Poor Jacky, page 12
“The goat! The goat has nothing to do with it. Rather the creature should be feted and pampered for bringing your sustained campaign of cruelty against that poor, defenceless boy to light.”
Edmond’s reflection did a passable job of appearing confused and bewildered, Lady Alice observed. The brute should have been an actor.
“Damn me, Alice -”
She turned to face him.
“What are you going to do? Beat it out of me? Is that the only way you can manage your domestic life?”
Edmond backed away with his hands raised in submission.
“Alice, what you may think, whatever your opinion of me, you are mistaken.”
“Get out!” Her snarl was quiet and all the more menacing for it. “Kindly refrain from entering my private rooms again. This marriage is at its end. I shall spare us both the public scandal of a divorce. I shall repair to the North Country under the pretext of caring for an elderly relation, and we shall see each other never more.”
Her eyes flicked from his astonished face to the door. He failed to get the message. She turned from him and picked up a comb.
Deflated and confused, Edmond left her alone. Flat-footed, he descended to his den. The decanters were all empty. He rang for Morton and demanded an explanation, in the hope that there would be one thing in his life that he could understand.
Morton confessed to being remiss in his replenishments and would despatch an under-footman to the cellars with all haste.
“I shall fetch it myself!” the Earl barked but Morton was able to dissuade him from that course of action. Edmond flopped into his favourite armchair and the faithful retainer headed for the kitchen to do his master’s bidding, regretful that his ploy to keep hard spirits out of his master’s reach had failed.
Not even the favourite armchair could assuage the Earl’s perturbation. He paced the floor of his den, muttering and swearing. That a man could be so defied under his own roof! That a wife could be so - so - contrary! That I could be so suspected!
It was unconscionable! Intolerable!
The moving of his legs as he paced served as a winding key to his frustration. He became increasingly agitated. When Morton returned to decant port from a bottle, the Earl almost leapt at the man.
Edmond managed to contain himself. Morton was not at fault. It was Lady Alice who was behind all this.
He took a hefty swig of the crimson liquid, feeling calmer and more rational almost at once.
He would get to the bottom of this. He would find out what Lady Alice had done with poor Jacky.
“Will that be all, sir?” Morton dipped his head.
“Yes, thank you - No, Morton. I wish to interview Her Ladyship’s maidservant. You are to seek out old Sally and send her to me here.”
“Very good, sir.”
Morton backed out of the room. Edmond relished another sip of port. The old woman would not dare to defy him as his wife had done. He would extract the truth of the matter from her.
One way or another.
***
Lady Alice went out in her buggy; she had arrangements to make for her removal to the North and it was an opportunity to spread the cover story that she was needed to care for an invalid aunt or some such.
Her movements were remarked upon, as always, but on this occasion there was one pair of eyes that took especial interest.
The owner of these interested eyes kept a distance. It would not do for Her Ladyship to become aware she was being followed. Not just yet.
Following Lady Alice’s progress along the high street as she visited shop after shop, the observer felt a surge of strong emotions. A range of impulsive actions presented themselves and, not without struggle, were mastered and resisted.
The observer ducked into the doorway of the public house as Lady Alice’s buggy retraced its tracks and headed back towards the Hall.
Soon, Lady Alice, the observer made a silent vow. Soon...
***
“I’m sure I don’t know nothing about nothing.”
Old Sally looked the Earl directly in the eye. She was standing before him in the den. The stooped and stupid old crone, Edmond considered. Her shoulders are higher than her head.
“I find that impossible to believe,” the Earl swilled the port around in his glass. “You are such a diligent and conscientious servant and the family has valued your service for generations. You know exactly what Her Ladyship has done with my son. You know where she is keeping him. And, by God, you will tell me.”
The threat met with a blank stare. The wrinkled, almost toothless mouth had the faintest hint of a smirk.
“We shall see about that, my good woman. You are of an age where being turned out of doors would put you in great peril. Add to that the brittle nature of your ancient bones and, well, need I elaborate further?”
Old Sally’s eyes narrowed but retained their spark of defiance.
“I cannot speak of what I don’t know of,” she said, in a clipped, cold voice that reminded him of his wife.
“You know of it all right.” The Earl rose from his chair and circled the stubborn old sod. “One last chance: speak now and things will go easy for you.”
“You won’t touch me,” Old Sally sneered.
Edmond tried to conceal his surprise. She was right, of course. He wouldn’t touch her.
“You will leave this house by sunset,” he pronounced. “You will not set foot under my roof again. Now, be gone, you repellent old witch.”
He gestured dismissively towards the door.
The old witch showed him her gums in what might have been a smile. She lumbered out in no particular hurry. Her tarrying infuriated the Earl. He threw his glass goblet; it shattered on the door just above Sally’s head. The old woman didn’t even flinch. She ambled out, leaving the door open.
Edmond rang for Morton. The glass would need clearing up. The port was running low.
Damn it all. Damn every last one of them. Damn everything.
He heard his wife returning from her errands. She would answer him, damn her. She would return his son to him and then she could do what she liked.
Damn it! Where is Morton? Is everyone against me today?
