Corpsing (30 page)

A couple of the earlier actors did a passable impression of terror. I enjoyed torturing them. Importantly, Anne-Marie got used to the whole set-up: the threats, the screaming; the way I tied them up to help get them into the role. With each of the actors, I did a little improvisation: I made them – as an exercise – pretend they were talking to their own mother. Most of them were delighted with this.

Everything was set.

Laurence, due at six, arrived five minutes early. Anne-Marie answered the door and led him in, just as she had with all the others. Anne-Marie was behaving very well. Laurence was wearing black.

‘You?’ he said, surprised.

He shook my hand, gripping it slightly too tightly and for a moment too long.

‘You know each other?’ asked Anne-Marie.

‘We’ve met,’ I said.

‘Why didn’t you say?’ she said.

‘I didn’t want to sway you either way,’ I said. We’ll talk about this later.’

‘You should see it at our house,’ Laurence said. ‘It’s mad – photographers everywhere. My parents almost didn’t let me out. But I lied. I told them I was –’

‘What is this?’ said Anne-Marie, sharply.

‘Shall we get on?’ I said.

Laurence sat down on the sofa and I gave him a couple of pages of script to read through.

I was seated opposite, in one of the two non-matching armchairs. In between us, on the brown carpet, was a low glass coffee-table stacked with fashion magazines. Underneath this was the courier bag, which now contained the Gruber & Litvak, the live bullets, the pollution masks and the rope.

Anne-Marie perched herself dubiously on the left arm of the other armchair. She wasn’t happy with this new situation, but that didn’t matter so long as she behaved.

‘Hmm,’ Laurence said, not even half-way down the page. ‘This is good.’

‘I think it could do with some improvement,’ I said. ‘Let’s do a read-through, just for the words. No emotion.’

He did it. Raving, really.

‘This time,’ I said, ‘try it with this blindfold on. Loosen up. Try to go completely over the top.’

He went. All the way.

Anne-Marie looked a little uneasy, even though she’d seen this with all the others. She was watching me almost as closely as she was watching Laurence.

After he had finished his run-through, I sat back for a moment or two – as if to ponder, in a directorial-dilemma kind of way.

Eventually, I managed to drag something up from the depths.

‘How do you think we could change it to make it more
real?
What would
you
say to
your
parents?’

Well,’ he said, ‘I call my mother
mummy’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘And is that what you’d call her if you had a gun pointed at your head?’

‘I guess so.’

‘And your father?’

‘I just call him dad.’

‘Let’s try it,’ I said. ‘But hang on.’

I took the blindfold off, then got the rope and tied his hands together behind his back.

I pointed two gun-fingers at him.

‘Mummy? Hello… Mummy… Mummy, listen – I’ve been kidnapped. No, this isn’t a joke. They’ve got me here: they’re here right now – pointing a gun at my head. Please! Agh! Don’t! Alright. I’m trying. Mummy, you’ve got to do exactly what they say, do you get it? Exactly. You must not call the police. Or anyone. Just do what they say.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Stop.’

I picked up the phone, shielded the number, dialled Alun and Dorothy’s.

Hope they’re in. Hope they’re in.

But where else are they likely to be, with the nation’s press on their doorstep?

And didn’t Laurence just say they were at home when he set off?

It began to ring.

‘Hello,’ said the phone.

They’re in.

I reached into the courier bag and pulled out the gun.

‘Mummy?’ said Laurence.

I pointed the gun at Laurence’s head. I shoved the receiver into his face.

‘Once again,’ I said. ‘With feeling.’

Laurence began the speech.

‘Conrad,’ said Anne-Marie, ‘what the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

‘Exactly what I planned to do; exactly what you helped me do. Now shut up.’

‘That isn’t a real gun,’ Anne-Marie said. ‘It can’t be a real gun.’

‘What?’ said Laurence, breaking the script.

I could see he was thinking of attacking me, even though his hands were tied behind his back.

‘Don’t move,’ I said to Laurence. ‘Keep going.’

Laurence kept going.

I pointed the gun at Anne-Marie’s belly.

‘This is a real gun with real bullets. No thanks to you.’

‘What?’ she said.

‘Sit down,’ I said. ‘Next to him.’

Anne-Marie edged her way round the coffee-table and sat down beside Laurence on the sofa.

Laurence finished his speech.

‘Much better,’ I said.

