Death in Disguise (17 page)

May was making inroads into a shallow tin dish, swooping and slicing with great panache. As she lifted the servings, long, pale yellow strings stretched back to base. She was talking as she served to the table at large.

‘…whole point about cataracts of course that the medical profession just will not see is that they are purely psychosomatic. The elderly cannot cope with modern life. Computers, street violence, large supermarkets, nuclear waste… They can't bear to look at it. Ergo—the eye films over. I mean—it's so simple. Guy?'

‘Thank you.' His plate arrived heaped with mysterious matter. A mosaic of red and brown and khaki, plus some black loops of rubbery-looking ribbon. Guy picked up his irons, noted a measure of surprise in the gathering and put them down again. Waiting for the others to be served, he began to sort people out.

Gnomish man with bright red shovel-shaped beard; woman with coarse bushy hair and a morose expression. That poor fool of a boy who sat on the far side of Sylvie. Guy noticed with deep revulsion how gently she spoke to the wretched creature, once going as far as to lay her hand on his arm. People like that, flawed with disease, should be put away, not let loose to make their grotesque demands on the innocent and tender-hearted. Of his afternoon playmate there was no sign. Guy didn't know whether to be glad or sorry. Strangely, for him, a flicker of unease had appeared soon after Trixie's departure. He still didn't understand her problem: she'd made herself available, he'd taken up the offer and paid on the nail. And for all the wails of wounded pride, the fifty quid had disappeared when she did. No—Guy's worry was that she might tell Sylvie and, in doing so, misrepresent the truth. Perhaps even make out she wasn't willing. So he decided, when he saw the girl again, to go out of his way to be friendly. Maybe even go as far as to apologise, although for what he still had no idea.

Once the serving was over a brief silence ensued during which everyone looked down at their plates. Guy looked down at his cow pats which looked faecetiously back. His neighbour sprang into speech. He had removed his smock and was now also sporting a T-shirt which instructed the reader: ‘Respect My Space'.

‘Hey…how about a getting-to-know-you people hunt? I'm Ken “Zadkiel” Beavers. And that's my divine complement, Heather,' said the grey-haired man. ‘Or Tethys, in astral terms.'

‘Guy Gamelin.' They all shook hands, then Guy agitated his dinner somewhat with a fork. ‘What actually is all this?'

‘Well, that's lasagne obviously. Goes without saying. This little heap is chick-pea purée and that,' indicating the black coils, ‘is arame.' Ken pronounced the word in a very odd way, raising his soft palate and honking like a goose. ‘Where would we all be without the ocean?'

‘What?'

‘Arame's a seaweed. From Japan.' He pronounced ‘Harpahn'. ‘Eat enough—you'll never have shingles again.'

Guy, who had never had shingles in the first place, nodded vaguely and put down his fork. Beneath the hum of conversation he noticed music. Or rather a saccharine reconstruction of nature going about her business. Birds tweeting, trees whispering and a persistent ripple of water. Listening to it was like having your ears syringed.

No doubt it was regarded as conducive to tranquillity. It seemed to work. The whole atmosphere was abnormally serene. All the voices were gentle. No one grabbed for what they wanted. Just gestured tenderly and murmured low. Guy wondered what they did with all their anger. Everyone had some after all. Part of the kit, along with liver and lights, teeth and nails. Did they meditate it away? Sublimate it under a blanket of kind deeds? Or—with a single babbling incantation—send it winging off for ever into the cosmos. What a load of jelly-bellied wimps. Huddling together, running away from the dark and from themselves. He became aware that he was scowling and, hurriedly adjusting his expression to one of polite interest, turned to his neighbour.

‘And what do you all do here at the Windhorse?'

Heather gave her long hair an abandoned fling. ‘We laugh…we cry…' She cupped her hands then opened them with a bestowing fling as if releasing a racing pigeon. ‘We live.'

‘Everyone does that.'

‘Not in the deepest chalice of their being.' She passed a dish of green stuff. ‘Some carracol?' Guy hesitated. ‘A fine mincing of comfrey, marjoram and just a little hempnettle.'

Guy shook his head, concealing his disappointment well. ‘The one thing I'm not allowed. Hempnettle.'

‘Condensed sunshine,' assured Ken, nodding at the fine mincing.

