Mad Dog Moonlight (8 page)

Something moved behind the dogs – a shifting of curtains that allowed a tiny face to peer down. ‘What do you want?' said a sour, unfriendly voice that Mad
Dog recalled immediately from that time on the phone.

‘I don't want anything,' said Aunty. ‘I'm here because you asked for me. Remember?'

The Aged Relative's face screwed up into a tight red ball and her eyes blinked quickly as if she was flustered.

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' she said. ‘Of course I didn't ask for you. Why would I do that? Don't be ridiculous.'

She tried to hide herself behind the curtains, but Aunty wouldn't let her, pulling them back to reveal an old woman with dyed beige hair, skin as grey as if it never saw the light of day and a grubby-looking nightdress that looked as if it hadn't been changed for weeks. The only thing about the Aged Relative that wasn't shabby was a handful of gold rings studded with enormous stones that looked like diamonds, emeralds and rubies.

Mad Dog stared at them. He'd never seen such big jewels in his life. Everything else about the Aged Relative was colourless, but her rings shone like fire.

The Aged Relative saw where Mad Dog was looking and thrust her hands under the covers. ‘What's
he
doing here?' she snapped. ‘And the other one. I won't have children in my B & B. You know that. Pets, yes, but children, no. It's all there in the brochure.'

‘What brochure?' Aunty said. She pushed the dogs away and hauled herself on to the bed to confront her mother face to face. ‘In fact, what
B
&
B
? There isn't one that I've yet seen. Just some empty ruin of a house. And on that subject …'

Before she could say any more, the Manager entered the room.

‘Is there anything I can get you?' he said, putting on a show of concern that had been completely lacking in anything he'd done so far.

If the Aged Relative had been a princess, and he her humble servant, he couldn't have treated her better. He cleared away a stack of plates and ordered the dogs to get off the bed. They obeyed him immediately, slinking out of the room after glaring resentfully at Aunty, Mad Dog and Elvis.

Mad Dog expected the Manager to follow them, but he remained fussing around, and it was only when Aunty said, ‘Do you mind? I'm trying to have a private talk with my mother,' that he finally went.

‘And don't come back,' Aunty said, slamming the door behind him.

‘You shouldn't have done that,' the Aged Relative said.

‘And how exactly should I treat a man who's taking advantage of my mother?' Aunty said.

The Aged Relative blinked again as if she was even more flustered than before. ‘You don't understand –
walls have ears
,' she whispered.

Aunty laughed at that. You could see how much the Manager had got under her skin. ‘Good!' she said. ‘Then they can hear what I have to say, which is that you bought this B & B against all our advice, which means it's yours and no one else's and you should take responsibility for it, not lie around in bed watching telly all the time, or whatever it is you do. I know you, Mother. I know what you're like. When was the last time you went downstairs? The last time you checked
the register? The last time you went into the kitchen, or ordered food for your guests, or even had any guests? When was the last time you paid your bills? Do you know what's going on in your own house? You don't have a clue, do you?'

Aunty pulled out her notepad and started reading. But, like a child being scolded, the Aged Relative put her hands over her ears. Then Aunty dug out her phone to show her some of the pictures she'd taken. But the Aged Relative picked up the remote control and turned on the telly that sat at the end of her bed.

‘It's my favourite programme,' she said, ‘I've been waiting for it all day.'

Aunty turned bright red. ‘If you don't listen to me,' she said, ‘I'll leave right now and not come back. I'm not just saying this – I mean it. If I count for less than the telly, I'll take Ryan and Eric – who've got better things to do, believe me, than hang around here – and leave. And then whatever was so important that you phoned in tears, pleading for me to come, will never get dealt with. Not by me,
so help me God
.'

The two women glared at each other, mother and daughter, so different and yet, in some respects, so uncannily alike. For a moment neither moved – then the Aged Relative switched the telly up louder.

‘I've always been scared of you,' she said petulantly. ‘You're such a bully. You always have been ever since you were a little girl.'

