Ventriloquists (14 page)

Jess paused. A little breathless she said, ‘…I wouldn’t tell.’

‘You’d have no choice,’ Nero informed her. ‘They have police psychologists. You say yes and they know you mean no. And besides, if they move us, what? We escape
then?
They’ll drug us up, Jess, or brain us or something. It’s a stupid plan.’

‘Well. At least it’s
something,
Nero. Least I’m
trying
.’

‘Well don’t. You’re getting on me nerves.’

‘Tough shit,’ Jess answered sulkily.

‘We’re an experiment to them,’ Nero added, closing his eyes. ‘The pink hat on me, the blue hat on you… but it’s pink for
girls
, blue for boys. Why are they doing that? An experiment, that’s why… And they’re trying to get you pregnant, is my guess. They want a baby to fuck up.’

‘God…’

‘So the good news is you’ve probably got nine months left. The bad news is…’ Nero chuckled with surprising warmth. ‘I probably ain’t.’

I will kill them,
Nero’s mind repeated; but this time the promise did not sound anything like as certain as it had before. It more or less concluded with a question mark. The thought crossed his mind that they would want him to kill Jess... in time. The worse thought crossed his mind that by then he would probably do so for a slice of bread.

The worst thought was that he knew there would be no one to start looking for him – not yet. He was not supposed to be in the UK; no one would know that he was missing. But what were Jess’s people doing, that’s what Nero would like to know.

Whipping Boy

1.

Having eaten an extra portion of fried rice for the purposes of tonight’s sex games, Phyllie had no difficulty at all in defecating on Roger’s chest. Sometimes she struggled: she’d be straining like a toddler on the potty, her temples throbbing with the exertion, black marks flitting across her vision as she almost passed out, and all for what? A fawn-coloured, thumbnail-sized Richard, and the perfume of sin and sewers. But not tonight: tonight Roger was treated to a veritable
omelette
of ordure, which he smeared across his nipples while Phyllie fisted him with one hand and yanked him to a surprisingly copious conclusion with the other. It was only while loading the bedsheets into the washing machine that Phyllie mused on the salad days of their courtship, back when simple urination had been as far as they’d dared to go. How sweet they’d been! How green! But what did it say, she wondered parenthetically, about their marriage, that these days even watersports weren’t enough? On the night after Vig and Dorota’s barbecue, Phyllie had timidly suggested a session of vaginal intercourse, and Roger had looked at her as if she were mad. ‘You mean
retro
?’ he’d asked. ‘Not even Virginia?’ (Virginia was Roger’s preferred codeword for anal sex, after the broadcaster Virginia Bottomley.) ‘Well, let’s see how it goes, shall we?’ Phyllie had replied, and warming to the theme Roger had grinned and told her that old school might be fun,
outré
even, and that a minge was as good as a rest. But after ninety minutes he had faltered – the ‘skinhead’ had let him down – and Phyllie had felt obliged, in a spirit of
quid pro quo
, to pretend to be a rapist again and cuff him to the radiator pipe with the pink fluffy handcuffs that they usually employed only on birthdays or anniversaries. Even then Phyllie had needed to tongue his rectum before he ejaculated… and now it was over again for another evening, with Phyllie setting the machine to a spin-rinse cycle and smiling nostalgically about their early days together, when it had usually consisted of Virginia and watersports… and the odd bit of whipping.

The washing machine hummed; water drenched the drum. Phyllie left the utility room and walked into the study, where the phone was ringing. From upstairs she could hear Roger singing ‘Uptown Girl’ in the shower, and with another smile (she loved him so: Roger, not Billy Joel) she picked up the receiver and said, ‘Hello?’

‘Hi, it’s Vig.’

‘Oh hi. How are you, Midas Boy?’

‘Good. Sorry it’s late.’

‘No problem. I just finished having sex.’

‘Oh. Anyone I know?’

‘Some bloke at the bus stop.’

‘Again? And how was he?’

‘Cock like a workman’s shovel.’

‘I was calling about the other night. You didn’t leave a bracelet here, did you?’

‘No, it’s not mine. What does it look like?’

‘Hippie-ish. Little blue triangles hanging off it. Quite nice, but not really Dorota’s taste – not even as finders keepers. Someone left it near the aviary – it might have been one of the kids.’

‘Oh. Talking about the aviary and kids: Roger told me a funny thing that night…’

‘The crying in the woods?’ Vig ventured.

‘Yeah!’

‘I heard about
it. But I didn’t hear it – to tell you the truth, I even went into the trees myself, see if I could catch an earful; but no dice.’

‘Spooky. Do you have foxes?’

‘No. I haven’t
seen
any. Dorota swears she saw a deer – but I’ve got my doubts.’

‘Where is she, by the way? Phyllie asked.

