Telling Lies to Alice (16 page)

He leant forward. I thought he was about to be sick, but he just buried his face in his hands. “My daughter . . . Susie . . . She’s dead.”

“I’m sorry, Jack.”

“She wouldn’t eat anything. Val tried and tried . . . things she liked . . . She just wouldn’t . . . She was in hospital twice, this place where they make them eat. They don’t let them out until they’ve put on weight. We thought it was working, but she had this way of standing on the scales so it looked like more . . .” He looked up. “We didn’t know, Alice. And when she came back home and Val told me she’d started to eat—not much, but I thought it was back to normal because girls are always dieting, aren’t they? Leaving half their food. All girls . . .
women
. You do it. You’ve done it ever since I’ve known you.”

I thought of the Bunny Mother’s big scales—what you’d use to weigh a sack of potatoes—and blowing myself out at costume fittings so the seamstress wouldn’t nip it in too tight, because if you put on a couple of pounds you knew about it, even if it was just the time of the month . . . “We used pills. You know we did—you used to nick them.”

Jack looked shocked. “I never took them home. What Susie had wasn’t anything to do with that. It’s a disease.
Anorexia nervosa.
”

“I think I might have read about it, but . . . I’m very sorry, Jack.”

“Val found a bucket in Susie’s wardrobe. She’d been throwing up after eating, so she never . . . and it got worse and worse . . .”

“Didn’t you notice she wasn’t gaining weight?”

“Couldn’t tell. She was always wearing jumpers and things. And I was away a lot. Working.”

“But you said the only work—”

“I wasn’t living there. Don’t look at me like that . . . Val was all right. The house is paid for. I needed some time on my own.”

“So . . . when did you move out?”

“Mmm . . . Seventy-two.”

“
Four years
ago?”

“Don’t give me the big eyes, Alice. I’ve had enough grief from Val without you joining in. It’s not as if I never went to see them. And I went back afterwards, got rid of the flat. It was what Val wanted. She’d had a rough time—Susie was four stone when she died.” He sighed. “Val blamed Rosalie at first, said she put ideas into Susie’s head, going on about diets . . . then she said it was my fault. Said Susie was trying to get my attention. Could have picked up the phone . . . knew . . . knew where I was . . . What Val said—feels guilty herself . . . for Chrissake . . . she’s her mother, not me . . . ought to have done something . . . Rosalie won’t even talk to me . . . nothing . . . Why I gave her the money. The art thing . . .”

“Jack?” His head lolled back, touching the tree trunk. I put a hand on his cheek and turned his face towards mine. He looked utterly lost. I wasn’t sure if he even knew I was there. I stroked his hair. “Come on. Time to go home.”

“No!” His hand shot up and grabbed mine. “Not till she’s gone.”

“Who’s gone?”

“The girl.
Out there.
”

“Shall I go and look?”

“No. Don’t leave me.”

“It’ll only take a second. . . .” I couldn’t loosen his grip. “Jack, I can’t . . .
Please
. . .”

“No! I don’t want you to.”

We sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Jack’s head drooped onto my shoulder, but he still didn’t let go. “It’s meaning . . . meaningless. What Lenny used to say . . . if there’s a . . . you know, up there somewhere . . . must be just like—like . . . a force. Electricity. No reason . . . why things happen. ’Srandom.
No
. . .
fucking
. . .
point.
”

My wrist felt as if it was trapped in a vise. “Where’s the wine, Jack? Why don’t you have some more?” The bottle was on the ground, and Jack dropped my hand to reach for it. I stood up. “Wait there.”

I heard him mumble something that sounded like “bitch” but he didn’t try to stop me. When I came back he was lying on the bench with his knees drawn up, the empty bottle in his fist. “It’s all right, she’s gone.”

“In the lane . . . waiting . . .”

“She isn’t. I checked. Let’s go home, shall we?” I said, trying to pull him upright.

He leered. “Ooh, you’re so strong . . .”

“Lugging—bran—sacks,” I said, tugging. “Come
on
. . .”

“Be gentle with me . . .”

“Oh, shut up, Jack. Move!”

“You won’t respect me in the morning . . .”

“I don’t respect you
now
. Get
up
.”

“Wait.” He tottered behind the tree, threw up, and re-emerged wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Better.”

“Good.”

In the lane, Jack was subdued. I’d been wondering how on earth I was going to get him up the stairs, but when we got back he let me pull off his shoes and trousers and put him to bed on the kitchen sofa. I found a damask tablecloth—the only thing big enough to cover him with—and was about to go upstairs when he whispered, “Stay with me.”

