Remix (2010) (17 page)

“Thank you, but don’t bother, Miss Tallis. If you could pass me my briefcase, I’ll leave. I don’t want to stay here longer than I have to. I’d be grateful if you’d walk me to my car.”

“Okay…”

We got up, me holding his briefcase and Phil still pressing the handkerchief to his nose. I could tell moving hurt him as he went down the stairs. Phil’s gleaming Audi was parked outside Fox Hollow Yard. As we approached, a traffic warden slipped a parking ticket under the windscreen wiper and walked away. Behind the glass was a label showing parking time paid for. I peered at it.

“It hasn’t expired! Write in to them and you won’t have to pay it. They’re terrible…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Phil opened the driver’s door and put the parking ticket on the passenger seat. He eased himself carefully inside, shut the door, wound down the window and looked up at me.

“You see what he’s like, Miss Tallis? Violent, uncontrolled, vicious. You’re not safe with him. You’re making a big mistake to trust him, an even bigger one if, as I suspect, you’ve allowed yourself to become entangled with him. He’s untrustworthy. I’ll do my best to persuade Emma not to give her story to the press, for her sake, not his. The best thing for everyone, you, me, Emma, is for Ric to go back abroad. Best for him as well. Perhaps now you understand why I think that?”

I didn’t say anything. He started the car, put it into gear and drove off down the road. I walked slowly back to the flat.

Ric was still outside, leaning on the railing. I went and stood beside him. He looked at me; no expression, like the day I met him.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” I said.

I thought he wasn’t going to answer, then he said, “He started it.”

“Ric, you’re not ten years old! You don’t have to hit back just because someone hits you.”

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s the way you see it. If people hit me, I don’t stand there and take it.”

“I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the way you went for him.”

“He’s got my money, Caz. And now he and Emma have cooked up this rape scenario that justifies treating me like dirt. And there’s fuck all I can do about it. He’s got me where he wants me and he knows it.”

“He believes Emma’s story. He thinks you raped her. Couldn’t you tell?”

“I could tell he was using it to manipulate me.”

“Beating him up isn’t going to help.”

“It helped me.” He turned and looked at me properly. “I’m pissed off, Caz. I had a life, and yeah, I fucked up, but a lot of what I had I liked, and I want it back. You don’t know how it feels when you write a new song, and know it’s good, and play it at a gig for the first time, and the audience gets it - totally gets it. You’re there in that moment together. That’s what it’s about. Not the money or the fame. You’ve made it happen, it’s yours, you’ve got it right here in your hand.” Ric held out his palm, and closed his fingers. He shook his head impatiently. “I can’t explain, but you feel so alive. Nothing else comes close. That’s what I want, that’s what I’m missing. I haven’t finished yet, I’ve barely begun. I want to be back at the top, and get it right this time. I’m writing again, good stuff, the best I’ve done. It’s getting to me, hanging around doing nothing, staying out of sight. I can’t see an end to it. Phil was the last fucking straw.”

“I can see it’s frustrating. But Ric, you’re in enough trouble already. You’re wanted for killing Bryan, and if I hadn’t stopped you hitting Phil, you might have killed
him
, the way you were going.”

“
Him
?” His voice was sharp. “You mean in the sense of him too?
You
think I killed Bryan?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t this morning. But seeing your face while you were attacking Phil…I could imagine…if you were drunk or something…”

Ric turned, strode to the French windows, into the flat, across to the door and out, slamming it shut. Dog ran over and whined and scratched to follow him. His tail went down and he sat. A minute later I heard the front door slam, then a motorbike start up.

Desolation swept over me. Only an hour before, nothing could touch me; the whole world shone in a golden light. Now everything felt wrong. I went inside, up to my bedroom and sat on the bed. Ric’s mobile lay beside it. I couldn’t ring him. Supposing he crashed his bike… I thought of Emma weeping, Phil’s face pale and smeared with blood, his hands shaking; Ric’s expression before he left. I wished my mother was still alive, a phone call away, thirty-five minutes on the tube.

Dog’s claws scratched on the stairs. He jumped on to my lap. I hugged him and laid my cheek on his fur.

“It’s all right, Dog, don’t you worry, he’ll be back. He’ll come back for you. He wouldn’t go off without you. His guitar’s here, and his phone, and his diamonds… Everything will be okay, I promise.”

Chapter

20

*

Ric’s phone rang. Without really thinking it through, I answered it.

“Hallo?”

Pause. “Who’s that?” Jeff Pike, the nasal edge to his voice more marked down the line.

“It’s Caz.”

“Not being Vikki today, then? Where’s Ric?”

“I don’t know. He’s gone out.”

“When will he be back?”

“He didn’t say.”

Pause. “Tell him to call me.”

“Okay. Bye,” but he’d hung up.

After a bit I went downstairs and cleared the breakfast things. I collected Ric’s documents and the diamonds, and went to the first floor workshop. A medium-size George Woodrow stood in the corner. He had horizontal cracks running along each side, and to repair the joints I’d have to lever them apart and plane the timber level. I pulled out the remnants of his gingery tail, rolled up the papers one by one and poked them into the one inch diameter hole, then pushed in the diamonds. The passport had me stumped for a moment, but I found it would just squeeze through the widest part of one of the gaps. It dropped into the body cavity. I put the tail back. It would take an exhaustive police search to find the stash. Rocking horses are so heavy, it doesn’t occur to most people they are hollow.

That done, I climbed the stairs to the flat. There was a spatter of blood on the black walnut floorboards, and I wiped it up. I stared out of the window; the sun had gone behind the clouds. A solid lump of misery settled itself below my heart. Ric might ring me from a call box when he’d calmed down. I turned on my phone.

