Bloody Horowitz (19 page)

At the same time, Dennis was spending more and more. He'd bought himself a new car, a BMW, which was parked on the street outside. There had also been other brief vacations—weekend breaks in Paris and Rome, staying in five-star hotels. I'm not saying my mum hadn't enjoyed these trips. But there was always the question of who was going to pay, and it followed her around like a cloud.

The biggest expense of all was Dennis's study. He needed somewhere to work, he said, so he had an ugly conservatory constructed at the back of the house and used it as an office. It completely spoiled the garden, it cost thousands, and worse still, there was a problem with the construction (he'd used builders who had been recommended by one of his friends), and so we had to spend thousands more putting it right.

My mum was paying for everything. She'd never even been paid back for Barbados. I knew because one morning they had an argument over the breakfast table. It came as quite a shock to hear their voices raised, and it made me wonder if there hadn't been other arguments when I was at school or, in whispers, when I was asleep.

Mum had just opened a bill from a company that supplied fine wine. That was another of Dennis's extravagances. He loved expensive clarets. Some of the bottles cost thirty or forty dollars.

“We can't pay this!” my mother exclaimed. She was staring at the bill, completely shocked.

“How much is it?” Dennis glanced at the total and raised an eyebrow.

“I really don't think you should have bought so much, Dennis. Not in the current climate. We'll have to send the wine back.”

“We can't send it back.”

“Why not?”

“It would make me look ridiculous. Anyway, I've already opened some of the bottles.”

“But we can't afford it!”

Dennis scowled. “You really have no understanding of money, do you, Helen,” he said. “It's true we're going through a bad patch. But I'm chasing one or two very interesting deals and everything will sort itself out in time. We just have to keep our nerve, that's all.”

“But we've got dozens of bills . . .”

“Don't you trust me?” Dennis looked offended, but at the same time there was something else in his face, something I hadn't seen before. He looked threatening. “I've told you about this share opportunity in London. If it works out—”

“But what if it doesn't?” My mother sat down and for a moment she looked close to tears. “We've gone through nearly all my savings in less than a year! I'm working extra hours.”

“I'm working too!”

“I know, dear. But sometimes I wish you'd work a little less. Your work is actually bankrupting us.”

That evening, Dennis took us all out to dinner at the Golden Keys to cheer us up. This was a smart pub in Snape, about five miles away. He ordered champagne and a nine-inch cigar. But when the bill came, I noticed he slid it over to my mum.

“Left my credit card behind,” he explained. “You get this, Helen. I'll pay you back.”

He had to smoke the cigar outside on the terrace, and while he was gone, I asked my mum if things really were as bad as they seemed.

“I don't know, Lucy,” she said with a sigh.

“Has he really used all your savings?”

“I'm afraid so. He says you have to spend money to make money, but I don't think . . .” She broke off. “Don't worry about this,” she continued. She sounded completely worn-out. “I'm sure it'll work out in the end.”

“Are you still glad you married him?” I hadn't meant to be so direct, but the words just slipped out.

“Of course!” she replied instantly, but I wasn't convinced.

“You could always divorce him,” I said.

Mum's eyes widened. I turned around. Dennis had come back into the dining room. He was standing right behind me and he must have heard what I had just said.

“Where's the cigar?” Mum asked. She looked really frightened. She was wondering if he had heard what we were saying.

“It made me feel sick,” Dennis said. He reached for the car keys, which were lying on the table. “Let's go home.”

None of us spoke on the way back. As soon as Dennis had parked his BMW, I hurried into the house and up to my room. I just wanted the evening to be over. But it wasn't yet. Not by a long shot.

I'd just gotten into my pajamas when my door opened and Dennis came in. I was quite startled to see him. He never usually came into my bedroom. He must have seen the expression on my face, because he smiled at me in that lazy way of his and said, “I just came in to say good night.”

“Good night, Dennis,” I said. I'd never called him Dad.

But he didn't leave. He sat down on the bed. “You know, I couldn't help overhearing what you said to your mum back in the restaurant,” he drawled. “I'd hate to think you were turning her against me.”

“I'm not,” I replied.

“That's not how it sounded to me.” He looked me straight in the eye. “In fact, young lady, I'd say you were more or less against me from the start.”

It's funny how things can change in an instant, like the wind blowing out a candle or a door swinging open to show something horrible on the other side. That was how it was for me then. Dennis hadn't done anything or said anything unpleasant. He was still sitting there in his smart blazer and gray trousers with one leg over his knee. But he was suddenly a completely different man, and I realized two things at the same moment. I was scared of him. And he knew I was scared . . . it was what he wanted.

“I have to say . . . ,” he went on, reasonably. “It would make life very difficult if you were my enemy. I'd have to think about separating you . . . sending you away to a boarding school.”

“You can't afford boarding school,” I said. I regretted the words as soon as I'd spoken them.

“We can sell this house. Get something smaller in Woodbridge or Leiston. Just your mother and me. Helen does what I tell her. You may have noticed that. You talk to her about me, she'll tell me—and you'll suffer the consequences.”

He stood up. I flinched. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me. That was the power he had, a sort of animal quality. He had the upper hand and he knew it. He took one last look at me, then walked out of the room. I stayed where I was. I was trembling. That was the effect he'd had on me. And that was when I began to wonder. Was Mum afraid of him too?

In the next few weeks, Dennis's business affairs didn't get any better, but he didn't seem to care. By now we had mortgaged the house again. A home in Orford, even a tiny one like ours, was worth a lot of money. But the question was—how would we ever pay it back? As far as he was concerned, Mum was a virtually bottomless well and he could continue drawing on her until she was sucked dry. And then, just when I thought he couldn't be any greedier or any more demanding, up came the massage chair.

