‘I can understand their viewpoint. What with all the media coverage of Paul, of that ridiculous hunt they have organised, I suppose they thought that a low-profile candidate was the safer bet.’
‘”Understand their viewpoint”? For heaven’s sake, woman, just whose side are you on?’
It was only a slight movement of the shoulders, but eloquent enough.
‘Sorry. Sorry, love. I, I….. ‘
The fatigued sigh was taken as an apology.
‘Well, every cloud has a silver lining – we were unlikely to win after the hoo-ha with the Industrial Estate anyway. Let Cummings lead the election and take the blows. When all this has passed over they’ll come back begging for you to take over again.’
Well, thank you for that, god bless you! He was genuinely touched. Pity that under the present circumstances such moments were so fleeting.
‘Ungrateful bastard.’
Once an unacceptable term, ‘bastard’ had now come to mean Paul, and was therefore useful in certain contexts. Daphne liked to feel she moved with the times.
‘All that cash wasted on him and now…’
He was back at the Julius Caesar sketch again, so decided to change tack.
‘now he wants to be famous! And that, that, ridiculous hunt for…..’
She recognised her own words here and was flattered.
‘It has all got rather out of hand.’
‘Do you think he really hid them somewhere?’
‘Well unless he had a bottle of formaldehyde on him at the time….’
‘Wouldn’t put it past him, I’m beginning to wonder if he had it all planned out from the very beginning.’
Oops, repetition. Daphne didn’t agree with that. He should have used a synonym. Start, for example.
‘I don’t suppose he accidentally went into the country with a pair of sheep shears and accidentally castrated himself, do you?’
Repetition for emphasis is, however, acceptable.
‘No, no, of course not. I didn’t mean that, I meant the spot the ball competition.’
And this was what Daphne’s silence said: For you to merely imagine such a thing really puts you on a par with your brother, and makes me wonder if the whole family doesn’t suffer from some kind of mental problem. I sincerely hope not, for everyone’s sake.
This is how Ron interpreted it, and he was perfectly right. But of course a silence cannot be challenged, such thoughts would always be denied, so it had to remain on the ‘understood but unstated’ level of communication.
What a bitch, thought Ron, but this time without detectable signals.
Ron desperately needed to feel in control of the situation. Action of some kind had to be taken, and had to be taken under his initiative. Even if the ultimate conclusion was that nothing be done at all, that sleeping dogs were to be let lie, that was a decision that corresponded to Ronald Kavanagh alone.
He had made a list, as he was a great believer in lists. The list, which was in reality a number of different lists brought together under the one heading: Action re Paul (he had at first written re Bastard but had wisely edited in time), had been divided into sub-categories. He had worked on the layout and printed off two copies. (Daphne insisted on having her own copy of his famous lists both as a matter of principle – are we not equals? - and as a guarantee – they will be kept as evidence and may be used against you). He handed her a copy and ran her through it in a matter-of-fact way he had picked up over the years. She endured him.
‘as you can see a chronological breakdown of relevant events…… the third column where I have detailed our costs…………… national press references which to the best of my knowledge …………………..’
Daphne waited her chance. She was not in the least bit interested in this orderly account of the past, or even of the dreaded ‘TO DO’ part he was saving up as a grand finale. What she wanted was to raise the subject of Kenneth, and by so doing, air her views of his not-so-very-nice-after-all wife. She needed to make it clear that she, Daphne, had been right from the start, that she had seen through that woman’s charade from the very beginning, that Daphne Kavanagh née Davidson was from hereonin to be considered and consulted as the supreme judge of character. Yes, Jill’s disgrace would be her triumph!
Ron was making his conclusions.
‘don’t think there’s a lot we can do without drawing attention to ourselves and therefore to the whole sorry case. Best if we just let it all fizzle out. People are getting tired of it all by now anyway.’
he added unconvincingly.
‘Well I don’t think you can get any more discreet than we have been about it all even before it all got blown out of all proportion. At the hospital, the church rooms, the home. Very low-key. What is needed is for others to follow suit.’
‘Well we can’t stop the press and the media from, from doing what they do, or it would be even worse. Christ! Obstructionism, that’s all we need!’
‘I wasn’t thinking of the media, they are as unstoppable as Canute’s waves. I was thinking more of our dearly beloved relatives.’
That sarcastic ring, that tight-lipped little smirk.
‘I’ve tried to talk to him, but he’s stark raving mad. You know he actually encourages the interviews? He even….’
‘Not Paul.’
‘He thinks it’s some kind of crusade or something, some kind of nutty mission impossible….’
‘I said ‘not Paul’. I know he’s unable to stop what he’s started, poor unstable thing.’
So sincere.
‘I mean your brother.’
Well, they were both his brothers, but he knew what she meant.
‘Kenneth.’
Bingo, bright boy.
‘Yes. Though I have been informed that the real problem lies with Jill. She’s become quite an expert, and offers her services to all and sundry. She has set herself up as the family’s spokesperson, and is giving interviews to anyone who bothers to ask. Has she no idea of the damage she is wreaking?’
