Twisted Agendas Page 5

  Five minutes later, when Julia came outside to the street, Mrs. Hartley was still standing by her car. She was chatting to Sonia Berg, the German psychiatrist who lived just beyond the railway bridge on the south side of the street. Sonia had stopped her VW Beetle in the middle of the road and was standing half-in half-out of the vehicle, her right foot planted on the tarmac.

  “Good morning,” Julia said, and nodded at them.

  “Ah Julia, it is you,” Dr. Berg said. “I have been meaning to ring and thank you for your lovely party. It was so wery fun.” She laughed shrilly. “Jean-Pierre enjoyed himself and will pay for the dry-cleaning of your tablecloth. You will give me the bill?”

  Mrs. Hartley’s face twisted into a grimace.

  “Don’t worry about it, Sonia.”

  Having met the doctor’s Congolese boyfriend on a number of occasions, Julia had formed the opinion he was socially inept. He made no effort to join in conversation and she figured Sonia was with him only because he was good in bed.

  The doctor climbed into the sunflower stenciled Bug and revved the engine so that it hummed in that singular Volkswagony way. “Mrs. Hartley, do not forget to tell your friend Martha it is important she keep her appointments with me.”

  Her neighbour’s face was still pinched with disapproval as she watched Sonia drive away.

  “Is anything wrong, Mrs. Hartley? I noticed you examining my car again.”

  “You parked too close to mine again, Madam.”

  She found Mrs. Hartley’s tendency to address her as ‘Madam’ quaintly polite. She also felt sorry for the old woman. She’d heard her husband had died tragically. Julia glanced at her neighbour’s ancient Morris Minor.

  “I don’t think it’s that close, Mrs. Hartley.”

  “It is.”

  Julia’s mobile rang and she took it from her bag. “There’s at least six to eight inches between our bumpers. I’ll try to park it further… oh, hello, Clive. Thanks for calling back.” She held up her hand to signal to Mrs. Hartley that she wouldn’t be long. “Yes, fifty quid will be enough.” She laughed. “Of course, I’m worth it. Listen, if you’re having it tight this month I understand. I’ll take whatever you can afford.”

  Mrs. Hartley shook her head. “Just see you park further away from my motor next time, Madam.” And she walked away.

  Lunchtime at The Pound and Penny, a Hammersmith pub serving excellent steak pies and boasting a small beer garden was always packed. As she pushed open one of the narrow double front doors, Julia sent a young woman sipping a pint of lager scuttling into the chest of her male companion. Oblivious to the man’s scowl as he brushed beer off his silk tie, she scanned the room for Clive while cutting a path through the throng. She found him bent over the jukebox in the billiard room next door.

  “There’s never anything decent to play on this thing,” he said, and kissed her on each cheek.

  “They don’t cater to club queens here, Clive.”

  “Hey, you want me to loan you fifty quid or not?”

  “I couldn’t resist that.”

  Clive reached up to the top of the jukebox and retrieved a glass from among the spent beer mugs and stack of whisky glasses. “I got you a gin-and-tonic.” He took out a folded bundle of notes from the pocket of his jeans and handed it to her.

  “I’ll pay you back on Friday,” she said. “I promise.”

  A stocky, hirsute man with a wide forehead, his upper lip partially obscured by a long moustache half-coated in foam, Clive wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Have I got a bit of juicy goss’ for you,” he said.

  “You know I don’t like gossip.”

  “Your boss is definitely shagging that stewardess you think is so good-looking.”

  Julia sighed. “I don’t care who he screws.”

  As a twenty-five-year-old, pretty immigration officer who’d now worked one year at Heathrow, Julia’s objective was to avoid office politics and airport gossip. She wanted only to work her way through the ranks and get promoted as quickly as government jobs allowed.

  “Have you asked round the airline if anyone needs to rent a room?” she asked.

  “Nobody knows anyone wanting to move. But I’ll keep my ear cocked.”

  “I’ve had no responses from my ad and it’s such a pain having to keep the house constantly tidy.” Julia sighed heavily and took a large gulp of gin. “You should have seen me yesterday afternoon. I attacked the living room with a vengeance, dragging the hoover around with one hand and a duster in the other. I need to find someone fast or I’ll lose the house.”

  “Sell the Jag. That thing guzzles petrol. Buy a Mini.” He laughed. “It’d make your neighbour very happy by the sound of it.”

  “Oh, please. Can you really see me in a Mini?”

  Peculiar questions

  She wondered if she’d made a mistake. Piper thought he was open, honest and very friendly. Certainly he’d behaved that way on the ferry and during the ride to London. She didn’t question his integrity. The guy had already paid rent even though she’d told him it wasn’t necessary. He’d also chipped in forty pounds towards the purchase of food, something her regular tenant Pat had never offered.

  She just didn’t understand why he’d become so reserved. He’d hardly spoken the first evening when she’d generously cooked dinner for him, even gone to the trouble of inviting her neighbour Sonia Berg so he could meet new people. And then the peculiar question he’d asked, what she thought about illegally altered guns, while they watched the news this evening. It was very strange. All they’d been watching at the time was the capture of some guy who’d robbed a flat in Knightsbridge.