“No.”

“Please, Alice. I don’t want to be alone.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

Jack put out his hand. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just want to tell you something.”

“All right.” I sat down beside him. “But make it quick, I’m tired.”

“About my dad. When I was a kid. He’d carved a chess set for me—made it out of an old broom handle. Took him weeks . . . he liked to do things with his hands, keep busy, but sometimes he’d get these black moods where he wouldn’t talk to anyone, just sit and stare into the fire for hours. You could never tell when it was going to happen, it would just come over him, and it was like Mum and I weren’t there anymore. . . . You couldn’t be in the room with him, so we’d go off into the kitchen, but this one night, we peeked round the door and he’s chucking things in the fire—one by one—and watching them burn. My mum whispered to me to go and see what he was doing—’cause he could be a bit unpredictable when he was like that, and it made her nervous in case he decided to take it out on her, you know. . . . I tiptoed up to his chair, and he’d got the whole chess set on his lap, lobbing it into the flames—pawns first, then the castles and bishops, then the knights, then the kings and queens . . . didn’t stop till he’d burnt the lot. It was the only thing he’d ever made for me, but he never said why he’d done it. . . .” Jack’s eyes closed. “I haven’t thought about that for years. Alice . . . you listening?”

“Yeah.”

“I know I haven’t been much good to Val, or the girls, but I never . . . oh, I don’t know. Don’t know why I told you that, really. Just . . . Stay with me, darling . . .”

I let go of his hand and stood up. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to bed. On my own. That’s final.”

“Okay,” he said meekly. “I’m sorry, too. See you in the morning.”

“God knows what
that
was about,” I said to Eustace, who was waiting in the hall. He gave me a baleful look, huffed his way up the stairs, and barged past me into the bedroom. I wedged a chair under the door handle before I undressed and pulled the curtains, then climbed into bed. After a second, I climbed out again and took a nightdress out of the chest of drawers. One of those billowy Victorian things with lace and
broderie anglais
. It felt a bit safer, somehow, having it on.

I lay down. After a few minutes, there was a thud as Eustace landed beside me. I felt a heavy paw on my stomach, followed by his chin. His eyes gleamed in the darkness. I stroked his head. “Am I forgiven, then?” He yawned.

Jack had never been depressed—at least, not so far as I knew—but he’d always had a short fuse. I used to think people exaggerated about his temper until I heard him go completely berserk once, in a studio. He’d threatened to ram a microphone up the producer’s arse if he didn’t sort out some technical hitch, and we were all sure he meant it, too. . . . When was that? They’d been recording an album—sketches—and Lenny was withdrawn, sitting in a corner and not talking to anyone. I’d thought it was normal—hangover—but . . . It was their last one,
Jack and Lenny in Aspic
. Nineteen sixty-nine, that must have been—Easter? Before that party at Ivar. Jack and Lenny were getting on all right then, not like when they’d come back from the States. I tried to remember when it had started to go wrong. Lenny’s drinking was part of it, but he’d been doing that for a while.

Even though I’d worried about what Jack might have said to Lenny about us, I’d never really understood the cause of the row between them, because it couldn’t have been that on its own, or Lenny would have said something about it. I’d assumed it was to do with work and getting on each other’s nerves—any relationship can go through a bad patch—but I hadn’t talked to Lenny about it. He’d never seemed to want to, and anyway, it wasn’t as if I could’ve given him any advice—I mean, it wasn’t my world, just like the club wasn’t his.
Police are seeking to interview Maxted’s former partner, Jack Flowers
. . .

I closed my eyes and Kitty’s face rippled in front of me, greenish flesh, and tendrils of floating hair like waterweed, watching me with that knowing smile . . . Oh God . . .
why is this happening?
I curled up and stared dully at the edge of the pillow for a while before I realised where I’d heard the name Danny Watts before. The name hadn’t rung a bell when Jack had asked me if I’d ever come across him, but that was because I hadn’t. I’d seen his name, though. Pinned up by the fridge. On one of Lenny’s lists.
People Who Deserve To Be Shot.
Big capital letters scrawled on lined paper torn out of a diary. Who was he? Not a relative. Not a friend as far as I knew. A critic? The name didn’t sound right, somehow. A critic’s name would be . . . well, posher. Actor? Director? Not another comedian—I’d remember . . .

