How to Be Bad (14 page)

Another very useful aspect of Gordon's will was its stipulation that he be given no funeral service. A lifelong atheist, he had instructed that no undertaker should profit from his corpse, no priest intone pious platitudes over it. Gordon wished only for his body to be placed in the cheapest available coffin and unceremoniously burned. His ashes were to be taken to Harwich, where his boat had once been moored, there to be strewn on the sea—the sea that he had never once managed to sail on.

The lack of a funeral service was particularly useful to us, because it meant that Caro wasn't obliged to make a public pretense of grief. This was a great relief to me, as it had been hard enough to prevent her from laughing when she'd identified her father's body.

Not that Caro's attitude to Gordon was entirely callous. She did shed tears for her father, not so much crying for what she'd lost but for what she never had.

The most astounding result of Gordon's violent death was that it had left Caro financially secure. She had his house valued and found it was worth six and a half million. Gordon's other assets amounted to four million in various savings accounts and insurance policies and three-quarters of a million in stocks and shares. Even if the taxes she would have to pay sliced the fortune in half, she would be left with about five million. Unless she invested all her assets in luminous earmuffs, Caro would never have to defraud a credit card company again.

*   *   *

O
UR FUTURE
assured, we got married at the Richmond registry office on a sunny Saturday. It was a drab occasion, despite the unseasonal sunshine. Only my immediate family were in attendance. My mother wept through the ceremony, and not because she was happy; Mum had never liked Caro and thought I was making a serious mistake.

With something of a shock, Caro and I realized we didn't have any friends. Literally no one to invite. I asked Wallace, but he couldn't come because it was a Saturday and his kids were staying with him for the weekend. “Bring them along,” I urged him.

“I really don't think Caro's suitable for children,” he answered.

Afterward, we'd booked a champagne buffet aboard a Thames pleasure cruiser. I think the only person who enjoyed the trip was my brother, who had brought along his new girlfriend, a teenaged shopgirl called Marina who laughed at all his jokes.

My father got tipsy and amiable, flirting with Caro, whom he'd obviously always fancied. My mother told Dad to act his age. Dad's response, although not ill-intentioned, was not helpful. “It's not my fault, my voluptuous darling, that she's younger and thinner than you are.”

By the time we docked at Hampton Court, we were all so drunk that we couldn't be bothered to disembark, so we asked the crew to turn the boat around. The moon and stars began to show in the late afternoon sky. As the boat sailed under Richmond Bridge, Caro took me aside and threw her arms around me. “After all these years, I can't believe I finally married my Madeline.”

“So you admit it!”

“It was meant as a compliment.”

“That's not what Andy Wallace told me.”

“Andy Wallace is a simpleton. When I called you Madeline, it was a reference to your strongly developed feminine side.”

Before I could protest, my dad came over to tell us both a joke. It was the one about the echo. (I'd heard it before.) My attention wandered to the bank, and I noticed a gray-haired man sitting alone on a bench, staring straight ahead and sobbing as we glided past. Something about his appearance seemed unsettlingly familiar, as if I were seeing an apparition of myself in forty years' time.

*   *   *

F
OR THE
first time in our lives, Caro and I borrowed money we would actually be able to repay. We spent three weeks in Europe. It was our first holiday together. We visited Florence, where we saw Michelangelo's David glaring at the Medicis to distract attention from his uncommonly small penis. Then on to Venice, where we searched in vain for female dwarfs in scarlet duffel coats. We passed our time sightseeing, eating, and screwing, splendidly drunk on fuck-the-world elation.

The last week was spent at Euro Disney. It was Caro's idea, not mine. Frankly, it didn't matter to me where we were. That holiday was the highlight of our entire lives and possibly the only time either of us had ever been truly happy.

When we got back, I logged on to my old Web site to sort through the countless complaints from customers who'd ordered books and not received them. I'd posted a personal announcement on the Web site, stating that my business had been razed to the ground and that anyone who'd purchased an item that no longer existed would be fully refunded, but I was still getting abuse from people who hadn't read the message and thought I was the laziest bookseller in the universe.