  “Time for me to get outta here,” she said.

  Danny turned away from the television and looked at her. “I, er, I’ve been meaning to ask you something else.”

  “Quick. I’m gonna be late for my shift.”

  “I found… in my room, there’s… ” He fell silent.

  “What?”

  “You were right, it is very warm in my room.”

  “Are we cool, Danny?”

  He nodded.

  “Hey, I know you’re probably missing home. It takes time to adapt to city life.”

  “It sure does.”

  That must be his problem, she’d forgotten how strange everything had been when she first moved here.

  “Why don’t you drop by the pub for a drink this evening?” she said. “Todd’ll be there and he’s anxious to meet you. We’re going on to a club later if you want to come, too.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I’ll even buy you a beer.”

  “I’ll come but I won’t go clubbing.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve got an interview for a flat.”

  This was one thing about the guy that Piper really admired. Since the first night, he’d been working feverishly to find himself a place, scouring the newspapers for vacancies even though she’d told him there was no need to rush. When Piper had first come to London, she’d spent the first week sightseeing. Not Danny. He was determined.

  “Where’s it located?” she asked.

  “Peckham Rye.”

  “I don’t think you want to live there. Lots of rough spots and no tube.” She went to the door. “See you later then.”

  My mistake

  His father’s warning about London reverberated in his head. At first he’d thought the shotgun was a toy because its barrel was too short. He’d thought it was some inferior Chinese replica she’d purchased to frighten off potential intruders. However, after he held it, its hefty weight and the icy touch of the metal, he was convinced of its perverse authenticity and put it quickly back into the furthest corner of the wardrobe.

  Guns were taboo in his family. Never discussed. The experience of finding it had been so upsetting, Danny’d spent the night following its discovery peering often at the locked wardrobe, his eyes drawn to the rickety door as if by a magnet. Its presence penetrated deep into
his psyche and his mind kept posing a terrible question he couldn’t stop. What if it was loaded and he got depressed and used it to kill himself? That’s how many suicides happened. He calmed the unease every time by reminding himself he had access to carving knives every day and they were just as dangerous, that he’d never contemplated taking his life. But he didn’t want to touch the thing again, didn’t even want to share a room with such lethality.

  Piper was likeable, a girl he could fancy, but she’d hidden a sawn off shotgun in her wardrobe. He knew from watching documentaries and news bulletins that America had crazies. Everyone over there was permitted to carry guns, and some of these crazies murdered, shooting people dead in schools, offices and on the streets, sometimes without a shred of provocation. Part of Danny wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. The other part just kept thinking of the shotgun. If she needed a gun for security, why not a little pistol? Why not mace? She had to know it was illegal to keep firearms. She’d certainly known the British law about search and seizure when they’d been stopped by the police. There’d also been the weird behaviour when she’d ripped pages from her notebook. That was just weird, of course. But weird could overlap with crazy.

  He arrived at The George in Covent Garden ten minutes before last orders were called. Piper bought him a pint of lager and guided him to a corner of the bar where her boyfriend Todd was already drinking. He was handsome and cleft chinned. A pair of John Lennon-style spectacles accentuated his intellectual air. After introducing them, Piper left to attend to an impatient customer.

  “Ever worked in a bar?” Todd asked.

  “No.”

  “It’s nasty, man. In the States, we have bar backs doing the grunt work at least. Over here, you have to do everything and customers don’t even give tips… except from visiting Americans until they learn how things work.”

  Danny watched Piper draw a pint of ale, noticing the tautness of her skin and how the muscles in her upper arms flexed on the downward pull.

  “You and Piper study together, don’t you?”

  “We don’t take the same courses.”

  So she was definitely a student.

  Todd swirled the last of his beer to make it froth before looking at him. “So you guys met on the ferry?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And she asked you to move in the same day?”

  “Yes.”

  Todd was silent for a moment. “What’s your secret, dude?”

  “I’m not sure I… ”

  “I’ve been telling her we should live together but she won’t listen. She keeps sayin’ two months isn’t enough time.” His eyes flitted behind the bar. “Me, I know it is.”

  “I’m looking for a flat.”

  “Good to know.”

  “What do you study?” Danny asked.

  “Comparative Politics.”

  “But she does that too, doesn’t she?”

  Piper smiled over. It was impossible not to like her. She couldn’t be crazy. There had to be a logical explanation for the gun’s presence.

  “She does Irish stuff as well.” Todd turned toward Danny. “You like her, huh?”

  “She’s smart, and pretty and… ”

  “You find her hot?”

  Danny didn’t think it smart to tell him what he thought. “Tell me, whereabouts is the LSE, exactly?”

  “I think she’s hot. She’s also mine. And the LSE’s in Houghton Street.”

