Telling Lies to Alice (25 page)

“I thought you might remember him, that’s all. He was just someone we used to know.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Jack. He made that film.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The newspaper cutting.”

“What newspaper cutting?”

“I got it this morning. I told you it was a bill, remember? You know what I’m talking about, Jack. It was like the other one. The one you tried to hide from me.”

“And it was about Danny Watts?” He sounded astonished. I’ve misunderstood, I thought. I’ve got it wrong. It wasn’t Val . . . or . . . or . . .
he didn’t know she knew.

“Where is it? Give it to me.”

I pulled it out of my pocket. He snatched it and read it.

When he’d finished, I said, “You killed him. Shot him. You must have taken a gun, you—”

“Fucking
listen
to me, Alice! Just listen to me for a moment. I didn’t know what I was doing. When I went there, yeah, I had the gun, but I didn’t . . . I don’t know, I was angry. I mean, I used to look at him, taking money off me month after month, and I’d think,
why the fuck are you alive?
What gives you the right to be alive when my daughter’s dead?” He dropped his head and stared at the cutting again. “There’s no justice . . . all right, I screwed everything up, but I thought . . . I thought . . . something I’ve got to do right . . . do everyone a favour . . . Not at the time—I lost my rag, but afterwards, afterwards I just thought,
what the hell
. . .” He fell silent, then looked up at me, bewildered. “She can’t . . .” he muttered. “She doesn’t know.”

“You mean Val, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“She sent the cuttings, didn’t she?”

He nodded.

“Why, Jack?”

“I don’t know,” he said helplessly.

We stared at each other for a moment, then Jack’s eyes shifted to somewhere above my head, as if he was talking to someone standing behind me. “I honestly thought, after that business with Kitty, we were in the clear. Lenny wanted to go to the police, but I kept telling him they’d never find the car. . . . I talked to him, Val talked to him, we kept saying it was just an accident, and we barely knew her, not really . . . didn’t even know what her name was until Val went to the flat—she’d seen a letter or something, said she wasn’t called Kitty at all, but something else.”

“Gail.”

“Yeah, that’s right. But we had no idea about Danny Watts until Lenny got a phone call . . . three, four weeks after the party. . . . Danny was asking where Kitty was, then he said he’d got a copy of the film and we had to pay him. A loan, he called it. He wanted to set up a company, making films, said if we didn’t get involved he’d go to the police. I got a phone call from Lenny in the middle of the night—that was the first I knew about it. I couldn’t get any sense out of him but he kept saying he’d got to talk to me about Kitty so in the end I got in the car and went over there. He must have been drinking before Danny called, and he was . . .” Jack shook his head and looked at me as if he’d just remembered I was there. “It was a nightmare. I kept asking him what he’d said to Danny, and he couldn’t remember—or he’d come out with something and then five minutes later say the opposite. It was pathetic, like talking to a child . . . he’d got me over there to talk about Danny but he kept talking about other things, rambling—mainly how much he missed you and how if you came back to him everything would be all right and he’d stop drinking and marry you and it would all be marvellous, and I was tearing my hair out trying to get him to tell me about this phone call. . . . I kept asking him what he’d said, but he wouldn’t answer, just kept coming out with all this stuff about you, and I knew there was something he wasn’t telling me—I mean, all Danny had was the film, and knowing we’d been at that party. Lenny could have denied it but he told him we’d pay, practically admitted it. He thought we’d give Danny the money and he’d just disappear. He couldn’t fucking
see
it! If he hadn’t been pissed out of his mind I’d . . .”

“What did you do?”

“I told him he was a stupid cunt and I’d been sorting him out and propping him up for years and I was sick of it, and do you know what he did? He started crying. Saying he was no good and he’d messed everything up and I’d be better off without him. As if I was some bird and he was trying to give me the elbow. I told him not to be so fucking ridiculous.”

“It was his car. In the lake.”

“Danny didn’t
know
that. No one saw us, Alice. That was the stupid thing. We could have got away with it. Danny didn’t know anything, but Lenny . . . Christ knows what he said to him. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He was always talking about how we ought to go to the police, how he wanted to tell you—kept saying if he was going to marry you, you ought to know what you were letting yourself in for . . .”

“He didn’t, Jack. I had no idea. I swear it.”