Aunty sighed, her exasperation complete. ‘Well, you would know,' she said. ‘When it comes to bullying, you wear the crown.'

And that was it. The end of their audience with the Aged Relative. They left the room. On the way out,
Aunty tossed the notepad up on to the bed – not, she said, because she expected her mother to ever bother reading it, but because she, Aunty, wanted to know in the long years to come that she'd tried her best.

Back in their room, they packed to leave. Aunty's expression was one of relief. ‘I should feel sorry for her,' she said, ‘but she's got what she's been asking for. She's a lazy, selfish woman who's always expected other people to do her dirty work for her. And now she's had her come-uppance. That so-called “manager” of hers might be running around her when there's someone to witness him in action, but he's also bleeding her dry – and she's got no one to blame for it but herself. We told her, all of us, that buying a B & B was a crazy idea. But would she listen? Would she hell!'

Once they were packed, they made their way downstairs. It was ten thirty at night, time for climbing into bed and going to sleep, but none of them wanted to stay. Aunty packed the car. They all piled into it and were just about to drive off when the porch door banged open, and the Aged Relative appeared, swaying as if the effort of standing on her own legs was proving a bit much.

‘You can't go!' she wailed. ‘I'm not a well person! It's my dicky heart. I need help! Surely you can see that. I need you. I'm frightened. Don't leave me!
Not with him!
'

Aunty stayed. It was the
not with him
that was the clincher. How could she leave after a plea like that? The three of them unpacked again, and spent the night in beds that sank in the middle and felt damp even after airing with hot water-bottles. Mad Dog felt like a
prisoner who'd tried to make a run for it but failed. The prisoner of the Aged Relative – and you could see her crowing as if she thought she'd got power over them all.

But the real power, it was quite obvious to Mad Dog, belonged to the Manager. For the rest of the week Aunty attempted to get him working but he refused to do a thing. She issued him with lists of jobs but he kept on disappearing, leaving her to do everything. And every time she complained, the Aged Relative stuck up for him.

Mad Dog didn't get it. Neither did Aunty. If the Aged Relative was as frightened of the Manager as she appeared to be, then why wasn't she seizing the opportunity of having someone else around to tackle him? It just didn't make sense.

In the meantime, however, there were gutters to clear, windows to wash, food to be bought in, accounts to be examined and a house to be cleaned that looked as if it hadn't been touched in years. Aunty tried getting the Aged Relative to help, but she was as good at getting out of it as the Manager, always using her weak legs and ‘dicky heart' as her excuse.

By the end of the week, Aunty was exhausted. So was Mad Dog, who'd done his best to help, but had had enough. They all had. On their last night, over dinner in the dining room, Aunty tried one last time to persuade the Aged Relative not only to get rid of the Manager but the house as well, and move into a little flat which would be easier to look after.

But the Aged Relative wouldn't hear of it. ‘If you and your sisters looked after me properly,' she said,
fixing Aunty with a sour eye, ‘everything would be all right. Then there'd be no manager and I could do this on my own. This is all your fault. You should be running this place between you, not leaving me to my own devices. I'm your mother and you owe me.'

Aunty turned pale at that. ‘Owe you for what, Mother?' she said in a still, small voice.

For a moment, you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. Then the Manager's dogs came bounding in and stood around the table looking just about as threatening as a cohort of Republican Guards. Aunty shouted at them to go away, but they refused to budge and wouldn't even move for the Aged Relative.

‘Honestly, Mother, can't you even control your own dogs?' Aunty said.

‘They're not mine. They're
his
,' the Aged Relative said.

Aunty sighed. That man again. ‘Of all the people you could have chosen to work for you, why did you have to pick him?' she said.

‘I didn't pick him. He just turned up. In fact, you could say
he
picked
me
,' the Aged Relative said.

‘Yes, but you must have some idea of who he is, where he comes from, where he's worked before?' Aunty said. ‘He must have references. You must know something.'

‘I don't know anything,' the Aged Relative said. ‘Except that now you're walking out on me, I'll need him all the more.'