‘Mummy, please,’ said Laurence. ‘It’s Conrad. He’s got a gun.’

I tapped him sharply on the head with the receiver.
‘That
wasn’t in the script,’ I said. Was it? Who said anything about improvisation?’

‘Conrad?’ said Dorothy.

‘Oh my god,’ said Anne-Marie, her eyes all of a sudden wide. ‘It’s a real gun.’

‘Alright, Dorothy,’ I said. ‘Let me tell you what you’re going to do, and – more importantly – what you’re not going to do…’

For once, Dorothy listened.

After I’d made it quite clear what she had to do to see her son alive again, I put the phone down on her in mid-sentence – a minor pleasure, but sweet.

‘Conrad,’ said Anne-Marie, ‘what are you going to do?’

‘I have big plans.’

‘Oh shit – that gun’s really loaded.’

‘Yes.’

‘Please don’t point it at me.’

‘Never should have trusted you, should I?’

‘What’s going on?’ said Laurence. ‘Is Mummy in on it? Is Mummy part of the audition?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Mummy’s part of the audition.’

‘It’s a great script.’

‘Stop creeping, you little shit. There’s only a minor part in it for you – unless I do some seriously major damage to your head.’

‘Leave him alone,’ shouted Anne-Marie.

I aimed the gun at her eyes.

‘Oh shit,’ she said. Then she started laughing, although it was obvious that laughing was something she didn’t want to be doing. Each ha ha ha convulsed her upper body like a sob. Her eyes watered up, but these were physical not emotional tears.

‘Please don’t point it at me,’ she finally said.

‘Lie down on the floor.’

Like a hard slap, this killed her laughter.

‘I’m lying down now,’ she said.

And she was.

‘Put your hands behind your back.’

‘I’m doing everything you say.’

Now she was behaving like the perfect little hostage.

‘You know I’ll kill you if you try to stop me.’

‘I believe you, Conrad.’

Speaking my name – calmly, gently, reassuringly.

With the rest of the rope I tied her hands and feet together.

‘That’s not too tight, is it?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she said.

I tightened it some more.

‘That’s better,’ she said.

‘I’m going to gag you. In a moment or two. Not right now.’

She didn’t respond to this.

I stepped over Anne-Marie’s hog-tied body so that I stood in front of my other hostage.

‘Open wide, Laurence,’ I said, nudging the gun barrel against his lips. He opened up: total cock-mouth.

‘Nod once for
yes,
twice for
no
. Did you ever fuck Lily?’

He nodded once.

‘God!’ said Anne-Marie.

‘You did?’ I asked.

Once.

‘When? When you were on the Strindberg tour?’

Once.

What about afterwards? Back in London?’

Twice.

‘And just before she died? Are you sure you didn’t fuck her then?’

Twice.

I got closer, staring into Laurence’s dilated pupils. He could still be lying, I thought. Probably not about having had sex with Lily. This was no time for adolescent bravado. But he might still be reluctant to admit the possibility of fatherhood. Maybe he thought I’d blow the back of his head off if he said he’d made Lily pregnant.

‘Did you know that your father fucked her?’

Once.

‘So it wasn’t just the tabloids?’ said Anne-Marie. ‘He really did?’

‘Lots,’ I said. ‘Lots and lots.’

Laurence was choking: on the barrel and on his fear of the barrel. I didn’t want to get too much saliva on the gun, so I pulled it out – lightly tapping his teeth. He coughed a little, as if he’d half-swallowed a pube.

‘My dad doesn’t love my mummy,’ he said.

What a shame.’

‘Conrad,’ said Anne-Marie. What are you doing?’

‘Gagging you,’ I said, turning round.

From the courier bag I took out the three pollution masks I’d bought in the bike shop. They should work perfectly – no choking to death, no shouting for help.

For the first time Anne-Marie looked totally afraid.

‘Trust me,’ she said. ‘I’ll help you. I love you.’

‘Hold still’

Her mask went on first, easy. I fastened it tight. Her eyes bulged as she deprived herself of air by fighting for it too hard.

‘Deep slow breaths,’ I said.

She gave me one of her don’t-patronize-me looks.

I strolled back to Laurence, got right up close.

He whimpered, shaking little shakes. Snot had started to run from his nose down on to his black long-sleeved T-shirt. The band, I noticed for the first time, was called Slayer. He’d had his sixteenth birthday only a month or so before. Poor darling. Poor…

I smelt something.

