The Elephant Girl (Choc Lit) (3 page)

Jason’s lips twitched. It would be so tempting to dress that statue in a canary-yellow Borat-style mankini, but somehow he didn’t think his father would see the funny side. Derek collected ornaments and curiosities, antique as well as modern, and was very proud of his collection. Like a magpie he’d never been able to resist anything shiny, no matter how tacky, although Jason had to admit that the statue in the office was one of his better pieces, if a little unnerving.

He’d grown up in this environment and should be used to it, yet his father’s world was completely alien to him. Derek Moody did his best to appear a respectable businessman, but Jason knew he had a sideline or two. His father was, for want of a better word, a gangster.

‘Remind me again, what are you using the house for?’

The question brought him back to why he was here. His father spoke with a pleasant baritone, but with a flinty undercurrent if you listened hard enough. As Jason turned to face the suit-clad figure across from him, he was all ears.

‘A halfway house. I’ve already told you that a hundred times.’ Impatience crept into his voice, and he hated the way it made him sound like a spoilt brat, never mind that he was almost thirty. ‘For people who come out of prison and have nowhere to stay.’

‘Just checking.’

Infuriatingly calm, Derek Moody started opening the small pile of letters on his desk, slicing through the top with a paper knife. Jason gritted his teeth. How like his father to do his admin during a conversation with his only child.

‘I think you’re wasting your time,’ Derek said. ‘Housing murderers, rapists and paedophiles. Just scum.’

‘I’m not offering a home to either paedophiles or rapists.’ Jason felt his hackles rise. ‘As for the “scum” you’re referring to, I want to help the little people, the small fry who always pay the price while the big fish get away scot-free.’

‘The big fish, eh? Anyone particular in mind?’ Derek’s eyebrows rose.

Jason felt his cheeks grow hot. ‘You know what I mean. The pot dealer who’s sent down while the organised crime boss gets rich. The hired gun who takes the fall so the posh git can inherit his wife’s money. The ones who work for those who always pay their way out of trouble.’

‘You’re an idealist, son. How sweet.’ Derek put down the paper knife and rested his chin on his folded hands. ‘Why don’t you come and work for me instead? Business is booming, and I’m sure I could find something useful for you to do.’

‘What? Cooking the books? Acting the goon, like Jones?’

His father’s mouth curved in semblance of a smile. ‘You have a strange perception of what I do. I’m a run-of-the-mill property developer …’ Jason scoffed, but his father ignored him. ‘True, I sometimes circumvent a law here and there, and, yes, I didn’t get to where I am without making a few enemies – that’s why I need “goons” as you call them – but there are worse characters than me out there. Where would you draw the line? What sort of crime would qualify for a room in your house?’ Derek smirked. ‘Murder? Fraud? Rolling over little old ladies? Do you keep a score? Allocate points based on evilness?’

His father was mocking him. Not only that, he was demonstrating that he had the means of unearthing every little detail about his son’s life if he chose to. Derek Moody knew exactly what sort of people were already living in the house Jason had been renting from him for the past six months. It was frankly galling.

‘Do I get the house or not?’ he snapped.

He met his father’s ice-blue stare across the desk and cursed the fact that it was like looking at a mirror image of himself. Why couldn’t he be more like his mother, all blonde and peaches-and-cream? He’d be happy looking florid and jowly like his uncle if it meant not having to share the angular jawline, the thick dark hair, and the well-defined cheekbones with the man in front of him. Hell, he’d even settle for resembling one of his mother’s Pekingese dogs. Anything not to be like his father.

Derek said nothing, just opened another letter with a
ritsch
. The sound set Jason’s teeth on edge.

‘The lease is coming to an end, Dad. I need an answer.’

Still his father said nothing, but instead scanned the letter he’d just opened.

‘I have a lot of plans for the place,’ he continued with a sigh. ‘You know, new plumbing, rewiring, refurbishing the kitchen.’

Finally, a response. ‘Where are you going to get the money for that? If you think—’

‘I’ve got my stall. I work six days a week there, so it’s doing all right. I was going to do most of it myself and just pay for materials, and besides, I don’t expect to be able to do it all in one go.’

‘My son, the plumber,’ Derek mused and tossed the letter aside. ‘No, is the answer.’