***
Paul Beecroft went through the motions at his next book signing. He was distracted - the events in Miss Beamish’s notebook were occupying his mind, crowding out almost everything else. One fan stepped up to the table in happy expectation. Paul had to check the cover of the book to remind himself of his own name. He ducked out of giving a talk, claiming a sore throat. The bookshop manager was crestfallen so Paul offered to sign every copy of his books that were in stock for future sale.
He couldn’t wait to get back on the move so he could get back into the narrative. He had a feeling things were coming to a head. An explanation would be forthcoming - how the little boy, poor Jacky, became the spectre he had seen and heard with his own eyes and ears. Ghosts are all about unfinished business, aren’t they? Or sudden, violent death that leaves the person unaware that they are meant to have passed over. That’s how it went in all the stories and films...
For Paul it was more than the potential for a new novel; it was a chance to make sense of what had happened all those years ago, to Steven, to Darren and Pong.
It would mean he could put all of his difficulties behind him. Closure, the Americans called it.
It would make the time he had had to spend in that - that - hospital worthwhile.
He said excuse me to the next punter and turned his back just long enough to swallow his meds and take a gulp of water. Perhaps he wouldn’t need these little pills any more when all this business was brought out into the open. The doctors would be forced to see he wasn’t barmy or round the bloody twist after all.
“My wife’s a big fan,” a man in a flat cap and a raincoat muttered through a straggly moustache.
“That should save on the air conditioning,” Paul laughed. He found he couldn’t stop. A look of panic came to his eyes but he kept braying. The punter snatched the book back, unsigned, and scurried away. The manager intervened to stop the next one coming forward.
Paul got to his feet; he tottered.
“Where are you then?” he roared at the waiting line of pale faces. “Come on! Show yourselves! Darren! Pong! Steven! I conjure you!”
A general air of puzzlement arose. The queuing punters shifted uneasily. Some of them thought it might be a stunt. A scare especially for them. They whispered this notion behind their hands. Within a minute, everyone was grinning, waiting for the scary writer to make his next move.
Paul’s next move was to spring onto the table. He brandished his pen like a blade. He scanned the eager, upturned faces.
“I know you’re here. You must be here. You’ve been dogging my footsteps all these years. Show yourselves, fuck you!”
The manager smiled and raised his hands in a bid for the queue’s attention. He tried to encourage them into a round of applause, to thank Paul Beecroft for his time and for his unorthodox but entertaining manner of drawing proceedings to a close.
An assistant approached the table and offered Paul her hand. She helped him to step down onto his chair and then to the floor. She steered him towards the staff room. He continued to laugh like a maniac with a winning lottery ticket all the way there.
***
Rick, meanwhile, had made no progress with the notebook he had agreed to read. His boss at the Railway Hotel had called him in for extra shift after extra shift. There was a convention in town and the bar was crammed with sales reps and team leaders and coordinators and facilitators and all of those kinds of people. They were away from home and enjoying their freedom. Off the leash and on the lash. It was great business for the hotel and Rick would be glad of the extra money but he felt he was letting Paul Beecroft down. He had been given a task to perform and he hadn’t even made a start. A research task for an actual proper writer! It could be the first stepping stone on the ladder - or something like that - in his climb out of Dedley and towards his literary aspirations.
Things were getting rowdy in the bar and the karaoke hadn’t even started yet. Rick checked his watch. Perhaps he could make a start on the notebook when he got home. Five long hours still to go.
Great.
***
The manager of the bookshop kept Paul in the staffroom until his agent could get there. On the phone she had almost sounded like she’d been expecting the call.
“I’ll be right there,” she had drawled. “Keep the schmuck on ice.”
The manager only had a vague idea what this meant. His main concern was that closing time was approaching. It was like being kept in detention.
The writer seemed to have calmed down. Unseen, the manager had switched his coffee to decaff - not that Beecroft was actually drinking the vile stuff. He was nursing the cup in his hands, taking comfort from its warmth alone.
“I can understand. I can understand perfectly.” The manager took an anxious peek through the vertical blinds. He could barely see the street below - what was he expecting, for the Jewish-sounding woman to float up to the third floor and tap on the window?
“Travelling hither and yon day after day. All the places must blend into a, um, blur after a while. Having to paint on the smile. Hotel room after hotel room. Must be tough.”
The manager didn’t believe this for a second. Writers! Pfft! They should try running a branch of a failing book chain in a shrinking market. That’s tough, mate. They should send in the Marines.
There was a light tap at the door. An assistant - Sharon? Susan? Kaye? - popped her head in. Nice girl, still here after her shift finished. Keen.
“There’s - She’s here, um.”
The door opened and Judy swept in. She gave the manager a quick glance and ignoring the hand he extended towards her, headed directly to her client.
“Paul! Boychick!” She kissed the air at either side of his face, then made him sit down. She perched on a chair beside him and held one of his hands in both of hers. She searched his eyes. “Have you taken your... I hope you’ve been taking your...”
“Judy!” Paul blinked, a little confused. Then he seemed to wake up. “Yes, yes; I’ve taken the meds. And I have been taking them. I’m fine. Really. Truly.”