Poor baby-darling.

Something rich, round, brown.

‘You’ll be sitting in that for the next few hours,’ I said.

Laurence looked down at the carpet, ashamed.

I slipped the mask over his head, fastened it, tightened it.

‘I’m just going to be up in town,’ I said. ‘Killing your parents.’

In his frustration at not being able to get at me, he toppled over. There he lay on the sofa: bum in the air, writhing – as if I were about to anally rape him.

I knelt down and looked him in the eye, spoke gently to him, motherly, fatherly.

‘Your mummy arranged to have me and Lily shot. She was trying to stop your daddy–and you – fucking Lily. Unfortunately, I survived. I’m sure you’d be doing the same thing if you were me. I’ve got nothing against you. For some reason, Lily liked you.’

I fetched a couple of high-backed chairs from the dining area, put them back to back. Then I dragged Laurence over to them, made him sit. His trousers squelched. The air ripened.

‘Don’t move,’ I ordered.

I dragged Anne-Marie over, as well.

From the kitchen, I fetched a large roll of clingfilm – and I wrapped it around the two of them from ankles to necks.

Just for fun, I checked Laurence’s bag – I found a diary, which I flicked through: it was only for this year. Nothing Lily-related. I went over to him, holding the diary.

‘The stars in the top left-hand corner,’ I said, pointing them out. ‘That how many times you wanked?’

Once. Yes.

‘You should be careful,’ I said. I put the blindfold on him. ‘That damages your eyesight.’

Before I put on Anne-Marie’s blindfold, I looked her right in the eye.

‘I thought I could trust you,’ I said. ‘Well… anyway… I couldn’t.’

I was just moving towards the phone, the cord of which I intended to cut, when it started – more violently than usual, I felt – to ring.

Anne-Marie and Laurence tensed up, hoping already for rescue.

Six rings.

Click.

‘Hi, this is Anne-Marie. I’m sorry I can’t get to the phone right now…’

Come on, come on.

Don’t be my mother.

‘… but if you leave a message I’ll call you back.’

Beep.

‘Anne-Marie? Anne-Marie, this is Clare. You know, from Conrad. He calls me Vicky. Anyway, if you’re there, please pick up… Please… I really need to speak to you. It’s about Conrad.
Is he there with you? We need to know where he is. I suppose you’ve seen he’s all over the papers again today. Well, some of them, anyway. The rags. Guess that’s why you’re hiding out, as well. Look, it’s – There’s people here who really need to speak to him. His house got burnt down, you know. They’ve arrested someone in connection. Anyway, are you there? Look, when you get in-What?’

The line went muffled. Vicky was talking to someone the other end. I thought I heard her say
fucking hell.

‘Look, call me when you get in. As soon as you get in. Bye-bye.’

Shit.

My hand was on the receiver. I was so tempted to pick up. The moment she said they’d arrested someone for torching my flat. It felt like I was holding back every instinct I had.

Some time soon, Vicky would have to tell ‘the other people’ who were looking for me where I might be. I supposed Anne-Marie having given over her phone number as a private thing might hold her back for a while. But she’d be forced to give it up eventually. Perhaps she’d already told the person who interrupted the call.

I couldn’t now turn off the answerphone; the police would phone first (probably), and would know something was up if they didn’t get the same response Vicky had.

A line-not-working signal would have them straight round. (I’d tried my old burnt-flat number, just for the hell, and that’s what I’d got.)

I realized that I was verging on late, though I’d left plenty of time.

I went into the kitchen and fetched Anne-Marie’s portable breakfast radio. I turned it on to Capital FM.

Let them endure the punishment of quarter-hourly traffic reports whilst bound to a chair.

It was the news. At the risk of being delayed again, I stopped to listen.

There it was, right at the bottom.

‘The Metropolitan police have denied insensitivity in their handling of the shooting of Lilian Irish, better known as Brandy. Revelations in yesterday’s
Mirror
newspaper suggest that Brandy may have been pregnant at the time of her death. The whereabouts of her boyfriend, film producer Conrad Redman, also shot in the original incident, are currently unknown. A Met spokesperson confirmed Redman had been given comprehensive counselling. Redman’s house was burnt down in suspicious circumstances two days ago. An arrest has been made in connection with the arson attack.’