Secret Story (32 page)

“You’d rather talk to her than your dad, would you?”

“She’s the one who started my career.”

“And I’m the one that got you the gig you never bothered showing up at.”

While Dudley was having fun with his dialogue, there was more to be had in the bathroom, where a dogged dull thumping had begun. “How did it go?” he assumed he was expected to ask.

“How do you reckon? You made me look like the family couldn’t be trusted. I had to tell them you couldn’t be arsed to spare them any of your precious time because you were too busy scribbling.”

“Kathy said they’d understand.”

“What the shite does she know about it? She’s not a writer. Tell you one thing you’d better learn and quick if you want to carry on in this game, son—your writing’s never more important than your audience.”

“Perhaps we’ll have to disagree about that.”

“And maybe not. I know more about it than you do. I’ve been at it longer, and I’m your dad if you forgot as well. Maybe I ought to drive over there right now and talk to you like a dad’s supposed to. I reckon I’d be failing in my duty if I didn’t.”

The thumping beyond the wall seemed to lodge in Dudley’s head. “You don’t know where I am,” he blurted. “Kathy won’t tell you.”

“She’s not here. I can get your address out of the directory quick as the shits.”

Dudley couldn’t judge if the thumping grew louder or the resonance in his aching skull did. “You can’t come here,” he said through his teeth. “I’ve got to be left alone.”

“Except for your mam, eh? You don’t mind having her around. She thinks you’re so perfect there’s nothing for you to learn from your dad.”

“I made her leave too. She’s moved out till I’ve finished what I’m doing.”

“You’ve got too big a notion of yourself and no mistake. Me and Kath may have had our differences, but I don’t like you chucking her out of her house while you ponce about being an artist. Right, I’m coming there. I want to do this face to face.”

The violent thumping was indistinguishable from Dudley’s pulse now. He couldn’t tell whether the raw red was in the sky or his eyes or both. “It’s the only way I can write,” he loathed himself for having to plead. “You’re stopping me.”

“Try writing a few of the places I’ve written and putting up with some of the stuff I had to while I did and then maybe you’ll have an excuse to whinge. Christ, son, you’re making me ashamed of you. I wouldn’t mind if you’d got your mam out of the way so you could have a judy in.”

Dudley’s lips worked, and he felt as if the thumping had forced out his response before he was sure of it. “I have.”

His father was silent for so many thumps that Dudley had started to regret the admission by the time Monty spoke. “You sly twat. You’ve got Kath thinking she’s got to stay clear of you writing and you’re really just like the rest of us.”

“That’s me. I’m your son.”

“Well, good on you, Dud. I was starting to think you didn’t like girls and it was my fault for leaving you all to your mam.” Monty laughed before adding “You still let me and dozens of old buggers down.”

“I’m sorry,” Dudley said and risked saying “You understand, though.”

“Why didn’t you bring her? Doesn’t she like what you’re doing?”

“She’s learning.”

“Just so you don’t expect me to. Still got me doubts about your kind of thing. Find your roots and maybe you’ll surprise yourself. I reckon I’ve got to be one of them.”

“Can we discuss it another time?”

“Itching to get back to her, are you? Let’s hope she sees to your itch. What’s her name?”

The thumping had left Dudley’s skull, but returned while he struggled to think. “Patsy,” he said as soon as it occurred to him.

“I’m eager to meet her. When’s that going to be?”

“Not now. Promise you won’t come now.”

“I will if you promise not to show me up again, and that means no way at all.”

“If you promise not to tell my mother Patsy’s here.”

“Fair enough, that’s the stuff men do for each other, except you’ve not promised yet.”

Monty had to be impressed with the eventual products of the weekend. “I swear I won’t let you down,” Dudley said.

“Then your secret’s safe with me. Have a good night and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, like you could.”

“Tomorrow as well.”

“Randy sod. Making up for lost time, eh? I won’t waste any more of it for you. I’ll call you when we’ve got another gig.”

