Twisted Agendas (6 page)

Agnes scrunched the letter tightly in her hand until it formed a ball, took it into the kitchen and tossed it into the bin.

It was bizarre to the point of comicality and Julia Ralston, as she watched through her front window, could not understand what her eccentric neighbour could be searching for
near Julia’s car. She’d caught her acting this strangely twice before. The first time was two months ago, just minutes after Julia parked the Jaguar on the far side of the street across
from her house. Realising she’d left her newspaper in the car, Julia had gone outside to fetch it and encountered Mrs. Hartley passing her hand alongside the back bumper of Julia’s
vehicle before attempting to open one of the back doors. On the second occasion, Julia had been to the off-license to purchase wine for a party she was throwing and on her return came upon Mrs.
Hartley, grey-white hair studded with pink curlers, emerging from Julia’s narrow strip of front yard. Julia kept her rubbish bin there prior to its collection and she was almost certain Mrs.
Hartley had been rummaging through it. She asked her startled neighbour if she could render any assistance, but Mrs. Hartley recovered quickly and mumbled she’d been searching for her cat
before walking back to her own house and slamming the door shut.

Julia left the window, took a last pull of the joint and stubbed the spent roach into the half-filled ashtray as she looked about the living-cum-dining room. Jeans, jumpers, and two skirts lay
strewn over the sofa and armchairs. A pair of tights flowed like stretched toffee from an upper branch of a tall fichus placed on one side of the French doors that opened onto a spacious garden.
The garden itself was girded by five-foot brick walls on two sides, shrubbery and a stockade fence at the rear. CD cases including KD Lang’s
Ingénue
and magazines lay scattered
on the carpet. Upon the dining room table was a phone and a platter containing a resealable plastic bag of marijuana, cigarette papers and a roller.

Keeping the house constantly in order in case someone called from the advertisement she’d placed in the local paper was more challenging than she’d anticipated. At times of
despondency like this, Julia wished her salary was larger and the mortgage payments more reasonable. She also regretted her rush to evict her prior tenant.

Six months ago, she’d purchased 42 Chumley, a cozy terraced house on the well-maintained North section of the street. Spaniel Street bisected the North and South sections, at the junction
of which was an elevated railway bridge that served the Piccadilly and District tube lines. It hadn’t been love at first glimpse when Julia, accompanied by her estate agent, drew up to the
house on that cold October morning. She’d winced at the powder blue façade and instructed the woman to proceed to the next property, but the enthusiastic agent insisted she take a
look. Once inside, Julia had been quietly pleased when she saw the house was tastefully renovated and made an appropriate offer for both it and the salvageable pieces of furniture. Within hours the
seller’s agent rang her agent, and raised the specter of another bidder, thus setting in motion a blitz of counter-offers until the price was within a hair’s breath of beyond her means
and Julia had had quite enough. She contacted the Australian owner, arranged a clandestine meeting with him and a contract was drawn up and executed next day.

Five minutes later, when Julia came outside to the street, Mrs. Hartley was still standing by her car. She was chatting to Sonia Berg, the German psychiatrist who lived just beyond the railway
bridge on the south side of the street. Sonia had stopped her VW Beetle in the middle of the road and was standing half-in half-out of the vehicle, her right foot planted on the tarmac.

“Good morning,” Julia said, and nodded at them.

“Ah Julia, it is you,” Dr. Berg said. “I have been meaning to ring and thank you for your lovely party. It was so wery fun.” She laughed shrilly. “Jean-Pierre
enjoyed himself and will pay for the dry-cleaning of your tablecloth. You will give me the bill?”

Mrs. Hartley’s face twisted into a grimace.

“Don’t worry about it, Sonia.”

Having met the doctor’s Congolese boyfriend on a number of occasions, Julia had formed the opinion he was socially inept. He made no effort to join in conversation and she figured Sonia
was with him only because he was good in bed.

The doctor climbed into the sunflower stenciled Bug and revved the engine so that it hummed in that singular Volkswagony way. “Mrs. Hartley, do not forget to tell your friend Martha it is
important she keep her appointments with me.”