Among these loving epistles was an e-mail from someone at Hotmail who called himself Guy Montag. As soon as I opened it, I saw it was another blaze of goodwill from my anonymous hater.

You are such a pathetic excuse for a man. Do you really think she loves you? Do you really think she wants your miserable, undersized cock in her face? She will use you and discard you but you deserve it because you are too weak and pitiful

I stopped reading, partly because I didn't want these sick ramblings in my head, but mainly because I'd remembered that Guy Montag was the hero of Ray Bradbury's
Fahrenheit 451,
a futuristic fireman whose full-time occupation is burning books.

*   *   *

W
E'D DECIDED
to be careful with our money. Having sampled dire poverty, we had no desire to go back there. But Caro had to allow herself one luxury. She went out and bought herself a secondhand BMW Sportster like the one that had been repossessed. Her present to me, to my astonishment, was a fine copy of “
Casino Royale.”

“How did you get this?”

“It's yours. I stole it from your shop just before the fire,” admitted Caro coyly. “But aren't you glad that I did?”

*   *   *

C
ARO REFUSED
to move into Gordon's house. She felt that everything her father had touched was cursed and infected. She was physically unable to sit in a chair that he had occupied, and the mere thought of his underpants could launch her into hysterics.

It therefore goes without saying that she had no desire to keep her father's ashes. As a joke, she offered them to Eileen. Neither one of us was particularly surprised when Eileen turned them down. The vulgar woman hadn't really wanted Gordon in his original state, so what possible appeal could the incinerated version hold for her? As a conciliatory gesture, Caro called Eileen to the house, inviting her to help herself to a memento, any object that reminded her of Gordon. Eileen chose the Sony plasma-screen television.

“So that reminds you of my dad, does it?” said Caro cynically.

“Why not?” said Eileen. “He spent enough time watching it.”

“You couldn't find anything worth less than four and a half thousand quid that was vaguely reminiscent of him?”

“Your father, young lady, was about to share all his wordly goods with me,” said Eileen. “He would not have begrudged me a television set.”

I gave Caro a look, and she appeared to relent. Eileen's son walked in to take the TV away. He was slightly younger than me, but pudgy with a bright pink face. I couldn't help thinking he found the situation embarrassing. He tried to lift the television, but it was too heavy. I had to help him carry it out to a van parked in the drive.

Eileen stood in the porch, watching us struggling. I heard her say to Caro, “I suppose you've got what you want now?”

“I can't complain,” said Caro.

“Yes, it all seems to have worked out very convenient for you,” continued Eileen. “Some would say almost
too
convenient.”

“Firstly,” retorted Caro, “the word you're searching for is ‘conveniently.' And secondly,
Mark, bring back that telly!
”

“Caro, let it go,” I said.

“No!” Caro sprinted down the drive, and while Mr. Pink Boy and I were lifting the Sony into the back of the van, she launched a roundhouse kick that Lenny could not have bettered and put her foot through the TV screen.

CHAPTER 9

HI, INFIDELITY

T
HE WEEKS
passed, but there was still no sign of Caro's riches. It was a stressful time for us, suspended as we were between outrageous wish fulfillment and the crippling possibility that our life was about to turn into an Ealing comedy.
(Mark and Caro are forced to embark on a new killing spree when Caroline's solicitor discovers that she is adopted and that the Caroline Sewell referred to in the will is actually Gordon's first daughter, the illegitimate heir to his millions.)

Caro's bank manager, all smiles, had offered her a generous overdraft. But she didn't want the bank's money. She wanted her own.

Most days, we walked in Kew Gardens, talking about all the things we were going to do with our wealth. It was my plan to behave like the reformed Scrooge, giving my brother and my parents ten thousand each. Caro thought this was a bad idea. “Whatever you give them won't be enough. If you give them ten thousand and they know you've got a million, they'll still think you're a mean bastard.”

