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‘Vee’s dad?’ Gene frowns. ‘No. No. I don’t believe we ever …’
He passes through the door and then waits, politely, at the other side. Directly ahead of him is a large, kitchen table (currently covered in piles of washing), and beyond that, an open door which leads out into a long, lush and meandering back garden where a gang of children – mainly boys – can be seen playing together on a trampoline.
‘So you work two jobs?’
‘Pardon?’
Gene drags his eyes away from the carefree scene outside. The woman has grabbed a pair of matching socks from a prodigious, cotton-mix hillock and is now deftly rolling them into a single ball.
‘Two jobs?’ she repeats, inclining her head towards his clipboard.
‘Uh –’
‘Of course Reg adored Vee,’ she interrupts him, identifying a second pair and grabbing them. ‘She was the apple of his eye. Reg doted on the girl. Although he could be very strict with her – quite domineering – overbearing, even, on occasion. In fact I read this excellent article recently about how people with Vee’s …’ she pauses, delicately, ‘… problem …’ She pauses again. ‘I mean I suppose you should call it an illness, really …’ She looks to Gene for confirmation. Gene just gazes – pointedly – back out into the garden.
‘Well they normally have an overbearing father-figure,’ she persists, ‘a controlling dad. That’s apparently very common …’
While she’s speaking the woman is rolling up her shirtsleeve: ‘Here – take a look …’
She shows Gene a large, black and grey tattoo on her forearm which depicts a coffin lying on a bed of roses, inscribed with the words: MUM, RIP, 1946–1998.
Gene inspects the tattoo.
‘It’s a Reggie T original.’
She smiles up at him, proudly.
Gene re-examines the tattoo more closely. It’s certainly a fine piece of work: delicately inked, distinctive, very traditional.
‘D’you like it?’ she demands (possibly irritated by his protracted silence).
‘It’s great,’ he answers, a little awkwardly. ‘I mean it’s extremely’ – he frowns – ‘accomplished.’
She gazes down at the tattoo herself, somewhat mollified. ‘He was a filthy old bigot,’ she grumbles, unrolling her sleeve again. ‘A neighbour once told me how he developed his hatred of all foreigners after his mum had an affair with an American serviceman during the war. His dad went crazy when he found out. Did a hike. Reg was only a toddler at the time, but he never got over it.’
‘That’s tough,’ Gene volunteers, blandly.
‘Although – to Reggie’s credit – he’d never be rude to your face. Not directly. He was very charming in person. Very amiable. Always campaigned for the NF or the BNP at election time. Stood as the borough candidate every opportunity he got. Made no secret of his views, but was never nasty about it, never rude. I mean I’m half Filipino. My dad was from the Philippines. They’d play darts together down the –’
Her monologue is briefly interrupted by a sharp, girlish scream from the garden. She moves over towards the open doorway and blinks out into the bright sunlight.
‘Got any yourself?’ she wonders, after a short pause.
‘Sorry?’
‘Her last man was covered in them.’ She turns, patting her forearm, by way of explanation, ‘Hands, legs, feet. Had this massive, tangerine-coloured carp swimming across his neck – its eye just’ – she points to her throat – ‘just there. On his Adam’s apple. It’d bob up and down whenever he spoke.’ She grins. ‘Russian, he was. Size of a house. But wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Gentle as a mouse. Lovely boy. Ran off to live on an Indian commune with this woman they call “The Hugging Saint”. Very weird. Very weird. Did Vee ever tell you about all that?’
‘Uh, no. No she didn’t.’
Gene frowns, uneasily, his cheeks reddening. ‘And just for the record …’
As he speaks, another sharp, girlish scream resounds around the garden. The woman turns and peers outside again, shading her eyes with her hand this time.
‘Would you believe it?’ she mutters. ‘The little devil’s climbed straight back on again after I clearly told her …’
Gene glances outside himself. In the garden he sees a small girl bouncing up and down on a trampoline wearing a short, white, cotton dress and no underwear. As she bounces, a group of older boys stand nearby in a furtive huddle, watching on.
‘Awful, isn’t it?’ The woman turns and observes Gene’s slightly queasy look. Then, before he can answer, ‘In fact I’m glad you’re here to see it for yourself, because now you can have a word with Vee about it. I’ve tried to raise it with her before, but she always just fobs me off.’
