A Ghost in the Machine (19 page)

 

By 7:30 Dennis was back in Causton. There were a lot of cars parked on the square, presumably customers of the Magpie, for Causton, like most small market towns once the shops and offices had closed, was dead as mutton. Dennis tucked in the Lexus as far away from the bank building as possible and went into the pub.

This was such a rare occurrence that he didn't know what to ask for. The whisky was cheap blended stuff and he wasn't keen on any other spirits. He ordered a glass of white wine, was offered sweet or medium dry and took the second. It wasn't very nice but, on the positive side, he nabbed an excellent observation post from the window seat.

Dennis had brought his
Telegraph
to act as a sort of screen while watching. He had seen people doing this in television dramas: plainclothes chaps in cars, though they were usually hiding behind the
Mirror
or
The Sun.
He also thought that, should the guilty party walk past the Magpie, or worse, into it, they might recognise him.

The atmosphere was really most unpleasant – overheated, smoke-filled and very noisy. Any pub
habitué
could have told Dennis that the noise level in fact was pretty reasonable, but to him it was like being shut in a tin box, the outside then being hammered by hobnail boots. At the far end of the room a group of women were screeching with satisfaction at a joke well told. Men grouped at the bar argued, their voices raised and raised and raised again to make their point or shout down someone else's. A machine with a lot of lights was being manhandled by a youth who kept banging the sides and whooping. And there was music, if you could call it that. Why did people come to such dreadful places, wondered Dennis. And – the women let out more mirth-filled shrieks – what on earth did they find to laugh at?

“Anything else for you?” The bar manager had picked up the empty wineglass.

“Oh – thank you.” Dennis looked at his watch and realised he had been there half an hour. Though unfamiliar with ale house etiquette he was pretty sure he couldn't continue to occupy a seat without buying something more. “The same, please.”

When the drink was brought the man bent down and whispered, “Doing a bit of surveillance, sir?”

“Um…” Dennis produced a note to pay. “Well…”

“Say no more.” He tapped the side of his nose, pocketing the ten pounds. “I can keep as schtum as the next man.”

Dennis moved his head from side to side and up and down. His neck had got quite stiff by staring at a fixed angle through the window for so long. He drank some of the wine, which was different from the first, being at once more fruity and considerably warmer.

He needed the lavatory. No way round that. He was tempted to go to the office so as not to miss a moment but was terrified of colliding coming out with the very person he was watching out for coming in. So the Magpie it was. In and out – spit spot – and back to his post.

Another half-hour dragged by. Dennis, deciding not to drink any more so as to stay alert, thought it best to leave. Resigning himself to no change – he just could not seem to catch the barman's eye – he went outside and got in the car.

More time passed. There was an exciting moment when some people opened the street door leading to Brinkley and Latham but it was just the family from the top-floor flat.

Dennis switched on the radio, sticking to music so he didn't get involved in some gripping narrative and lose concentration. It started to get dark. He began to feel not only tired but extremely self-conscious. What on earth was he doing playing detective at his time of life? How undignified. How foolish. Colouring up now, recalling his earlier enthusiasm, Dennis decided enough was enough and slipped his key into the ignition.

A cab drew up outside the bank. Holding his breath, Dennis also cursed under it for the cab was blocking all sight of whoever had got out. What's more, if it didn't drive away sharpish they'd be through the street door and safely inside. Dennis scrambled from his seat and eased his way between the cars, ready at any second to duck. He craned his neck slightly – all discomfort gone now – so that he could see better.

Mr. Allibone did not need to crane his neck. Having just taken one of his casual glances from the sitting-room window he had both Dennis and the passenger from the taxi clearly in his sights. She turned round, Dennis dodged down, she put a key in the door and went inside. Very interesting.

Dennis climbed back stiffly into the Lexus. He gripped the steering wheel to stop his hands from shaking and sat very still for a while, wishing with all his heart he had never embarked on this enterprise. He felt an intense desire for sleep, for oblivion. For the simple happiness he had once known as a child. He put the car into gear and drove away.