Ron had been caught unawares. He had no data, though he doubted not his diligent wife. What kind of interviews? How many? Were they calm, well-balanced comments meant to ease the tension, or rather gossipy, confused accounts told by a bored housewife in search of an emotional buzz?
Daphne raised her eyebrows quizzically – well, what do you say to that, eh? Now what do we do? Taken unawares, were we. No, don’t ask me, you’re the driver, remember?
Their relationship had evolved from ‘can’t stand losing you’ to ‘can’t stand losing to you’, and as she had so defiantly dropped the gauntlet on his desk, he had no choice but to pick it up.
‘Get all the information you can, a dossier would be perfect. We’re going to cut this out from the root. I want blanket silence on all fronts.’
He had surprised himself with that expression. He liked it.
‘Blanket silence. We’re going underground for a while. All of us!’
Mr. Swan, also known as Johnny Eagle, had just seen the chronicle of Paul’s adventure on satellite TV in Rosie’s bar, Torremolinos, Spain. English spoken. It was obviously a news item that had been going on for some time as nobody made a comment, or jeered, or fell off their barstool. He looked around the room cautiously. No, no reaction. For now he was safe, no-one would suspect the friendly odd job man in his green dungarees. Johnny incognito.
He remembered the day he had wound up the New Forest group. It had been a magnificent summer’s day, when dowdy, dull, drab and dreary old Britain is suddenly transformed, as if by a magician’s wand, into what everyone had dreamed it once was. A bedtime story of a day, lush and luminous, as warm and moist as a childhood kiss. A stroke of luck, really, because it had made his words sound exultant and historical, had put him on a par with King Arthur and Churchill. A stroke of luck indeed, as they had not been particularly original thoughts, rhetoric not being his strong point.
‘Spread the word’ and ‘teach the bl
ind to see’ were about as inspiring as the threadbare upholstery of a medieval throne. But if at that instance the sunlight should flood through the stained-glass windows at the right angle………
He had seen it in Paul’s eye – missionary zeal! The others, Mary Mary, mad Frank (don’t look into my eyes!), Tim the gnome, Barry the Freckled Man, that fat girl who had joined up towards the end and whose name he couldn’t recall, they had all seemed calm enough, happy to roll on to some other adventure. But Paul had always taken things so seriously, had always wanted to be the best, the teacher’s pet. Creepy.
He ordered another pint. That was the great thing about Rosie’s bar, you got real, British measures, not those ridiculous one-slug drinks the Spaniards give you. And you can understand what she’s saying. Fucking Spicks.
He tossed back his golden locks. Ah, and Lucy herself, of course. Lovely bit she was. He wallowed in a few lascivious memories for a while before resuming.
The last day. Time to move on. Before Lucy’s Dad arrives. Apparently he was tearing around town in his commercial van and had promised to ‘beat the shit out of that bald bastard’. Spare parts, for lorries I think she said. And before the local authorities asked for the donation back. There had been a little confusion here over the term ‘donation’, the council preferring to use synonyms. Still, sun shining, Paul to carry on the good work, get to see the back of mad Frank, the others happy enough. Shame about lusty Lucy, but….
And now this! Perhaps it was time for a new beginning, for a new messiah? He’d had about enough of the Costa del Bloody Sol anyway, so stubborn in their ways, so infuriatingly Spanish! He’d have to shave his head again.
Piqued. Yes, piqued rather than peeved, which sounded more childish, more huffy. Whereas piqued had an adult, reasonable ring to it. Though of course if anyone asked she couldn’t say ‘I feel piqued’, so what was the point in being so precise? Pissed off would probably do a better job.
Miss Reinhart was a not a happy girl. She didn’t mind the hours spent scouring the files, she had no complaints about meticulously cross-referencing the most insignificant details, she had even agreed to go to Burton Library and hunt through the last ten years, yes, ten years! of the local newspaper. A whole week in a town she neither knew nor liked. Still, no matter. It was, she considered, part of her job.
But what Dr. Flynch now had in mind was, she felt, beyond her particular call of duty. The problem was, how to refuse. She had been practising her words all day,
‘With all due respect…’ ‘Far be it from me to..’
phrases which sound great at the cinema but which get stuck in your throat and loll clumsily along the tongue in a well-lit office. She suspected that at the last minute she would blurt out some hastily contrived excuse which would make her lose face.
But the time had come, there was nothing to do now except grab the bull by the horns.
‘I don’t think I’m really cut out for……it.’
How she hated him sometimes. Those huge, mysterious eyes gazing at her as if from the bottom of a deep pond. The eyes of a sly, half-hidden monster lurking in the gloom. And his repulsive rogue hairs sprouting out of nose and ears adding to the ugliness of the scene. No wonder he couldn't find a partner. So different to the happy times when she felt so much for him. On his birthday, or when his wheeziness left him breathless, or when she saw him shopping, all alone under his toupee, a single plastic bag with one small tin of everything.