Dennis had seen it advertised in a magazine: the Silver City ProElite Massage System Deluxe. In the picture, it looked like something you might find at an upmarket dentist—a series of padded leather cushions on a swiveling steel frame with headphones for the built-in MP3 player and two remote controls, one for massages, one for music. According to the advertisement, the SCPMSD came with state-of-the-art roller and air bag technology, a powerful (but silent) tri-point hydraulic system, a choice of fifteen different programs as well as a unique Body Memory feature that automatically took your weight and measurements and selected the massage to suit your needs. Other bonuses included a super-strong air pressure option, a full-color LCD, economy standby mode and automatic shutoff. The SCPMSD was being offered at a special once-only price of $3,950 plus tax.

“We're simply not getting this,” Mum said, pushing away the advertisement, which Dennis had thrust under her nose.

“But it's my birthday!” Dennis scowled. In fact, his birthday was still a month away.

“I'd love to get it for you. But I simply can't. There's no money in the bank and my credit cards are all over their limit.”

“We can get another credit card.”

“Why do you need a massage chair?” Mum asked.

Dennis rubbed his neck. “Living with the two of you, always criticizing me all the time! You have no idea how stressed I am. If I was more relaxed, I'd be able to concentrate on my business a little more.”

“I'm sorry, Dennis. I'm sure it would be a lovely thing to have. But I'm afraid this time it really is out of the question.”

The massage chair turned up a few days later. It was a monstrous thing that took four men to carry in, and by the time it had been installed in the living room, there was hardly any space for anything else. Dennis wasn't there when it arrived. He was at the pub, somewhere he'd been spending more and more time recently. After the delivery-men had finished their work and gone, I found Mum in the kitchen. I could tell that she'd been crying.

“Mum!” I went over to her and this time I wasn't going to hold back. “Why are you putting up with this?” I demanded. “It's stupid. You should get rid of him. You should kick him out.”

“Shh!” She turned around and for a moment she looked terrified. “You don't understand, Lucy. I can't . . .”

“Has he threatened you?”

“No. It's not like that.”

“Then why?”

I heard the front door open and my heart sank.

“He's not so bad,” my mum whispered. “And maybe he'll be happy . . . now that he's got his chair.”

In fact, Dennis was delighted. He sat in it at once and began to experiment with the programs, trying to find the one that suited him best.

Have you ever seen a massage chair? For something that was meant to be a luxury item, this one was really hideous. The leather was black and highly polished, and even if it was packed with the latest technology, it still looked awkward and old-fashioned. It was also very big, completely enclosing Dennis when he sank into it . . . a bit like a mummy in its sarcophagus. The chair sat on a metal plinth. There were supports for his arms and legs, and when the program started, these gently pressed on both sides of his wrists and ankles, massaging them and at the same time keeping him in the correct position. Cushions also inflated behind his head and around his neck, and hidden rollers moved up and down his spine, under his hips and thighs and even behind his calves. Every inch of his body had been catered for and, just as the advertisement had stated, the massage chair was practically silent with only a faint humming as it went about its work.

I hated that chair. You have to remember that we lived in a small, pretty house, and the chair—with its pistons and rollers and air bags and leg traction—completely spoiled it for me. I could always tell when it was on. I couldn't hear it, but the walls of my bedroom vibrated. I thought of it as a monster in a cave. If any of our friends had seen it, they would have said it was completely out of place, better suited to an airport lounge or health club. But not many friends visited us anymore. (They didn't much like Dennis either.)

Dennis had the chair for less than a week before it broke down. He'd used it every evening. He had a set pattern. After dinner, he'd pour himself a glass of expensive wine, light one of his expensive cigars and sit there in his black leather beast with a vague smile on his face, watching TV. Meanwhile, Mum would do the laundry and maybe the ironing before she went to bed and I'd stay in my room, doing my homework, almost afraid to go out.

Well, one evening, just before I went upstairs, he got himself all set up, reached for the remote control, pressed down with his thumb and . . .

Nothing happened.

“Helen? Have you been tampering with this?” he demanded.

“No.” My mum stopped, a pile of clothes in her arms.

He tried again. “It's not working.”

“Is it plugged in?” Mum asked.

“Of course it's plugged in, you stupid woman. You can see for yourself. The green light is on.”

“Well, it's not working.”

“I know it's not working. I just said that.”

“Maybe it's blown a fuse,” I suggested, secretly hoping it was something more serious.

“We need to call someone in,” Dennis said.

“I'll find someone,” my mum said. She was really upset. I don't suppose she cared about the stupid chair but she didn't want Dennis to be in a bad mood.

She rang the chair company the following morning, but that was the next crisis. The Silver City ProElite Massage System Deluxe was still under guarantee, but Dennis had lost the paperwork and they said they wouldn't come to the house without it.

“We can get someone local,” I said. “I bet it's something simple. Maybe one of those stupid pistons has fallen off or something.”

“Lucy!” My mother rolled her eyes nervously, even though Dennis wasn't in the house.

“I'll find a number,” I said.

I went into the kitchen. The Yellow Pages telephone book was lying open on the windowsill next to the sink, and here's the strange thing. As I walked over to it, there must have been some sort of breeze in the room, because the pages fluttered and turned as if the telephone book were opening itself. Stranger still, by the time I reached it, it had settled in exactly the right place, because an advertisement in a black box in the top corner drew my eye immediately.

I showed the advertisement to Mum and she rang the number, although she was a little puzzled by all those zeroes. What sort of phone had a number like that? I'm not sure she was even expecting to get an answer, but she was connected after the first ring. She spoke briefly to someone at the other end of the line, then put the phone down.