Kate was stuffing a large duck with apricots and hazel-nuts. She'd brought her food processor down and Benny had produced soft white breadcrumbs and ground the nuts. She was as delighted with the machine as a child with a new toy and questioned Kate eagerly about its exact capabilities.

“It's a miracle!” she exclaimed. The kitchen at Appleby House was totally gadget free. Carey thought two or three good sharp knives could cope with anything and had been deeply puzzled when Benny once requested a potato peeler for her birthday.

Kate, still nursing a certain amount of resentment over the journey down last night, was filling up the bird more forcefully than was strictly necessary. Mallory had disappeared for nearly two hours, then made things worse by lying clumsily about being dragged into helping at the charity shop. Kate had finally driven away from Parsons Green into the worst traffic imaginable. The misery of their row the previous week still fresh in her mind and determined not to go down that road again she could not even give vent to her feelings, so the duck was for it. A final fistful of stuffing, a savage shove up the bottom, pricked all over and into the oven it went.

“There's lots of potatoes ready to lift,” Benny was saying. “Shall I get some in?”

“I'll do that. And we'll need vegetables, courgettes maybe?”

“Dennis is very partial to broad beans.”

“And what about you, Benny. What do you like?”

“Oh, I don't mind. It's just so lovely for us all to be having dinner together.”

Benny's happiness was palpable. Kate, looking at her open, radiant face, thought how marvellous to be so uncomplicated. All that joy simply because two or three friends were gathering to sit down and eat. Impulsively she moved around the table and gave Benny a hug.

“It just wouldn't be the same, coming down, if you weren't here.”

“Oh,” cried Benny, trembling with pleasure. She wasn't used to being hugged.

“And that is the most gorgeous outfit.”

Benny had on a peacock-blue silky jacket and matching skirt. She was even wearing earrings and had abandoned her usual T-bar sandals for shiny court shoes.

She had taken great trouble with the dining arrangements too. Kate had decided to use the oval Sheraton table with a beautiful inlaid key design around the edge, and Benny had arranged summer-flowering jasmine and tea roses in the centre and put out Carey's most beautiful Venetian glasses. There were tall ivory candles in the candelabrum, which she had spent all morning cleaning, along with the cutlery, polishing so hard she could see her face in the spoons. The reflections were elongated, as in a fairground mirror.

“Perhaps, Kate, after dinner, we could look at the manuscripts?” Benny had already learned not to call them books. “Maybe read bits out?”

“That's an idea.”

Kate had been astonished when the postman delivered a heavy canvas bag, drawstrung and stencilled with black letters, early that morning. Astonished and then depressed, for there was something ominous about the rapidity of this in-flux. Instinctively she felt the contents of the bag were not new books. Not freshly written, hot from a gifted author's fingertips but tired and grey, exhausted from doing the rounds, maybe stained by the occasional tea ring. She had come across plenty of those in her time and they were nearly always unreadable.

“I'd better get moving.” Kate picked up her sunglasses from the dresser. “Courgettes and beans, right?”

“Broad beans.”

“Keep an eye on the duck, would you? You might need to pour off some fat.”

Left alone Benny remembered she had promised Mallory to make some Pimm's. Carey had always loved a glass at lunchtime in the summer so Benny started to feel quite sad as she sliced up a cucumber. For distraction she turned her thoughts around to the previous Sunday when she had attended the Church of the Near at Hand with Doris.

Message-wise the visit had not been a success. In spite of Doris's enthusiastic decoding of the telephone receiver's strange behaviour Carey did not come through. Doris suggested the reason could be she was in a queue. Benny doubted that. Carey had never queued for anything in her life, even when there were things worth queuing for, so she certainly wouldn't be starting now. Perhaps she just didn't fancy the medium, who had been a great disappointment, striding about all in black and looking like the wicked queen in
Snow White.
Benny had been hoping for someone more ethereal, perhaps in gauzy garments and with a delicate, uplifting voice. This woman had sounded quite common.

