’ve been so stupid.’

  Phoebe put on her nightshirt and got into bed beside him. She turned off the lamp. They lay back to back, with an inch or two of space between them.

  Michael dreamed about Fiona, as he had done every night for the last two weeks. He dreamed that he was still sitting beside her hospital bed, holding her hand and talking. She was listening to him and smiling back. Then he dreamed that he had woken up to the realization that she was dead, and started to dream that he was crying. He dreamed that he was reaching out in the bed and touching a warm female body. He dreamed that Phoebe had turned towards him and put her arms around him and was stroking his hair. He dreamed that he was kissing her on the lips and that she was returning his kiss, her mouth open, her lips soft and warm. He dreamed the warm smell of her hair and the warm smoothness of her skin as his fingers touched the small of her back beneath her nightshirt. He tried to remember when he had last had this dream, this dream of waking up and finding that he was in bed with a beautiful woman, waking up in the joyful awareness that she was touching him, that he was touching her, that they were dovetailed, entangled, coiled like dreamy snakes. This dream where it seemed that every part of his body was being touched by every part of her body, that from now on the entire world was to be apprehended only through touch, so that in the musty warmth of the bed, the curtained darkness of the bedroom, they could not but find themselves starting to writhe gently, every movement, every tiny adjustment creating new waves of pleasure. Michael was dreading the moment when the dream would end: when he would wake up for the last time and find himself alone in bed, or when he would be overtaken by a still deeper sleep and fall into another dream of emptiness and loss. But it didn’t happen. Their love was long, slow and sleepy, and although there were times when they did nothing but lie together, drowsily entwined, these intervals of huddled stillness were all part of a single movement, perpetual and effortless, during which they slid rhythmically in and out of sleep, rocked back and forth between dreaming and waking, and had no knowledge of the passing of time until Michael heard the grandfather clock in the hallway strike five, and turned his head to see Phoebe’s eyes smiling at him in the dark.

  ‘Kenneth,’ he said, ‘you’ll never know what you missed.’

  ‘My name isn’t Kenneth,’ said Phoebe. She laughed as she rummaged around in the tousled sheets for her nightshirt, then struggled into it. ‘Don’t tell me you were thinking about someone called Kenneth all that time. Although I suppose it would at least explain why you and Joan never got it together.’

  She climbed out of bed and made for the door. Michael sat up, his mind still foggy with sleep, and said in an abstracted way: ‘Where are you going to go now?’

  ‘To the lavatory, I thought, if I have your permission.’

  ‘No, I meant – whenever. You know, as soon as all this is over.’

  Phoebe shrugged. ‘I don’t know: back to Leeds, maybe. I can hardly stay here, at any rate.’

  ‘Come and live with me in Londo
n.’

  She didn’t say anything to this at first, and Michael couldn’t see how she had reacted.

  ‘I’m serious,’ he added.

  ‘I know you are.’

  ‘I mean, I know you must like me. Otherwise –’

  ‘I don’t really think this is the time. And it certainly isn’t the place.’ She opened the door. He could hear her pause before leaving. ‘Slow down, Michael,’ she said: not unkindly. ‘We’re neither of us ready to make plans.’

  A few minutes later she returned and climbed back into bed. They held hands beneath the sheets.

  ‘I knew you’d ask me to stay the night in here,’ Michael said, surfacing from some private train of thought.

  ‘Women usually find you irresistible, do they?’

  ‘No, but it happens in the film, you see. Almost exactly this situation. That was when I had to leave the cinema. And now that it’s actually happened, it’s almost as if … a spell’s been broken.’

  ‘All sounds very fatalistic to me. I suppose I had no choice in the matter, then?’

  ‘There is a film, you know,’ Michael insisted. ‘I wasn’t making it up, whatever Hilary may have thought.’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Phoebe. ‘Anyway, I’d heard about it before.’

  ‘You had? When?’

  ‘Joan mentioned it once: don’t you remember? That night when she made us all play Cluedo, and there was a terrible storm.’

  All at once the memory came back to Michael in vivid detail. The four of them clustered around the table in Joan’s sitting room … Graham laughing at him because of the misprint in his review … And the feeling he’d had – a premonition, you might call it – when he’d found out that his character, Professor Plum, was the murderer, and it had no longer been possible to think of himself as detached, disinterested … To find yourself suddenly at the centre of things …

  Then he remembered Tabitha’s last, enigmatic words, and light dawned.

  ‘I thought I was supposed to be writing this story,’ he said, ‘but I’m not. At least not any more. I’m part of it.’