The Narrow Bed, page 35
‘Could publish any old shite and have it taken seriously,’ Simon supplied the end of the sentence. ‘That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? If I were a programming genius, I could write software that’d churn out Sondra Halliday columns and no one would be able to tell the difference.’
‘Wow. You really are the misogynist king, aren’t you?’
‘No. I just don’t like fantasists, that’s all. You whine on about the subjugated class, meaning women … Every single man who lives on the Winstanley estate in the Culver Valley – every single skint jobless one of them – is more oppressed and subjugated than you are.’
‘DC Waterhouse.’ Halliday took a deep breath. ‘Be sensible. A man tells a female journalist that he could write software to replicate her words, and you’re honestly claiming that’s not misogyny?’
‘Yes, I am. I wouldn’t say it to Emily Brontë or George Eliot. I don’t think I could replicate Wuthering Heights or Middlemarch, or anything truly interesting or original. I don’t care what sex the author is.’
Simon stood up and walked over to the Sainsbury’s bags. He pulled a six-pack of Diet Coke out of one, tore away the plastic wrapping, freed a can and opened it. After taking a sip he passed it to Sellers, who was too parched to worry about etiquette. No doubt Halliday would care even less about the deaths of men henceforth and Sellers’ thirst would be partly to blame.
‘You think your thoughts and writing style are so unique? Let’s put it to the test,’ said Simon. ‘Publish this column I’ve written as your own.’
‘Get the fuck out of my house.’
‘I’ll put money on nobody being any the wiser. If anyone suggests it’s not all your own work – if there’s even a hint of suspicion from any quarter – I’ll give you a thousand quid. There won’t be – I can promise you that. I made sure to use all your buzzwords: manfeelz, erasure of lived experience, it’s all in there. Read it. You might like it.’
‘You’re trying to use me as bait, is that it? Of course it is. Why wouldn’t you? What’s one more dead woman between misogynist friends?’
‘Make sure it’s not published until Thursday, 22 January – 9 a.m., not before – and I guarantee you’ll be safe,’ said Simon. ‘Billy will be with me by then – and won’t have any more opportunities to kill anyone. I wouldn’t put anyone’s life at risk, not even yours.’
Sellers was looking forward to leaving this room and its atmosphere of hostility behind. He didn’t know where people found the energy for so much anger. In some ways, Simon and Sondra Halliday were perfectly matched. Why couldn’t they both abandon their grudges and concentrate on having a laugh instead?
Halliday stood up and held out her right arm in the direction of the kitchen door. ‘Goodbye, tossers. Request to commandeer my Lifeworld column denied. This conversation’s over.’
Simon picked up his piece of paper and put it back in his jacket pocket. ‘Any more Billy murders happen, you’re responsible.’ He walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. A minute later there was another bang from further away: the front door.
Sellers stood up to follow him. He didn’t want to leave with the mood as grim as this. If he’d interviewed Halliday alone today, he’d probably have taken offence at her silly distortions and her wilful blindness as he had twice before, but Simon’s palpable disgust had made him feel oddly protective of her.
He didn’t know why he kept thinking of Lane Baillie. Then, suddenly, he did. He’d spoken to Lane about Sondra Halliday.
What this person needs is not blame but kindness and empathy … Perhaps she suffered a trauma and could only make herself strong enough to survive it by building a shell of hate and blame around herself.
Was Lane right? Would positive energy work? Sellers did massively fancy Sondra Halliday, which he knew would help him in what he was about to attempt.
‘I’m sorry about Waterhouse,’ he said.
‘Thank you. I still want you to leave as soon as possible.’ Halliday didn’t look at him. She was slamming shopping items into her fridge in the manner of someone launching weapons at an enemy.
‘I don’t blame you,’ said Sellers. It was funny, he thought, how often people said those words without really thinking about their meaning. Normally it was a way of saying, ‘I agree’ or ‘I’d do the same’.
‘I’ll leave within the next minute, but can I say one thing before I go? I’m asking permission – if you don’t give me permission, I’ll leave straight away.’
‘Make it quick, then.’
‘I understand that you care passionately about saving and improving women’s lives. I agree with you that Billy, if we don’t catch him, will kill again. Statistics suggest his next victim will be a woman. As you’ve correctly said many times: most of his victims are. Whoever that unfortunate woman is – and we have reason to believe it might be the comedian Kim Tribbeck – I know you want to save her life. Don’t let Waterhouse’s arrogance and the anger it’s provoked in you stop you from doing something that could really help a woman.’
Halliday glared at him. ‘What are you asking? Spit it out.’
‘This idea of Waterhouse’s, about your column. He’s confident it’ll work. He thinks once Billy sees the column, he’ll confess. Based on Waterhouse’s past record, I’d say that means the odds are good. Better than good: excellent. Look, when this is all over and Billy’s no longer a danger, you can write a column about how it all came about. You can print all the misogynistic things Waterhouse said, make the police look terrible. Wouldn’t that make a great column?’ Shit; he was in danger of veering away from the positive here, tempting her with revenge opportunities. Plus, Simon was his mate. The last thing Sellers wanted was to be responsible for him getting a slating in Lifeworld.