But, as promised, the tea was delicious and the congregation friendly. Benny had met the medium's little girl, though met was perhaps too precise a word. A plain, shrinking little soul, she had been timidly talking to Doris, accepting cakes and a drink of squash. But when Benny said “hello” she ran away. Doris explained later that it had taken her months to get Karen to take as much as a biscuit. Her mother disapproved of too much mingling.

In spite of her disappointment Benny decided, after talking it over with the man in charge of the service, to give it another go. Fortunately the times didn't clash with St. Anselm's so, with a bit of luck, the vicar would never know.

In the vegetable garden Kate found an old wicker basket lying on its side by a wigwam of runner beans. She picked some courgettes, warm and shiny in her hands, half hidden behind glowing yellow flowers. There was summer savory to go with the beans and mint for the potatoes. The earth was pale in the heat and bone dry. She traced the hose, snaking between rows of newly planted broccoli, to its source and turned on the tap.

Moderating the flow, Kate watered dreamily in a silence broken only by the heady thrumming from the orchard of hundreds of wasps and bees. The gentle splash as the water soaked the ground and the rich vanilla fragrance of bean flowers combined to effect a trance-like involvement in the moment that wiped all else from her mind.

When Mallory touched her hair she jumped. He said, “Sorry. Were you miles away?”

“Yes – well, no. I was absolutely here. But in a way I can't quite describe.” At the sight of him the final shreds of Kate's resentment vanished. Mallory's shoulders were stooped, weariness lay upon him. He looked as he had coming home at night from the Ewan Sedgewick.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“We need some spuds.” She smiled, taking his hand. “I'll show you where they are.”

Mallory found a fork in the shed and started to dig, putting the Nicola potatoes in an old bucket. As Kate began to pick the broad beans she suddenly remembered what day it was. At four o'clock this afternoon Ashley had been due to see his GP. Had been called in specially. They must be home by now. She hoped the news was good but couldn't help feeling that if it had been they would have rung to say so.

When Mallory's bucket was full he took it and the beans to the kitchen, returning almost straight away looking slightly more cheerful.

“Benny's made us some Pimm's.”

“
Pimm's
…”

“My aunt's favourite.”

“What's it like?”

“Floating salad. Come and try.”

There were several fraying Lloyd Loom chairs on the flagstones outside the french windows. And a great stone table on worn-away lion paws. Kate poured the drinks and went to find Benny so they could all sit down together.

Mallory picked the borage and cucumber out of his glass, drained it and filled it up again. He leaned back, faking relaxation. The croquet lawn, half the size of a playing field and still studded with rusty hoops, stretched widely before him. Perhaps they could have a game soon? A croquet party – ask some friends down from London. Heaven knew, there was enough room to put people up. He would invite the Parnells and maybe some members of his aunt's bridge club. He dwelled on this attractive prospect for a while, seeing small groups of people strolling across the grass: girls in summer dresses, men in crumpled linen jackets and straw Panamas. Occasionally there would be a burst of laughter. Or a cry of “Hoopla!” when someone's mallet thwacked a precisely angled ball.

Mallory, trying to fill up every corner of his mind with pleasant things, struggled to add yet more verisimilitude to this pastoral idyll. Some huge sunshades materialised, a swing in the cedar tree, a brightly coloured gazebo. For a moment he was really there amongst them. Taken out of himself, as the saying goes. But then a real sound broke across his consciousness and the dazzling picture vanished.

“It's all right for some,” said Kate. She sat down and splashed the Pimm's into two glasses, adding ice from the portable ice box, smelling the orange mint. “Would you like another one, darling?”

“I've had another one.”

“These things are a bit creaky.” Kate tipped the chair back, resting her heels on a stone trough of Madonna lilies and tiny green ferns, tightly curled, like shepherds' crooks. She took a deep swallow of the drink then slowly exhaled, letting everything go.

“I told Dennis,” continued Kate, “half-seven for eight. It's now seven thirty-five and Benny's already fretting.”