‘No?’

White-hot rage suddenly welled up in Jason, taking him by surprise. Gripping the arm rests hard to restrain himself, he wondered how it would feel to leap across the desk and throttle his father. Or push him through that big window behind him just to see if he would bounce on the ground four storeys below. He could imagine the sense of release after years of pent-up anger, the rush of adrenaline, the freedom …

He controlled himself. They’d be evenly matched, and his father had a bodyguard waiting outside ready to turn Jason inside out if need be. Maybe a dose of Derek’s own medicine would work.

‘How’s Mum?’

His father sent him a sharp look as if wondering where this was going. ‘Your mother’s fine. She’s just bought another dog.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘How is that “lucky me”? I hate the stupid mutts.’

This was the first time his father had shown any sign of passion, and Jason savoured it.
Fifteen-love to me.

‘She’ll be too busy to notice your new bit on the side, then, won’t she?’

Thirty-love.
Derek turned a fraction paler, visible to Jason but probably not to anyone else. His father was a devout Catholic and believed strongly in commitment within a marriage, but as Jason had discovered in his late teens, Derek did have a slight problem with the fidelity issue. Or maybe it was about control, Jason could never figure out which.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Brunette. Former
X Factor
contestant. Nice legs, lives on Finchley Road.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I have my own spies.’ He didn’t, but had followed his father himself a couple of weeks ago in a fit of pique.

Derek regarded him for a long moment, a small muscle twitching over one eye, but Jason held his father’s gaze with steely resolve. Finally Derek said, ‘All right, I’ll consider it.’

‘You’re forgetting, I need an answer now. Next week might be too late.’ Jason waited to see how far he could push the old man.

‘You expect me to just give you the place?’

‘Well, it’s not as if it’s worth much. And you’ve got plenty of houses like it.’

Derek hesitated a fraction of a second longer, then capitulated. ‘Fine, drop back in a few days and I’ll have the papers ready for you.’

Forty-love. Game over.

Jason felt like shouting it out loud but decided his father would probably change his mind if he realised Jason was comparing their squabble to a tennis match. Derek hated losing. He also had a tendency to become suspicious when something was important to his son. Better to remain neutral.

‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

‘You realise there’s no way back. This is the life you’ve chosen. I can’t be seen to be involved. I can’t jump in and protect you. My business associates would be rolling on the floor with laughter.’

‘I don’t need you to.’

‘That,’ Derek paused for effect, ‘remains to be seen.’

‘You seem awfully pleased with yourself today.’

His father’s secretary eyed him over her spectacles as he left the office. Ms Barclay – he had no idea if she was a Miss or a Mrs – was a formidable woman of indeterminate age, dressed in a timeless uniform of grey skirt, unadorned white blouse and black pumps. Her only concession to fashion and femininity was a pair of red-rimmed reading glasses and blood-red lipstick which she applied generously several times a day.

She was the sort who could tell even the Krays to wait in reception and expect them to obey, and she guarded the door to the inner sanctuary like a dragon. Jason liked the old battleaxe.

‘He’s just signed over the house in Acton to me,’ he explained.

‘Well, good for you. Now if you don’t mind, he has
important
matters to attend to.’

Jason grinned at her and left. This was as close to praise as she’d ever come, and he was happy with that.

The week after Sweetman’s visit passed in a blur for Helen. As he’d intended, the solicitor’s words had hit home. No way could Helen carry on hiding out in India, or anywhere else, with Fay out of prison.

Fay who’d killed her mother.

Giving up her rooms, she bunked in Joe’s apartment for a few days. She said her farewells to the boys on the beach, to some of the long-term visitors, whom she’d got to know, and to Mamaji.

The old woman kissed her on both cheeks. The gesture brought a lump to Helen’s throat. She didn’t think she’d ever see her again, but she’d been like a thing possessed since Sweetman delivered his bombshell.

‘No tears,
bhachē
.’
Child
. ‘Life moves on and so must you.’

She snapped something in Hindi at her daughter-in-law, who stood behind the counter of the shop. The daughter-in-law gave a petulant shrug and Mamaji gestured wildly, sending a torrent of words in her direction, some of them clearly expletives. Helen caught the word
āalsī
,
lazy
.

