Corpsing (14 page)

Some of what Alun had said might even be true. After I’d told him about the baby, he might have forgotten himself and spoken honestly. But the whole conversation had been so heavily policed by Dorothy that between them they obviously had something to hide.

What seemed clear was that Alun had been seeing Lily while I was still living with her, and that – during that time – they had been having sex. I tried to remember whether I’d noticed anything suspicious. It was unlikely I had. By that stage in our relationship I was on a kind of trust autopilot: Lily wouldn’t do that because Lily was Lily, because I lived with Lily and loved Lily, and because Lily lived with me and loved me. (Almost, I was trusting in the fact that I trusted her – and that, because she knew I trusted her, she wouldn’t betray that trust.) I was leaving myself open to being wounded, in the hope that the possibility of my being hurt would be enough to prevent her doing anything to cause me pain. Which is fine when you love someone and feel their hurt as your own. But it was clear that Lily had gone, at some point, beyond that – or ducked beneath it.

She was capable, in death, of causing me a great deal more distress than when alive. (Everything now was total – a fact would remain a fact, without apology. Unfaithfulness was eternal.) But it was clear that – even before she died – she had crossed over into not really caring about whatever pain she might cause me.

The one thing Alun had said that I believed totally was that
Lily had told him I was on the way out. There was nothing to do with logic in my acceptance of this. It just felt true – it was so painful that I couldn’t believe it untrue.

And so now I had to accept, with almost total certainty, that Lily died no longer loving me – and although she might have been carrying our child, it could equally well have been that of another man – a man whom she
did
love – would choose, was choosing, had already chosen over me.

When she called me to invite me out to dinner, all the self-reliance I’d built up during those six weeks alone was torn through by the slashing spin of false hope – she wants me back, she wants to say she’s sorry, she wants to plead forgiveness.

Even her phonecall, so clear in its statement of our emotional agenda, hadn’t been able to prevent that damage.

Once she sees me, I thought, she’ll say what she
really
means. She just doesn’t want the reconciliation to take place on the phone.

Now all the falsity of that hope was left untenable. I had proof: I had had the other man in front of me.

When Anne-Marie called to suggest she come round, I said I wasn’t feeling too well. Tomorrow night, we agreed, would be better.

That night was the worst since coming out of the coma. All I’d feared was upon me, and there seemed little else left for me to hope for. I felt immensely humiliated – despite the fact that no-one was present to witness my humiliation. How could they be? It was in my version of a private past that the really important events were taking place. The only people who existed in this imaginary realm were Lily and myself.

When I fell asleep, I dreamt my way back into our flat. Actual scenes replayed themselves, all truth gone – nothing but surface and parody. Other scenes, ones at which I hadn’t been present, appeared, in false flashback: Lily kissing Alun and coming straight home and kissing me; Lily buying two bottles of Alun’s favourite vodka, ready for his next visit to the flat.

When I woke up, it was into a real present no less disturbed than the invented past. Lily had died no longer loving me.

It felt as if someone were pulling a heavy cowl of cold sweat up my back and over my head.

Perhaps I deserved what had happened – deserved it for laughing at Lily as she died.

Now, in my made-up scenes of her, she was always laughing, with Alun, at me. In the moment of her death, I’d been guilty of something that – in the dark of my bedroom – seemed almost as bad as pulling the trigger. But because of what I’d learnt about Lily’s own guilt, I felt almost glad that I’d laughed. Now, if I could have travelled back to that moment, laugh at her is almost certainly what I would have chosen to have done.

And then I felt a further guilt overtake me: that, even out of some instinct of impossible retrospective revenge, I was wishing such things. It was disgusting that I should desire further punishment for Lily, dead as she was – deadly as her punishment had been.

There seemed only one way out of these nightmare convolutions, and that was to forgive equally both Lily and myself. But that was impossible – I still loved her, I still hated myself.