He hadn’t moved, just kept staring back at her as if he hadn’t understood a word. Very well, if you insist on being the uninvited insect that spoils a perfect summer lunch.
‘I can’t….. I’m not a private detective, I’m a secretary.’
‘Thank you, Miss Reinhart, I fully understand.’
She slipped back to her office, unsettled but relieved, and made a reservation for one.
Great invention belief. That nearly everybody believes in something is proof enough of its universal worth. The vast majority believe that a God (or Goddess), is responsible for the general running of things, whilst others, namely atheists, believe this is nonsense. There is a minority group called the agnostics, the ‘don’t knows’, (from the Greek: α- a-, without + γνώσις gnōsis, knowledge), who simply state the obvious – of course they don’t know, if people knew they wouldn’t need to believe.
A dash of belief, especially religious belief, is highly recommendable. It answers awkward philosophical questions at a stroke, staves off bewilderment and helps you to get up in the morning. Who hasn’t asked themselves at some stage in their lives - what’s the point of it all? Well if you just believe in something, anything will do, even a sci-fi film script, then that question itself becomes pointless.
Paul was a great believer. He honestly and sincerely believed all that Mr. Swan had taught him over the summer months in the New Forest. He had no idea that Johnny ‘Swan’ Eagle had made it all up off the top of his shiny head for the sake of a lay, a bed for the night or a freebie of any description. And he wouldn’t have believed it even if he’d found out. He had embraced those ideas with all his heart, they ‘made sense’, and he could not now live without them.
He was not alone.
He had his disciples. They were mostly youngsters who had not been convinced by the beliefs they had inherited from their parents, beliefs often too outdated or too tattered for modern day use, and who hoped to find what they were searching for in Paul’s spirituality. They tended to come from the frayed edges of otherwise noble causes; militant vegans who glared at anyone eating ‘forbidden’ comestibles, resentful homosexuals cursing their luck and blaming all ‘straights’, indolent pacifists whose idea of an ‘alternative’ world was to do nothing except practice medieval circus tricks and beg. Slightly fanatic, deadly serious people who rarely smiled unless it was expected of them and who daily scoured the news for tragedy. Favourite colour black. Dr Flynch would sympathise.
People like Rani; a tall, lean lad of Asian descent, who was to Paul now what Paul in his day had been to Mr. Swan - his most faithful supporter. He dreamt of a world full of children in fancy dress and dogs without leads, but as nobody paid him any heed, he was usually to be found frowning. Or Rani’s girlfriend, (though she was not to be called that, as that was too conventional, but she was, and everybody knew it and said so out of earshot), a mixed bag of genes now known as Diamond, who latched onto anything that was ‘different’ because she hated the world as she found it. And Paul was definitely different. He was a self-castrated visionary who had been on TV. He had a message to offer the world, and if only people would listen, would try and understand, this world would be a better place.
So the three of them would spend the day honing down the basics of this new faith, elaborating on what Mr. Swan had taught Paul; the higher knowledge, the radio waves of Truth and Love, the symbolism of self-castration, each person’s desperate need for their own sacred ground. Diamond ran the agenda, Rani asked profound questions and cooked, and Paul gave over his entire existence to the cause. Was, as he put it, ‘vitally available’.
All they needed now was a campaign manager, and he would be landing at Stanstead just before midnight.
It is relatively simple to drive a piolet into spring snow, but once the ice begins to slip and the avalanche has been set in motion, there is nothing that can be done to stop it. All we can do is watch as it destroys everything in its path.
Dr. Flynch had never met Mr. Swan, and Mr. Swan had never heard of Dr. Flynch, but today they were walking along the same windy platform in the same town at the same time, Mr. Swan with his hood up to keep his head warm, Dr. Flynch with his collar up to protect him from the wind. Both drawn to the same spot by Paul’s drastic action, both with a mission to accomplish.
Dr. Flynch could have arranged an interview with Paul at any time, but he had decided against it. He had noted that Paul’s interviews were always deliberately vague, and that he always managed to avoid sticky questions by going off at
a tangent and insisting on the God element. What Dr. Flynch had in mind was something a little less direct, a little more subtle. He wanted the background.
Naturally he knew of Paul’s brothers, and their relative social positions. Most of the press had revelled in Ronald’s fall from grace, as they rightly assumed that others’ misfortunes are greeted heartily by their readers. Of Kenneth there was less to write about, and he had only been mentioned in passing. And that was about it. It was throw away news, and had been dealt with as such. Perhaps they were right, and there was nothing more to it than that. But he had this nagging doubt, and he would have to see it through now. He took a taxi to his hotel.
Johnny Eagle had been left behind in Rosie’s bar. He had shaved off his blonde locks, and now Mr. Swan would be taking over again. He knew where to find Paul, and would be paying him a visit shortly. But first he wanted to do a little background work, find out who Paul’s helpers were and the like, and prepare a little scene. He also had a few telephone calls to make – he knew a couple of people who might be very happy to see him again if he was lucky.