How to Be Bad (19 page)

“Briefly. He washed our car for us.”

“Notice anything unusual about his hands?”

“No.”

“The next time you see him, take a look at his right hand. It's a mass of scar tissue. Want to know how he got it?”

“I'm not sure,” I admitted. I had a feeling an unpleasant anecdote was on its way.

“The boy isn't Mather's real son. I doubt she and the supremely charismatic Philip have ever had sex. They may have tried, but it'd take a very sick man indeed to be aroused by the sight of Janet Mather in the nude.”

I grinned. “You know that for a fact, do you?”

“Call it an educated guess. Anyway, Dale was the Mathers' nephew. His parents died in a crash, so when he was about eight years old, he came here to live with an uncle and aunt he barely knew. The boy was disturbed, and who can blame him? Anyway, one morning he came into school with his hand all bandaged.

Naturally, his teacher wanted to know what had happened. The boy told her that Janet Mather had branded him. Well, phone calls were made. Social services were called in. It turned out young Dale was telling the truth. Because the lad was so screwed up and didn't want to be living with the bloody Mathers, he got into the habit of playing with fire. Taking live coals out of the fireplace with a pair of tongs and dropping 'em on the carpet to see what happened.

“Well, old Janet caught him at it. And she decided he needed a lesson in how dangerous fire can be. So she grabbed the boy's wrist, thrust his hand into the fire, and held it there.”

“Fucking hell!” I said.

“My sentiments exactly. Anyway, the authorities investigated the matter, and nothing was done. You know what useless buggers these social workers are. No charges were brought against Mather. The bloody woman got off scot-free. A few months after the event, my wife got talking to her at some Women's Institute event. Asked her why she'd done it. Know what Mather's answer was?”

I obliged him by shaking my head.

Ricky lit a cigarette. I saw that his fingers were stained brown with nicotine. “She said, ‘I couldn't think what else to do.' Now, there's imagination for you. An eight-year-old kid has lost his entire family, he's so angry and desperate for attention that he's resorted to pyromania, and all Mather could think of to do for him was burn his hand.”

“The woman's a genius.”

“Hanging's too good for her,” said Ricky.

*   *   *

W
HEN
I opened the front door, there was Caro, pointing the Kimber handgun directly at my face. “Fuck,” I said. “What're you doing?”

She lowered the weapon. “Where have you been?” she demanded. She was almost crying. “It's midnight. Where the hell have you been till this time?”

I told her. “What's the big deal?”

“I've been hearing noises.”

She'd heard someone try the back door handle. Then she thought she saw something moving in the back garden. When she phoned my mobile, she found it was turned off. Unwilling to phone the police, she had resorted to sitting on the stairs, holding the gun.

“And you haven't taken anything?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know. A pill or anything.”

“You mean am I hallucinating?”

“Even weed can make you a bit paranoid.”

“We're out of weed, remember. I'm clean, Mark. And I'm telling you, there was someone out there.”

I took the gun and a flashlight and went out into the back garden. There was nobody there. “Look,” I said. “Nothing.”

“There's no one there now,” she said impatiently. “There was definitely someone there before.”

We went to bed, and I placed the gun on the bedside table. When the light was out, I made a clumsy attempt to seduce her. Caro took my hand off her breast and gave it back to me. “I'm scared,” she said.

“What of?”

“I don't know,” she said. “If anyone tried to kill me, you'd protect me. Wouldn't you?”

“With my life,” I promised.

*   *   *

I
N THE
morning, we found a mouse imprisoned in one of our humane traps. Now we had to drive twenty miles to humanely release it into the wild. We stopped at a lonely spot on the coast, released the gate on the trap, and watched the little bastard scamper off toward the sand dunes.

“You know, you were right,” commented Caro. “It's better to live and let live.”

On the way back, Caro saw a sign for a garden center and turned off.

“There's no need to do any gardening,” I said.