‘In what way?'

‘Impregnated with solar light.' His crystal winked and twinkled, backing him up. ‘Don't tell me you've never heard of the five Platonic solids.'

‘Heard of them?' said Guy. ‘I'm eating them.' He smiled to show it was a joke then, sotto voce and with malice definitely aforethought, asked if there would be any meat.

This led to a long lecture full of warm sentimental invective from Heather, concluding with the information that ‘at any given moment the colon of any given carnivore would have at least five pounds of animal protein fermenting in it.'

‘Five pounds.'

‘Minimum.'

Guy whistled and Ken, perhaps to underline the sweet workability of his own gut reactions, let forth a whiffy crepitation. Guy wrinkled his nose. Heather changed the subject, offering Guy some more of the ersatz poteen that he had privately labelled ‘Château Scumbag'.

Having failed to persuade him, she asked: ‘And what do you do all day?'

‘I'm a financier.' As if you didn't know.

‘Heav-e.-e.'

‘Not if you've got the balls,' said Guy pleasantly. There was a sticky hiatus. ‘Oh dear—have I offended? I thought you were all terribly close to nature down here.'

‘Certainly we favour the visceral over the cerebral.'

‘The dark night of the intellect,' interrupted Heather, ‘is drawing to a close.'

It certainly seems to be in your case, thought Guy. ‘I enjoy a spot of cerebral cut-and-thrust myself,' he said.

‘We are all millionaires of the spirit here,' said Ken. ‘And think the rat race is for rats.' This repartee was delivered through a mouthful of multi-coloured gubbins.

‘I'm surprised to hear myself referred to in such terms. Especially as a guest in your community.' Ken turned scarlet. Guy was suddenly sick of them both. He leaned forward, contriving to speak with quiet confidentiality, secure in the knowledge that he couldn't be overheard by the rest of the table.

‘Listen thunderbum, people do not abandon the rat race. It abandons them. The ones without fire in their bellies. And they crawl away leaving someone else to man the ship.'

Ken smiled and reached out forgivingly. ‘It makes me sad to hear—'

‘It doesn't make you sad to hear. It makes you bloody livid but you haven't the courage to say so. And take your hand off my arm.' The hand leapt away like a startled salmon.

‘Where would we be,' Guy pushed his luck, ‘if everyone decided to slink off and contemplate their navels. No doctors—no nurses—no teachers…'

‘But that would never happen,' protested Heather. ‘The number of people wishing to lead reclusive lives of a moral and philosophical nature—a spiritual elite if you will—must by the very nature of things be small. It is an intensely disciplined regime.'

‘I notice you take advantage of modern technology.' No one, thought Guy, who had an arse like an elephant had any call to bandy the word ‘discipline' about. He knew the time had come to shut up. ‘Has it never occurred to you that while you're up there on your pillar of virtue, some poor sod's on his knees down a mine so you'll have coal to burn?'

‘But that's his karma.' Guy picked up a ripple of irritation. ‘He would be at a very low level of incarnation. Probably working his way up from a mole.'

At the other end of the table people spoke amongst themselves. Janet wondered if she should go up yet again to see if Trixie could be persuaded to come out. May asked if anyone else thought the chick peas tasted rather odd, and Arno said on no account was she to have another morsel. Tim continued to eat globbily, stopping from time to time to stroke the amber sunflowers on Suhami's birthday bag.

Suhami herself ate little. She sat watching her father in a condition of growing unease. To someone who did not know him he was giving the impression of the perfect dinner guest. Nodding, talking, listening, smiling—although not eating much. Pretending? Of course. Brutal duplicity was his coinage. He played his games with little else. And there was something now about his glance and the set of his head that she did not like. She felt a sudden rush of panic and wished that she could perform a violent exorcism and vanish him entirely. Heather was speaking. Suhami strained her ears.

‘…and we believe that the only true happiness is to be found in forgetting the self. So we try to lose our individuality in a concern for others. The sick or dispossessed…the poor…'

‘
The poor
…' Guy's voice exploded. Tormenting memories, long suppressed, struck fire. A young boy, kneeling before an electricity meter. Penknife jammed in the slot, unable to get knife or the money out and so feeling a length of chain across his shoulders. The same boy scavenging for fruit and vegetables from splintered boxes behind market stalls receiving great clouts around the head if he was spotted. A hollow belly occasionally crammed with cheap greasy piles of starch so that when the boy grew up he ate nothing that was not an invitation to a cardiac arrest. Richly sauced red meat, towers of chocolate and whipped cream. Lobster Thermidor.

