Pretty Lady (4 page)

The other lines in his face were in different places. Between his eyes and down the sides of his mouth when he wasn't smiling.

Denny's face was not marked in the same way. He knew because he had spent long hours in front of the mirror, charting the differences. His face didn't have many lines. There were only the deep horizontal furrows of perplexity across his forehead, from trying to think things out.

Like now. Like wondering why he and Rembrandt should be so alike in size, and yet so different. They were both big boys; and yet, Rembrandt was bigger, older, in some indefinite way. A lot of really big boys were.

Denny stopped drawing, his mouth fell open slightly. He was conscious of a faint buzzing sound in his ears and the vague dizziness that beset him when he tried to plumb the depths of some problem. It was always about this time that his mother would say, ‘
Don't bother your head about it, Denny.
'

‘Now, it can't be
that
bad, young fellow.' Rembrandt bent down and detached the chalk from Denny's fingers, finishing the drawing in swift neat strokes. ‘Nothing ever is, when you can talk it over with a friend. What's the trouble?'

Denny shook his head. He'd tried to talk about it sometimes, with other people, but they'd just acted funny and looked away. Sometimes they walked away.

But Rembrandt was his friend. He couldn't explain what he meant, though.

‘I'm not like you,' Denny blurted out.

‘Oh, I see.' Rembrandt looked as though he really did see. ‘No, you're not, Denny. And that's a fact.'

‘Why?'

‘Oh, Denny, my lad –' Rembrandt sat on the pavement beside him – ‘if I could answer that –'

Rembrandt looked sad, with something of the sadness that was in Mum's face sometimes. Denny wriggled miserably. He had said the wrong thing again, and he hated making people unhappy.

‘God's will be done?' Hesitantly, Denny proffered the words he had heard priests say to his mother. Sometimes they comforted her, sometimes she cried later. (But big boys don't cry.)

‘Denny, Denny,' Rembrandt sighed deeply, ‘what kind of God do we worship? What Deity can demand so much and give so little?'

Rembrandt was sadder than ever. It hadn't been the right thing to say, after all. Denny opened his airline bag and rummaged inside, pulling out the packet of sandwiches.

‘Lunch?' he offered. There was plenty for both of them, and he wanted to share it with Rembrandt. Rembrandt never seemed to have sandwiches of his own, and just went into a snack bar when he had enough money collected. On bad days, Denny suspected, he didn't eat at all. But this was a good day.

‘No, thanks, Denny.' Rembrandt pushed the sandwiches away. ‘I can't eat your lunch.'

‘There's lots,' Denny insisted. ‘I'm not very hungry.'

‘And you think I am?' Rembrandt smiled wryly. ‘You're wise in your own way, aren't you, Denny? Sometimes I think you might turn out wiser than all of us.'

‘No,' Denny said, with finality. Something in him knew better than that.

‘No,' Rembrandt agreed, with another sigh. ‘It isn't that easy, is it? We can't stand back and salve our consciences that way.'

‘Here.' Sensing he had won, Denny took one of the sandwiches out of the packet and thrust it into Rembrandt's hand. This time, Rembrandt did not resist.

‘All right, Denny, thank you. I'll pay you back some day, when I'm rich and famous. When I've stopped being the oldest student in the class, busking his way through art school.' He bit into the sandwich savagely. ‘I'll not deny I'm hungry.'

‘Lots of sandwiches,' Denny said. ‘Have some more.' He would almost rather watch Rembrandt eat than eat himself.

‘ “Feed my lambs”, eh, Denny, boy?' Rembrandt gave a short sharp laugh.

Lambs
? It would be nice to feed lambs, to run and play and jump with them. But there were no lambs in the centre of the city. Rembrandt was all mixed up again.

‘Ducks.' Gently, Denny set him straight. ‘Going to feed the ducks and ducklings. Down by the river.'

Sitting on the river bank, she closed her eyes, letting the soft breeze from the river blow away the lingering memory of too much cigar smoke, too much port. The effort of repressing her distaste, her boredom, her sheer hatred of the whole proceedings, had exhausted her. She felt she could stretch out on the bank and sleep for days. But that would never do.

