Crystal Jeans - The Inverts

‘Amen,’ he said.

She sat down next to him and they smoked in silence, their hips touching, just.

January 1990, Brighton

‘Mind your coat, Mum.’

Bettina pulled the hem of her fur coat inside the car and Tabby closed the door, coming around to the driver’s side.

‘It’s cold,’ said Bettina.

‘I’ll put the heating on. Seatbelt, Mum.’

Bettina pulled the belt around her bulging stomach and tried to clip it in place. Tabby leaned over to help and Bettina batted her away. ‘I can do it.’ She tried again. And again. The fourth time it clipped in. ‘There.’ Tabby started the engine and the radio came on automatically, playing a godawful repetitive rock song full of grinding guitars and a man who sounded like he was singing through a mouthful of granola. ‘Dear God,’ said Bettina. ‘What in the name of – turn it off. Turn it off.’

‘Sorry. The grandchildren always make me put it on this station.’

Bettina opened her mouth – closed it again. She wasn’t going to be such a predictable old bore. ‘Did you phone ahead?’ she said instead.

Tabby nodded, her eyes zipping back and forth between mirrors as she drove out. ‘He apparently refused a bath this morning but they managed to get him in clean clothes.’

‘Any reporters outside?’

‘No. His mental faculties, or lack thereof, are widely known.’

‘See, that’s what I should do. Say I’ve got no marbles left. Then they’d leave me alone.’

The creatures from the BBC were currently in the Silverbeach ‘sun lounge’ – Freddy had lured them in with a promise of an interview. It was the only way they could leave the building unmolested, and actually, it had all felt quite daring and fun – the rush down the stairs (she could still do stairs) and the nervy dash to the car, gripping onto her daughter’s arm and concentrating fiercely on the placement of her feet in the snow.

‘All the same,’ said Tabby, ‘I’m surprised they’re not buzzing around trying to pap him.’

‘Speak clearer, darling. And louder.’

‘I said – oh, it doesn’t matter. I wonder if the police will try to speak to him. He does have his good days, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, now and again. What’s the law regarding the ethics of interrogating someone who isn’t compos mentis ?’

‘I’m not entirely sure.’

‘Darling, you’re a lawyer.’

‘Yes, specialising in will and probate, not criminal law. I imagine it depends on various factors, such as the nature of the dementia and its severity.’ Tabby smiled. ‘Why? Are you worried he’s going to talk?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Am I allowed to smoke in here?’

‘No,’ said Tabby, turning out onto the carriageway. ‘What did the police say to you this morning?’

‘Say? They didn’t say anything. They fired questions.’

‘Did they at least say why they’re tying you to a gun and a dead butler?’

‘Something about a serial number and that farm I worked on during the war. A bloody cattle gun, darling. For shooting cows in the head. And of course they found it all on land your father used to own – remember those woods backing on to Davenport? They’re trying to put a Tesco there! A Tesco! I can think of nothing worse.’

‘I spoke to Ivy earlier, on the phone,’ said Tabby. ‘She says the police have been trying to get in contact with her too.’

‘Well, they would. She was at Longworth with me at the time of Henry’s disappearance. And of course she worked on the same farm. Anyway, I’ve already spoken to her. She’s as confused about this whole business as I am.’

‘Any idea who might’ve wanted to kill him?’

‘I haven’t the foggiest. He was a highly competent butler, or so we thought. I mean, everyone knows I wasn’t fond of him, darling – I never tried to hide it. But personal dislike very seldom turns into an urge to terminate another’s existence. How far-fetched!’

‘And is it definitely the gun that was used to kill him? Did they say?’

‘No, they didn’t say. They’ve only just identified the body so I imagine it’s too early in the game. For all we know, he mightn’t have been killed with a gun. It could be unrelated. Did you think of that? Eyes on the road, darling.’

‘But if the man was wrapped up and buried then surely it makes sense that the gun is related? It all whiffs of foul play.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. The police keep things close to their chest and— Eyes on the bloody road, Tabby! Slow down. Slow down!’

‘I’m doing twenty miles an hour, Mum.’

‘Did you try your brother again?’

‘Catherine answered. Said he’s at a conference.’

‘A conference? How perfectly exhilarating.’ She lit a cigarette and looked in the mirror. The tops of her hearing aids were poking through her hair, miserable flashes of beige plastic.Vile. ‘Did you speak to my agent about that debacle over my royalties, darling?’

Tabby was leaning forward, trying to read a road sign.

‘Darling, I just asked if—’

‘Shh. I can’t see the… is it the first left or the second? Mum?’

‘It’s the one by the petrol station.’

‘OK. I think I remember. Yes, I spoke to your agent. She said— Mum! I told you not to smoke in my car!’

‘Oh dear. I must be developing dementia. Well, it’s too late now.’

‘Fucking hell, Mum.’

‘You were telling me about my agent?’

Tabby sighed. ‘She said there’s been no mistake and she’ll be happy to clarify that over the phone, so long as you wear your hearing aids. Oh, there we go.’ They were passing the petrol station. Tabby indicated and slowly manoeuvred the car around the sharp bend into the road that contained Haines-on-the-Hill, her father’s nursing home.

‘Look who’s come to see you!’ The carer was tall and brown-skinned with oily ringlets and stubble growing below her eyebrows. ‘It’s your daughter and wife, Mr Dawes. Come all this way in the snow.’

‘Yes, we hiked here,’ said Bettina, sitting down next to Bart on the two-seat sofa. His room was large and comfortable and contained his own furniture, even the old bureaus from his father’s study and his mother’s Welsh dresser which was supposedly worth £150,000. Never much of a reader, his shelves were full of videos and only seven books – four different biographies (of himself) and Bettina’s novels: Silence Is Dying , The Rats Are Upon Us and A Love Most Ungainly . Bettina had requested that he never read them. If he’d told her he disliked them, that would cause unpleasantness (well, full-scale war), and if he told her he liked them, she might not believe him. On top of the huge Panasonic television set stood his sole Oscar statuette from 1951, freshly polished, as always.

Bettina squeezed Bart’s hand. ‘How are you, my lovely boy?’

‘Shit,’ said Bart.

‘Mind your language around the ladies, Mr Dawes.’

Bettina scowled up at the carer. ‘He’s a grown man, let him speak his bloody mind.’

‘Ignore her, she’s just being rude,’ said Tabby to the carer.

‘That’s all right,’ said the carer.

‘Can you all leave us alone?’ said Bettina.

Tabby and the carer exchanged looks.

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Bettina. ‘We’re not children.’

‘It’s OK,’ said Tabby, to the carer. ‘I’m sure they’ll be fine. Do you want anything, Mum? Dad? A cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you.’ Bettina gave her daughter a tight, strained smile. ‘Off you go.’

They left, gently closing the door behind them. Bettina waited a suitable time and then took the brandy bottle from her purse. ‘Here,’ she said, passing it to Bart, ‘unscrew the cap, will you? My hands are all buggered up with arthritis. You remember how to do it?’