“Tony, please. Say Peter. Say my name.”
“Fuck that.”
Tony is standing right by Simmonds and before the old man knows it there’s a razor blade taking a neat line down his soft cheek. He falls flat on his arse. With his gloves off—as they are now—no one can see Tony coming. Simmonds begins to howl.
“Shut the fuck up!” Tony hurls Mark’s clothes at him. “Put these on. Now. And we’ll put on some nice make-up, shall we? You used to enjoy dressing up in the old days, didn’t you?”
Simmonds clambers to his feet, bleeding. “What for?”
“You’re going to stand in for me. Just for a moment. You can be my best man. You’ll like that.”
Simmonds regards the empty air. “I’d give you anything to be you, be your best man. You know that.”
The razor transfixes him as it forces him to change. Mark’s clothes are cool and damp with the snow blowing in. The old man struggles to do as he is bid and Tony says, “Yes. It’s a reason to despise you. Now hurry.”
TWENTY SIX
“THE CAR’S FUCKED.”
In the hallway Bob had the look and the tone of a man whose only concern was his fucked car.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Sam said. “We’d never get home in it now. We’ll all have to take the train.”
“Together,” Mark said. “Where are the others?”
“Having breakfast.”
But they were out in the garden, standing around the fallen bed. In the centre of the garden it sat on four wrecked legs, its bedsteads only just holding on and its mattress rucked up in alarm. A light dusting of snow already covered it.
There were looking in astonishment at this, and then up at the hole in the wall, far above. The fire escape gave an occasional groan of complaint and steadied itself.
“This is madness,” Richard said and sat down on the bed he had slept in last night. “I just want to get away from here now.”
Inside, the removal men were working swiftly. Tony’s house was emptying out.
Peggy picked up Sally and sat them both beside Richard. “Never mind, love. You’re welcome to stay with us, you know.”
Iris touched his knee with a wink. “You don’t get out of this family that easily.” She looked at her lover. “Peg, I’m going in to get our things. Check that no-one’s nicked them.”
“That’s not all, is it?” asked Peggy archly.
“I want to find Simmonds.”
“He’ll have pissed off now, with all of his and Tony’s belongings.” Richard was disconsolate. And how could they blame him? He had watched, this morning, the break-up of his happy home.
His Labrador came bounding up out of the shrubbery to cheer him up and amuse Sally. Iris took the opportunity to slip into the house. Peggy watched him go, her feelings mixing. She wanted to warn her not to be Shelley Winters in The Poseidon Adventure, knowing that she would be.
Soon, Sam, Mark and Bob came out of the ruined garden to survey the damage. They sat on the bed and, as if expecting a fairy tale, they all drew up their legs onto the mattress.
“It was Tony who did this,” Mark said.
“So you saw him?” asked Sam.
“At last. And it’s all sorted out. He’s out of our lives.”
“I’ve never been on a train,” Sally said brightly. “Is that how we’re getting back?”
Sam nodded and kissed her daughter. She looked at Bob, who sat awkwardly on the bed. He seemed to be having some difficulty in looking at either Sam or Mark. Reminded, possibly, of his last adventure on a bed.
He said, “Sam, tell me. What’s this outrageous plan?”
He sounded weary. Poor Bob, she thought. Just an ordinary bloke. An ordinary bloke who wants our lives to be normal. And I’ve got to sell him an outrageous plan. But if he wants to be a part of our lives, then he’s got no choice but to swallow it.
Sam took a deep breath.
“Mark and I are going to stay together, with Sally, in the flat. And, part-time, as least, I have recourse to you, Bob, your nice house and your bed. And Mark, if he wants to, has Richard.”
“Cheers,” said Richard bitterly.
Mark gave him a swift hug. He promised him, “We’ll discuss this.”
VALKYRIES DECIDE WHO GETS TO VALHALLA. THEY COME SWOOPING ON ruffled and vengeful wings and what do they do then? Arriving at another Ragnarok, how do they stack the dice?
Iris came backing into the attic room. Some memory of Cheryl Ladd in Charlie’s Angels lent her posture a cautious authority. The cold air through the new hole in the wall was like a slap in the face. It framed a man dressed in Mark’s spare jeans and shirt. She saw his face was smeared in glistening colour.
“I’m Simmonds!” he shouted, dismayed as Iris advanced. She mistook Tony’s amused chuckling for the beating of her own imaginary wings behind her.
“I don’t care,” she said grimly.
“What are you going to do?”
She wasn’t sure but she advanced on him anyway, with vague thoughts of stamping out a rogue element. It would make the ending of the tale neater, safer.
Simmonds quailed. “That’s Tony behind you.”
Amazingly Iris fell for it. She turned and saw Tony’s lurid face hovering alone at her shoulder. A horrible, wingless, grimacing bird. And she saw his stroppy razor as it flensed into her thickly padded side.
But shock made her shoot forwards, through the hole, onto the fire escape, where she smacked her head on iron bars and went flying, taking the old man with her.
Tony’s face swooped after, lilac, like a terrible familiar.
“I THINK THAT SHOULD SATISFY EVERYONE,” SAID SAM, LOOKING ABOUT and wondering if she’d missed anyone out. “In fact, it’s almost the way it was before.” Sam smiled ruefully at Peggy. “And that, Mam, if you remember, is what you asked for.
Bob pulled a face. “That not too outrageous, I don’t suppose.”
“But will it stand the test of time?” asked Peggy, who was the
