Butcher (28 page)

Annie didn't release her. She seemed to want the connection as much for her own sake as Betty's. Annie's shoulders shook. She sobbed quietly.

Betty stroked her back. ‘Ssshhh, sssshhh.'

‘It shouldn't have happened.'

‘I know, love.'

Annie drew back from Betty, and blew her nose into her hankie, and when she looked at Betty again her eyes were blurred with tears and her mascara was like black wax melting. ‘Oh Christ, I'm supposed to comfort you. And here I am … dammit. I'm useless at this, Betty. If I'd married him—'

‘Oh, don't even think that.'

‘I had other ideas, such big ideas, I wanted to
make
something out of my life—'

‘And Kirk was happy enough just getting along from day to day.'

‘He was sweet, considerate—'

‘But no ambition.'

‘Who says ambition's such a fucking great thing anyway?'

Betty was surprised by the sudden vehemence in Annie's voice. She sipped her drink and looked inside the glass at the purple disc of wine shimmering. ‘I don't know about great, but my old ambition was to be a backup singer. I wanted to stand behind the guys and go ooobie do-wap-do.'

Annie crumpled her hankie. ‘You went to Woodstock. I just remembered that when I came in tonight. The pictures in the hall.'

‘Ah but those pictures don't tell the
whole
story.' Betty plucked a cigarette from her pack of B&H and lit it. Her fingers shook so badly she was embarrassed. She'd smoked a lot today. She'd drunk too much coffee. ‘Some other time.' She looked at Annie fondly, remembering better times. ‘He once told me, “Ma, I'm arse over elbow in love with this girl.” He'd been drinking and he'd slipped into one of those God's honest truth moments. Then he said you'd found somebody else.'

‘I thought I had.'

‘He always felt he couldn't compete—'

‘He was so good to me, Betty.'

‘But the new fella turned your head. Was it love?'

‘I don't know what love is. It's not all flowers and gifts, I know that.' Annie sounded bitter. Betty had never considered her as bitter or sour in any way; the break-up with the boyfriend had affected her. She wanted to ask but thought:
I'll mind my own business
.

‘Kirk was never romantic, Annie.'

‘And how would you know that? I could tell you a few things.' Annie nudged Betty's knee, smiled thinly, and then dabbed her ruined eye make-up with the hankie. ‘Do I look like a washed-out rag?'

‘
I'm
the washed-out rag, pet.'

Memories then tears. Was this the cycle of moods ahead? Betty finished her drink. She tilted her head against the back of the sofa, sighed long. Somehow you had to find yourself again. If you could. If you could put a finger on a place and say,
This is me
.

‘Listen, want me to spend the night?' Annie asked.

‘That's awfy sweet of you, Annie.'

‘I could sleep here on the sofa. I'd like that.'

‘I'll be OK. Really.'

‘Seriously, I'm happy to do it.' Annie looked like an eager child. ‘We'll sit up and chatter about the old days.'

Betty thought Annie's persistence probably rose from her concern, her willingness to be useful, but there was something just a little desperate in the way she asked – as if
she
was the one bereaved and in need of company. Betty considered the prospect of more hours spent dredging the past, every square inch of Kirk and Annie's lost love excavated, and more wine drunk. She liked Annie, she always had, but if she lingered it could only mean further reminiscences – and when these were exhausted they'd be recycled.

The doorbell rang. Annie jumped a little. She wants it to be just her and me, Betty thought. No outsiders, no strangers. Then it struck her: Annie's lonely, she needs to be here.

‘I better see who that is, love.' Betty hauled herself out of the sofa and went out into the hallway, where she passed under the famous old pictures of herself at Woodstock – coloured, fogged by time. That bright smile, the long hair centre-parted, the loud floral blouse and the mini-skirt up to here and the knee-high boots; youthful, you sexy beast. Hello world. A young girl who was ready to seize experience by the scruff. And she had. Jesus she had.

She opened the front door.

Perlman stood outside. ‘Can I come in?'

‘Lou, I wasn't expecting …' She reached up and adjusted the twisted lapel of his overcoat. She couldn't help herself. She felt silly – maternal, but not entirely that. Somebody has to care for this man.

