Going Loco (15 page)

Viv made him another cup of coffee. She was glad her secret was finally out, but at the same time rather shocked to discover she’d forgotten quite the magnitude of it. Human beings can become habituated to the most horrible and unnatural things. Custom, as the Czech people so rightly aver, takes the taste
from the most savoury dishes. So, by the same de-seasoning process, it had become normal in Viv’s life to watch her cleaning lady take the car to the Royal Southwark four times a week, wave to her as she joined the traffic on the South Circular, and not think much about it beyond ‘Time to get the sewing-machine out, hurrah.’

After all, Linda evidently did a marvellous job in Viv’s place. She had been twice promoted. Surgeons regularly commended her, and told her she had far outstripped their expectations. The only difficult part of the arrangement was that when Viv gave dinner parties, Linda had to hang around until midnight pretending to work, and take credit for the puddings, when she had early appointments next day at the hospital.

However, if Viv was used to the idea, Dermot (as yet) was not. In fact, he was clearly horrified. ‘But how could she do it? How did she know what to do?’

‘Well, she took an interest, you see. She’s like that – she listens and learns. And she admired my medical ability. It didn’t just happen overnight. She asked me lots of questions, and really got very expert on the subject before—’ Viv stopped.

‘Before what?’

‘Before sticking a needle in someone.’

Dermot clutched his head in anguish.

‘Don’t you have colleagues, Viv? Isn’t medicine quite a small world? How could she pass herself off as you?’

‘Well, it all worked out very neatly. The day I got the interview for the Royal Southwark, one of the boys needed a costume for school, and I didn’t want Linda to make it, even though she was very happy to. It was a Viking, with a horned helmet, and I just wanted to do it myself, and not have Sam tell his friends that his mum was too busy. So Linda attended the interview instead, just as a lark. But then, when she got the job, we thought, why not go for it?’

‘Why not go for it?’ Dermot repeated, slowly. For an intelligent man, he was taking a long time to accept quite a simple proposition.

‘We expected to be found out sooner or later, of course. I was ready for that. I knew I’d be struck off, possibly imprisoned. And Linda – well, the thing about Linda is that she is completely without ego. She genuinely lives to serve. So everyone was happy, you see. Linda and I could discuss cases. I could maintain an interest in the professional sphere without having to go to work every day and face all those decisions. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, honestly.’

This wasn’t how Viv had anticipated this discussion. She thought Dermot might feel sorry for her, or agree to help her persuade Linda to come back. Instead of which, he remained obstinately horrified.

‘Don’t look at me like that, Dermot. Women are in a very strange transitional state at the moment. We’re feeling our way. “Having it all” sounds excellent in theory, but it turns out to be utterly ghastly. The choices are getting impossible to make. And some of us career women just can’t stand to watch other people having all the fun with the rufflette and the spice rack.’

Dermot closed his eyes. ‘I’ve got to be somewhere else,’ he said, and left the room, Viv following him upstairs.

‘Don’t hate me,’ begged Viv. ‘Nobody got hurt. I’m only telling you so that you’ll see it’s happening again. She’s taking over Belinda now. Mrs Holdsworth says Belinda is never seen any more. Linda is taking things further than ever. Dermot, she went for Belinda’s smear test!’

Dermot, sitting on the bed and buttoning his shirt, said nothing. He was staring at the wall, thinking. ‘How long did you say Linda was at the Royal Southwark?’

‘Two years.’

‘I knew it.’

‘Knew what?’

Dermot had turned white. ‘You know my appendectomy?’

‘I do.’

‘That bloody impostor gave me my pre-med. I knew I’d seen her before.’

How Stefan fitted into Belinda’s life of monastic seclusion (or didn’t) was awkward because she loved him more than she loved her book. That blue suit made him so handsome that when he popped in to say, ‘How’s this for a glamour-puss?’ she nearly swooned with longing.

Loving Stefan was so easy. Belinda loved even all the little pits and scars he’d picked up (so he said) at his dangerously progressive kindergarten in Sweden. When first they were naked together, she had swarmed over his body finding the little dents, until she knew them so well she could draw a map. There was a place in Stefan’s left buttock where you could insert your finger or your tongue – it was the most intimate thing she’d ever known.

‘Did Ingrid do this?’ she asked once, out of the blue. She meant, of course, ‘Did Ingrid stroke you this way?’ but it was a tricky moment before Stefan latched on.

‘Forget Ingrid,’ he said. But how could she do that, when he made mention of her so often in his sleep?