“What're you talking about? I told Mrs. Mather we would.”

“We're not going to do anything to oblige Mrs. Mather. Not ever.” With a certain sadistic glee, I told Caro about the hand-burning incident.

I could see that Caro was outraged, but she pretended not to be. “So? She did something bad and stupid. Who are you to judge anyone? You pushed somebody under a tube train.”

“You want to play friendly neighbors with Vlad the Impaler? Go ahead.”

“I just want the garden to look nice. I'm doing it for us, not for Mather.”

At the garden center we bought a spade, a rake, a hoe, some shears, and some seeds. I couldn't believe how expensive this stuff was, but Caro said it was an investment.

“No, it's not,” I argued. “An investment gathers value with the passing of time. Classic cars and rare books, they're investments. A garden rake just gets more and more worn out until its head breaks off.”

Driving back, our journey was delayed by a line of funeral cars traveling at about fifteen miles an hour. Caro refused to drive past the cortege, having read somewhere that it was unlucky to overtake a corpse. We crawled through a village called Bloxham, drawing to a complete halt outside its little church. Caro waited until the flower-topped coffin had been carried into the churchyard before driving on.

*   *   *

I
N A
sudden burst of activity, Caro went out to test her new spade on the garden, digging away at the weeds like any proud householder. I made her some hot chocolate and took it out to her. While we were chatting, me leaning against the car, Caro leaning on the gate, Mrs. Mather came out of the village hall and walked over to us.

“Look,” said Caro, pointing at two square feet of freshly dug soil. “I've started.”

“Very good.” Mather nodded and frowned. “But, you see, that's no use. You need to remove the weeds.”

“Which are the weeds?”

“These,” said Mather, pointing at some green things with the toe of her shoe. “All you've done so far is move the soil about. If you don't uproot the weeds, the garden will be in as bad a state as before.”

“Oh,” said Caro. “Thanks.”

“I'll be back later to see how you're getting on,” said Mather, then walked away.

“The cheeky fucking bitch,” I said.

“I'm sure she means well,” said Caro unconvincingly.

I lit a fire in the back room and lazed in an armchair, reading
Happiness in Seven Days
by that best-selling simpleton Cassandra Maitland. The last page of the book made me laugh out loud, and to that extent I suppose it could be said to have induced a small measure of happiness.

We tend to think of happiness as a state brought about by a series of random events. For example, I may feel happy if I like my job, if I have enough money, if I'm happy with my appearance, and I'm in a good relationship. What I'm failing to realize is that I can have none of these things and still be happy and inwardly fulfilled.
Real happiness comes from within and is not determined by outside events.
A person who is impoverished or solitary or even terminally ill can experience great happiness. Conversely, we can all think of famous and successful people who never appear to have found contentment.

To be happy, you only have to decide to be so. Can it really be that simple, I hear you ask? Yes, absolutely! Once you accept that you are an eternal and unique spirit, and that feeling love for others is the ultimate good, all the joy that God has been storing away for you shall be yours.
All you have to do is ask.

No sooner had I asked God for all the joy he'd been storing away for me then the door opened and a large belly walked in, closely followed by Detective Constable Flett. Then came Caro, looking strained and unhappy, with Detective Sergeant Bromley behind her. Bromley wore his habitual irritating smile. Uninvited, Bromley and Flett settled themselves on the sofa. Caro hovered by the door, and I got up to join her.

“It was very naughty of you to come away without telling us,” said Bromley. “Very naughty indeed.”

“What do you want?” I said.

“Well, that's up to you,” said Flett, and then he laughed. It was a harsh, unpleasant little laugh.

“It's like this,” said Bromley. “We don't have any proof yet, but we've been doing some research. It seems you were telling the truth about your inheritance.” He nodded at Caro. “Her father's sudden death seems to have worked out very well for you both.”

“So what?” said Caro.