“I’ll make sure I’m free,” Dudley said and meant it. He mustn’t double-book himself like this again; it drew too much attention to him. He thrust the mobile into his trousers pocket as he strode into the bathroom. “You can stop now,” he shouted, “he’s gone,” but Patsy the package persisted in clapping her bound feet against the sides of the bath. He would find a better noise for her to make—one he would relish more than she would. He was running to the kitchen for a box of matches when the phone started to vibrate against his hip.

Had Monty changed his mind? Dudley was tempted to let the
phone ring until his father left a message for him to overhear, but his nerves couldn’t wait. He dodged into the front room to be farther from the thumping and poked the button. “Yes,” he snapped.

“It’s Vincent. Is this a bad time?”

“No, it’s quite a good one.”

“Does that mean you’re working or you aren’t?”

“I will be in a minute.”

“Well, great. I won’t keep you away from it. I just wanted to let you know I want to start shooting with Lorna and Colin tomorrow.”

Dudley felt belittled and excluded. “Where?”

“I thought we’d start with the most famous location. I’ve got them on the ferry on the way to Birkenhead.”

For an instant Dudley felt as if Vincent was stealing both Mr Killogram and his ideas, and then he saw how to reclaim them. “That’s my scene. I thought of that.”

“Well, that’s ace. We’ve got the same mind. I must be finding your wavelength.”

“You better had.”

“How was that again? I didn’t catch it. The only thing is, if you’ve written the scene I haven’t had it.”

“I’m about to.”

“Great, then you can email it to me.”

“I’ll do more than email it.”

“Terrific. If it turns out the dialogue needs work when the actors get to it you’ll be there to make the changes.”

Dudley saw no reason why this should be necessary. On the contrary, he would be there to ensure no changes were made. “When’s everyone meeting?”

“Ten sharp at the Pier Head. How soon can I look for the scene?”

“The moment I’ve finished it. I’m starting now,” Dudley vowed and rang off. Thumps resounded faintly through the house. He
thought of the matches and the scissors, but he couldn’t spend time on that now. He dashed upstairs, shouting “You’ll have to wait” before hurrying into his room. When the racket eventually faded and died he was typing
FERRY
at the top of the screen. He was grateful for the impetus to write, and delighted that he’d regained control of Mr Killogram from Vincent, but frustrated as well. He seemed to have robbed himself of the chance to experiment with the package; once he’d delivered the script he would need to catch up on his sleep if he was to keep an eye on the filming. Then he bared his teeth as he typed
MR KILLOGRAM
. Even if they filmed all day, he would have all Sunday night. It would be something to look forward to when he came home.

Patricia lurched awake and at once was furious with having fallen asleep. It felt like giving in to Dudley—like being robbed of the last vestige of her sense of self. She was about to drum her bruised feet against the bath in sheer enraged frustration when she managed to regain enough calm to think. She ought to keep still while she discovered whether that was any use. Perhaps if she stayed on her side and facing towards the room, she could tell what he was doing. Perhaps if she didn’t strain at it she would be able to hear.

She had no idea how long she’d spent in attempting to distract him by thumping the sides of her prison. It had begun to feel like her only means of proving her own existence. Whenever she’d had to rest because her legs and feet were aching so much, she’d tried to think that she was lulling him to believe she had finished vexing him. More than once he’d dashed into the room
to snarl or yell at her. His reaction daunted her, but what else could she do? If she stayed quiescent, might that persuade him that he could risk letting her go? Surely he had no other option in real life—surely he didn’t imagine they were in one of his stories. She tried to slow her breathing and relax her entire body so that all she would do was hear.

The last time she’d heard him yelling at her to shut up, his voice had been beside her, yet lower. He must indeed be sleeping on the floor to block her escape, but she had increasingly less sense that he was anywhere near. She couldn’t smell his aftershave. Did she dare to trust that and her instincts? Tentatively to start with, and then with mounting confidence, she thumped her heels against the side of the bath.

Suppose he was watching her across the room? Suppose he was grinning at her blindness and awaiting her efforts to climb out of her prison? Her eyes stung with fury and their inability to penetrate the taped blackness. If her intuition had betrayed her and he hadn’t left the house, she would make it impossible for him to pretend. She squirmed onto her back, flattening her hands underneath her, and pounded the sides of the bath with her feet until they throbbed. The racket came so close to hurting her deafened ears that she didn’t think anyone else in the building would be able to put up with it. She had to believe that he’d left her alone at last—of course, because of the film.