The younger woman rolled her eyes demonstratively and disappeared into the back of the shop. She returned with a small parcel wrapped in a strip of saffron-coloured cloth, the Hindu holy colour. She handed it to Helen and put her hands together in the traditional Indian greeting.

‘You didn’t have to …’

‘You open.’

Inside was a silver amulet, shaped like a coin, with the Hindu elephant god Ganesh seated on a lotus, in relief on one side and flat on the other, and with an inscription in Hindi. She held it up by the leather cord, and it glinted in the sunlight that fell in through the open door. Mamaji must have noticed the pendant Helen always wore and decided to match it. Her heart constricted at this unexpected kindness; they were so poor and so generous at the same time. She didn’t deserve it.

‘I can’t possibly accept this.’

Mamaji’s face split into an almost toothless smile, and she closed Helen’s hand over the parcel with more force than you’d expect from her bony hand. ‘Ganesh will remove all obstacles for you. He is the god of learning, and of peace. He will give you strength.’

Joe helped her pack. Clothes, mainly jeans, T-shirts and a few floaty skirts. A vintage leather bomber jacket she’d picked up in Hong Kong on impulse. A pair of Doc Martens boots. Jewellery made from Thai silver filigree, ornaments. Five years of travelling and her belongings took up precious little room in her rucksack, but they both pretended it amounted to the contents of a proper life.

On the morning of her coach journey back to Mumbai, Joe cooked breakfast in his cramped kitchen. Helen sent him a questioning glance when he placed an enormous plate of crispy streaky bacon and fluffy scrambled eggs in front of her and sat down, his own plate untouched.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ he said.

She avoided his gaze. Outside, below the flat, on Arambol High Street, the clamours and smells of early morning rose. People shouting, street dogs barking, cooking tins rattling, and above it all the sound of impatient
auto-wallahs
honking the horns on their three-wheeled auto rickshaws. The din was impossible, and she was going to miss it.

‘You can turn your back on the past,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what’s eating you, but you
can
. I did.’

Helen weighed her words carefully before answering that. She’d told Joe about how her father had died before she was born, that when her mother died when she was five, it left her with no living relatives to speak of, but she’d never elaborated on what actually happened. With only hours to go before her coach left, this was hardly the right time to begin. But she owed him something.

‘A long time ago someone, a woman, did something terrible to my family, and she went to prison for it. Now she’s out, and I have to—’

‘Have to what? Kill her?’

‘Of course not!’ How come Joe could read her so well? That was exactly what she had been thinking. ‘But she has to pay.’

‘And a couple of decades weaving baskets isn’t payment enough?’

‘Not for me.’ Fay had ruined her life. How could any punishment ever be enough?

‘Then God help you,’ he said and began picking at his food.

Helen pushed her own half-eaten food away, all thoughts of breakfast gone. ‘I don’t expect help from anyone, not even God. I gave up on that a long time ago.’

‘And what’s back home? Is there no one you care about, or have kept in touch with?’

Helen thought of her family who had rejected her, the countless foster homes where her epilepsy had been a source of either mirth or disgust. A bitter taste welled up in her, and she clenched her jaw to bite back the tears. ‘No. Although I suppose I ought to see my grandmother.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t have one.’

‘Step-grandmother. It’s complicated.’ She shrugged. ‘And I’ll need to see my neurologist. He’s all right.’

Joe nodded and went back to being taciturn. She was grateful for that.

She’d known him for two years. With Joe what you saw was what you got. He never pretended to be a friend and then groped her when her guard was down, like some blokes. He never cross-examined her either. She could lean on Joe. And now she was saying goodbye and going back to …

What exactly? Even her mind hadn’t played the scenario that far.

At the coach stop she hugged him and briefly leaned into his strength. ‘There will always be a place for you, here,’ he said. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

Helen nodded, unable to speak.

The driver stopped at midday at a
chai
place along the route. The heat hit Helen as soon as she left the air-conditioned coach, and she pulled at her T-shirt to fan herself. She bought a Coke and a couple of onion
bhajis
from a stall. Pressing the ice-cold can to her cheeks, she found a rickety bench under a graceful ashok tree, its downward-sweeping branches and shining green foliage providing perfect shade. The bench was deliberately placed so it overlooked a sludge-coloured river.