‘Having a bath. She’s trying to decide on her favourite bathroom and she’s taking a bath in a different room each time she has one.’

‘Blimey. How many have you got?’

‘Seven.’ Vig laughed again. ‘
Seven bathrooms
. I mean, who needs seven bathrooms? Seriously… She’s in there for two hours at a time. Takes a book and a radio; makes an evening of it.’

‘You’re not tempted to join her?’

‘In the bath?’

‘Yes! Be an incorrigible romantic!’

‘No, I don’t think so. Dol’s rather grabby about her privacy.’

‘Shame. Well, if you’re ever tempted away from her loving bosom and want someone to surprise in the bath, you know where to find me, Vig.’

Vig paused. ‘One of the few things we never tried, as I recall.’

‘Are you getting all misty-eyed with nostalgia?’

The question remained unanswered. Changing tack, Vig asked, ‘And where’s Roger, by the way? With you talking so candidly.’

‘He’s having a shower, funnily enough,’ said Phyllie. ‘Case of snap. He likes to have a thorough soak after sex. He’s treating me to Billy Joel’s back catalogue as we speak.’

‘I can’t hear him. You mean you really
were
having sex?’

‘Of course! You thought I was lying?’

‘Well,
exaggerating
anyway.’

‘Not at all. I mean, he’s always been a once-a-day man, ever since we got together; but recently, with my bump showing, he’s got this fresh new fat chick and he’s like a rampaging army!’

‘…Hell’s bells,’ said Vig, after another pause.

‘Come and watch some time,’ Phyllie added, ‘you’ll see what I mean. Roger would love that.’

‘We’ve been through this, Phyll.’

Phyllie smiled. ‘I know, I know. Dorota this, Dorota that. Bring her along! More the merrier.’

Vig chuckled. ‘I wish I could see your face,’ he said.

‘Only my face?’

‘To see if you’re having me on.’

‘I’m not, I promise you. Or you could borrow one of our films, as long as I watched it with you… Oh, hang on a minute.’ Phyllie’s ears pricked at the cessation of singing from the first floor. Enjoying the conversation as she was, she was reluctant to hang up, but if Roger was finished in the bathroom… ‘It’s okay: he’s started again. He was obviously choosing from his repertoire. He’s on to ‘Tell Her About It’ now – ironically enough.’

‘Anyway. It’s not your bracelet, then.’

‘It’s not my bracelet. Have you got tired of the big boy table talk?’ Phyllie asked, momentarily confused to hear her own name breathed down the line.

‘Dorota says hi,’ Vig told her.

‘Oh she’s
with
you now,’ said Phyllie. ‘That was a quick bath, I must say. Evidently… not enough sin in her soul.’

‘I’d better go.’

Phyllie laughed briskly. ‘You’re great to tease – and one of these days…’ she began.

‘G’night, Phyllie.’

‘Night, Bill Gates. Think about my indecent proposal, won’t you? One of you in my bum…’

The phone line died. An hysterical pitch to her laughter now, Phyllie raced up the stairs to startle Roger in the shower and to tell him verbatim how the conversation had gone… Who knew? Perhaps it would be enough to turn him on once more.

2.

It
was
enough to turn him on once more, and Phyllie collapsed into a satisfied slumber before the semen had had a chance to dry on her forehead. The satisfied slumber, however, was not set to last. Strange dreams pursued her: strange dream that
started
promisingly enough – Roger and Vig holding hands, naked, on a zebra crossing; teaching tomorrow’s class on the subject of igneous rock while stark naked, to a room full of kids (also naked) and her much-missed parents, fully dressed and frowning their combined disapproval – but which morphed into unrecognisable shapes, loud noises, bad aromas. When her unconscious woke her at a little after two a.m. she felt packed out – stuffed – with an answer, or set of answers, that she couldn’t read, to a question that she couldn’t remember.

Her hand on her pregnancy bulge, Phyllie padded downstairs, into the kitchen. Although she was not experiencing cravings (she hadn’t since the first month), and although she wasn’t hungry, she removed some celery from the fridge and ate it sitting on the edge of the table. Her bottom was sore; she fancied a glass of the white wine in the fridge door. She didn’t dare: but she wanted to. Munching celery and thinking about her ragged and roughed-up catflap, then, Phyllie experienced a flash of what had come to her in her sleep. Not so much a dream as a premonition – a solution… Jessica Olney, the missing girl, had entered her classroom, nude, and had beckoned to Phyllie, saying
I’ll show you where.
Hand in hand they had floated up Vig’s driveway, but not as far as the house: they had crossed the wide lawn to the right and gone into the trees.
Can you hear me crying?
Jess had asked her.

Yes.

I’m in the birdkeeper’s house, aren’t I?