She concentrated on the only thought that was able to relax her lately. Her refreshment ... and her obsession. The gun in Keith's desk drawer in the study.

The gun – he had no permit for it. He kept it in case of housebreaking, and because he occasionally had to travel in lonely districts carrying large sums of money.

The gun – he kept it loaded. (‘Not as though we had to worry about children. No toddlers, who might get hold of it, eh, lass?' The implied criticism setting her teeth on edge. He had bought her, did he have to exact the last full pound of flesh, too? Did she have to give him a child? Once trapped with a child, she might never find her way back into her own world. One more reason for getting it over with quickly. The hints were growing broader, the impatience less veiled.)

The gun – a soft, dreamy smile curved her lips. Accidents were always happening with guns. Especially guns kept loaded.

Guns went off; people died. And, afterwards, a pretty widow with tears in her eyes would beg the police to take the gun away and keep it. She didn't want it in the house – she should have persuaded her husband to give it up years ago, in the last amnesty. She never wanted to see it again. A nice touch, that, and one the police would appreciate. It was genuine. Afterwards, she would have no further use for a gun.

Afterwards ... a pretty young widow with plenty of money to finance an independent production could write her own terms in the film world. A script tailored to bring out all her best features. A light comedy, perhaps, to start. She could go into drama later. When her stardom was assured.

Afterwards ...

First, the accident must ... happen. In a way which would not involve her. Or involve her only in the most peripheral manner. An innocent bystander. Perhaps ... a potential victim herself.

Guns went off when they were being cleaned. It was an idea, but not a very satisfactory one. He wasn't the sort to be careless about a firearm. About having one without a permit, yes. About handling it, caring for it, no.

Apart from which, it meant a direct confrontation. There was always the possibility of error. Of something going wrong. Of Keith, still alive, knowing what had been attempted, ready to accuse ... to punish. That was unthinkable.

The best way was one which could be passed off as an accident, even to the victim, if it failed.

That meant there must be someone else there to take the blame. Preferably someone who would do the actual work. Someone who could be cajoled ... or tricked ... into pulling the trigger.

A catspaw.

The smile faded from her face, replaced by a frown. That wasn't so easy.

Not a friend of hers. There must be no hint of collusion. That ruled out acquaintances, too, to be on the safe side.

A stranger. Someone unknown as yet. Someone agreeable ... malleable ... who could be introduced into the house without exciting either jealousy or suspicion.

There was noise now from the river, an excited quacking and splashing of ducks, the muted shouts of a child. The noise grew, making it difficult for her to concentrate.

She opened her eyes and saw him.

He stood on the river bank, tossing fragments of bread to the milling ducks. He was tall and good-looking and, even as she observed that, the feeling came of something being wrong about him.

Three ducklings squabbled suddenly, disputing a crust, and he laughed aloud. His laugh was too abrupt, too loud, too unguarded. It proclaimed an unsuspected vulnerability.

She realized now that she had been vaguely aware of him before. He was often around this section of town, he must live not too far away.

He turned and smiled at her trustingly, inviting her into his enjoyment of the day, the ducks, the river.

A deep visceral shudder shook her uncontrollably, as though she stood at the edge of an abyss looking down into the hells that nature can create. His face was handsome, clean-shaven, amiable and ... untenanted.

She drew a deep breath. After a long moment, she smiled back deliberately.

She was the prettiest lady he had ever seen. Her soft long hair was the tawny golden colour of Rembrandt's pastel chalk. Her eyes were bluey-greeny-grey – he couldn't decide which. He stepped a little closer, trying to decide.

Her face had the soft warm radiance of the statues of the Madonna in church. She smiled, and it was the smile the Madonna sometimes seemed to give him as he stared up at her through the shimmering heat haze rising from the bank of lighted candles at her feet.

‘Hello,' she said, still smiling. He looked around, but there was no one behind him. No one else there at all. She was talking to him.

