Beyond Black: A Novel

line’s gone blue. Al, I blame myself, I must have been extremely careless.

In Mandy’s mind the solution was straightforward; she had it done away with. So that was the end of Morris and his hundred pounds. For months afterwards she would say, whenever they met, do you know I’m baffled about that episode, I can’t think who or where—I think it must have been when we went to that cafe bar in Northampton, somebody must have spiked my drink. They’d blamed Raven—though not to his face; as Mandy said, you didn’t want to push it, because if Raven denied it categorically, that would more or less mean it must have been Merlin or Merlyn.

Those speculations were hard enough and distasteful; she admired the way Mandy faced them, the putative fathers, at every Psychic Fayre, her chin tilted up, her eyes cold and knowing. But she’d be sick to her stomach if she knew what Al was thinking now. I won’t tell her, she decided. She’s been a good friend to me over the years and she doesn’t deserve that. I’ll keep Morris under control, somehow, when I’m in her vicinity; God knows how, though. A million pounds wouldn’t be enough—it wouldn’t be enough of a bribe to make you carry Morris or any of his friends. Imagine your trips to the antenatal clinic. Imagine what they’d say at your play group.

She clicked the tape back on. I have to make myself do it, she thought, I have to listen right through: see if I get any insight, any grip on other furtive schemes that Morris might come up with.

MORRIS: So what ciggies can I ’ave?

DEAN: You can have a roll-up, Uncle Morris.

UNKNOWN VOICE: Can we have a bit of respect, please? We’re here on a funeral.

DEAN: (timid) It is all right if I call you Uncle Morris?

SECOND UNKNOWN VOICE: This sceptered isle, this precious stone set in the silver sea … .

MORRIS, AITKENSIDE: Oi oi oi oi! It’s Wagstaffe!

MORRIS: Mended the bloody hole in your bloody pantaloons yet, Wagstaffe?

WAGSTAFFE: There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance.

She recognized voices from her childhood; she heard the clink of beer bottles, and the military rattle, as bone clicked into joint. They were reassembling themselves, the old crew: root and branch, arm and leg. Only Wagstaffe seemed baffled to be there; and the unknown person who had called for respect.

She remembered the night, long ago in Aldershot, when the streetlight shone on her bed. She remembered the afternoon when she had come into the house and seen a man’s face looking through the mirror, where her own face ought to be.

She thought, I should phone my mum. If they’re breaking through like this, she ought to be tipped off. At her age, a shock could kill her.

She had to scrabble through an old address book, to find Emmie’s number in Bracknell. A man answered. “Who is that?” she asked, and he said, “Who’s asking?”

“Don’t come that with me, matey,” she said, in Aitkenside’s voice.

The man dropped the receiver. She waited. A static crackle filled her ear. A moment later her mother spoke.

“Who’s that?”

“It’s me. Alison.” She added, she couldn’t think why, “It’s me, your little girl.”

“What do you want?” her mother said. “Bothering me, after all this time.”

“Who’s that you’ve got there, in your house?”

“Nobody,” her mother said.

“I thought I knew his voice. Is it Keith Capstick? Is it Bob Fox?”

“What are you talking about? I don’t know what somebody’s been telling you. There’s some filthy tongues about, you should know better. You’d think they’d mind their own bloody business.”

“I only want to know who answered the phone.”

“I answered it. God Almighty, Alison, you always were a bit soft.”

“A man answered.”

“What man?”

“Mum, don’t encourage them. If they come round, you don’t let them in.”

“Who?”

“MacArthur. Aitkenside. That old crowd.”

“Must be dead, I should think,” her mother said. “I haven’t heard them names in years. Bloody Bill Wagstaffe, weren’t he a friend of theirs? That Morris, and all. And there was that gypsy fella, dealt in horses, what did they call him? Yes, I reckon they must all be dead by now. I wouldn’t mind it if they did come round. They was a laugh.”

“Mum, don’t let them in. If they come knocking, don’t answer.”

“I remember Aitkenside, drove a heavy lorry, always got a wodge in his wallet. Used to do favours, you know. Drop off loads, this and that, he’d say one stiff more or less it don’t hardly make no difference to the weight. This gypsy fella—Pete, they called him—now he had a trailer.”

“Mum, if they turn up, any of them, you let me know. You’ve got my number.”

“I might have it written down somewhere.”

“I’ll give it you again.”