Going Loco (13 page)

‘My own identity, meanwhile, had been easily disposed of by Stefan. I was dead, found in the canal two weeks after my visit. Somebody else’s body, of course, I don’t know whose. Anyway, when this corpse turned up, Stefan, being the police’s favourite consultant pathologist, made extremely short work of the genetic fingerprinting. There was a small piece about
my funeral in the papers, which Ingrid thoughtfully pasted beside my bed. My estate was claimed by Stefan – he made me sign a phoney will – my ageing parents grieved, which caused me terrible anguish. Meanwhile Stefan brought home to Malmö a Ferrari from the auction of my effects, and taunted me with the keys. He really was a sad case, Stefan. He deserved to have terrible luck, I mean it. Despite his undeniable genius, he deserved to be outwitted, as he subsequently was, by a man totally at his mercy.

‘Because one day I put it to him, the answer to this conundrum of life. The time was right. Ingrid was getting unbearably frisky, and Stefan had just sawn off a quite visible piece of my elbow, and I suppose I thought enough’s enough.

‘“Look, Stefan,” I said. “This
grand guignol
thing has been going on long enough. I’ve had a much better idea.”

‘Stefan laid the piece of elbow in a sterilized dish, and folded his arms. “What?” he asked.

‘“It’s obvious,” I said. “The time has come for me to kill you and take your identity.”

‘“Why?” he said.

‘“Because this outcome alone will confirm your theories of survival and be the crowning achievement of your work. Moreover, by transferring
all
my lucky genetic material into the identity of Stefan Johansson – instead of tiny, ludicrous slivers of it – we can ensure that the Johansson work will become famous and win prizes. Johansson will be a struggling, luckless nobody no more! He will be handsome and charming and his wife will adore him, and the world of science will fall at his feet.”

‘I held my breath, waiting for Stefan to burst into maniacal laughter and saw my leg off. But he didn’t. He was genuinely struck by this idea. He could see the logic in it. His mind raced, as he considered the implications. I would have to work abroad, of course, where nobody knew Stefan’s face. I must
learn enough about Stefan’s work to persuade people. I must learn to love Ingrid.

‘Of course, I agreed to everything.

‘“But let’s not tell Ingrid yet,” I urged him. He agreed. He said it would be a wonderful surprise for her, to find herself married to me. And, as he started fiddling with my sore elbow, I smiled and said I had a feeling he was right.

‘“What are you doing?” I asked.

‘“Shouldn’t I sew this back on now?” He held up a sliver of flesh, the size and shape of an anchovy.

‘“Keep it,” I said. “I’ve got loads more where that came from.”

‘Stefan looked at me admiringly. “I wish I could be like you,” he said.

‘“You’re soon going to be exactly like me,” I said. And we hugged, man to man, in the one-way fashion available to people who are not equally free to move their arms.

‘You can imagine my surprise that my ruse had been so successful. I even started believing in my luck gene. For a week or two, I was convinced he would wake one morning and realize he’d been tricked. But he didn’t. Because he hadn’t been tricked, not really. Genetically, my suggestion made excellent sense to Stefan. I was bound by my genes to do this thing. And if there was one thing Stefan never argued with, it was biological destiny.

‘Actually, our conversations over the next six months about how I’d kill him and replace him were our very best times together. How we laughed! Stefan would banish Ingrid to the sitting room, and bring some beers, put Abba on his portable stereo. The words to “Waterloo” were particularly apt in the context, funnily enough; it’s about fate, you know. He’d free one of my hands, which was nice. And then together we’d discuss the merits of various homicidal methods. I favoured shooting, for example, because it was quick and noisy, and
because I might not have the stamina for strangling after such a long time horizontal. He fancied something more drawn out and Scandinavian.

‘It was rather a bizarre situation, I suppose. I knew he was in earnest, though. He started to buy clothes for me. He bought a forged passport. He even registered my DNA as Stefan Johansson’s, opened an account at IKEA and registered my signature on a new bank account with all our joint money in it. He was more animated than I had ever seen him. In planning all the details of how I would supplant him, he was illuminated by a kind of mad joy.

‘And then one day Ingrid ruined it all. Just a week before the day marked on the laboratory calendar with a hangman’s noose, the bitch came in and released me. It was a Saturday afternoon, Stefan had popped across to Copenhagen to buy me a last, parting gift – a rather nice briefcase I’d picked out from a catalogue – and she saw her opportunity. “Go away,” I begged, when I realized what was happening. But by now she was mad for me, you see. Gagging. And what could I do? It was all frightfully embarrassing. She brought candles and arranged them around the room. She called me “big boy” if you can believe it. Drunk as a skunk, of course. She comes in, turns the light out, and climbs on top of me, and then starts moaning, “Hold me, hold me.”