Judy turned to the manager who felt like a sausage roll at a Vegan wedding.
“What are we going to do with him?” she rolled her eyes. “What am I going to do with him? Writers for you. Can’t trust them to look after themselves. Other-worldly and what-have-you. At least he remembered to put his trousers on.”
She laughed. The manager shifted uncomfortably.
“Don’t worry, sugar. We’ll get out of your hair.” She helped Paul to his feet. The manager handed her Paul’s bag, which she hitched over her shoulder. “That is your own hair, isn’t it? Such colour! I keep telling this one he should embrace the colour and the dyeing but well, it’s his brand, isn’t it? This shock of white. Distinctive - no, I mean, distinguished. Or do I mean both? Oy, I don’t know where I’m coming or going.”
By this point she’d steered Paul towards the exit.
“Good business?” she asked. “My boy today, I mean?”
“Well...” the manager made a vague gesture. He held the door open.
“Well, thank you, thank you. Come on, Paul; watch your step! Thank you for your patience. And your discretion, of course. I know we can count on you for your discretion.”
The manager nodded, tight-lipped. He closed the door behind them and drew his hand down his face. Discretion, my arse, he thought. A bit of publicity might bring more people into the shop. Yes...
***
Judy delivered Paul to his hotel and made sure he was safely ensconced in his room before she made her way back to London. Writers! Always a liability. You can’t let them out on their own. She had thought Paul had left all this - this - business behind. The publication of his first novel seemed to set him on an even keel, gave him purpose in life. Direction. He hadn’t had a slip like this for twenty years. Well, not publicly, not to Judy’s knowledge.
She had known all along that a return to his hometown was a mistake. Digging about in the past. It was that damned place that had sent him to the funny farm. She feared her best client was headed for a breakdown like the one that had got him put away fresh out of university or poly-whatsit or whatever the damn place was called. Writing his first book seemed to have exorcised those demons. Feh; perhaps you were never free of your demons. Perhaps they only left you alone for a while.
Damn it; she couldn’t be around to hold his hand and watch his back and keep an eye on him around the clock. She had other clients that needed her Laboutin up their backsides.
She fretted to herself all the way back to the city and all the way through a few too many martinis.
She hoped all this was worth it - and by that she meant it would lead to another record-breaking Beecroft bestseller.
***
Paul slept like a dead man. He woke, thanks to the insistence of his bladder, at two a.m. He felt calm. Pissing in the en suite enhanced his sense of wellbeing. He padded back to bed and found he was wide awake.
Memories of the signing nudged the corners of his mind.
Oops.
Another Banquo’s Ghost moment there. Would Macbeth have been taken less seriously if the ghost of someone called Pong had turned up for dinner?
Suddenly, Paul started. Perhaps one of his ‘old friends’ would put in an appearance in this room. He scanned the corners. It would be just like Darren or Pong to materialise in the empty chair. Or for Steven’s head to gawp up at him if he opened the bedside drawer...
Nonsense!
All the same, Paul refrained from opening the drawer just in case. He made himself a cup of tea, piled up the pillows behind him and settled in to read Miss Beamish’s notebook.
***
Edmond reckoned Lady Alice had stashed the boy somewhere. She was busy making preparations to leave Dedley Hall. The boy had been bundled off somewhere - but where? That was the question.
He scoured the grounds. The outhouses and cottages were all likely places. He barged into the homes of his workers without a by-your-leave, warning them that any complicity in the kidnapping of his son would result in the direst consequences.
“Your son has been kidnapped?” the workers and their families would gasp. “Poor Jacky!”
They all seemed genuinely shocked and distressed by this news. Edmond refused to be convinced. Someone somewhere knew something.
He crawled into the chicken coop on his hands and knees. He emptied the stables. He even ransacked the pigsty. How ironic Lady Alice would consider it, to conceal the child in the farmyard he loved so much!
Covered in feathers, straw, mud and several kinds of ordure, Edmond staggered back to the Hall.
“Shall I fill the bath, sir?” Morton intoned, his expression unreadable.
Edmond ignored him and stomped up the main stairs, creating no end of work for those tasked with keeping the place clean.
He burst into Lady Alice’s apartments. She was dressed for travel in her long coat, gloves and fur hat. A cloak with a high collar completed the ensemble. The room looked bare already. Drawers and wardrobes were open and empty. Only a trunk, a suitcase and a couple of hatboxes remained, waiting patiently to be carried out.
The reality of the situation struck Edmond like a punch in the face. He turned and closed the door. He locked it and pocketed the key.
“You are leaving, then.”
“I am leaving right now.” Lady Alice looked him up and down. “What on Earth have you been doing?”
“Looking for my son! You cannot keep him from me. I forbid it.”
“Oh, pray don’t be tedious, Edmond. Let us have a clean break without any fuss.” She looked him up and down again. “As clean as you can make it, given your current state.”
“Jokes, Alice? At a time like this?”
“When better? I have rung for the carriage. And it’s no use your bullying Morton or any of the rest of them. I have not revealed to anyone my destination.”