He appeared not to notice her rearrangement of his clothing. ‘I just wanted to see how you're doing,' and with a shy movement he produced a bunch of flowers he'd been hiding behind his back. ‘For you.'

‘Oh Lou.' She took the flowers, a mix of carnations, a half dozen roses, a wedge of ferns. She suspected he wasn't a flower-giver generally, if ever.

‘Are they OK? Do you like them?' He looked so hopeful.

‘They're beautiful.' She sniffed them. They had barely any scent. She'd never tell him that. Anyway, how long since a man had brought her flowers?

‘I can exchange them if—'

‘What for? Don't be daft. I love them.' She helped him out of his coat and hung it on a wooden rack. ‘I've got company.'

‘You want me to come back another time?'

‘You will not.' She led him inside the living room.

Annie looked up at him.

Betty said, ‘This is Annie Cormack. Annie, Lou Perlman.'

Perlman smiled, shook the young woman's hand. ‘Nice to meet you.'

Annie slid her hand from the clasp. ‘Likewise.'

Perlman stared at her, trying to place her. She was a little disconcerted by his scrutiny. She scratched the side of her face, shifted her position.

‘Funny, you remind me of somebody.' Perlman narrowed his eyes.

Annie opened her purse and fidgeted with whatever it contained. Car keys, lipsticks, tampons. Rummaging and engrossed, she said, ‘People always say that.'

There was a chill in the room, something that hadn't been there before. Betty felt tension, and it came from Annie: a mood swing.

Perlman said, ‘An actress. What's her name?'

‘What film was she in, Lou?' Betty asked.

‘That film with whatsisname. Tip of my tongue.'

‘That's helpful,' Betty said.

Perlman snapped thumb and middle finger together. ‘Paul Newman—'

‘She reminds you of
Paul Newman?
You got your contacts in, Lou?'

Perlman was obviously determined to unearth the name of the actress. Annie kept ploughing through her purse.

‘That film where he's a boxer. Rocky somebody. His wife … Italian. Got it, Pier Angeli. Lovely girl.'

‘I remember her,' Betty said.
Lovely girl
. The phrase bothered her. Perlman comes to see me, and here he is concentrating on Annie. How bad do I bloody look? If she'd known he was coming she'd have made an effort to be presentable, she'd have tossed the long boring robe, junked the carpet slippers. This mode of dress wasn't fetching – oh, come on, you've only known the man a matter of days and yet you're troubled when he compares Annie to a ‘lovely' actress? Hold your horses, McLatchie. This is a bad day and your head isn't screwed on right and Perlman didn't come here expecting to find you done up like a nightclub hostess.

‘Annie looks like her, Pier Angeli,' Perlman said.

Annie snapped her purse shut and glanced at Perlman. ‘I've never heard of Pier Angeli. Is this an
old
movie?'

‘Long before you were born, dear,' Betty said – too quickly, clumsily.

Perlman searched for a place to sit.
He couldn't find his way out of a paper bag
, Betty thought. She liked that about him, the way he bumbled, the vagueness that overcame him at times.

‘There's a chair by the cabinet, Lou.'

‘Oh right. Either it's the light in here or I'm going blind.' He sat down and propped his elbows on his knees and continued to look at Annie, who rose from the sofa and slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder.

‘I was about to leave.'

Perlman smiled. ‘The Perlman Effect. Want a room emptied? Call Lou.'

Betty said, ‘You don't have to, Annie.'

‘It's OK. I just remembered some place I said I'd be.'

‘You wanted to stay …' Betty wasn't unhappy. She'd prefer Perlman alone. She was curious about the change in Annie's manner – but on a day like this, so finely balanced on the edge of deep feelings, so turbulent under the false surface of putting a bold face on death, people went through all manner of emotional currents.

‘I'll come back another time,' Annie said.

‘Stay by all means.'

Annie took a small compact mirror from her purse and looked at her own reflection. ‘Christ, I'm a sight.'

Betty said, ‘You are not. It's me …' I must look a ghost, she thought. She hurried from the room, saying she needed to find a vase.