‘“Ingrid,” I say, fighting for breath and squirming, “I can’t hold you. I’m tied up. Control yourself. You’re sitting on my diaphragm.”

‘“I love you,” she says. “And I’m so unhappy.” At which point she starts unbuttoning my pyjamas and caressing my privates in what I can only describe as an electrifying manner.

‘“You’re always unhappy,” I point out, through gritted teeth, as my neck flushes and my ears catch fire. “You can’t blame me for that. You’re Swedish.”

‘“Hold me, hold me. Don’t you love your Ingrid?”

‘“Get off me,” I squeal. “Think of Stefan.”

‘“Stefan!”’

‘And then the unthinkable happens. With an ugly pout, which I assume she intends as coquettish, she unties my hands and puts them on her chest. I can’t believe it. My hands free, after all this time. I waggle and flex them against her puddingy, jiggly breasts, as I try to absorb this enormous change in my circumstances. Suddenly, after all this time, there is only a drunk, lascivious small woman interposing her body between me and freedom. Moreover, all I have to do is push. I press tentatively, and she moans. I press harder, and she makes a bloodcurdling noise, like the miaow of a cat. I press again and she licks my face.

‘“More,” she whispers.

‘So I gather all my feeble strength and push as hard as I can.

‘“Take that, bitch!” I cry, as she slides drunkenly off my bed and on to the floor. She says, “What?” but that’s all the resistance she offers. Once on the floor, she passes out.

‘Blood thumps in my ears. I don’t know what to do. I can hardly shackle myself to the bed again before Stefan gets back. Shall I run for it? I surely won’t have the energy. Besides, when I stand up my pyjama bottoms fall down, revealing that I have been fully aroused by these exhilarating proceedings. At which point, as I dither half naked and priapic above his supine wife while candles twinkle romantically around the room, Stefan enters, waving the new briefcase, only to be frozen to the spot as he surveys the scene.

‘“Ingrid, what has he done to you?” he cries, sinking to his knees. She lies before him, evidently lifeless. Oh, the times I have recollected this train of events! So many tragic turns!

‘“Ah, Stefan, glad it’s you,” I bluff cheerfully, as I try to pull my trousers up. “Look, the first thing you need to know is that this needn’t ruin our plans. This isn’t at all the way it looks. I
can still kill you exactly as we arranged with the rat poison. In fact, why don’t I do it now?’

‘“No!” he shouts. “Ingrid, are you all right?”

‘“Of course she’s all right,” I snap.

‘“I’m so unhappy, so unhappy,” she whimpers from the floor.

‘“There you are,” I protest. “Perfectly normal.”

‘But he’s not listening. He’s distraught. And although he’s unaware of it, his pony-tail has just caught light from one of the candles. As he turns away from me, I see that the flame is travelling up his old brittle pigtail like a fuse on a stick of dynamite.

‘“Stefan!” I yell, and hurl a glass of water at him.

‘He turns to look at me, nonplussed by such a strange and puny act of violence. I will never forget that quizzical look on his face, not as long as I live. Especially when we both realized the water was in fact pure alcohol, used for disinfecting my wounds.

‘“Bugger it, your hair’s on fire, Stefan,” I say, apologetically. And with a final cry of “Ingrid! You see? You see how unlucky I am?” Stefan Johansson goes up in flames.’

Belinda’s husband paused for a breather. He had been talking solidly for an hour, and when he turned to look at Linda, he discovered she had all her fingers crammed in her mouth.

‘I suppose you guessed all this?’ he asked.

She shook her head. She’d had an inkling he wasn’t Swedish. It wasn’t the same. ‘What happened?’ she squeaked. ‘Did he die?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Stefan. ‘But it wasn’t at all what we’d planned. Dying like that made it terribly difficult for me. Police came, and fire engines. I barely had time to flee the place before
they arrived. Luckily Stefan had put all the relevant stuff in the briefcase already. Passport, bank account. The clothes were in a suitcase, and the keys to my Ferrari were in the hall. I staggered to the car and drove it a couple of miles before I dared to breathe. Then I got changed and drove like hell. I took a ferry to Denmark, drove to France. And here I am. Those albums were in the boot of the car. They’re all I’ve got to remind me of Lucky George. It’s awkward that I share an identity with a dead man whose demise was so spectacular, but since the alternative was to be scraped to the bone by mad people with no sense of humour, I can’t say I mind too much.