What might Lane Baillie say to Sondra Halliday next? he wondered.
As it turned out, nothing more was needed.
‘All right,’ said Halliday. ‘If you really think it might help to catch Billy. I mean, we all want that, right?’
‘We certainly do.’
‘If you can keep me safe until you get him, and as long as I can see a draft of whatever that shit Waterhouse has written before it’s published under my name … Fine. I’ll do it.’
‘Thanks a million.’ Sellers wanted to hug her, but he didn’t think it would go down very well. ‘You know, I might disagree with a lot of what you say, but you’ve made me think about these things – men, women, all that – in a way that no one else ever has. You’ve … had an effect. I’m going to carry on reading your column once all this is over.’
‘I find that kind of hard to believe.’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Are you still going to say things like, “Wouldn’t mind getting conker-deep in that?”’
Sellers laughed. ‘Probably.’
‘I find that very easy to believe,’ said Halliday.
Simon was standing in the yard with a can of 7UP in one hand and his battered old copy of Moby-Dick in the other when Charlie arrived home just before midnight. She could have got back earlier, but had opted to spend the evening alone in a wine bar in Spilling.
She let her bag slide off her shoulder and fall to the ground. ‘You knew,’ she said.
‘Yeah. Are you angry?’
‘No. If I’d been the one to find out first, I’m not sure I’d have told you.’
‘I’d have been furious. S’pose I’m unreasonable.’
Charlie reached out her hand for the can. Simon gave it to her and she took a sip. ‘I enjoyed getting there on my own,’ she said. ‘Gave me a sense of achievement. And now I’m in the predicament you were trying to make sure I didn’t get into: do I let this stupid bigamous wedding happen and then shop my own sister to the law? Or interfere and threaten that, make them call it off?’
‘Depends how much you want to see them punished. Or want to save them.’
‘What do you think I should do?’ Simon always knew the answer. Not necessarily the right answer by anyone else’s standards, but his answer. ‘Simon?’
‘Do you want to hear a story?’
‘Not if it’s about a guy looking for a whale, no.’ Charlie pointed to his book. ‘What are you doing reading outside, anyway – in the dark and standing up?’
‘Look at this.’ Simon held up the book between his index finger and his thumb. ‘It’s old – almost falling apart. Stained with coffee, bath water, ketchup; so heavy it’s hurting me to hold it like this.’
‘Boring, overrated, full of some guy’s obsession about a whale,’ Charlie joined in. ‘What’s this, a turning point? Do we finally get to chuck it in the bin?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Have you had a personality transplant?’ Charlie peered at him. ‘If it hurts to hold it like that, use your other fingers too. That’s why you have them.’
Simon looked as if he’d suddenly snapped awake. ‘The story I want to tell you’s nothing to with Moby-Dick. It’s about a teacher and a delinquent pupil.’
Charlie made a face.
‘I’ll make it short,’ Simon said. ‘One day, the delinquent chucks a desk through the classroom window, smashing the glass. Teacher doesn’t see it, but he knows full well who did it. The boy won’t confess, though, so the teacher offers a reward to any pupil who’ll speak up and say they saw him do it. A girl – best-behaved kid in the class – stays behind after the lesson, and the teacher thinks she’s going to inform on the delinquent. She doesn’t, though. Instead, she says to the teacher, “He won’t confess for as long as you’re judging and blaming him for what he did. If you tell him that you don’t blame him, that you understand his anger and sadness and want to help him, then he’ll confess.” “Great,” thinks the teacher. “I’ll try that.” He can’t wait to see the delinquent again, so sure is he that his plan’s going to work.’
‘Hang on,’ said Charlie. ‘This is one of Lane Baillie’s Stories of Enlightenment, isn’t it?’
Simon nodded. ‘From her website, but not one that was sent to Sondra Halliday. If I were Billy, I’d have included it in my selection. Next time the teacher sees the delinquent he says exactly what the girl told him to say. He can’t wait for the boy to confess so that he can suspend him, maybe even expel him. But still the boy denies throwing the desk through the window. The teacher complains to the girl—’
‘Unreasonable git! She did her best to help him,’ said Charlie.
‘He tells her he followed her advice to the letter, but it didn’t work. “Of course it didn’t,” she says. “Because when you told the boy that you didn’t blame him and weren’t going to judge him, you were lying, weren’t you? I told you what would be the right thing to say, and it was the right thing. It was your mistake to assume you could say it without meaning it and still get a good result.”
‘“Hang on,” says the confused teacher. “You seriously expect me to say – and mean – that it’s fine by me if a pupil throws a desk through a window?”
‘“Think about why he might be sad,” says the girl. “Think about why he might be angry. Think about his life, and then ask yourself: how might you behave if his pain were your pain?”
‘The teacher goes away and thinks about it. He realises that the delinquent has much to be sad and angry about: a very sick mother, a bad-tempered father who hits him, no money, not much hope for the future. The next time he speaks to the delinquent, the teacher says, “I don’t blame you for what you did,” and he really means it. “You don’t have to admit it was you, and you won’t be punished,” he tells the boy. “But please come to me if there’s ever anything I can do to help you.” At once, the boy feels so grateful to the teacher that he confesses to throwing the desk through the window. He isn’t punished, and, with the teacher’s help, the boy learns to behave better. From then on, he doesn’t get into any more trouble at school.’