‘…have to be strong…get out…get away…or you go under…' Guy trembled and stared blindly around him, carried away by the intensity of his recall, hardly able to form his words. ‘…lice…the poor…they're lice…'

‘No…you mustn't say that.' Arno leaned forward, pale but determined. ‘They are human beings and so to be valued. And helped, too, for they are powerless. Doesn't it say in the Bible that the meek shall inherit the earth?'

‘They've done that all right.' Guy gave vent to a goaded yelp. ‘There are mass graves everywhere full of them.'

A stunned silence. Everyone looked at each other unable to believe that they had actually heard such a shockingly cruel remark.

Guy sat motionless, his mouth still open, experiencing a thrill of horror. What had he done? How could he let himself be taunted into such intemperance by a couple of aging hippies when there was so much at stake? He lifted his head, cold and heavy as a stone, and stumbled once more into speech. ‘I'm sorry…forgive me.' He got up. ‘Sylvie—I didn't think…'

‘You can't leave anything alone can you?' Suhami, her face frozen, had also got to her feet. ‘Anything kind or beautiful or good you have to drag down to your own poisonous level. I was happy here. Now you've ruined everything. I hate you… I hate you!'

Tim cried out in alarm and cowered in May's lap. Christopher, grasping Suhami's arm, said, ‘Don't darling… please…don't…'

The others crowded round them all talking at once. Suhami started to cry: ‘My birthday…on my birthday…'

Christopher stroked her hair, May stroked Tim's hair and Ken and Heather swung shiny beams of bright-eyed sanctimony at Guy who stood at the far end of the table—spurned and despised like the plaguey inmate of some lazaretto.

Then, as the soothing babble abated, he became aware of an extraordinary quality in the ensuing silence. The group had pressed more closely together and gave the impression of being both excited and alarmed. Guy felt a cool draught on the back of his neck. He turned and saw a woman standing in the shadow of the open doorway.

Phantom-like she rested against the jamb. She was wrapped in draperies the colour of fog. A huge bunch of cellophaned, beribboned flowers depended from one hand. She moved forwards, slowly dragging in her wake huge swathes of silk and tafetta which shushed and hissed on the bare boards. Half way towards the others she came to a halt, pushing back the misty scarf. At the sight of her huge-eyed, deeply hollowed face and tumbling mass of clay-grey hair the group drew even closer.

Ken murmured in wonder and disbelief: ‘Hilarion's prediction. It's come true…'

The visitor looked round uncertainly and cleared her throat, making a sound like the rustle of dry leaves. ‘I rang the bell.' A voice so timorous it was almost inaudible. She held out a square of green paper as if in support of such importunity. ‘I was invited.'

Guy, recognising the letter, gave a gasp of outrage and disbelief as he watched his wife, swaying like a narcolept, make for the nearest support, a low backed canvas chair. Reaching it she sank down, storm-cloud skirts billowing, and appeared overwhelmed with satisfaction at this simple feat.

Ken and Heather approached, praying hands to the fore. A few feet away they knelt down, foreheads touching the floor.

‘Greetings Astarte—Goddess of the Moon.'

‘Crescent Queen—lunar radiance.'

‘A thousand humble welcomes.'

Felicity stared at them and blinked. Then Suhami, pale with embarrassed recognition, said: ‘Mother?' She crossed to the seated figure. ‘He said you couldn't come.'

Guy winced at the dismissive impersonal pronoun. He watched Felicity's blackberry lips shake with the effort of forming a reply. Instead she offered up the bouquet. Suhami took it, read the card and said: ‘How lovely—thank you.'

Guy recalled his own flowers forgotten in the porch, then realised that these were his flowers. Of all the barefaced gall! Nothing he could do now. To rush forward and claim them would appear petty in the extreme. Sylvie would think he had brought no gift at all. She was saying something else.

‘He told us you were ill.'

‘My dear,' said May, ‘you
are
ill.'