She began to inch into a sitting position. Why was she being so cautious? She thrust hard with her feet, and the back of her neck slid up the end of the bath. She had an image of poking her head out like a soldier revealing her position in a trench. But her head hadn’t risen above the edge when she was dealt a vicious blow on the scalp.

Her eyes streamed, her mouth struggled to gape and to produce more than a clogged groan. She fell into a crouch, loathing its defensiveness, and tried vainly to judge where the next blow
might come from, though nothing she could do would avoid it. Her fingers writhed, unable to reach up and rub the injury. She could only wait for the pain to fade. Very gradually it dulled and shrank to leave her skull feeling softened and exposed. Her head began to tingle with a wincing anticipation of the next attack. She wasn’t going to keep it held low like a victim when she had no reason to believe that would save her. She straightened up in furious defiance, but at the same time she couldn’t help ducking. Only the gesture prevented her from banging her scalp as hard as the first time on the object overhead.

She wanted to believe it was the sink. She needed to discover how she could have collided with it twice. She kept her head down while the aggravated pain retreated into tenderness, and then she raised it inch by slow inch. When she encountered the object once more she distinguished how flat and horizontal it was, not curved and slanting like the underside of the sink. In any case, it was too low. It was no higher than the edge of the bath.

It wouldn’t let her sit up. She twisted on her side and shuffled effortfully down the bath and strove to raise herself with only her body for leverage. As her upper half wavered erect, the barrier was waiting to press her head down. She fell back, bruising her knuckles, and strained her feet up. The barrier was above them too. By dragging them along the edge and then performing the same exploration with her head at the opposite end she ascertained that the lid covered virtually the entire bath.

There was a gap over the taps, but it was hardly wide enough to push her bound feet through. The lid was as thick as the length of her feet. Surely that had to be an exaggeration, and she mustn’t let it daunt her. She lay on her side again and crawled awkwardly up her prison, then used its end to help her rise into a crouch. Once her shoulders and the back of her head were wedged against the lid she heaved with all her strength.

It didn’t stir. Though her spine was straining practically upright, and all the muscles that were left available to her were throbbing with the effort, she felt tethered by her useless arms, unable to apply the purchase that might have made all the difference. At last she subsided, and when her body finished trembling she tried again. She tried until she grew sick and dizzy with striving, and then she switched to lying on her back and planting her feet against the barrier. They were just as ineffectual. She thought she could have been labouring for hours to shift the lid before she finally lay inert, panting through her nose, her blindness flaring dull red in time with her pulse. The lid was utterly immovable, at any rate by anyone in her condition. She might as well be buried in a coffin under six feet of earth.

Dudley stepped into the sunlight and immediately wondered if he should rush down to the next train home. He had to remind himself yet again that the package was safe. It might have been able to dislodge both of the wardrobe doors he’d laid over the bath, but even he had struggled to wrestle the armchair up the stairs, never mind to heave it on top of the doors to sit with its back to the wall. Nor was there any reason for his mother to sneak home after she’d promised to stay away. Just because he couldn’t bolt the front and back doors as he had while he was in the house, that wasn’t an invitation to her or any other intruder. He was sure that at the very least she would phone him before daring to invade, and she wasn’t going to risk phoning when that might interrupt his work. He turned his back on the station and strode past the massive empty office buildings towards the Pier Head.

There was no sign of Vincent or the cast on the wide paved space. If they were late, couldn’t he phone Vincent and persuade him to delay filming until after the weekend? As he hurried down the concrete ramp he was hoping their absence would give him the excuse. He hadn’t reached the landing-stage when he was greeted by a shout of “Here’s the author.”

At least the enthusiast was Mr Killogram. Vincent was there as well, adjusting his glasses with the hand that held the script, and so was Lorna Major, looking as determined as she had when Mr Killogram had hemmed her in at her audition. As they crossed the grubby planks to Dudley he wondered what was wrong, and then he knew. “Where’s the camera?”