Her neighbour’s face was still pinched with disapproval as she watched Sonia drive away.

“Is anything wrong, Mrs. Hartley? I noticed you examining my car again.”

“You parked too close to mine again, Madam.”

She found Mrs. Hartley’s tendency to address her as ‘Madam’ quaintly polite. She also felt sorry for the old woman. She’d heard her husband had died tragically. Julia
glanced at her neighbour’s ancient Morris Minor.

“I don’t think it’s
that
close, Mrs. Hartley.”

“It is.”

Julia’s mobile rang and she took it from her bag. “There’s at least six to eight inches between our bumpers. I’ll try to park it further… oh, hello, Clive. Thanks
for calling back.” She held up her hand to signal to Mrs. Hartley that she wouldn’t be long. “Yes, fifty quid will be enough.” She laughed. “Of course, I’m worth
it. Listen, if you’re having it tight this month I understand. I’ll take whatever you can afford.”

Mrs. Hartley shook her head. “Just see you park further away from my motor next time, Madam.” And she walked away.

Lunchtime at The Pound and Penny, a Hammersmith pub serving excellent steak pies and boasting a small beer garden was always packed. As she pushed open one of the narrow double
front doors, Julia sent a young woman sipping a pint of lager scuttling into the chest of her male companion. Oblivious to the man’s scowl as he brushed beer off his silk tie, she scanned the
room for Clive while cutting a path through the throng. She found him bent over the jukebox in the billiard room next door.

“There’s never anything decent to play on this thing,” he said, and kissed her on each cheek.

“They don’t cater to club queens here, Clive.”

“Hey, you want me to loan you fifty quid or not?”

“I couldn’t resist that.”

Clive reached up to the top of the jukebox and retrieved a glass from among the spent beer mugs and stack of whisky glasses. “I got you a gin-and-tonic.” He took out a folded bundle
of notes from the pocket of his jeans and handed it to her.

“I’ll pay you back on Friday,” she said. “I promise.”

A stocky, hirsute man with a wide forehead, his upper lip partially obscured by a long moustache half-coated in foam, Clive wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Have I got a bit of juicy goss’ for you,” he said.

“You know I don’t like gossip.”

“Your boss is definitely shagging that stewardess you think is so good-looking.”

Julia sighed. “I don’t care who he screws.”

As a twenty-five-year-old, pretty immigration officer who’d now worked one year at Heathrow, Julia’s objective was to avoid office politics and airport gossip. She wanted only to
work her way through the ranks and get promoted as quickly as government jobs allowed.

“Have you asked round the airline if anyone needs to rent a room?” she asked.

“Nobody knows anyone wanting to move. But I’ll keep my ear cocked.”

“I’ve had no responses from my ad and it’s such a pain having to keep the house constantly tidy.” Julia sighed heavily and took a large gulp of gin. “You should
have seen me yesterday afternoon. I attacked the living room with a vengeance, dragging the hoover around with one hand and a duster in the other. I need to find someone fast or I’ll lose the
house.”

“Sell the Jag. That thing guzzles petrol. Buy a Mini.” He laughed. “It’d make your neighbour very happy by the sound of it.”

“Oh, please. Can you really see me in a Mini?”

She wondered if she’d made a mistake. Piper thought he was open, honest and very friendly. Certainly he’d behaved that way on the ferry and during the ride to
London. She didn’t question his integrity. The guy had already paid rent even though she’d told him it wasn’t necessary. He’d also chipped in forty pounds towards the
purchase of food, something her regular tenant Pat had never offered.

She just didn’t understand why he’d become so reserved. He’d hardly spoken the first evening when she’d generously cooked dinner for him, even gone to the trouble of
inviting her neighbour Sonia Berg so he could meet new people. And then the peculiar question he’d asked, what she thought about illegally altered guns, while they watched the news this
evening. It was very strange. All they’d been watching at the time was the capture of some guy who’d robbed a flat in Knightsbridge.

“Time for me to get outta here,” she said.

Danny turned away from the television and looked at her. “I, er, I’ve been meaning to ask you something else.”

“Quick. I’m gonna be late for my shift.”