  When he got back to Chumley Street after eleven, he found the living room curtains drawn and the lights turned on. Coldplay’s Yellow belted from a radio upstairs. He opened the living room door and peered cautiously inside, saw a man’s lightweight bomber jacket laying on the back of the sofa, its arms outstretched as if its owner had shimmied out of it while still seated. On the coffee table was a duffel bag. Beside it lay a knife, pair of kitchen gloves, a short piece of wood, and what appeared to be a lump of flecked, light-tan coloured putty.

  He stepped inside. The door slammed shut. Before he could turn around, an arm wrapped around his neck and squeezed hard while he was simultaneously propelled across the room. To protect his face from smashing into the wall, Danny stuck out his hands. The fingers of his right hand struck the edge of a fisheye mirror above the mantle. It slipped off the nail securing it to the wall and smashed to pieces on the hearth tiles.

  “Who the hell are you?” came a Northern Irish accent.

  “I’m staying here.” Danny tried to pry the man’s arm off by grabbing at his wrist, “Piper invited me… ”

  “She’s in Ireland.”

  “I gave her a lift back.” Upstairs, he heard the toilet flushing. “My name’s Danny Connolly. I come from Northern Ireland, too.”

  “Connolly, eh? A fenian.” The man released his grip. “I thought you were here to rob the joint. My mistake. Sorry about that.” He nodded toward the window. “A place down the street was broken into three weeks ago.”

  Feet pounded on the stairs and then the door flung open. “Why the hell’d you shut the door, Pat?” A woman came inside. In her early thirties and stocky like his assailant, her small mouth puckered into an ‘O’ when she saw Danny. “Who’s this?” She glanced over at the items on the coffee table.

  “He’s a friend of Piper’s. She’s come back early.”

  “She has?”

  “Where you from back home?” Pat asked, his chummy tone in bizarre contrast to the prior ruthlessness.

  “Near Strabane.”

  “Get away,” the woman said. “I’m from the Bogside. Who’s your people?”

  While he explained, Danny massaged the sides of his neck, the harsh shock of the attack weakening to mild queasiness.

  “Another fenian living in London,” Pat said. He put the putty, knife and other articles into the duffel bag. “The English don’t like our type much so we all have to stick together here. Isn’t that right?”

  The question hung suspended in the thick atmosphere as both watched Danny intently.

  “If you say so,” he said.

  “Bloody right I say so, young fella.” Crooked front teeth flashed when the man smiled. “Sorry again. I didn’t mean to hurt ye, like.”

  His expression of remorse intensified Danny’s unease.

  “I’m fixing a friend’s window and came back to get some things I need.” Pat tapped the duffel bag and laughed, but the attempt at levity sounded as artificial as his apology. “Tell Piper I’ll see her right about the mirror.”

  “Don’t tell me you broke that?” the woman said, glancing over at the fragments. “That’s seven years bad luck.”

  “Aye, but whose?” Pat snorted.

  “Was it you broke it, Pat?”

  “Technically, Danny here did,” he said, as he slipped on his bomber jacket.

  “Oh, thank God for that.”

  Speak of the devil

  Her friend’s false teeth separated from her gums with a tiny sucking sound every time she chewed on the ginger snap. At sixty-eight-years-old, Agnes was twelve years younger than Martha, their friendship starting because their late husbands had been close friends since their service in the Royal Navy. Agnes’ marmalade cat padded into the living room with his bent tail held high. He stopped abruptly as he was passing by Martha and began to sniff, his head lifting higher and higher until it disappeared beneath her skirt.

  Agnes rose hastily and brought him back to her chair. She’d just treated Martha to lunch at her favourite café on King Street, a weekly outing both women looked forward to, but it had not been pleasant. Martha smelled and the young waitress made it obvious without actually saying a word that she didn’t want to serve them. A proud woman who’d always been fastidious about her appearance, Martha had begun of late to forget to bathe and her clothes reeked of stale perspiration. It pained Agnes to see this and decided she must come over to Martha’s flat more often and help her out.

  “You’re ever so lucky to be living across the river now, Martha. Things have changed on this s
treet and not for the better. That hussy next door is forever entertaining and she’s so noisy. The council won’t do a thing when I complain.”

  “Young people today have no respect.”

  They fell silent, the ticking clock and Martha’s moving teeth the only noises in the room.

  “You need to keep your appointments with Doctor Berg,” Agnes said. “She works for the National Health Service and could report you as a no show and you know what kind of trouble that might bring.” She sipped her tea. “They could send out a social worker and they do like to interfere.”

  “Why does Blair allow doctors that don’t speak like us to work over here?”

  “It’s all to do with the European Economic Community.” Agnes recalled what her husband used to say, how the Germans lost the war only to get their companies and people into England when it joined Europe. “Charlie and your Norm always said we should never have joined the E.E.C.”

  “Poor Norm,” said Martha. “I always thought I’d be first to kick the bucket.”

  “Women last longer.” As she leaned toward her friend, she caught a whiff of body odour. “You know what, Martha? I’m in the mood to reset that barnet of yours.”

  “Nothing wrong with my bleedin’ hair.”