‘My only regret is mentioning Ingrid to Belinda. I can tell it hurts her. But somehow I could never contain my joy that Ingrid was locked up in Malmö. They found bits of me all over the house, apparently. Bits of other people, as well. I wasn’t the first, I knew that. Genetics in Sweden has never really recovered from the exposure. Ingrid was found to be wearing a locket containing a piece of my left buttock the size of a pound coin. Well, you can imagine the consternation.

‘So that’s my story,’ he said finally, with a smile. ‘I hope I haven’t been boring you?’

Linda whimpered. ‘No,’ she said, in a very small voice.

‘Promise you won’t tell Belinda? She loves Stefan, you see. How can I tell her I’m somebody else? I love her so much.’

‘You can’t tell her.’

Stefan massaged his elbow through his sleeve, but mercifully did not offer to show Linda the place where the anchovy was cut off.

‘And you don’t mind pretending to be Swedish all the time?’

‘No, it’s easy. Tell people you’re Swedish, and the amazing thing is, they never ask a follow-up question. Belinda has never asked me to tell her the Swedish word for anything, or wondered why I have no Swedish friends. No, it’s fine, fine.

The only trouble is, Linda,’ – his voice lowered – ‘there’s been somebody watching me this week, and following me to work.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. He’s young and smartly dressed. A boy with no hair. He’s been following me quite openly. He hasn’t learned very much, I know that. In fact, I think he knows only about my taste in Habitat comestibles. But if he comes near to uncovering anything about me – well, I don’t know how to say this without sounding absurdly melodramatic!’

He laughed, and Linda waited. ‘Go on,’ she said.

‘Well, Linda, I can’t help it. I’ll have to protect Belinda. If he uncovers the slightest thing about what happened to me in Malmö, I think I’ll have to kill him.’

Since they worked for the same newspaper, it was natural for Tanner and Leon not to recognize each other on the flight to the Malmö airport of Sturup. The newspaper world is like that. Leon had written about sport for the
Daily Effort
for fifteen years, and he had known altogether only eighteen colleagues by sight. Five had been sacked, and two had collapsed heroically at their desks during the World Cup in 1998 endeavouring to meet the first edition, so now he knew eleven. Leon loved the buzz and even the heartlessness of journalism. When his own time came to die, he cheerfully expected to be checked into heaven with Fleet Street’s highest hallelujah, ‘Copy fits, no queries.’

However, since he and Tanner sat beside each other on three separate occasions that Monday morning in March – first in the City Airport’s café eating damp croissants, then in the departure lounge (both scanning the Effort with a professional eye and making ‘Tsk’ noises), and finally on the plane – it was odd that it took quite so long for them to speak.

Leon, for his part, was lost in thought. Four weeks had passed since Maggie sent him away, but he had dwelt on it ever since. He had become a changed man – as his eleven close colleagues would tell you. His reports from all round the globe
were now peppered with strange words (removed by the subs) like anal and penile. He washed his hair more often. He began one 600-word report from a UEFA Cup match with the words ‘We forget sometimes that many quite intelligent people aren’t remotely interested in football’, and had found next day to his astonishment that his philosophical musings were reduced to a functional photo caption.

Oh, Maggie. He would lie awake at night in Budapest or Monaco, remembering the way she sighed and huffed whenever he spoke. She was so exotic, and spoke with such fabulous vowels. He was quite sure he’d once seen her in something, even though she’d told him it was impossible if he never went to the theatre. When he felt like cheering himself up, he would just remember that surprising moment when she kissed him rather violently in the car and whispered, ‘Come and stay the night.’ (Maggie had characteristically forgotten her own leading role in the seduction.)

Meanwhile Tanner’s reasons for not speaking to Leon were even more prosaic. He was asleep. To return to the Stefan Johansson story was a bore, especially by comparison with the intervening month, which had been spent deputizing on Fashion. He’d had a wonderful time. When the fashion editor finally returned refreshed (and a bit green) from a French seaweed-therapy health farm, she discovered that in her absence the
Effort
had seriously commended men to wear pinstripe sarongs to the office, and that the editor had sent a memo to everybody in Features saying, ‘More stuff like this, please.’