Dog eyed the door, then me, in a pointed way, so I took him to Shoreditch Park. When we returned I got a grip on myself. It was a Friday, a working day, gone eleven-thirty, and there were jobs to be done. Saladin was waiting for his first coat of paint. I went to the second floor workshop.

The horse looked at me out of his glass eyes, head angled, as if contemplating flight. A stab of pride cheered me briefly as I admired my authentic carving of his replacement ears and jaw. Originally, he’d have had a nailed on bridle, but I would make him a detachable one with buckles, like a real bridle. I don’t like putting nails into an old rocking horse’s head. In his white gesso layer, you could see Saladin’s shape clearly, and it was superb. I’d promised the pensioner who sold him to me that I’d post him a picture when the restoration was complete.

F. H. Ayres horses were painted with a blue/grey base, to allow for the yellowing effect of the spirit varnish. I got the paints out of the cupboard, and mixed the colour in a clean jam jar.

What would Ric do? He had been angrier than I’d ever seen him. Angry with me. The way he shook off my hand, the way he’d slammed out… He might go to the coast, find a boat and go abroad, and I’d never hear from him, never see him again. But surely he wouldn’t do that…would he?

I turned Saladin on to his side, in order to paint his belly and the inside of his legs, then stood him upright once more. I painted his head carefully, using a flat varnish brush to minimize brush marks, then down his arched neck and on to his shoulders. It didn’t take long, though he’s a big horse. I’d just finished when my mobile rang. Eagerly I got it out.

It was James.

“Hi, James.”

“You haven’t forgotten we’re going to the Globe tonight?”

I had forgotten. “No, of course not. What time shall I meet you?”

“It starts at seven thirty - say we meet in the foyer downstairs at seven fifteen?”

“Okay, that’s fine, I’ll bike over.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m really looking forward to tonight.”

“You sound a bit…absent-minded.”

“I’m in the middle of painting Saladin.”

“How’s he looking?”

I didn’t want to chat to James. I wanted him to get off the phone, in case Ric rang.

“He’s looking …” I glanced at the horse.
Oh my God, too blue. How could I do that? I’d painted him blue.
“…fine. Great.”

“I must come and have a look at him.”

“Yes. Well, I’d better get on. See you tonight.”

“See you, Caz.”

I put the phone on the workbench and stared at poor Saladin. Not blue/grey. Definitely blue. A blue horse. Rats. I’d have to let him dry for a couple of days, sand him down and re-paint. I’d counted on doing the dappling on Saturday. Bugger.

I took the brushes to the sink and washed them, deciding to spend the rest of the day on Teasel, instead of the more demanding bridle-making I’d pencilled in. Teasel was a small, quite sweet Collinson, overpainted in black splodges on white; a typical Dad In Shed finish. The grotty but simple job of stripping and filing off her gesso was something it was difficult to mess up.

By four o’clock I’d had enough. Barely a third of Teasel was back to the wood, largely because of my totally pathetic compulsion to keep going to the window to check out the Yard. What on earth was the point of knowing Ric had returned twenty seconds earlier than I otherwise would? Cross with myself, crosser with Ric for not ringing, and anxious in case anything had happened to him, I decided to down tools, have a relaxing bath, wash my hair and make myself look my best for the evening ahead.

I love Shakespeare’s Globe. So did my mother. She contributed to the building fund when I was seven - I can remember her telling me about it - and just past the attendants as you go in there’s a paving slab with her name on:
CHRISTINA TALLIS
. I always look at it and think of her when I go to the Globe.

James was waiting for me inside the main entrance in the modern annexe. He was carrying two cushions and two seat backs (I do without and save the hire charge when I go on my own, though it’s unarguable that they make the benches much more comfortable) and two programmes.

“Hi Caz. You’re looking even nicer than usual.” He kissed my cheek.

“Thanks. You don’t look too bad yourself.”

We went upstairs and through to the Globe. There was my mother’s name on her paving stone, and beyond rose the oak beams, lime plaster and reed thatch of the theatre. James had booked two of the best seats in the house, dead centre at the front of the first balcony. We sat and read our programmes. My mind wandered. Maybe Ric would be at the workshop by now. I’d get back and he’d be there with Dog…James had said something.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Shakespeare was your neighbour. It says here he probably lived in Shoreditch when he was a young actor.”

“You see? Classy area.”

“
Cheap and convenient, if perhaps down-at-heel
,” James read. “Well, it’s certainly not cheap any more…”

“Shhh, it’s starting.”

In the interval James took me to the bar and left me on a stool in a corner while he went to buy the drinks. The play, a good production, had taken my mind off Ric, but now my thoughts settled on him again. I tried ringing his mobile. No answer.

James handed me a glass of wine, and sat beside me. “Cheers. So how’s everything going? What’s happening with your guest? Any progress there?”

My heart lurched unhappily. “Not really.”

“What’s he planning on doing? He’s been with you for over a month. He can’t stay for ever.”

“It’s just till his money’s sorted out.”
If he comes back, that is…

“What’s the problem?”

Suddenly, I had an overwhelming urge to talk to him about Ric. Though there were things I wouldn’t tell him - like Ric and I had slept together, and the row - it would be a relief. Though he disapproved, he’d certainly listen and be interested, and care about how it affected me. And he’d know about the money aspect. I glanced around. The only people in earshot were Japanese.

“You’ve got to promise—”

“—not to tell. I know. I already have.”

“There’s a problem with Ric’s money. The thing is, three years ago his estate went to his sister. Then when she died, her husband inherited it.”

“How much money?”

“Ric doesn’t know.” James’s eyebrows went up. “More than fifty million dollars, I think.” His eyebrows rose further. “But it’s difficult for Phil, that’s Ric’s sister’s husband, just to hand it over. He says if Ric goes abroad, and opens lots of bank accounts with fake ID, he’ll pay lump sums into them.”