“I found… in my room, there’s… ” He fell silent.

“What?”

“You were right, it is very warm in my room.”

“Are we cool, Danny?”

He nodded.

“Hey, I know you’re probably missing home. It takes time to adapt to city life.”

“It sure does.”

That must be his problem, she’d forgotten how strange everything had been when she first moved here.

“Why don’t you drop by the pub for a drink this evening?” she said. “Todd’ll be there and he’s anxious to meet you. We’re going on to a club later if
you want to come, too.”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll even buy you a beer.”

“I’ll come but I won’t go clubbing.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve got an interview for a flat.”

This was one thing about the guy that Piper really admired. Since the first night, he’d been working feverishly to find himself a place, scouring the newspapers for vacancies even though
she’d told him there was no need to rush. When Piper had first come to London, she’d spent the first week sightseeing. Not Danny. He was determined.

“Where’s it located?” she asked.

“Peckham Rye.”

“I don’t think you want to live there. Lots of rough spots and no tube.” She went to the door. “See you later then.”

His father’s warning about London reverberated in his head. At first he’d thought the shotgun was a toy because its barrel was too short. He’d thought it was
some inferior Chinese replica she’d purchased to frighten off potential intruders. However, after he held it, its hefty weight and the icy touch of the metal, he was convinced of its perverse
authenticity and put it quickly back into the furthest corner of the wardrobe.

Guns were taboo in his family. Never discussed. The experience of finding it had been so upsetting, Danny’d spent the night following its discovery peering often at the locked wardrobe,
his eyes drawn to the rickety door as if by a magnet. Its presence penetrated deep into his psyche and his mind kept posing a terrible question he couldn’t stop. What if it was loaded and he
got depressed and used it to kill himself? That’s how many suicides happened. He calmed the unease every time by reminding himself he had access to carving knives every day and they were just
as dangerous, that he’d never contemplated taking his life. But he didn’t want to touch the thing again, didn’t even want to share a room with such lethality.

Piper was likeable, a girl he could fancy, but she’d hidden a sawn off shotgun in her wardrobe. He knew from watching documentaries and news bulletins that America had crazies. Everyone
over there was permitted to carry guns, and some of these crazies murdered, shooting people dead in schools, offices and on the streets, sometimes without a shred of provocation. Part of Danny
wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. The other part just kept thinking of the shotgun. If she needed a gun for security, why not a little pistol? Why not mace? She had to know it was
illegal to keep firearms. She’d certainly known the British law about search and seizure when they’d been stopped by the police. There’d also been the weird behaviour when
she’d ripped pages from her notebook. That was just weird, of course. But weird could overlap with crazy.

He arrived at The George in Covent Garden ten minutes before last orders were called. Piper bought him a pint of lager and guided him to a corner of the bar where her boyfriend Todd was already
drinking. He was handsome and cleft chinned. A pair of John Lennon-style spectacles accentuated his intellectual air. After introducing them, Piper left to attend to an impatient customer.

“Ever worked in a bar?” Todd asked.

“No.”

“It’s nasty, man. In the States, we have bar backs doing the grunt work at least. Over here, you have to do everything and customers don’t even give tips… except from
visiting Americans until they learn how things work.”

Danny watched Piper draw a pint of ale, noticing the tautness of her skin and how the muscles in her upper arms flexed on the downward pull.

“You and Piper study together, don’t you?”

“We don’t take the same courses.”

So she was definitely a student.

Todd swirled the last of his beer to make it froth before looking at him. “So you guys met on the ferry?”

“That’s right.”

“And she asked you to move in the same day?”

“Yes.”

Todd was silent for a moment. “What’s your secret, dude?”

“I’m not sure I… ”

“I’ve been telling her we should live together but she won’t listen. She keeps sayin’ two months isn’t enough time.” His eyes flitted behind the bar.
“Me, I know it is.”

“I’m looking for a flat.”

“Good to know.”

“What do you study?” Danny asked.

“Comparative Politics.”

“But she does that too, doesn’t she?”

Piper smiled over. It was impossible not to like her. She couldn’t be crazy. There had to be a logical explanation for the gun’s presence.