This time, when the bags were packed, Mad Dog knew Aunty wouldn't change her mind. Sure enough, she went to bed, saying she couldn't wait for the morning when they'd be off, and slept like a baby.

Mad Dog wished that he could sleep too, but tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable. He longed for morning and wished they could have left already. Even after cleaning up the house, he didn't like it. It was bad enough by day, but in the dark the sound of running water outside seemed to be magnified and the walls and floorboards seemed to creak as if people were sneaking about.

Every night Mad Dog reckoned he could hear muffled sounds, as if people were whispering outside his door, but tonight it was worse than ever. He told himself that all houses made noises in the darkness, including No. 3, but tonight he was sure he could hear doors opening and closing, and the swish of dresses going down the corridor, and even snatches of music.

In the end, determined to find out what was going on, Mad Dog went to investigate. Creeping along the landing, he was convinced that, at worst, he'd find a radio left on somewhere, or the Manager watching a bit of late-night telly. At the top of the stairs, he looked down into the darkness. There was not a soul about, but the sound of music rose up to greet him,
followed by a murmur of voices. It didn't sound like the telly, but it
did
sound like a party. Not an imaginary one, either. A real party.

Mad Dog tiptoed downstairs, his curiosity aroused. Down in the hall, it seemed to him that the sound was coming from the conservatory. He slipped outside, sneaked round the back of the house and, sure enough, there beyond the kitchen, he found the conservatory windows ablaze with light.

That was the moment when Mad Dog should have gone back for Aunty. Instead, however, under cover of darkness, he crept up to the windows to see what was going on. Last time he'd seen inside the conservatory there'd been chairs and tables stacked everywhere. But now someone had cleared them away, brushed down all the cobwebs and placed tall black candles on all the window sills.

Not only that, but they'd invited in an array of glittering guests.

The conservatory was full of them. Mad Dog stood in the darkness, watching them dancing past the windows in black frocks and white ties, black coats, white silk scarves, black plumes, white diamonds, black jet earrings, sequinned masks and feathered fans. Every man was a peacock, every woman a dancing queen.

Mad Dog couldn't believe what he was seeing. A ball was taking place in the Aged Relative's conservatory, and she didn't know a thing about it. The windows were open and Mad Dog felt its heat. The conservatory felt like an oven, but the only person who seemed unaffected by it was the Manager, seated at the piano, driving the dancers with his playing.

When Mad Dog saw him, it took all his courage not to turn and flee. In the candlelight the Manager's hair blazed like fire, and his hands on the piano moved up and down so fast that they almost looked like smoke. The guests whirled past as if he held them in his thrall, and even Mad Dog found himself wanting to join in.

Against his will, his toes tapped, his head bobbed and the rhythm of the music soaked into him. The music was so powerful that he nearly found himself throwing caution to the winds and leaping in through the window. It beat that hard and it really swung.

But then, as the dancers whirled around the room, masks started slipping and faces started showing through – pinched, taut faces, their expressions filled with what almost looked like panic. It was as if they were prisoners behind their masks. As if they were caught up in something that they couldn't stop.

For it wasn't just the music that drove them on. There were other faces on that dance floor – grey, grim faces behind their masks that looked more like guards than party-goers. In fact more like dogs than human dancers –
more like the dogs who guarded the Aged Relative's bed!

Mad Dog cried out. Immediately everybody turned towards the window, including the Manager, who stopped playing. Everybody saw Mad Dog there and, for a moment, he expected the Manager to set his dogs on him.

But then the Manager laughed, as if his presence out there in the darkness was a joke. He turned away and started playing again. And again the beat was irresistible and again the dancers started whirling round.

Mad Dog felt as if the Manager was saying, ‘
Look at me. Look what I can do. I'm in charge. These people are mine.
' The last he saw of them, they were whirling faster than before, sweat pouring off them. By this time the Manager was sweating too, his shirt slashed open to the waist, revealing yet more red tattoos running up and down his body like a road map drawn in blood, and the chain around his throat packed with silver charms.