Corpsing (29 page)

‘I thought, what if you’d been been inside,’ I said. ‘I thought, what if you were dead.’

She consoled me and I consoled her.

‘Just think if we’d been staying there,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

After a while, I asked if she could go to the shops and get me some painkillers. When she said she had a huge stash of Nurofen in her handbag, I insisted on another brand. Reluctantly, she went out.

As soon as she was gone, I called Sheila at the
Mirror
office. She picked up.

‘Sheila,’ she said.

The sound of typing in the background.

‘I know about the fire,’ I said.

‘Phew,’ she said. ‘I thought I was going to have to break the news to you.’

‘Why should that scare you? It’s your job: standing on the doorsteps of bereaved mothers, asking them how they feel about government policy on this issue.’

‘I can see you’re a little upset.’

‘It was a horrible flat.’

‘We’ll have to mention it in the story.’

‘I never liked it.’

Sheila paused, then tried to get the conversation back on track.

‘The story’s going in for tomorrow. Front page, I think – unless something stronger comes in. Where will you be, if I need to contact you?’

‘I’ll be out of contact.’

‘A phone number.’

‘No, you can trace those.’

‘Please.’

‘Here’s my mother’s.’ And I gave it to her. ‘What did Alun say when you asked him?’

‘He said, “No comment” and shut the front door.’

‘Did he sound upset?’

‘Why are you so interested?’

‘I think he knows whether or not it was his kid.’

‘You mean someone’s told him?’

‘I mean, he knows when he last fucked Lily.’

Sheila spent a moment taking this in.

‘We’ve got some nice pictures of her,’ she said. ‘Looking maternal.’

‘You have to protect me from the rest of the press,’ I said. ‘Keep them away from me.’

‘Only if you go exclusive.’

‘No, this has got to be a complete feeding-frenzy.’

‘You’re on your own, then.’

I thought of Anne-Marie’s betrayal.

‘I am that already.’

Sheila let this go by.

‘Who do you think torched your flat?’

‘Believe me, Sheila, it could be any number of people.’

End of conversation.

Anne-Marie came back from the shops and handed me the painkillers. The look she gave me was enough to make me want to swallow the whole pack.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘What did you do about the actors?’

‘Don’t you remember?’ she said. ‘I told you.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I phoned them all,’ she said.

‘All of them?’

‘Yes. They’re all coming.’

‘You’re certain?’

‘Conrad, what is it? Talk to me.’

I took two of the painkillers.

In the morning I went out to the newsagent’s to buy the papers.

The headline was
BRANDY’S BABY.

A Mirror Exclusive.

Byline: Sheila Burroughs.

My photograph had not been put on the cover of the
Mirror
– that had been saved for a shot of the maternal-looking Lily juxtaposed with a shot of Alun in his greatcoat – walking fast and looking at the pavement.

Yes!

I flicked through the other tabloids. A couple of unresearched spoilers had got in, but no-one had scooped Sheila. I went back to the
Mirror.
There Sheila’s picture was, beside the byline: all working-class perm and grinning aspirations. Perfect, and not like Sheila at all. I turned to the inner pages: a retread, from cuttings, of Lily’s shooting; a slightly bitter going-over of Asif’s articles (why, if he knew, didn’t he tell us about the baby?). As promised, I was sympathetically portrayed and not directly quoted.

‘It’s a terrible thing,’ said the newsagent. ‘Terrible.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was.’

‘Such a young girl, and so beautiful.’

‘Well…’

‘You were a very lucky young man.’

I didn’t want to start an argument.

Sheila had overplayed the pregnancy and underplayed the
fatherhood issue, as far as she’d been able. They would be getting at Alun tomorrow, just as they’d got at Asif. Thankfully, she’d slanted the whole thing towards making the police look bad. The story ended with a demand that they declare who the baby’s father was. In the public interest.

To change my appearance slightly, I went into the nearest barber’s and had a crew cut. I decided I wouldn’t shave.

A copy of the
Mirror
was open on the glass table behind the cutting chairs. The barber didn’t say anything but I was terribly aware of his nonchalance.

As well as the tabloids, I guessed that the police would be quite seriously interested in tracking me down and talking to me about the torching. It would be, I guessed, highly suspicious if I didn’t come forward. They might even start thinking that I’d done it myself.

When Vicky and Anne-Marie met, they had talked for quite a while. I couldn’t be sure what had and hadn’t been said. It seemed likely, though, that Vicky would be able to find Anne-Marie – either through the phonebook or the modelling agency. I wondered how long this would take, once Vicky found out I’d disappeared.

Back from the barber’s, I showed Anne-Marie the front page of the
Mirror.

‘Why’ve you had your hair shaved off?’

‘I was just fed up with it.’

Anne-Marie took in the headline.

‘Shit,’ she said. ‘How long have you known?’

‘A while.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she wailed. ‘Why don’t you ever tell me anything?’

‘It wasn’t important.’

She wasn’t listening. Slowly, she sat down upon the sofa – reading all the stories from beginning to end.