In the morning, I went to the gym and worked on my legs. They were probably stronger now than they’d ever been before I got shot. Back then, I’d never taken any exercise. But, despite my new-found fitness, forcing myself out of the wheelchair was a bit like trying to persuade a kid that they’re too old for the pushchair. For some things, like moving around my flat, watching TV, playing computer games, the chair was really cushy. And it had already proven useful at certain moments, emotionally speaking. Alun Grey, in particular, seemed susceptible, in a typically weepy Welsh way, to the Adventures of Wheelchair Boy. And admittedly, the crutches were still useful for going upstairs – where I tended to lose my balance. But overall I was probably fitter than before – though about eight metres of colon were away and gone up the hospital incinerator chimney. I wasn’t awake to say I’d like to keep them, jar them, display them.

Anne-Marie came round in the late afternoon and I took her straight to bed.

Afterwards, her face went all serious.

‘Conrad, I think we should talk.’

She sat cross-legged on the floor. I sat back on the sofa.

‘Don’t you think, maybe, that this has all happened a bit too fast? With us, I mean. We were both very emotional and –’

‘I’m glad it happened.’

‘Well, so am I. Really.’

‘You’re just what I need.’

‘But everything’s so mixed up with Lily and Will and –’

‘It feels great to me.’

‘And to me, but –’

‘What’s really bothering you?’

‘I hate to whine.’

‘Is it something I can help with?’

‘It’s my job. You don’t want to hear this.’

‘Really, I do.’

Anne-Marie wasn’t worried about how quickly we’d got into bed together. She just wanted to know that she didn’t have to be Ms Happy with me all the time. I let her grumble on for an hour or so, then we fucked again.

Happy. So happy. Happier than I’d been, since.

I even half-decided to give up my ludicrous investigation. I was bad at this, very bad. Really, I couldn’t take myself seriously. I just wanted people to tell me the truth. My badge and go home. The only person I’d handled properly was Asif.

And there my weakness lay. Because even if I didn’t find out about the baby right now, I knew that – inevitably, eventually – I would want to, at some time in the future. And if that future were an ‘our’ future – Anne-Marie’s and mine, for example – then that ignorance, that non-investigation, would begin to cause serious problems.

It was better as soon as possible to know, or to know that I would never know.

On Sunday evening, after Anne-Marie had gone home to get ready for the coming week, I thought over what I had discovered so far about Lily and her death.

It was clear that Alun and Dorothy knew much more than they had said. I would have to put pressure on them.

One way was obvious: threaten to go to the press with the
story of Alun’s affair with Lily. They’d know that would do their Sunday-supplement status no good.

But then I thought of a more direct and a more infuriating way to go about it.

I got on the phone, first to the Barbican box office and then to a load of other booking agencies: I would be attending every evening performance of
Macbeth
for the next fortnight. The production wasn’t exactly a sell-out, so I was able to choose where I wanted to sit almost every evening. I didn’t go for one seat or area – sometimes I was up in the gods, sometimes the front row. I booked under several variations of my name, misspelling it a couple of times.

This would be fun.

Vicky arrived on my doorstep just before lunch. She wasn’t in any mood for chit-chat.

‘Conrad, I really must insist that you stop pursuing your own investigations. We’ve just had a particularly distressing visit from Alun Grey. He says you went to see him at the theatre and told him Lily was pregnant – by him.’

‘Oh, did I?’

‘He demanded to know if he was the father.’

‘I hope you didn’t tell him.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Well, it’s nice to see you’re playing fair by both the candidates. Or should that be
all
the candidates? I think there might be others.’

‘My main point is quite simple: if you continue to try on your own to find out who wanted Lily dead, you will severely hamper the police’s own investigation. And even if you don’t hamper it completely, you may reduce the possibility of a satisfactory conclusion once the case comes to trial.’

‘Do you think I want this person – whoever they are – to go safely to prison, where I can’t get at them? The hitman himself is sitting in some comfy cell –’

‘I can assure you, his cell is far from comfy.’

‘You’re not trying hard enough. I can do better than you. And I will.’

‘Conrad, we can stop you, quite easily. I’m only asking nicely because –’

‘That’s your job. Fobbing people like me off with excuses for delay. Well, if you threaten me with restraining orders and stuff like that, I’ll go straight to the papers with the story of Brandy’s baby. Now, I’d like to ask you a very simple question.’

‘This discussion is over.’

We were still on the doorstep.

‘Why haven’t I received the inventory I asked for – the one of items taken from Lily’s flat?’

‘You haven’t?’ said Vicky, obviously a little stunned.