I sat up.
Danny Watts. DannyWattsDannyWattsDannyWatts.
Lenny’s address book was somewhere . . . a box in the loft. It wouldn’t say who he
was,
though. Perhaps he’d sold pills. I could pretend I was after Black Bombers or something, and—

“GOD ALMIGHTY!”

A crash so loud it jolted me forwards. Eustace flew off the bed as if he’d been kicked and rushed to the door, growling. I hugged my knees to stop myself shaking, shut my eyes tight, and began to count to ten—
one, two, thr
— Another crash. A crack and then a tangled noise, as if something had hit the wall and landed on the floor. Splintering. Not glass. Plastic?
The phone oh Jesus not the phone.
Then silence. All I could hear was my heart.

I don’t know how long it took before I moved—thinking back, probably only half a minute, but it felt like much longer and a huge effort—but I got out of bed, eased the chair from under the door handle, and edged round Eustace, who’d started whining and pawing the wood, frantic to get downstairs. I opened the door a fraction and wriggled through so he couldn’t follow. “Stay here,” I whispered. “
Please.
Just. Stay. I’ll be back in a minute.”

The light was on in the kitchen. Jack was in there, dark-faced and tottering like a punch-drunk boxer, the receiver in his fist and the rest of the phone trashed at his feet. He’d ripped it out of the wall.

I hesitated for a second, then made a dash for the back door—saw Jack take a step towards me—saw blood on his forehead—twisted past him as he tried to grab me and missed—wrenched at the latch
not locked thank God
and bolted across the yard and down the lane.

Phone box. On the green. Past the church—rectory—cottages—farm gate—stones—feet hurting—got to—get to—phone box. I yanked open the door
let it not be vandalised
. Okay. Jack—not following—Calm—keep calm—Money—oh God, no money—police—call them free—but police would say—Domestic—Jack hadn’t hit me—or—I’d asked for it—Phone who? Wait. Get breath back first. Think,
think
. . . Returned coins. I put my fingers in the slot, and . . . 10p. Thank you, God. I stared at the coin in my hand. The sleeve of my nightdress was torn. I couldn’t remember it happening.

Who could I call? Mum’s never had a phone . . . Jeff? The concrete floor felt like sandpaper on the soles of my feet. I started to shiver. Yes, Jeff. Right. 0-1-4-3-5-4-8-6-1. Come on come on come
on
. . . Jeff was always a late-night person. If he was in. But then he’d most likely have someone with him so he wouldn’t answer anyway . . .
Please, Jeff, it’s me
. . . There was a click and then a voice, and for a moment I thought it was Jeff answering, and I started to speak, but it carried on talking and I realised that it must be some sort of machine. I was going to put the phone down, but then I heard it say something about recording a message. “Jeff, it’s Alice. I’m sorry, but—” There was a beeping noise, then more silence. “Are you still there? Sorry, I know you’re not actually
there
. Look, I don’t know if you’ll hear this, but if you do, it’s Alice—I know I said that already, but it’s just . . . look, I’m sorry, but I’m in a bit of trouble and I didn’t know who to ring . . . Just . . . it’s Jack—Flowers—Lenny’s partner, he came down here and he’s . . . I think he’s going mad—I got some anonymous stuff in the mail—newspaper cuttings—I’m in a call box, my phone’s broken—well, Jack broke it . . . so you can’t call back—if you wanted to, I mean . . . I don’t know what I’m saying, really . . . just . . . I’m a bit . . . freaked out, and . . . Look, I have to go back now because . . . the animals and everything, but—” Long beep. I couldn’t ring him back—no more money. Now he’ll think I finally have gone round the twist—he was always telling me I was mad.

I put the receiver back and slid down to sit on the floor of the box. Now what?

Val.
She doesn’t even know where Jack is. I should have phoned her before—she must be frantic with worry if she’s seen in the paper about the police wanting to talk to . . . No. I couldn’t do that to him. Or to Val, for that matter. Jack was in enough trouble already, and besides, his career—what was left of it—and . . .
and Lenny
. I didn’t want him—well, either of them, really—to be remembered for something horrible. It was bad enough, after Lenny died, people he’d barely known carrying on like they’d been his best friend for years and saying things to the papers about booze and drugs and how he’d thrown his talent away . . . I wanted him to be remembered for making people laugh, because that was what mattered. The rest of it was none of their business. And the woman in the car—Kitty, or whoever she was—well, she was dead, wasn’t she? Surely the police would be able to identify her, and then her parents would know and she could be buried, and that was the main thing. They didn’t need Jack for that.