And Phyllie had nodded her head.
Yes you are, Jess.

‘Yes you are, Jess,’ Phyllie said aloud. So long did she stay motionless, rearranging snippets in her mind, that a bite’s-worth of celery turned to mush in her mouth, the flavour leaking out into swallowed spittle.

Could it be?
The quiet ones
, she heard her father say to her from two decades earlier,
are the ones you have to watch out for.
But Birdkeeper Don… a
kidnapper?
It sounded preposterous.

Spitting her mouthful of celery into the bin that swung out on the door under the sink, Phyllie tried to free her mind of these silly night notions. But the thought persisted; in fact, it flourished – it flew. It carried her on wings of fear and deposited her into her room. From the next bedroom came the rattle and hum of Roger’s snoring. She wanted to wake him and tell him what she’d concluded, however fanciful or lame it sounded: she
wanted
him to tell her that she was being ridiculous. Perhaps it would break the spell. But she didn’t wake him. She didn’t have the heart.

3.

‘Roger Billie,’ said Roger into the phone.

‘It’s me. Can you talk?’

‘Sure; I’ve got a meeting at ten.’

‘It won’t take a minute. I’ve been thinking about Jess – it came to me in a dream, if that doesn’t sound pretentious enough.’

‘What did?’

Phyllie recited her theory and asked her husband if she was being a wet. Roger hissed a sigh into her ear. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.

‘It might be worth a call to the police, do you reckon? I wouldn’t want them to laugh at me but if I don’t say anything and I’m
right
…’

‘Have you spoken to Vig?’ Roger asked.

‘No. I wouldn’t know what to say.’

‘You’d say what you’ve just said to me… Where are you calling from?’

‘The Head’s office. His secretary let me in; it was too noisy in the staffroom, and I didn’t want anyone…’

‘No, I see. Let me think now… Can I call you when this meeting’s over?’

‘What time?’

‘About twelve?’

‘I’ll be with 8G then, and I’m teaching all afternoon. This is a bit now or never, Rog.’

‘Okay, I’ll go,’ Roger told her.

‘Go where? To Vig’s place?’

‘And see for myself. Why not? I’ve an offsite assessment to do at one-thirty. A G.P. referral: she’s threatening to cut her wrists if she runs out of milk – a new case on the book.’

Phyllie interrupted him. ‘Charming as I find your enthusiasm for your job,’ she said, ‘I need to be quick. Breaktime’s nearly over. So you’ll do what? Go out to Vig’s after you’ve talked the crazy bitch down from a ledge?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Okay, thanks. And I’ll apologise in advance if this is a wild goose chase.’

‘Apology accepted. Do you have his number?’

‘Whose? The birdkeeper’s? No, I –‘

‘No. I meant Vig’s. To let him know…’

‘No, don’t call Vig. He might say something to Don, even if you ask him not to. And that gives Don a couple of hours to do whatever he needs to do. To cover his tracks.’

Roger paused. ‘Do you suspect
Vig?
’ he asked.

‘No, not at all. But think about it, Roger: if someone said to you there’s a certain thing hidden in our house, the first thing you’d do is go and look for it, wouldn’t you? I think the element of surprise is best.’

‘Then how am I supposed to get in?’ Roger protested. ‘They’ve got a big fuck-off gate, and I forgot to put my pole-vaulting stick in my briefcase this morning.’

‘My simple darling,’ said Phyllie in her very best patronise-the-class tone. ‘
You ring the bell.
’

‘And what if no one’s home?’

‘…Then you’ll have to be punished,’ she answered.

‘Oh goody gumdrops. I was rather thinking a spot of
spanking
this evening. Leading to a course of Virginia.’

‘I’m afraid Virginia’s off the menu for a couple of nights, Rog. We didn’t use enough baby lotion – I’ve been bleeding like a butchered
baboon.
I’ve got jamrags front and back at the mo. I’m padded like an American football player.’

Exiting the office and intending to thank Sandra for allowing her to use the Head’s phone, she was shocked to find the Head, her manager, right outside the door in the outer office.

‘Alistair! You made me jump!’

‘Not half as much as you’ve put even more white hairs in my beard, Miss Reydman.’

Phyllie suffered a churning in her stomach. Trying desperately to sound light and breezy, she said, ‘I hope you didn’t have to hear too much of that phone conversation.’

‘Only the last part, Miss Reydman,’ Alistair replied. ‘You told Sandra you had a plumbing issue, but that wasn’t
quite
the sort of thing I pictured.’

‘Oh Christ. Sorry. It’s not what…’

‘It’s not what it sounded like. I’m sure it’s not. I
hope
it’s not anyway. But I can’t interfere with
that
: nor would I want to. But what I
will
say is this: make personal calls on your own time, Phyllie. Do I make myself clear?’