Secret Story (21 page)

The impact or the shock of it cost Mish her footing, and she
slithered underwater until a wave broke on her chin and poured into her gasping mouth. The next moment his foot located her cranium again and pushed her all the way under. As he stood on her arms to keep her down he began to sing and eventually, once her hands had abandoned their mimicry of impaled crabs, to dance. “Splish splash, I was taking a bath” he sang until Kathy decided he ought to be singing “Mish mash.” Perhaps that was the last sound the woman ever heard, or perhaps she heard the waves and thought they knew her name.

When Kathy was certain that had to be the end, she raised her face. Sunlight had been resting on her forehead for hours, and still felt like inspiration. As she reread the collaboration she was able to believe that while writing she had been able to enter not just Dudley’s mind but Mr Killogram’s. Was she deluding herself? Was her contribution worthy of them?

She gazed at the screen until she knew only that she didn’t know. More than once her fingers strayed towards the Delete key or the Undo command. She mustn’t make these judgements on Dudley’s behalf. When she realised how late the afternoon had grown, she saved the story and printed it out before shutting down the computer. She hid the typescript under her pillow and hurried to the kitchen. Although she’d forgotten to have lunch she wasn’t hungry, but Dudley needed his dinner. She suspected she might be able to eat very little until she learned what he thought of her help.

Dudley wasn’t sure how long he had been watching the job centre from the metal bench. The mounting sun in the relentlessly blue sky above the sharp harsh concrete edges of the roofs appeared to be training most of its light on his skull, shrivelling his brain around a very few thoughts. How soon would spying on the office help him write? While he was having plenty of ideas, they were simply wishes, too constricted by anger to grow into a tale. Inspiration might walk by, but how would he recognise it in the midst of so many people, let alone follow it where he could use it? As he peered around in search of it he saw that he was being watched.

A security guard was observing him from the doorway of a household goods store less than a hundred yards away, and another was eyeing him from the entrance to Woolworth’s, closer still. Their gazes slipped askance as he found them, which made it
even clearer that they were discussing him via their microphones. Did they take him for a criminal? They were the guards who’d failed to intervene when he was assaulted by the brother of yet one more woman who had made life unreasonably difficult for him. Perhaps they were alerting Lionel; he’d stepped out of the job centre to survey the crowd. Before Dudley could think how to react, or more importantly how not to, his mobile rang.

It gave him an excuse to crouch unrecognised away from Lionel. When he said “Yes” it was at least half a hiss.

“Listen, it sounds like you’re busy there at the office. The message we picked up just now seemed kind of urgent, though.”

“It was. It’s more so now.” As much to blame Walt as to detain him Dudley said “I’m not in the office. I’m just going to write.” This was by no means accusing enough, and so he blurted “The paper says you gave in.”

“I can tell you I’m not happy with how I’ve been quoted.”

“It reads like you’ll do anything to please her stupid family, this girl that’s been dead for years because she was stupid too, and they won’t be satisfied till you stop the film being made at all.”

“That won’t happen. You have my word on that.”

“What are you going to do, then?”

“We’d like you to look at the script so far. Can we email it to you?”

“You better had.”

“It would be great if the story you’re writing could be incorporated in the movie. Can you make that work?”

“I’ll see.” Dudley’s gaze followed a young mother with a push-chair up an alley until the wall of Woolworth’s hid her, and at once he understood how he had to approach writing his next story. “Let me get on with it,” he said.

“Before you do, there’s someone who’d like a word. He’s going to write fulltime.”

As Dudley gathered that the last remark was about him, his father said “Dud? What’s the boss saying, you’re joining us wordsmiths?”

This felt as inadequate and beside the point as his father’s presence at the launch had. “I’ve been one for a long time,” Dudley objected.

“You’re giving up the day job though, aren’t you? I hope someone gets it that knows what it’s like to live on the dole. Don’t take this personal, but you were dealing with plain ordinary types like me, is that fair? I reckon they’re entitled to expect whoever’s handing out the jobs to be their class. Any rate,” Monty said, “now you’ve got time to fix your image.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Dudley dodged into the nearest alley in the hope of not being overheard when he made his next call, but two shopgirls were piling it with funereal bags of rubbish. “I don’t know what you’re getting at,” he complained.