Charlie groaned. ‘Imagine how that story would make you feel if you’d just had your window smashed.’
‘We do it all the time, don’t we?’
‘Do what?’
‘Tell scrotes we understand how they feel, how hard it must be for them. Anything to get them to admit what they’ve done, so we can lock them up.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with that. We’re the police, not their therapists.’
‘What about preventing future crimes? All the windows that boy’s not going to smash from now on because one person demonstrated that they cared about him, one teacher said, “I understand your pain.”’
‘I see you’ve become fluent in claptrap while I’ve been away,’ said Charlie.
Simon flinched. ‘I don’t think the usual fake sympathy’s going to work with Billy, that’s all,’ he said. ‘To get the confession I need, I might have to mean it.’
22
from Origami by Kim Tribbeck
Wednesday, 21 January 2015
My phone is ringing in my head. That can’t be right. I don’t have a phone in my head.
I lurch into a sitting position, eyes still closed, and pat the duvet in search of the source of the noise. By the time I find it (under the covers, along with an empty beer bottle, because I’m so house-proud and wholesome), it’s stopped ringing.
I don’t recognise the number.
7.45 a.m. Jesus Christ.
The ringing starts again. Same number.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Kim?’ It’s a woman.
‘Yes. And if you know who you’re ringing, you’ll know I’m a stand-up comedian. Stand-up comedians typically aren’t awake at quarter to eight in the morning. Who are you? A vindictive postman? A milkman with a grudge?’
‘I’m sorry if I woke you.’
‘You did.’
‘It’s Isobel Sturridge. Liam’s sister.’
I want to laugh and accuse her of lying but I can’t. I know that voice. It’s her. ‘Oh, hello Isobel, AKA Faith Kendell. Or would you prefer me to use your street name, Billy Dead Mates? Not a milkman or a postman but a murderer, right?’ Would I be talking to her like this if there were anything to be afraid of?
She can’t be anywhere near my house. Definitely not standing right outside, or else she’d knock on the door instead of phoning.
Did I remember to double lock the front door before going to bed last night? Probably not.
‘Liam gave me your number – I hope you don’t mind.’
Now I laugh. ‘That’s right: because of everything you’ve done, the thing I’m likely to object to most is you getting hold of my phone number without my consent. Injecting battery acid into my grandmother’s nothing compared to that.’
‘Liam told me there was no love lost between you and Marion.’
I freeze.
She’s Billy. No one else would have reacted like that.
It’s a few seconds before I manage to say, ‘That’s correct. It’s also true that she had cancer that was about to kill her. I still wish she hadn’t been murdered, though. Ironic, huh?’
‘No. It’s understandable. I’m sorry I lied to you about my name.’
‘Why have you rung me? I don’t want to speak to you – I’d rather be ringing the police and telling them this happened – so unless you have something urgent you want to say—’
‘I’m going to be speaking to the police tomorrow morning. I’d like you to be there, and your brother. This concerns you as much as it does me. I asked the police to make sure you and your brother were present, and they flatly refused. So … although it’s an unorthodox request, and although I’m well aware that no member of your family owes me anything … I’m begging you to agree to come.’
‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ I swear at my phone. ‘What the fuck is this shit?’
‘Again, I apologise sincerely, but … believe me, Kim, you’ll want to be there. You shouldn’t let the police leave you out of this.’
Damn right. Fuckers. Or is that what Isobel wants me to think? Am I falling into a murderer’s trap?
Are you a murderer, Isobel? Are you Billy Dead Mates? I’m not afraid to ask. It’s more that to do so would make me feel disgusting.
‘If they refused to tell me about it, they won’t let me in even if I do turn up, will they?’
‘I hope they will. If you make the effort to come, and bring your brother, I’ll do my bit to ensure it all runs smoothly.’
‘Does “your bit” involve shooting me in the head?’
‘No. You have my word that you’ll come to no harm.’
Unbelievable.
‘I’m sorry I’ve been … so much more trouble than a dead houseplant.’ I hear what sounds like a stifled sob.
‘Isobel, we’re not friends,’ I say loudly and clearly. ‘Please tell me you know that.’
‘Will you come tomorrow?’
‘I don’t know. I’m going to ring the police and ask their advice.’
‘Remind them that I won’t tell them what I know without you there. I mean it, Kim. There’s no balance without you.’
‘Balance?’
‘Apart from me and Liam, everyone else at the meeting is going to be police. That’s not right. With you and your brother there, it’ll be closer.’
‘Closer to what, Isobel?’ I’m guessing she means a fifty-fifty split between detectives and civilians. Why does she care? I’d ask, but it would mean speaking to her for longer, and I can’t bear to.
‘Goodbye, Isobel. Don’t ring me again.’
‘Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock. Please, Kim. Can I at least give you the details of the venue so that you can think about it?’
Venue? The word makes it sound as if she’s planning a wedding. Surely she’ll be interviewed at the police station in Spilling or at her house.