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘But I asked them to.’

‘And the inventory for my flat, as well.’

‘Both of them,’ she said. ‘Honestly. I put in a request.’

I believed her.

‘I’ll try and find out what’s happened to them,’ she said. ‘As soon as I get back. I wish they wouldn’t keep doing this to me.’

‘Who?’ I said.

‘Everyone,’ she said, looking to the side.

I was in danger of starting to feel sympathy for her. To cut this possibility off, I launched into sarcasm: ‘Well, thank you for that, Vicky. How is the investigation going? Any progress since the last time we spoke?’

‘The investigation is progressing very satisfactorily.’

‘You sound like a school report.’

‘Just wait. Give us some time. God, we’re trying to fucking help you.’

Now it was my turn to pause.

‘Fucking help me,’ I said. ‘I wonder which counselling course they taught you
that
on.’

‘After all the things you’ve said to me…’

‘I think this is getting personal. Can I have another Victim Liaison Officer, please?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Conrad, I realize that you’re very hurt and angry, and that you’re just taking all your hurt and anger out on me.’

‘Please don’t flatter yourself,’ I said. ‘I’m finding plenty of other uses for them.’

‘I think you should resume your counselling.’

‘No
fucking-way
– I’m working this through, and not by sitting at home in a wheelchair I don’t need any more.’

‘I hope that doesn’t mean what I think it means.’

‘You remind me a lot of Lily, do you know that? How old are you?’

‘Conrad, grow up.’

Off down the path and into her car.

I made a call to UCH to check that Asif was on shift, then took a taxi down there.

I was wearing my scruffiest clothes, and had bought myself some cigarettes and a lighter. I was getting into the part – I was a seedy tabloid journalist. (For this meeting, of course, the wheelchair was not required.)

Hospital Security, as I’d guessed, was almost non-existent. The closer I got to Pathology, the easier it became. (It’s babies that get abducted, not corpses.) When stopped and questioned I merely asked where I could find my friend Asif.

To my surprise Pathology wasn’t – as in films and on TV – down in the dark dungeons of the hospital building. In fact, it was on the uppermost floor – about as far, I thought, from the incineration tower as could be. It had natural light which came in through large windows. Seagulls could look in at unspeakable things on gurneys and stainless-steel tables then wheel away, keening. The pathologists weren’t at all cadaverous – some were as ruddy as butchers. (Which worried me, obviously.)

Into Pathology, which I didn’t really want to see.

I asked for Asif.

They beeped him.

I waited, looking up and down the long corridors.

This hospital had been more than home to me for six months: it had been my mother – had made my heart beat, had kept my lungs pumping. On a less symbolic level, I’d got to know a large
number of the staff here. Luckily, I hadn’t been recognized on my way up.

A gingery-haired young man in a white coat walked up to us. The receptionist nodded at him, then flicked her head in my direction.

‘Are you that journalist?’ he asked.

‘Who are you?’ I said.

‘Asif,’ he said.

When I didn’t move, still looking him in the pasty white face, he said: ‘I’m adopted, okay? My mother chose the name.’

‘Hi,’ I said.

We shook hands, me trying hard not to think of where his hand had just been and what it had just been doing.

The receptionist was still looking at us. The word
journalist
had alerted her.

‘Isn’t that fairly rare?’ I asked, temporarily off track. ‘Being adopted by –’

‘This way,’ said Asif, not wanting to discuss his upbringing.

I followed him down a side-corridor and then into a small white office. He sat behind a desk. There was no chair for me. This wasn’t a consulting room. Pathologists don’t consult.

Asif didn’t seem particularly weird – apart from the fact he had ginger hair but spoke with a trace of his mother’s Asian accent. There were half-moons of raw pinkness under both his eyes. His fingernails were even more bitten down than my own. This was a permanently worried man.

‘As far as I’m concerned,’ he said, ‘and also as far as the hospital is concerned, this matter is closed. I don’t see you have any business coming here to bother me.’

I brought out the cigarettes.

‘Fag?’ I said, offering him one.

He hesitated – to give him credit – for at least two seconds.