“All the time, in America, I was shitting myself. That’s why I used to follow him. He wouldn’t talk to me about it anymore and I was terrified. I’d imagine him getting pissed in some bar and telling God knows who. . . . I couldn’t trust him. For Christ’s sake, I didn’t even tell Val that Danny was blackmailing us. . . .”

“But then how—”

“
I don’t know!
I couldn’t tell her. After she’d seen that film, I’d begged her to help me, and she said, if she helped us, went to Kitty’s flat, she made me promise—no more girls—I had to, I owed her that at least, and I couldn’t see any way out. . . . She said to me . . . said I’d ruined her life, and I told her I was going to sort myself out, I said we’d go on holiday—Egypt—she’d always wanted to see the pyramids . . . but this thing with Danny . . . I never told her, Alice, I couldn’t.”

“I don’t understand. You said you’d left her.”

“I did. When Susie got ill. I don’t know what happened, it was—I had to get away, I couldn’t bear to be there . . . to look at her, knowing there was nothing I could do and it was all my fault. I know what I said about Val, but I just couldn’t cope with it, Alice. I cut myself off. But Lenny’d gone, and there was no one I could talk to. I felt so alone, and just . . . I didn’t know what to do.”

“But you’ve got friends.”

“Not like Lenny. I’d lost him, Alice. Even before he died, he was so out of it—he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t . . . It was all such a fucking mess. The work wasn’t there, Alice. Like I told you. Bits and pieces. Nothing that paid. And Danny wanted money, and Val was always ringing me up saying Susie had to have all these treatments: psychiatrists, homeopathy, faith healers, going from one set of quacks to another, and I couldn’t say no . . . then Rosie wanted to go to art school, and I was in debt, I’d borrowed off Findlater . . . I couldn’t afford the payments on the flat . . .”

“Was that why you went back to her? Money?”

“Part of it. And Val. She wanted it. God knows why, but she did.”

“She still loves you, Jack.”

He shook his head. “That’s all gone—a long time ago. My fault. But . . . oh, I don’t know. I have this dream, Alice. It’s always the same—Lenny, saying he’s waiting for me. He looks so happy. Christ, I miss him.”

“So do I.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Jack said, “Dress up for me, Alice.”

“What?”

“The costume. I saw it in the attic. I want you to put it on.”

“The bunny costume?”

“Please. Come on.” Jack grabbed my arm and pulled me upright.

“Why?” I said, bewildered. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, Jack, that’s horrible, it’s—”

“Do it. For me.”

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the gun.

He wants to shut everything out, I thought. Go back to the past. Where he was safe. Successful. Happy—if he was ever happy.

“Have you got any candles?” he asked.

“In the dresser. Do you want one on the table?”

“I want them everywhere. New game, Bunny Alice. We’re going to put out the lights.”

He was smiling. I’ve got to play along, I thought. I don’t have a choice.

The bathroom window was too small for me to escape. Jack said he’d wait outside and I had ten minutes to get ready. I could hear him pacing up and down the corridor as I stood in front of the mirror with a mouthful of hair grips and pinned on the bunny ears. Behind me, on the wall, I could see the shadow of a monster rabbit, thrown there by the row of candles on the basin. You can’t do makeup by candlelight—not properly, anyway—and my hands were shaking so much I could hardly get the lid off the foundation, never mind apply it. I’ve got to cover the bruises, I thought. If I don’t cover the bruises, he’ll know I haven’t tried.

The stuff was all there when we opened the box, even the tights and the rosette with my name on it, but it looked like it belonged in a child’s dressing-up chest. The tail was my second best one, and the collar and cuffs were curling and yellowed. At least the costume still fits, I thought, that’s something to be grateful for. But the bow tie wouldn’t stay straight and one of the ears wouldn’t stand up properly. It kept flopping forward and I couldn’t make it stick. Impossible to believe, now, that this outfit had once made me feel sexy and powerful. I looked like a clown.

I saw Jack in the mirror, pushing open the bathroom door, then felt the gun against the back of my neck. I didn’t want to look at his face, or my own, so I looked down at the plug-hole instead. Big crack in the porcelain. I don’t think I’d ever noticed it before.