‘Ingrid, no!’ was the usual nocturnal shout. ‘No, Ingrid!’

Since Belinda’s idea of Ingrid was of a doe-eyed neurotic who cried a lot and finally sank into depression, she was stung by these cries. It was no use telling herself that being retrospectively jealous of such a poor, broken person was an unworthy emotion. ‘Stefan is bound to love his first wife still, it’s only natural,’ Maggie advised, memorably. ‘You’re very selfish, Belinda. You want everything.’

But she was still upset, she couldn’t help it. The first wife had been Swedish, for a start. Whatever happened in the rest of their lives, they would always have Hoola Bandoola.

So she assumed that in those bloodcurdling cries of ‘Ingrid, no!’ Stefan called to his poor lost wife as she slipped into madness, the way Orpheus called to Eurydice as Hades reclaimed her. She could have no idea that in fact the cry was accompanied by nightmare images of a dumpy psychopath advancing with a scalpel.

‘You still love Ingrid, don’t you?’ she asked him, the morning after his confession to Linda. He’d made love to her in an unusually urgent way, and when she caressed his dimpled buttock with a fingernail, he screamed.

‘Why on earth do you say that?’

‘You ought to go and see her.’

‘You really are going loco, Belinda. Ingrid is history. I have put up the shutters and, when the chips are down, drawn a line in the sand.’

‘Malmö’s not far.’

Stefan snorted. ‘You have no idea where Malmö is, Belinda. It’s one of the things I love about you.’

‘She must miss you so much, Stefan.’

Stefan shrugged. ‘I’m sure she does,’ he said darkly. ‘But look at it from her point of view. She’ll always have a little piece of me.’ With which enigmatic comment he left for college.

So now Belinda was alone with the second-rate book of tosh, uneasy about her work and uneasy about Stefan’s cruel streak, when for all the world it was obvious that her cleaning lady was taking her life. Dostoevsky would have noticed it at once. But Belinda – well, Belinda was a woman with a shaky ego and took a different view. Having a double to do telly appearances on your behalf entailed no existential terror, it was absolutely marvellous. She looked at her Virginia Woolf postcard with
quite different eyes since Linda came. She had pearls, pearls and more pearls, thanks to Linda.

And take the way Linda dealt with Mother. It was miraculous. Initially suspicious of Linda, Mother was now in love with her! She called her, rather pointedly, ‘the daughter I never had’. Linda was pretty and well groomed. In Selfridges, she didn’t sigh and drag her feet while Mother browsed: she grabbed the sleeves of smart suits and said things like ‘What lovely buttons.’ Linda modelled clothes beautifully, accepted gifts graciously, and best of all, never asked, ‘Something up?’

Linda came to remove the filo haddock plate, which had been scraped clean, as usual, in the lavatory.

‘No anchovy sauce these days?’ said Belinda, brightly.

‘No,’ agreed Linda, unconsciously rubbing her elbow. ‘No, I’ve gone off anchovies.’

‘You never talk about yourself, Linda.’

‘Have you ever asked?’

‘I suppose not.’

Belinda wondered whether this was an invitation. But if it was, it was soon revoked.

‘Do you need any Mars bars?’

‘Well, I can’t pretend another dozen wouldn’t be nice.’

‘I’ll pop out later. Did I tell you I’m seeing Maggie? She rang up again. I said I’d meet her for coffee at the Adelphi. It’s a friends thing,’ she added, noticing Belinda’s puzzled expression.

‘You don’t have to do that, Linda. After all, she’s my friend.’

‘Nonsense. I’d be glad to. You’ve got all those justified sinners to worry about. And I’m collecting the photos of your birthday tea.’

‘Great. Oh, look, sorry I missed that tea, Linda. I got so absorbed—’

‘No, it was fine. We had a lovely time. I shall be like Paddington Bear, having two birthdays.’

‘Maggie doesn’t mind about today, I suppose?’ There was something odd about Linda supplanting her with her oldest friend, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Such issues were very confusing, these days.

‘Would you prefer to go instead?’ Linda offered.

‘Right this minute?’ Belinda was only half dressed, despite the late hour. She hadn’t worn make-up in a month. There was chocolate on her jumper. ‘No. Look. Give her my love, or something. It’s just that you shouldn’t do everything!’ she urged, at last. As a protest, it was transparently feeble.

‘But I want to,’ said Linda. ‘And you don’t. That’s why we’re made for each other, isn’t it?’