For the next couple of minutes I got nothing out of her but the sound of pages turning.

The phone started to ring, She moved.

‘Don’t answer it,’ I said. ‘It’s bad enough that the thing’s connected.’

‘But it could be anyone.’

‘If you pick it up, they’ll know we’re here – that someone’s here – and we won’t be able to come back for at least a week.’

‘What do you mean?’

The paparazzi – press and photographers. It’ll be open season on me now.’

‘You don’t seem very upset.’

‘I wanted this.’

‘This is all going wrong,’ she said.

The phone stopped ringing, then started again. Anne-Marie got to it before I did.

‘Hello,’ she said, then held it out. ‘It’s for you.’

‘Who is it?’ I whispered.

‘Who is it?’ Anne-Marie asked.

I heard the phone answer, ‘Josephine Irish.’

Taking the receiver from Anne-Marie, I said: ‘I’m sorry, Josephine, I really can’t speak now.’

‘I want to see you,’ she said. ‘I have something to tell you.’

‘I’m very busy.’

‘It’s about Alun.’

That halted me. ‘I’ll call you.’

‘You said that last time.’

‘I will. I’ll call you.’

I put the phone down, eyeing Anne-Marie. She knew better than to ask me any questions. It was now clear to her that I’d been doing a great deal behind her back. A phonecall from Lily’s mother, particularly on the day that Lily was back in the papers, wasn’t going to add too much more to her suspicions.

‘That was a very stupid thing to do,’ I said.

‘Don’t call me stupid.’

The phone started ringing again.

‘We’ll have to go to yours,’ I said. We can’t stay here.’

She sulked but moved.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘You’ve never been doorstepped. You don’t know what it’s like.’

‘Of course I do,’ she said. ‘Some of my models used to spend their entire lives dodging the press – and who do you think helped them make it through? Who ordered the taxis and brought over the cigarettes and went in the decoy car? You can’t tell me anything I don’t already know.’

‘I’m sorry. I forgot.’

‘Well, remember a bit more, why don’t you?’

No more conversation after that.

For a while, I thought that Anne-Marie was going to make me sleep on the sofa. But when we got to her flat all my stuff went straight through into her bedroom. I stowed the sports bag on top of her pink-painted wardrobe.

As soon as I could, I turned the TV on for the twelve o’clock news bulletin. There was no mention of Brandy’s Baby, no statement from the Met.

From the bathroom came the sound of heavy running water.

‘Can I use the phone?’ I asked.

‘So, I can’t touch
your
phone,’ Anne-Marie shouted back, ‘but
you
can use
mine
whenever you like!’

‘Can I?’

‘Oh, alright.’

I waited until Anne-Marie was installed – the watersounds now reduced to feminine lappings.

Josephine answered within two rings.

‘Meeting up could be difficult,’ I said.

‘How can I make it easier?’ she asked, sarcastically.

‘You can drive over to near where I am.’

‘Where are you?’

I wanted somewhere we were unlikely to be seen. The best place seemed to be Josephine’s car.

‘Pick me up outside McDonald’s on the King’s Road.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘One o’clock.’

‘Alright.’

Before Anne-Marie got out of the bath I transferred the gun and bullets into my courier bag. From now on, I would take it with me wherever I went.

I cooked dinner. I made jokes. And by the end of the evening, Anne-Marie had almost forgiven me everything.

It was one of those bright, brisk days when the sky seems a couple of layers thinner, and space just that little bit closer.

As I walked along the King’s Road, the cold air made my lungs feel huge and healthy. The gun in the courier bag banged against my hip like a kid punching me to try and get my attention.

McDonald’s. One o’clock. Josephine was on time. I got into the Volvo.

The air in the overheated car was choked with Josephine’s perfume: Poison.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Let me at least park somewhere,’ she said.

We drove into a side-street of white stucco houses.

‘Okay,’ I said, after she’d switched the engine off.

As she turned to face me, I saw that the lower rims of Josephine’s eyes were moist and pinkly red.

‘This isn’t very easy for me,’ she said.

‘You said on the phone it was to do with Alun.’

‘Before I say anything, I just want to remind you what you said about the flat.’

‘What did I say?’

‘You said that you might not want to keep it.’

‘And you still want it?’ I asked, unnecessarily. ‘

Of course I do. It’s very important to me.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

Josephine ran her hands up and down, in semicircles, round
both sides of the steering-wheel. I started pulling at the Velcro of the courier bag – thinking how cool it would feel to pull the gun on her.

‘I knew all about Alun,’ she began. ‘Lily told me she was seeing him. She told me quite early on. Just after it started, I think. They even came round to my flat for dinner. It was charming – to see them playing at being a couple. To be honest, I thought Alun would be far better for her than you ever would. He’s a proper man. But it was obvious enough that he was never going to leave his wife. Lily couldn’t see that. She believed anything and everything he said. He lied to her constantly.’

‘Like a proper man,’ I said.

‘When Alun came along to the funeral, I could see that he was feeling terribly guilty.’

‘He was at the funeral?’

This was news to me.