Jack took hold of my chin and twisted my head so I had to look at him. I closed my eyes and tried not to cry as he rubbed the scar on my cheek—Lenny’s scar—with the ball of his thumb. Then he brought the gun round so the muzzle was touching my temple.

“Look at me!” He sounded petulant, like a child. I opened my eyes. His face had no expression and his pupils were tiny. Pinpoints.

He dropped his hands so the gun was pointing at my waist. “Pick up a candle.”

I did as he said. “Turn round.” I caught a last glimpse of my broken ear, forlorn and dangling, in the mirror. Almost like saying good-bye to myself. None of it felt real. “Open the door.” He poked me in the back with the gun. “Move!” I tottered down the corridor in front of him, out of practice and crippled by the heels. No chance of running in these shoes, I thought, and wondered how quickly I could get them off.

Jack opened the kitchen door. The curtains were drawn and the room was dark except for the table and the worktop, which were dotted with candles in saucers. “Go in.”

At the club they told us to think of something positive before we went on the floor, but I couldn’t. There was only room for one thought in my mind.

I don’t want to die.

Eustace trotted over to sniff my shoes. I bent down to reassure him, but Jack took my elbow and propelled me towards the table. The gun banged against the back of the chair as he reached for it and sat down, still keeping hold of me. I stood awkwardly beside him, not knowing what he wanted.

“Say what you used to say.”

“I’m sorry . . . I don’t know what you mean.”

“At the club,” he said impatiently. “What you used to say.”

“Good evening . . .” I began hesitantly.

“Go on.”

“Good evening, I’m your bunny, Alice.” The words made a strange shape in my mouth. They sounded like nonsense.

“And?”

I looked at him in disbelief. He wants me to do the whole thing, I thought. Serve him a drink.

“Go on. That’s what you’re here for.”

That’s what I’m here for.
“Okay,” I said, trying to think. “I’ll need a few things. Can I switch on the lights? To find them?”

“Where are they?”

“In the dresser.”

Jack looked towards it, and then at the back door, and said, “I’ll come with you. Get a candle.”

He stood behind me while I groped around for paper napkins and an ashtray and arranged them on a tray. My hands shook, but my mind was racing, trying to remember what to do next.
Got to get it right. Pretend it’s real. Humour him. Be cheerful. Get him to relax.
I forced a smile. “There was other stuff, too,” I said, “but it doesn’t matter, because this one’s on the house.”

He didn’t smile back. “Ready?” he said.

“Yes.”

He gestured with the gun. “You first.”

Jack sat back down, and I wobbled my way through the Bunny Dip—tail towards the table, back arched, knees bent—and bumped against his shoulder as I put the napkins and ashtray down in front of him. “Sorry. Out of practice.” He stared at me, waiting for the next thing.

“I ought to ask to see your key now,” I said quickly, “but—”

“Wait.” Jack fished around in his pocket and held something out to me. It looked like half a cinema ticket. “There you are,” he said solemnly.

“Wh—? Oh. Yes.” I pretended to read it. “Thank you, Mr. Flowers. What would you like to drink?”

“Brandy.”

“Brandy,” I repeated, pretending to write it down.

There was only one measure left in the bottle. When I came back with the tray Jack was turning the gun over in his hands, his elbows on the table. I held out the scrap of cardboard. “Here’s your key, Mr. Flowers.” He didn’t move to take it, so I put it down in front of him with the brandy.

He didn’t speak. I wasn’t sure what to do next so I perched on the back of one of the kitchen chairs and tried to ease my heels out of the shoes without Jack noticing. There was a long silence while he looked at the gun and then he said, “When I have the dream about Lenny, and then I wake up, it’s like . . .” He shook his head. “I can’t describe it. Do you think I’ll ever see him again?” he asked. “Or Susie? You know, in the . . .” He jerked his head at the ceiling. “I’d like to say to her . . . both of them . . . tell them I’m sorry. You believe in all that stuff, don’t you?”

“Ye-es, but . . . I’m not sure it works like that.”

“How does it work, then?” he asked plaintively. “Tell me.” It was like a child asking his mother why the sky is blue. If I just keep talking, I thought, keep him calm, I can get him to give me the gun. If I get this right, he’ll do what I say and I’ll be able to get out of the house and everything will be all right.