“That’s sad, lad. Gad, that’s bad. Think I’m a cad? I won’t get mad. Well, just a tad. I should place an ad if I’ve been had and I’m not your dad. This could start a fad. Better write it on my pad.” Having apparently run out of rhymes, Monty said “I just want to help you get a name.”

Dudley emerged into a concrete yard walled in by the backs of shops. “I’ve got one,” he protested.

“That’s right, you’ve got mine. I’m thinking you and me could put on a fair old show.”

The unlikeliness of this made Dudley blurt “What kind?”

“Better than your last one. Trust me, your first performance is your worst.” Monty paused as if searching for more rhymes and said “The pensioners’ union want me to do an evening. How about being the other half of the act? A lot of them love a bit of a thrill still. You could read them a yarn or two that’s not too strong. It’s for charity. That’s got to make you look good.”

Dudley failed to see why he should require that, but saving time was more important. “When is it?”

“End of the month. Can I tell them you’re in? They’ll need to put the posters up.”

“Go on,” Dudley said, since he could think of no other way to terminate the conversation.

“That’s ace. First of many, yes? We’ll be the family firm.”

Dudley broke the connection and typed a directory enquiries number. The foremost of several Indian voices greeted him with its formula. “Liverpool,” he had first to tell it, and then “Eamonn Moore.”

“How are you spelling that, please?”

“Eamonn. Eh mon. Aim on.” None of this saved him from having to spell it twice, and Moore too. Suppose Eamonn was so anxious to stay aloof that he’d hidden his listing? The overseas babble of voices yielded up Dudley’s informant and the information, however. “Would you like me to connect you?” she said.

Might that render his phone less identifiable? He wasn’t sure and couldn’t take the risk. He cut her off and strained to hold the number in his memory while he keyed the digits to mask his. Eamonn’s phone rang several times, followed by as many, so that Dudley had reminded himself not to speak if an answering machine responded by the time a woman did. “Hello?” she said, more breathless than welcoming.

“Is that Mrs Eamonn Moore?”

“It’s Julia Moore, yes.”

“I do beg your pardon.” However unreasonable he found her attitude, it could be useful. “I won’t need to speak to your husband if you’re one of the householders.”

“You couldn’t anyway, and yes, I am.”

He was starting to see her: the elbow of the arm that held the receiver was propped on her other hand in a stance of angular
aggressiveness, her legs were planted wide apart in a man’s posture, her nose and chin were defiantly stuck up. All this went with the way she said “Who am I speaking to?”

He was ready for this, and so was his grin. “The name’s Killan, Mrs Moore.”

“I haven’t heard that one before.”

“It’s real, I promise.” He’d once dealt with a client of that name in his previous mundane life. “It’s Irish,” he said.

“What are you calling about, please?”

He was taking a breath to begin his approach when he heard a noise beyond her: the slowing drone and dying tick of an electric train. “Will you be close to the station?” he hoped aloud.

“We’re by it, yes. Don’t tell me you’re selling double glazing.”

“I won’t be doing that, Mrs Moore. Do you and your husband have children?” he pretended not to know.

“Two little ones. Why?”

“I can understand you wouldn’t want double glazing if it meant you couldn’t hear them.”

“And if we could, what’s the point of having it?”

“Exactly. So what would you say to a revolutionary new soundproofing system that you can switch on when you want it and off when you don’t?”

“I’ve no idea what I would say.”

“You won’t till you’ve seen it in action. I guarantee you can’t imagine how quiet it will be for you.” With sudden concern, which wasn’t entirely manufactured, he said “Can you hear your children now?”

“Of course not. They’re at school.”

“Forgive me, obviously they will be. I shouldn’t have thought you’re the kind that keeps them off.” His absolute conviction that everything would fit into place made him risk asking “Would you prefer to wait till everybody’s home? Will Mr Moore be responsible for the final decision?”

“Which is that supposed to be?”

“About the demonstration I’ll be delighted to give you.”

“I’m entirely capable of dealing with that.”

“That’s what I like to hear. I’m in the Aigburth area. I can be with you in about an hour.”

