She came to the door and spoke through the small serving hatch. From the calculated nature of her responses, I knew that she had been assessing her personal relationships. (It reminded me of having been made to go to confession and of being careful to avoid implicating others, especially those who were part of their regime, that is to say the ‘religious’. I shall linger on that point only to convey that the seal of the confessional did not safeguard against reprisals. It is unforgivable to raise a subject then refuse to elaborate. Still, such is life sometimes.)
The interrogation book I had read (it was written in an unusual style, incidentally – in a kind of telegraphese) stated: ‘Implications of informing on friends or comrades, as seen by subject. Informing by subject would be weighed against the benefits it might bring. Would informing buy subject time? How much time? Enough to escape while information is being verified? Once free, subject can alert comrades, those they have informed on, and thus remove the threat to them which the imparted information might engender. Informing, in that context, means nothing. No one gets hurt. Desperation. The will to live can become paramount. If subject informs, will he or she be looked upon favourably and spared?’
‘Who’s the third girl with you in the video, Jackie?’
‘Gemma Small.’
‘Gemma Small? Nice name. Do you think she’s pretty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who else do you include among your friends?’
‘Lucille Kells.’
‘And do you think she’s pretty?’
A nod. Again, according to the book: ‘A nod constitutes less guilt than the spoken word. It makes it seem like the subject isn’t naming names.’
‘Do you like them?’
‘Yes.’
I wondered if that were true. Was she telling me the names of her best friends or of those she disliked? Clearly she did not dislike Gemma. They had shared a bed. Perhaps they had fallen out. I’m sorry, that sounds as if they had fallen out of bed. Perhaps they had had a falling out.
‘I fancy you are being covetous with the truth, Jackie. You dislike Gemma?’
‘Yes.’
I’d suspected as much. In bed, Gemma had shown her back to Jackie in favour of Lisa. Jealousy. Gemma had been in the middle, the enviable of the three positions. Gemma and Lisa had shared the two-way artificial stimulant. The batteries had run out. I recalled Jackie’s look of disappointment. Perhaps she had bought the batteries and felt cheated. Perhaps she felt challenged. Gemma was prettier than her.
‘Which of you met Gemma first?’
‘Me.’
‘You were emotionally involved with Lisa at this time?’
‘Yes.’
‘But contemplating a change?’
She glanced towards Lisa’s room, concerned that she should not overhear her response. She nodded.
‘Then Lisa met Gemma?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Lisa contemplated a change?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s not true,’ Lisa sobbed. ‘I told you it wasn’t true, Jackie.’
‘And yet you both loved Gemma, Jackie?’
‘Yes.’
‘But Gemma departed, leaving each of you to settle for second best – each other – in a relationship you had both intended dissolving.’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah, the ever-adversarial vicissitudes of the ménage à trois.’
‘Gemma didn’t live with us.’
‘Oh, I see. With whom did she live? Lucille Kells?’
‘Yes.’
‘But she would not leave her?’
‘It wasn’t a question of leaving her. Lucille’s straight. She and Gemma share a flat, that’s all.’
‘Where do they work?’
‘Gemma works in the Top Towers Hotel.’
‘Dublin?’
‘Yes. She promotes the hotel, entertains foreign holiday companies’ reps. I’m not sure of the details. You’ll find her there every night.’
Again I was wondering if she was telling me the truth.
And so it went on, until I knew which nights Gemma Small and Lucille Kells were likely to be vulnerable. Jackie had supplied details I would otherwise have been able to obtain only through long observation. My intention was to avoid the risk associated with picking up models at random, in favour of the relative safety of knowing exactly whom to aim for.
‘Thank you, Jackie. Thank you.’
I went upstairs and finished my wine, then brought the portable television, the VCR and my guests’ mobile telephones down into the corridor and played their home video.
They came to the serving hatches, surprised by my choice of viewing.
Then I rang Jackie’s mother.
‘Mrs Hay?’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, hello. I’m sure you are anxious to hear from me about your daughter Jackie. Hello. Hello, Mrs Hay, are you there?’ I detected a sense of unease, as though Mrs Hay needed breathing salts.
‘Yes, I’m here,’ she said eventually, light-headedly, as is the way of mothers in her position. ‘Please, please don’t hurt my daughter. Please don’t hurt her.’
‘Of course not.’ I nodded to Jackie and gave her the thumbs up, to let her know her mother was concerned for her well-being, but that I had put her fears to rest. ‘Tell me, Mrs Hay, what did you think of the videotape I sent you? Jackie is here watching it as we speak.’
I presumed Mrs Hay to be sitting in front of her television set with loved ones, well-wishers, the police expressing their determination and so on.
‘What do you think of their performance, Mrs Hay? What part are you at now? We are at the part where Jackie is inserting batteries into one of those – what is it they call them now? She’s got such a big smile on her face, as much as to convey: “Look at what I’ve got for you, Lisa, darling.” Lisa looks delighted. I think it’s an extra large.’
‘Please, please let my daughter go. Please—’
‘Let my mother alone!’
‘Jackie, please be quiet, if you wouldn’t mind. I can’t hear your mother. I am so sorry for the interruption, Mrs Hay. You were saying?’
She was too overcome to talk.
I rang Mrs Shine on Lisa’s mobile. ‘Hello, Mrs Shine, is that you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh good. I’m glad I caught you in. I’m sorry – I forgot to introduce myself. I sent you a videotape. Lisa, I’ve got your mother on the phone.’ Lisa had returned to her corner.
‘Please don’t harm my daughter.’
‘Well, that puts me in a bit of a spot, Mrs Shine. Mrs Hay has asked me not to harm