“Then we've got the death of Warren Jeavons,” said Flett. “Pushed under a train by an unknown assailant. Now, unfortunately, the CCTV cameras at Hammersmith were down at the time of the attack. All we have is a witness who was so traumatized by the incident that she subsequently suffered a nervous breakdown. Which would, of course, make it easy for any counsel to discredit her testimony. But we have recently noted a similarity between the likeness she helped our artist to create and a certain person sitting in this room.”

Caro started to swear. Bromley hushed her with a wave of his hand. “Now, we don't give a fuck about Warren or Peter Callaghan or even your dear father. But we strongly suspect that you two have been rather busy. Admittedly, most of our evidence is circumstantial. Then again, the majority of convictions are secured on the strength of circumstantial evidence. Wouldn't you say so, George?”

Flett nodded slowly. Then he licked his lips. “We could build a case against you, no problem. Or you could be nice to us. It's up to you.”

Caro looked at me, then directed her attention at Flett. “You expect us to give you money?”

“It wouldn't have to be money,” said Bromley, laughing amiably. “You could just let us fuck you.”

“What?”

“Just a few hours of your time, every now and then,” said Flett. “We wouldn't be greedy.”

“You want to fuck us?” I said in amazement.

Flett tutted in disgust. “Not you, you clown.
Her.
”

“Get out,” said Caro to Flett, cheeks aglow with rage. “You disgusting bastards.”

Bromley chuckled. “You needn't look so shocked,” he told her. “We know you used to oblige Jesus.”

“Just fuck off,” I said.

“All she has to do is lie down for us,” said Flett. “That's not too much to ask, is it?”

Caro picked up a vase and hurled it in their direction. It shattered on the wall above the sofa. Bromley and Flett thought this was hilarious. They were both laughing as they got up. I caught the reek of alcohol as they walked past me.

“No need to decide now,” said Bromley, brushing fluff off his overcoat. “We'll give you a couple of days to think about it.”

The two police officers sniggered all the way to their car.

*   *   *

C
ARO WENT
back to the garden. It was getting dark. A wind was stirring, a harsh wind that tasted of the sea. The lights of the village hall glowed yellow behind us as Caro angrily assaulted the earth with her new spade. For some reason she wasn't speaking to me.

“I suppose you think I should have shot them,” I said.

She just carried on digging, her face paler than the moon.

“It's good news,” I said. “They can't really prosecute us now, not after what they suggested. They're a pair of piss-takers, Caro. They're just trying it on. They're not going to do anything.”

Silence.

“I still don't know why you're mad at me.”

“No? How did they know, Mark? About me and Jesus?”

“I've no idea.”

“I suppose you fucking told them.”

“No. I kept to our bargain. I told them exactly what we agreed, nothing more. You untrusting cow. Anyway, if it comes to that, how did they find us here?”

An insistent bleeping sound was coming from the village hall. I turned to see Janet Mather switching off the lights and locking the building. She walked over to us, jangling her keys. It was not a good moment.

“My word, still at it?” barked Mather, grinning like a hangman. “You can come round and dig my garden if you're that keen.”

Caro continued to dig without looking up.

“No,” said Mather, “you're doing a good job, my dear. And on behalf of the village hall committee, I'd like to thank you.”

Mather didn't seem to notice the hate radiating from Caro's back.

“Of course,” she continued, surveying the house critically, “if you really want to improve the house, you could try cleaning the windows.”

“Oh,
fuck off!
” snapped Caro.

Mather stepped back in astonishment. It was the kind of outmoded theatrical gesture that is now only seen in old British films like
Brief Encounter.
“I beg your pardon?” she said.

Caro turned on her. “What business is it of yours whether our windows are clean? Or whether the garden looks like shit or not? None.”

“I am only trying to help,” said Mather.

“You're a horrible, interfering cow. All you care about is whether the houses in the square live up to your village hall. Which, incidentally, looks like a low-grade public toilet. So fuck off!”

“You are a very rude and ignorant young woman,” said Mather.