At the hospital in Malmö, Ingrid whimpered in her strait-jacket. She had been trying to gather genetic material from the other patients again, though luckily only with the aid of plastic cutlery.

‘I’m so unhappy,’ she told the young nurse in Swedish.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ replied the nurse, bored.

‘Stefan loved me,’ she said. ‘He was always unlucky!’

‘You can say that again.’

Ingrid squirmed in the jacket and yelled, ‘Stefan! Stefan! They tell me you are dead! What wickedness this is!’

‘He is dead, Ingrid. You saw him die.’

‘No, no! I’m so unhappy.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘He’s not dead.’

‘Yes he is.’

It was dreary in Malmö when Leon and Tanner got their taxi into town. And the wind was piercing, like being lanced by icicles. As a seasoned sportswriter, Leon had judiciously worn a warm coat and thick boots; meanwhile the fine leather soles on Tanner’s hand-made shoes sent him skidding into a bank of trolleys the moment they stepped on to the ice outside the arrivals hall.

‘I’m getting my own column, you know,’ said Tanner, in the gloom of the cab.

Leon could believe it.

Grey functional Malmö buildings flashed past. The radio played Euro music, and the driver tapped the wheel in rhythm.

‘Sweden,’ said Tanner, ‘Nothing ever happens here, does it?’

‘Well, it did in Stockholm in 1992, of course,’ said Leon. ‘European Football Championships. England lost two-one. “Swedes two, Turnips one” – you must have heard that? It was Gary Lineker’s last international appearance and Graham Taylor took him off. The fans trashed the place afterwards.’

Tanner looked at him with contempt. ‘Do you really retain trivia, or do you look it up?’

‘I was here. I remember it.’

‘Good heavens.’

‘So you’re here to visit mad Mrs Johansson, is that right?’ Leon asked, airily. ‘Need me to come along? What’s the story?’

He held his breath in the dark, wondering whether Tanner would trust his friendly tone. He did. ‘Look, Ripley thinks Johansson is a clone.’

‘A what?’

‘A double. You know. The original Johansson died in a fire in Sweden yet here he is in London, pretending to have an academic post. So Ripley puts two and two together – or one and one together, if you see what I mean. This Johansson was
an expert on cloning, you see, and a madman. Bits of pulsating human genetic material found all over his lab and house when he died. Signs of unethical practice. Bodies under the floor, I don’t know. The wife went mad, and that’s all there is to it, except – you’ll like this bit – that the so-called clone is married to … Well, guess. He’s married to one of Ripley’s
best friends
.’

From the way he spat out the last couple of words, Tanner evidently disapproved of nepotism in Fleet Street. Which was a little hypocritical of him, in the circumstances.

‘Can you believe it?’ said Tanner, nonchalantly tapping his passport on his leg. ‘Nonsense. Utter bosh. This man is not a clone, there’s just a mix-up. Do you know how many Stefan Johanssons there are in Sweden?’

‘How many?’

‘Well,’ stalled Tanner, who hadn’t checked, ‘just say it’s better to ask how many Swedes
aren’t
called Stefan Johansson. Ripley’s not too bright, that’s all. It’s my opinion that this Johansson declined the offer to write in his idiotic genetics supp, and the only explanation Jago finds plausible for such behaviour is that the man isn’t human.’

Much as he instinctively disliked and distrusted the stuck-up boy, Leon was still impressed by such a fine grasp of Jago’s personality.

‘Do you like basketball?’ he asked. It was a shot in the dark.

‘Yes, actually,’ said Tanner. ‘Adore it. You don’t play, surely?’

Leon ignored the way Tanner was looking him up and down. ‘No, I don’t play. But I’m here to cover it. Malmö Meerkats and Cincinnati Sidewinders. A slightly uneven contest. But Sweden’s mad for basketball. It will be a good event.’

‘The Cincinnati Sidewinders?’ Tanner’s eyes opened wide, and for the first time he dropped his world-weary act. In the cab, the music changed to Abba’s ‘Waterloo’. At the thought
of the famous Sidewinders, Tanner suddenly looked twelve years old.

Leon hid his smile by looking out of the window. Sports journalism was such an odd job. Half the people in the world thought sport was an utter irrelevance, and the other half wanted to climb into your suitcase. Either they looked at you blankly and backed off a pace or two, or were so jealous they burst into tears. With Tanner, it could have gone either way.

‘The Winders?’ Tanner repeated. ‘The Winders are in Malmö? With Jericho Jones?’