Gene watches, transfixed, as the small girl bounces higher and higher, kicking out her legs with joyous abandon, each time providing the assembled company with an exemplary view of her dimpled buttocks and tiny vagina.
‘I mean they’re good boys – all of them,’ the woman insists. ‘It’s just that she’s way too young to be playing with this crowd, but she tags along with little Natalie, there …’
She points to another child, an older girl, who is sitting in a deck chair picking out pebbles from between the tread in her sandals.
‘Natalie’s at that age where she enjoys playing the “older sister” …’
‘Perhaps we should think about calling her in,’ Gene prompts.
‘Good idea.’
The woman pops her head through the open doorway.
‘Nessie? Nessa!’ she yells. ‘Get down off there and come inside, pronto!’
Pause.
‘NESSA!’
Pause.
‘NOW!’
The child finally stops bouncing.
‘She’s such a wilful little creature’ – the woman tuts – ‘a terrible exhibitionist. Was your own daughter ever that way inclined?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Did your own daughter …?’
‘Absolutely not!’
Gene’s almost aggrieved at the mere suggestion.
‘So you’ll speak to Vee about it, then?’
‘Uh …’
Before he can fashion a suitable answer, Gene’s phone starts to ring. He jumps, startled, reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls it out.
‘Hello?’
He turns to face the opposite wall (profoundly grateful for the temporary distraction).
‘Gene?’
‘Sorry …?’
It takes him a second to register the voice.
‘Jen?’
‘Yeah, you goof! Don’t sound so surprised. I bribed your number out of Nihal on reception.’
(Gene makes a quick mental note to have a quiet word with Nihal.)
‘I just wanted to check if you got home all right. Things got pretty crazy last night after you left.’
‘Oh. Yeah.’
Gene hunches his shoulders, defensively.
‘So did you manage to bundle him into the cab or what?’ she prompts him.
‘No. Uh …’
Gene switches the phone to his other ear. ‘I’m actually in the middle of something right now, Jen, could I possibly –’
‘There’s this terrible photo in the Daily Star website …’
‘Is there?’
‘And one in the Mirror’s. He’s sprawled over a car bonnet. It’s taken from the back, but it’s gruesome. In fact if you look really closely you can make out part of your arm – you’ve got him in some weird kind of head-lock …’
‘I was simply trying to hold him up.’ Gene scowls, exasperated.
‘He’d had a good skinful.’ Jen sniggers.
‘He had his cap pulled down over his face. Didn’t have a clue where he was going. Then someone knocked the thing askew in the scramble – probably a photographer – and he completely lost the plot. Started throwing punches, spitting, swearing – ended up vomiting all over the bonnet of the cab. The cabbie was livid and promptly drove off …’
‘Oh my God.’
‘… so I ended up just piling him into the Megane and driving him myself.’
As Gene speaks, the small girl enters the kitchen. He turns to look at her.
‘Where to? Back to the Leaside?’
The child peers up at him and smiles. She’s a beautiful little thing with angelic blue eyes and short, white-blonde curls.
‘Back to the Leaside?’ Jen repeats.
‘Uh …’ Gene frowns, struggling to focus. ‘No. No.’
He turns to face the wall again. ‘When we got back to the Leaside he became convinced that he wouldn’t be safe there, that we’d been followed. He got all tearful and melodramatic …’
He rolls his eyes. ‘It was quite a performance.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘What could I do? I just took him home and stuck him in Mallory’s bed for the night.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Jen chortles. ‘Back to the rectory?!’
‘It was fine. Mallory came in with Sheila and me. He’d virtually passed out by that point, anyhow –’
‘So where’s he now?’ Jen interrupts.
‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘Won’t he still be at your place?’
‘I doubt it.’ Gene frowns, peering down at his watch.
‘Well give me your home phone number and I’ll check,’ Jen suggests.
‘Sorry?’
Gene’s patently not sold on the idea.
‘Your home phone number. So I can check.’
‘But I’m pretty sure –’
‘Just give it to me, Gene!’ Jen snaps.
Gene gives her the phone number.
‘Brilliant! You’re a star!’
Jen hangs up.
Gene removes his phone from his ear and stares down at it for a second, scowling, then shoves it back into his pocket, draws a deep breath, carefully fixes his expression and turns.
‘So let’s get this show on the road, shall we?’ he exclaims, holding out his hand to the child with what he hopes is an air of confident jocularity.
‘Is it salvageable?’