‘Look, Asif,’ I said, when we’d both sparked up. ‘Let me be perfectly honest with you: this story of yours, it’ll run, it’s a decent
enough story. You know how people have this preconceived notion of what pathologists are like? You’re flesh-cutters, you see. Ghouls. You do the stuff we don’t want to have to even think about. And you spend so much time with dead bodies that you end up juggling with testicles and playing table football with eyeballs and shit like that. So, people are going to believe whatever I write – and whatever you say won’t make a blind bit of difference. The only thing that really livens this story up is the fact that it was a minor –’ (I enjoyed calling Lily ‘minor’) ‘– celebrity’s mobile that you used. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be interested – or only from a health service stroke police incompetence angle. Put all of that to one side for a minute. Remembering that I
will
run it if I don’t get anything else. And then admit what we both know: that there’s a much bigger story here which – for some reason – no-one wants to talk about.’

He looked at me as he took another drag.

‘When she died, Lilian Irish was several weeks pregnant. I guess you were at the autopsy, or you wouldn’t have phoned your mum to let her know you’d be late home. I want you to tell me about it. I want you to get me all the information you have about it.’

‘No,’ he said.

‘Hear me out,’ I said.

He shifted in his chair.

‘If you help me, I won’t print the mobile-phone story – and I’ll make sure this doesn’t get traced back to you.’

Like fuck I will. I was even telling the tabloid lies.

‘You can’t promise me that. It’ll be so flaming obvious to anyone –’

‘The truth is, I’m not especially interested in dead babies. What I
am
interested in is the fact that the father may have been another minor celebrity. What I really want is proof that they were having an affair.’

‘You know,’ Asif said, stubbing out his fag ‘your job really is a fuck of a lot more disgusting than mine.’

‘Now,’ I said, ‘I know you did DNA tests on the baby –’

‘It was an embryo,’ he said. ‘Not a baby and not a foetus.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning it was less than ten weeks old.’

‘You could tell that?’

‘Anyone trained could tell that.’

‘How?’

‘All its organs and everything were in place. It was getting ready to do some serious growing.’

‘About ten weeks, you reckon.’

‘Nine or ten.’

Casually – as casually as I could, I said: ‘Boy or girl?’

‘I thought you said you weren’t interested in that?’

‘It’s just the question you ask, isn’t it? Like when they’re born.’

‘I should go,’ he said, beginning to stand up.

‘My guess is – you did the DNA test here, but the police took it away to look at the results. So, although I’m asking as if you
know,
actually you don’t. And even if someone here
does
know, I’m wasting my time with you because you’re not senior enough. They let you do a bit of cutting, but not any of that serious analytic business.’

‘You couldn’t understand the information even if I told you. A DNA fingerprint isn’t much use to anyone except the police. And it’s not like I memorize them for fun. It would be like memorizing every number-plate in that car-park down there.’

He was on his feet.

‘So, I’m assuming that the police were fairly surprised to hear that she was pregnant – and that they ordered testing almost immediately.’

‘Assume away, it won’t do you any good.’

‘Oh, it already has. You don’t think I really expected you to
just toddle off and photocopy some confidential files? You’ve been more than helpful.’

He became confused.

‘What?’

‘Thank you very much,’ I said. ‘I think I can find my way out.’

‘You’ve got nothing you can print,’ he said.

‘I’ll just go and talk to my friends in the police. The ones that tipped me off about the mobile phone. Hopefully, they’ll be able to give me what I need.’

I opened the door and walked out into the corridor. He dodged out behind me.

‘But I won’t be involved.’

‘What would be the point in that?’ I said. ‘No-one’s interested in you. They want to know about Brandy’s Baby – or Embryo. God, I don’t think we could print that. It might have to be Baby, and offend the purists.’

I concentrated on mundane things. The long corridor. The antiseptic smell. The red numbers above the stainless-steel doors of the lift. Chatting. Chatting easily. I wasn’t going to permit myself to break down. Casually, I asked: ‘Is it easy to tell their sex at that age?’

‘If you know where to look.’

‘Hah,’ I said. ‘Some things never change.’

We stood waiting for the lift.

‘Come on,’ I whispered. ‘You can tell me – boy or girl? I’m just curious.’

I held the fags out to him.

Asif had a shifty look round, then said: ‘Put it this way – I didn’t fancy her much.’