(
‘Don't speak to strangers'
) His mother's voice echoed once in his ears and faded away, receding like the ripples on the river. This wasn't a stranger – this was the Fairy Queen in the Christmas Pantomime, the Madonna from her altar. And she was talking to
him.

‘Hello,' he said.

‘Feeding the ducks?'

He wouldn't have answered a silly question like that for anyone else. They could see what he was doing. But she was different. She could ask anything she wanted to.

He nodded. She was smiling at him, as though she didn't know what to say next. He felt a momentary panic – she might go away. He wanted to keep her here, to look at her, to hear her voice again.

Maybe
she'd
like to feed the ducks, too. He pushed the crust he was holding at her.

‘No. No, thank you.' She recoiled slightly. ‘You go ahead.'

He looked down at the greasy, heavily-buttered, crumbling chunk of bread, seeing it momentarily through her eyes. If she took it, she might get her nice dress dirty.

Without turning, he threw the crust over his shoulder towards the barely-remembered ducks. Discarded, along with his afternoon's plans, along with anything else that might come between him and this pretty lady.

He wiped his hand along his trousers instinctively, holding it out to her so that she could see that it was clean. Not that he would ever touch her – his fingers curled away, as though he could already feel the soft silkiness of that shiny, beckoning tawny hair-Mum had warned him over and over again. (
‘Never touch anyone, never try to.'
The strange sadness had been shadowing her face.
‘People might misunderstand.'
Her face cleared as she added briskly, decisively.
‘Big boys don't touch other people. You want to act like a big boy, don't you, Denny?'
)

Sometimes, big boys did. He had seen them, walking along by the river, with their arms around a girl's waist. He had laughed when he was smaller, joining the younger boys in jeering at this weakness they could not comprehend.

But now – Now –

Something teased at the corners of his consciousness, a tantalizing flicker of awareness of something beyond him – just out of reach. Something important. He stood absolutely still, frozen, as though – if he didn't move and frighten it away – he might catch it – learn some secret, find his way across some unknown boundary.

‘Here.' She moved suddenly, rummaging in her handbag.

Diverted, he watched her, the train of thought so easily derailed sliding off its tracks again.

‘Here,' she said, surfacing triumphantly with a wrapped sweet. ‘Have a sweet.'

(
‘Never take sweets from strangers.'
) His mother's warning rippled through his mind and eddied away. This wasn't a stranger. This was a pretty lady. Kind and friendly. He would have accepted the sweet from her had it been unwrapped – dirty, tacky and with crumbs of tobacco clinging to it, as were the sweets Rembrandt sometimes pulled from his pocket, which he took politely and threw away later – he would even have eaten hers.

He moved nearer, taking the sweet, but not withdrawing with it, towering over her, beaming down at her. She looked up at him and he felt suddenly that she did not like him standing over her. People didn't. Only Rembrandt never minded, but Rembrandt was as big as he was – maybe that was why.

‘Do you live around here?'

Denny nodded. ‘Over there.' He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of home, somewhere off in the distance.

‘So do I.' She smiled, waving her hand in an opposite direction. ‘Quite near here, really.' She hesitated. ‘Would you like to come home and have tea with me?'

It was too much. Too sudden. He retreated slightly, hanging his head, unsure how to answer. He'd like to. More than anything. But – He retreated a bit farther.

‘Don't be shy,' she coaxed, a hint of a frown clouding her face. ‘We'll have lots of biscuits and nice cakes.'

He had displeased her, he knew. Now he stood staring dumbly, willing to do anything to bring back her smile, but powerless to retrieve the situation. His fists clenched and the sweet wrapper crackled in his hand. He unwrapped the sweet quickly and popped it into his mouth.

‘Thank you,' he said around it, remembering belatedly that he had forgotten to say it at all. Perhaps that was what had annoyed her. He hadn't meant to be impolite, but it was hard to remember all the things he was supposed to do.

She was still looking at him in that strange, considering way. He wondered if he had done something else – or not done something. People got upset both ways.

‘I've seen you around,' she said thoughtfully. ‘I know ... I've seen you at the church.'