*   *   *

O
N THE
evening of my class with Lenny, I placed the Kimber handgun at the bottom of my rucksack and covered it with my karate suit. At the door, I kissed Caro good-bye. Five minutes later, I returned to the flat.

“What's the matter?” she said, her face noticeably paler than usual.

“I don't know whether I can be bothered with all this self-defense shit anymore. We'll soon be able to hire a bodyguard.”

“No, you've got to learn how to look after yourself.” Caro virtually pushed me out of the door. “I want you to protect me.”

“So you're saying I've
got
to go?”

“It's for your own good.”

I knew then that something was wrong.

At the noisy, yobby pub next to Kew station, I bought a horrible warm pint of bitter and drank it at a table outside, my breath turning to mist in the cold. After ten minutes of refrigerating my sphincter, I decided I was being paranoid and caught the next train to Hammersmith. I got off at Baron's Court, meaning to walk to Hammersmith. Instead, I switched platforms and caught the next train back to Kew.

It was only a ten-minute walk from the station to Caro's flat, but I made it last longer by walking as slowly as I could. I reached the house to find a pastel blue Porsche with a familiar registration plate parked in the drive. Trembling, I unlocked the front door and stepped into the nasty communal hall. I could smell fried garlic.

Opposite me stood the door to the ground-floor flat, silent and dark, permanently unoccupied. The landlady preserved it as a shrine to her son, who once owned the entire house but died tragically young.

A supernaturally well behaved New Zealand couple occupied the top floor. The only time we were aware of their presence was at weekends, when they acted as hosts to an endless trail of backpacker Kiwis in search of free accommodation.

The smell of garlic emanated from Caro's flat. I climbed the stairs and turned my key in the lock. The door to Caro's flat didn't open. It was bolted on the inside. I hammered on the door with my fist, shouting Caro's name. “Is that fucking biblical bastard in there with you?”

After a few minutes, I heard Caro's voice. “Mark, go away. Please.”

“You're my wife,” I said. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to keep us alive.”

“You're fucking him. You are, aren't you? Answer me!” I punched and kicked the door, but it held fast. “You're my
wife,
you fucking bitch!”

On the other side of the door, Caro pleaded with me. “Mark.
Please.
Don't make it worse than it already is.”

I was about to ask her how it could be worse when I remembered the gun. I rushed down the stairs and out of the front door.

A narrow passage ran alongside the house, ending in a gate that led to the back garden. I passed through the gate and stood among the rank, overgrown weeds. A light shone in our bedroom window. Almost vomiting with jealousy, I took the Kimber out of my bag and aimed it at the window. I didn't hear the first shot because a plane was flying over, its landing lights as big as saucers. The second shot hit one of the windowpanes, blasting an enormous jagged hole through the glass. Dread filled me at the thought that I might have hurt Caro. I stopped firing.

After about five minutes, the gate creaked softly. Something pale and vaguely luminous drifted into sight, and I heard a man's voice. “Killer?”

It was Jesus.

“What?” I said.

“Are you all right?” He sounded friendly, almost gentle.

Gentle Jesus.

As he drew closer, he held up his hands. “Listen, if you want to shoot me, you better do it. But I'd rather you heard what I have to say. Okay?”

I didn't answer. It was dark, and he couldn't possibly have seen the expression on my face or where the gun was pointing. But, exhibiting the kind of wild courage that had established his reputation, he walked straight over to me and placed a hand on my shoulder.

“Listen, man,” he said quietly. “It seems I owe you an apology. Until just now, I didn't even know you and Caro got married. I mean, she never told me. She doesn't wear a ring or anything. I thought you were just another punk, one of the hundreds of thousands of filthy punks who chase her pussy every day. When I sent those guys to bat you around, I just didn't appreciate what was going down between you and her.”

“So you admit it, then? You tried to cripple me?”

“Well, how was I to know you were the most important thing in her life? Anyway, it backfired. My boys were the ones who got crippled. What have you got to be pissed about?”