Dennis. Mallory, about to drain his glass, put it down. He had quite forgotten that Dennis wanted to have a talk with him directly after dinner. Something personal, he had said. And afterwards there would be the inaugural meeting of the Celandine Press. At this rate he'd be drunk before they'd even started eating. Angry and ashamed at how little it had taken to hurl him back into self-indulgent misery, Mallory smiled across at Kate.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart.”

“About what?”

“Ohh…being me.”

“I'm not sorry you're you. If I woke up one morning next to someone who wasn't you I'd be livid.”

“I wouldn't be best pleased, myself.”

“That's all right then.”

Benny, rosy from attending to the duck, appeared on the terrace steps. “This Pimm's is delicious, Ben,” said Kate. “I've poured some out for you.”

“Thank you.” Benny took the glass and perched on the terrace wall. She agitated the ice cubes gently but didn't drink. “The thing is – I'm getting worried about Dennis. He's never late, you see.”

“He's not late now.” Mallory found it difficult to sound reassuring when he could see no reason for anxiety. “It's only ten to eight.”

“Even so…” Benny, though sensing his impatience, stood her ground.

“Look,” Kate got up. “I'll walk over, if you like.”

“We'll all go,” said Mallory, leaning back with his eyes closed.

“No,” said Benny. “You stay here; it's such a lovely evening.” She disappeared back into the dining room, calling over her shoulder. “I'll probably meet him halfway.”

 

It was not generally known that, to balance the unhappy condition of spending her entire life riddled with anxiety, Benny had been given a protective talisman against disaster. All she had to do was remember to call upon it in any situation that looked like being even remotely hazardous.

She had her father to thank for this device, which he drew to her attention when she was barely thirteen. Benny remembered exactly the moment this occurred. The family had been watching the local news on television. Sally, their Cairn terrier, was curled up in Benny's lap. A woman, whose husband and son had just been pulverised when their car had been squashed under the wheels of an articulated lorry, was being asked by a sparky young reporter how she felt.

“Shattered,” had been her reply. Then, choking between sobs, “I never thought this could happen to me.”

“Did you hear that, Mother?” asked Mr. Frayle. “Doesn't that bear out what I've always said
vis-à-vis
the human psyche?”

“What's that, dear?” replied Mrs. Frayle.

“Time and time again my point is proved.”

“What point, Daddy?”

“Hush, Berenice,” said Mrs. Frayle. “Your father's listening to the news.”

“The only people disaster ever strikes are the people who think it could never happen to them.”

Unaware of the devastating effect of these words on his teenage daughter Mr. Frayle folded his
Daily Express
and turned his attention once more to the tiny blue screen flickering in its cabinet of light oak.

Forty years on and Berenice was still conscious of her extreme good fortune in having such a perceptive and intelligent father. What devastating stroke of ill fortune might have shattered her whole world any day at any time had she not taken this warning sincerely to heart?

Every morning, from then on, Benny would write down a list of incidents that the following twenty-four hours might reasonably be expected to hold. Then she would imagine every single thing that could possibly go wrong during each occasion and, when the time came round, expected them all to happen. And it worked! Not a single catastrophe had ever occurred.

Of course, she couldn't quite hold each and every imagined possibility simultaneously in her mind while its companion event was occurring but she did her best. Naturally all this was a terrible strain and meant that only half her attention – if that – was on what she was supposed to be doing at any given time.

Obviously some happenings were easier to classify as potentially disastrous than others. For instance a check on carrot root fly (catching foot in garden hose, falling, breaking leg) was not nearly as complex or alarming as a visit to the zoo (mauled by escaping tiger, trampled by rhino, catching psittacosis from parrot bite). Or a trip on the underground (pushed under wheels in rush hour by maddened claustrophobe). And there were a few rare occasions when Benny did not feel the need to use her talisman at all. Visits to Dennis fell into this category. However disorderly or unharmonious the real world, once in his presence Benny always felt nothing could go ill.

These reflections had brought her to the gate of Kinders. It stood wide open, which was strange. Dennis was meticulous, not just in closing but also in fastening gates. Gates, doors, cupboards even. And lining up edges, straightening cutlery; even drawers were closed with hairline precision.