Peter Dickinson - Some Deaths Before Dying

But today she lacked the willpower to do that. She would watch the programme for a little, lapse into a snatch of unwanted recall, drag herself clear, watch, and lapse again. Senility must be like this, she thought. Please God may my stupid body go first.

“We’re still tired aren’t we?” said Dilys as the programme ended. “We must really have overdone things today.”

Rachel attempted a “yes” smile, but her lips seemed not to respond and her mouth was too dry for speech. Dilys leaned over the bed, all blur, but her voice revealed her anxiety.

“Worse than that, is it, dearie? Something’s really bothering us. Tsk, tsk. But you’d tell Dilys, wouldn’t you, if there’s anything I can do.”

Rachel felt something happen, an actual physical event taking place in the citadel of her mind, a mine sprung, a crack opening in a rampart. To her shame and anger she was weeping again, those strange dry tears, the squeezings from an almost juiceless citrus.

“Jocelyn’s pistol,” she heard her lips whisper. “She’s got Jocelyn’s pistol.”

JENNY

1

Jenny carried the portable phone round the house as she bustled to be ready to leave. The moment it beeped she pressed the button and said “Hi,”

“Mrs. Pilcher?” said a man’s voice—the wrong man.

“Sorry. I can’t talk now. I’ve got a call coming. And if you’re selling something, no thanks. Bye.”

In a few seconds the handset beeped again. This time she answered more cautiously.

“Hello.”

“Mrs. Pilcher. This is important—it’s about your pistol—“

“It’s not mine, and it’s not for sale. Goodbye.”

Brusquely she prodded the buttons. How the hell…? They’d promised the thing was absolutely confidential, no addresses passed on, no telephone numbers, not even names. And he was bound to try again. Yes.

“Hello.”

“That doesn’t sound very welcoming.”

“Oh, hi, darling, thank God it’s you. I’m being persecuted by some dimwit. How’s it going?”

“Dire. We thought we’d got the breakthrough last session, I told you? Now they’ve got back to Alma-Ata overnight and been told to try and squeeze us some more.”

“I want them dead. How long is this going on?”

“You aren’t going to like this. The Kazakhs came in all smiles this morning and announced that they’re postponing the auction, so we’ve got a new deadline. Thursday.”

“I can’t stand it. I won’t stand it. I’m coming over for the weekend. I’ll get on the Chunnel tonight somehow…”

“Oh, God! I wish you could.”

“Champs-Elysces, here I come.”

“No use, darling. We’ve been here four days and I’ve barely set foot out of the hotel. I haven’t been in a real restaurant, even. Billy loathes Paris…”

“He probably thinks the French don’t take him seriously. He wouldn’t like that.”

“Right. We’re only here because the Kazakhs wanted a go at the fleshpots, but if any of us isn’t under his eye Billy decides we’re hatching something up, so we all eat together in the hotel and then sit around in his suite all night pretending to go over the figures again…”

“You must get to bed sometimes.”

“Three o’clock, this morning.”

“I’ll be waiting for you. In a terrific Paris nightie.”

“Mmmmmh…I could chuck the job up, I suppose…I’m tempted…”

She could hear that he meant it, and it wasn’t fair on him. Working for Billy Cochrane was already frustrating enough.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll let you off the hook. Next time you’re taking a doctor’s certificate with you and you can show it to bloody Billy and tell him that sexual frustration is bad for your mathematical abilities and it’ll cost the company billions if you get your sums wrong.”

“I’ll try it if I get the chance. Look, what about next weekend? I could book us into a real hotel, not this plastic—“

“It’s Barbara’s wedding. Besides, it’s you I want, not Paris. Got that? You.”

“Mutual. Bloody hell…”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“All right. What kind of a dimwit? Double glazing?”

“No, I’m afraid it was about Uncle Albert’s pistol.”

“I thought we’d got away with that. Some kind of dealer, I suppose. Didn’t they tell you they kept everything confidential? How did he get hold of you?”

“I’ve no idea. He didn’t sound like a dealer, somehow. If he calls again, I’ll tell him to piss off. Don’t worry. Provided Uncle Albert himself didn’t see the programme. Anyway, don’t let’s waste time on that now. Are you all right? You don’t sound—“

“I’m dog tired but still functioning. The breakouts are the worst. Billy keeps us at it trying to guess what the Kazakhs are up to, so we explore all the blind alleys only he can’t see they’re blind alleys until he’s taken us down them…”

“Your problem is you’re too damn quick.”

“Maybe, but it’s no use telling him in advance, because it makes it look as if I thought the lot of them were dead thick, but I’ve got to keep listening in case Billy swings on me suddenly and says ‘How does that work out, Jeff?’ and I’ve got thirty seconds flat to come up with the answer. How’s things with you though?”

“I’m fine, apart from being miserable without you. But I’ve got piles of work to bring home because Trevor’s had to go into hospital and Jerry’s told me to go through his desk and sort out anything I can deal with—Trevor’s always behind with everything, anyway—and that’s on top of all my own stuff, so I haven’t got time to mope. There’s one of Trevor’s files which is bothering me a bit. I’ll tell you when I see you…and I’m on a crash diet so that I can really hog it with you when you get back. Duck and champagne?”

“Spot on.”

“They’re not going to change your deadline again?”

“Not without postponing the auction again, which…anyway, if they do, I’ll tell Billy you’re coming over for the weekend, and they’re giving us time off together, and the company are paying your fare and hotel bill, or I’m chucking it in.”

“You don’t have to, honestly.”

“Yes, I know, but I’ve just about had it with Billy. Anyway, I think it will work this time. He can’t replace me that quick. It might be a blot on my copybook with the company, but Billy’s riding for a fall in case. It’s more his fault than anyone else’s that the deal’s got screwed up the way it has, though given the chance he’ll wriggle out of it.”

“As far as I’m concerned Billy could shit for the universe. I’ve got to go now. Same time tomorrow. You’re going back to bed, I hope?”

“For thirty-nine and a half minutes, I make it. Look after yourself, darling.”

“You too.”

She slammed her finger onto the off-button so hard that she broke the nail, and threw the handset onto the floor. Cursing at the top of her voice she flung the pillows across the room, ripped duvet and sheets from the bed—almost undisturbed after a night of sleeping single—swept Jeff’s pile of computer mags off the bedside table and kicked them across the carpet, rushed into the bathroom, tipped the empty laundry basket on its side and lashed at it with her feet, and finally, satisfyingly, stood on it, scrunching it flat, and then jumped on it until the wickerwork was splinters. Though nothing like this had happened for years, she was well aware what was going on. The rage was semi-deliberate, a tantrum, Norma-stuff. (“Now, this isn’t my sweet little Jenny. This is horrid Norma. I’m not interested in what Norma wants. She isn’t my daughter.”) Meanwhile Jenny herself—the Jenny people met and talked to and thought chilly and reserved—hovered aside, controlling the fit just enough to prevent any damage she would later regret. She had long disliked the laundry basket, enforced on Jeff by an earlier girlfriend.