Annie popped the mirror back inside her bag and walked to the living room door. ‘Tell her goodbye. I'll phone her.'

‘Wait,' Perlman said.

‘I really need to leave.' She opened the door to the hallway and walked away. He went after her.

‘Since when were you Annie?'

‘Since the day I was born, Mr Perlman.'

‘Call me Lou.'

She kept moving, and was halfway to the front door when he said, ‘George Square. Two Christmases ago. Mibbe three. You'd been shopping, you had Armani bags—'

‘You're barking.'

‘Woof,' Perlman said. ‘You and Chuck.'

She swung round to face him. ‘Who? I've never seen you before in my life.'

‘I don't leave much of an impression, but I'm good with faces. And yours is memorable. You have some reason you don't want Betty to know you changed your name?'

‘I never changed my name.'

‘I bet Chuck did it for you. He'd prefer Glorianna to Annie. More glitz. More flash. Myself, I think Annie's a nice name.'

She stared at him fiercely. ‘Let it go. Leave it alone.' She raised a hand to her face, a fluttery gesture, as if to conceal an expression.

‘What are you so afraid of?'

‘I'm not afraid.'

She opened the front door, intending to go, then turned back to him. ‘It was somebody else with the fucking Armani bag. Not me. Somebody else. All right?' And she left, shutting the door without looking back.

He lingered a second, then returned to the living room just as Betty came in from the kitchen with the flowers in a vase. She'd done something to her hair. The pile of yellow and grey had been combed quickly, and pins strategically inserted for control.

‘Has Annie gone?'

‘She'll phone. Told me to tell you.'

‘God, she practically
fled
.' Betty placed the vase on a coffee-table, turned it this way, that, until she was satisfied. ‘She said she wanted to sleep here the night. Then you showed up. You must have scared her.'

‘I showed her my Frankenstein impersonation and she was out that front door like she'd been fired from a cannon.'

Betty looked at him in silence for a while, face tipped to one side. ‘You have anything you want to tell me, Lou?'

‘About the case? I wish. But nobody's been apprehended.'

She was quietly relieved. She'd had enough of death. It suffocated her. It dimmed every light in her soul. She needed to get beyond it, even if only for ten minutes, ten seconds, any amount of time would be welcome.

Perlman lit a cigarette. ‘How well do you know Annie?'

‘Well enough. She was Kirk's girlfriend for a while. I haven't seen her in a long time.'

‘You know where she lives.'

‘Why are you asking this?'

‘Cop's habit. Excuse me.'

‘She's from Drumchapel originally. She has a flat in Belmont Street.'

‘Came up in the world. You know anything else about her?'

‘She just broke up with her boyfriend, and I think she's hurting.'

‘Who's the boyfriend?'

‘I don't know. What's your interest anyway?'

He didn't reply. She saw deep preoccupation in his eyes. He sat down on the sofa, stretched his legs.

‘You want a drink, Lou?'

He came out of his reverie as if startled. ‘A wee dram, if you have it.'

‘There's a drop somewhere.' She didn't make any move to fetch it for him. Let him find it for himself. ‘Are you often like this? In and out. Off and on.'

‘My head goes places.'

‘All the time or only when a pretty girl's involved?'

‘Pretty girls have nothing to do with it.'

‘You come down to earth for food and water though.'

‘I visit the planet now and then.'

Betty sat beside him. ‘In the kitchen, top cabinet, you'll find a bottle of Black and White.'

He got up. She heard him clatter about in the kitchen. She wondered what he'd break as he foraged. Inevitably something would fall. He needs assistance. She entered the kitchen and saw him standing one-legged beside the open door of a bottom cabinet.

‘I said top, Lou. Upper cabinet.'

‘You didn't warn me about perilous domestic objects.'

He pointed to the foot he was holding up off the floor. A mouse-trap had clamped tight shut on the tip of his right shoe.

‘That damn trap finally caught something,' she said.

She laughed, and the sound surprised her. Days since she laughed. She realized with something of a shock that she wanted to spend the night with him. She hadn't wanted a man in a long time. Not like this. She felt a warmth rush through her body. Betty, Betty: some night, but not this night, this isn't the time.

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