‘He hung around at the back, but, yes, he was there.’

‘Did
you
invite him?’

‘No.’

‘Dorothy wasn’t there, was she?’

‘Of course not. Anyway, I went up to him and told him that if he ever wanted to talk, he could call me.’

The air in Josephine’s car was becoming oppressively cloying.

‘And he called,’ I said.

‘It didn’t take him long. We’ve talked quite a lot, since then. Dorothy doesn’t know about it. There are quite a few things that Dorothy doesn’t know.’ Josephine smiled a disgustingly prim little smile.

‘Such as?’

‘Will you at least
sell
me the flat?’ she said.

I looked at her. It seemed as though she’d been rejuvenated by something, since the last time I saw her.

‘I’ll put it on the market. I’ll tell you when.’

These were meaningless promises. I could promise to give her
the flat, and it wouldn’t make any real difference. I didn’t know where I was going to be, come tomorrow evening. And between then and now, I certainly wasn’t paying a visit to my solicitor.

Josephine breathed deeply, in and out, in and out, for what seemed like a long time. I noticed that she was gripping the steering-wheel to stop her hands from trembling quite so obviously.

‘Thank you,’ she said, after a pause.

Well?’ I said. ‘Go on.’

‘Alun was feeling guilty that he hadn’t told Dorothy about Lily being pregnant. He genuinely doesn’t know whether you or he was the father. But Lily did tell him that she was pregnant. He spoke to her, once more, one last time. This was after they were meant never to speak again, after he’d promised Dorothy. He spoke to her on the phone. That was when Lily told him about the baby. It was Thursday evening, the day before she died. He described her to me as
totally deranged.
He said it scared him. Because of this, he told her he couldn’t ever see her again. Until that point, he’d been thinking of carrying on behind Dorothy’s back. He did love Lily. But, in the end, her weirdness scared him off.’

I felt as if my insides were about to burst out, like a television exploding – sparks and dust.

If Josephine was telling the truth, Alun had managed to keep Dorothy ignorant of Lily’s pregnancy right up until the moment I wheeled my way into their dressing room at the Barbican. Everything he’d done after that had been acting: his immediate response, the books on his bedside table. Bizarrely, I admired him for this. And I’d thought I was the one his performance had been for. In a way, he must have been very grateful to me for telling Dorothy first – before the trial. I couldn’t really see what he’d had to gain by not telling her. Then I remembered how Vicky had come round to mine to tell me off after a supposedly distraught Alun had visited her. Perhaps that performance, too,
had been for Dorothy’s benefit. Surely he’d already told the police about speaking to Lily one final time? Probably he, and they, were only upset because I’d found out.

Who did Lily think the baby belonged to?’ I asked.

‘She wanted it to be Alun. She hoped it was Alun.’

When did she tell you all this?’

‘She phoned me up, the morning she died.’

I remembered the call from the phone bill.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘That isn’t very much. That’s hardly worth a flat.’

‘I don’t know how to say this. The last time I spoke to her, Lily seemed to be very fatalistic. Everything in her life seemed to have come to an end. She’d thrown you out, and good riddance. She’d finally decided to give up the cereal advertisements. She knew she wasn’t going to have this baby. Alun had said that he couldn’t see her again, so she thought that was over. Plus, at the very end of our final conversation, she was talking about having a new will made. One in which I was beneficiary, in which I got the flat.’

‘That doesn’t prove anything.’

‘The more I think about it, the more I’m sure she knew what was coming.’

‘Rubbish,’ I said.

‘She blamed you. She said that if she hadn’t been pregnant, Alun would have kept on seeing her.’

‘That’s not logical.’

‘Well, that’s the way she saw it. He’d said goodbye for ever just after she told him about being pregnant. That’s when she must have made the connection.’

‘He said she sounded deranged.’

‘But she was very calm the next day when she spoke to me. Calmer, in some ways, than I’d ever heard her.’

I dismissed my memory of Lily’s manner at Le Corbusier.

Josephine continued: ‘Her exact words were, “I’m not going to have the little bastard. It’s caused me enough trouble already.”‘

Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

‘Drive me home,’ I said, quickly.

‘I think Lily was glad to be killed. I think, somehow, she knew what was going to happen in the restaurant. I think Dorothy’s little plan backfired. I think Alun told her about it, and by the time she spoke to me she had decided to turn up anyway.’

‘You know all about Dorothy?’ I said, stunned.

‘Yes,’ said Josephine.

‘How?’

‘Some of it Alun told me, some of it I worked out for myself.’

‘Why didn’t you tell the police?’

‘I did.’

‘You did.’

‘Yes.’

‘What did they do?’

‘Not a lot, so far as I can see. They said the investigation was ongoing.’

Josephine tried to take my hand.

‘Look, Conrad, Lily wanted to die.’

‘I don’t want to hear any more.’

‘Let me finish: I think she invited you along deliberately. As far as she was concerned, what was going to happen would solve all her problems at once.’

I got out of the car and walked away.

Behind me, I could hear Josephine starting to sob.

I wasn’t going to listen to that kind of madness.