“No you can’t.”

“When would be convenient? Unfortunately I’m only in your district till early afternoon.”

“I won’t delay you, then. Good luck with finding someone else.”

Dudley responded before she’d finished, not least because it was clear from her tone that she wasn’t wishing him luck. “There’s absolutely no obligation on your part, Mrs Moore, but I can personally promise you a truly special experience. You have my word you can’t imagine what it’s like till you’ve been through it yourself.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised when I haven’t the least notion what you’re supposed to be talking about.”

“Then may I show you? It shouldn’t take much of your time, and believe me, it’ll change the way you live.”

“We’re perfectly happy with that, thank you. I should have told you sooner that we never invite salesmen into it. Now you’ll have to excuse me. I really must—”

“Could we send you some literature at least? It’ll tell you what’s on offer better than I can over the phone. Throw it in the bin if you’d rather, but it’d prove I’m doing my job.”

“We don’t bin paper, we recycle it. We get far too much of it from firms like yours. What’s the name of it, by the way?”

Dudley had to scrabble in his mind for one. “Dead Quiet,” he no sooner thought than said. “It’s all recycled, everything we use.”

“That’s something, anyway. Not a very enticing name, though, is it?” That sounded like her final word until she sighed and added
“All right, send us your brochure. I don’t suppose that can do any harm.”

“I’ll make sure you receive everything that’s necessary.” Though he relished saying this, it was much more important to ask “May I just take your address? We don’t appear to have it in the system.”

“Desford Road,” she said, and the number and postcode.

“Death in Desford Road.” While he didn’t utter that, his grin hindered his pronouncing “Thanks very much for all your help.”

Perhaps she mistook his comment for sarcasm. She cut him off without another syllable. He closed his aching eyes to raise a grin towards a sky that felt as wide, and then he made for a stubby alley that ended opposite the Bingo building. As he hurried past that and the baths to the station he wondered if he would ever see them again. He had a sense of unfinished business: why hadn’t he copied the addresses of clients who had struck him as having potential? He had only ever followed up one address from work, and he’d had to carry on past her shabby house when he’d seen two battered cars in the drive. He needn’t feel frustrated now that he had Julia Moore’s address. He was certain that she’d turned Eamonn against him, but nobody would make the connection. He didn’t realise how broad his grin was until it startled one out of the ticket office clerk.

The lift opened onto the platform as the doors of a train did. In less than ten minutes Dudley was at Liverpool Central. While he was borne up one escalator and down another to the Northern Line he reflected on his title. “Death in Desford Road” gave away too much; even “Assassinated in Aigburth” did. “Slaughtered in the Suburbs” appealed to him, but perhaps he shouldn’t settle on a title until he had the material. Though he wasn’t yet used to the process of seeking his theme before he could write rather than writing to fix his memories and improve on any unsatisfactory
elements, he could make the method work. He was a professional now, after all.

It seemed only right that a train was drawing alongside the platform at the foot of the escalator. He was alone in the carriage and at Aigburth Station, where he climbed steps to the ticket office. He turned his back to the manned window as if he was nodding in agreement at a poster forbidding antisocial behaviour on the railway. Indeed, he did agree. Too many people these days had no idea how to behave in public.

Outside the station parked cars greeted him with the absence of their owners. Beyond the car park there was nobody to observe him either. To his left, across a bridge that a sign described as weak, shouts and leathery thumps echoed in a football field. On his right two pairs of houses warty with pebbles led to a culde-sac—Desford Road.

The Moores lived halfway down the side that backed onto the railway, in the left-hand of two houses with a shared frontage like a levelled pinkish pebble beach. Dudley strolled past it and several extra houses before turning back. On the drive next to the glassed-in porch was a solitary car and space for another. Over the low thick wall of the paved sliver of garden he saw a room far too full of mirrors through the single downstairs window. He heard children playing somewhere behind the houses, a detail that suggested to him how innocent he would look if anybody had been watching him. He was crossing the road with absolute certainty that the events of the next few minutes would fall in his favour when he glimpsed activity reflected from mirror to mirror. Before he could react, a woman opened the front door and stepped into the porch. “Are you looking for someone?” she called.