Текст книги "Trust No One: A Thriller"

Автор книги: Paul Cleave

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

DAY FIFTY-FOUR

And wasn’t it exciting?

Here are some fun facts for the future. If somebody offers you a dessert, say yes. You are a dessert guy. There are plenty of guys you are not. You are not a car guy, you are not a dog guy, you are not a hip-hop guy, you’re not a sane guy but a dementia guy, and you ARE a dessert guy.

Tonight was the first dessert tasting you’ve ever been to, and in that demented little head of yours you had imagined it would be like a wine tasting (and haven’t you always wanted to go to one, swirl around a glass, and go . . . hmm . . . grape?). You thought you’d hold a cake-loaded fork up to your nose, wave it around a few times, go hmm, a hint of flour, a hint of . . . my, is that cocoa? Is that a dash of cinnamon? A wave, a sniff, then a bite, you let your mouth fill with the taste before spitting it out onto a napkin.

It wasn’t like that, of course, and that’s not even the most exciting part about the day. You’re still feeling some kind of rush from what just happened, but it’s time to do that thing you do, Jerry (or should I say Henry?), that you’ve done to others over the years, and that’s get through the boring bit first. Don’t worry—it gets better.

You thought it was a restaurant you were meeting Eva and Rick at, but it was a bakery, and the owner was a friend of Rick’s aunty, or the uncle of a cousin, or somebody he was abandoned with on an island for a year, and they stayed open late so you could all meet there and gorge on two dozen different types of desserts, which got narrowed down to three for the wedding. The baker was a guy in his midforties, a good-looking guy with great hair and a great laugh who made Sandra laugh a lot, laugh a lot and touch her own hair (which she wore down, something she hasn’t done in a long time—and you know what that means, right?), and the way they looked at each other made you think this could be the guy she’s going to take table shopping. Because of that, every dessert you tried you said you hated, to the point that Eva told you to Lighten up, Dad, and Sandra said you were being rude. The truth is the desserts were fantastic, so fantastic that you would leave Sandra for the baker if you had the chance (actually that’s a joke, Jerry—you’ve already got one Big D in your life and don’t need another). You said you weren’t being rude, that you’re not really a dessert guy, and you didn’t understand why they couldn’t have left you at home to work out your ideas for the new book.

You know why. That was Sandra’s answer.

And you did know why. Because you might rip up somebody’s roses. You might go spray-painting. You might eat pasta off the carpet. However, if you did step outside, an alarm would go off. And why? Because day fifty-four started with a knock on the door. Sandra was up, you weren’t, but it was the alarm guy. Two of them actually. You wandered down in your robe an hour later and they were standing in the kitchen talking to Sandra, who had just made them coffees, and you didn’t like the way they were looking at her, but what was worse was the way Sandra liked the way they were looking at her. They introduced themselves to you while they had their coffees, then they went back to work while you went and lay on the couch to think about the next book. It took them three hours in the end, and then they showed you and Sandra how everything worked, but you didn’t pay much attention because you were in your Who gives a shit phase, and why not? These alarms were there to control you, and what forty-nine-year-old man likes to be controlled? Every time an external door gets opened now a signal is sent to a wristband that Sandra is wearing to alert her. At least you’re not on a leash. Or are you?

It was not long after they left that Mandy called. She said after much discussion in the office it’s been confirmed that a ghostwriter will indeed be taking over. There are two options. One is to have the ghostwriter not actually be a ghost, and to have his name on the cover, sharing the workload, sharing the credit, sharing the royalties almost evenly. Option two is the ghostwriter remains a ghost, only your name goes on the cover and the world won’t know you had help. However, option two comes with an even further reduced royalty rate. You don’t want a ghostwriter, but if they’re going to do it, it’s better nobody knows, and you told Mandy that.

Sandra saw it differently—she saw your ego getting in the way of money the family could use, but you really can’t face having your name on the cover along with somebody else. She’s just upset because mentally she’s already spent the money on a holiday with the baker. Sandra may be right about the ego thing, but it is your career, all that work, all those years—you can’t now say to the world This is my new book—I couldn’t write it by myself. The surprise was Sandra didn’t argue, in fact she hugged you and said of course she understood.

In the afternoon she took you suit shopping. You chose a dark one with pinstripes, and Sandra chose a light blue shirt to go with it. You’ve been measured up, and the suit will be ready in another week. It’ll look great at the wedding, and great in your coffin too. Then came the dessert tasting in the evening and you are, F.J., a dessert guy. You could live on desserts, and why not? Soon you’re not going to care how you look.

Okay—you’ve been patient, you’ve just had another G&T, which makes three, so let’s get down to business. At first you were freaked out, of course you were, because the street was full of flashing sirens and people, there was a fire engine and two cop cars and the first thing you thought was that your house had burned down.

It wasn’t your house. It wasn’t anybody’s house.

It was Mrs. Smith’s car, parked up her driveway, smoldering away. You had missed the show as the flames had been put out fifteen minutes earlier. There were updates from the neighbors who were all standing on the street that Mrs. Smith’s car had been set aflame. Mrs. Smith was on the front doorstep of her house, the freshly painted walls behind her, running her mouth at a hundred miles an hour to the police officers trying to keep up. She pointed at you when she saw you. You were The Man Goes Burning from your ghostwritten book.

Somebody had torched her car.

And not this somebody, because this somebody was being rude and not lightening up to the baker who your wife is banging, so this somebody had an alibi, and fifteen minutes later when a pair of officers (not the same pair as Cunt Thursday) intercepted you as you pulled into the driveway to ask what you had seen, Sandra told them neither of you had been home.

Well somebody is home, the officers said. The lights have been on and off over the last few minutes.

I assure you there’s nobody home, you said, which you knew wasn’t true because Eva and Rick would be there, they’d made better time than you on account of your window-shopping on the way back to the car to give them more time. Along with Eva and Rick there would be many of Sandra’s friends and work colleagues and some family. At that moment they would be hiding in the dark behind furniture getting ready to jump out and say surprise, which it really would be as Sandra’s birthday is tomorrow.

We’re going to need to search your house. If you’re adamant there’s nobody home, then it’s possible the person who lit the fire is hiding in there, one of the men says.

It’ll be our daughter, you said.

Eva won’t be there, Sandra said.

There’s no need to search the house, you said. I’m sure it’s just Eva.

But it won’t be, Sandra said. What if somebody is hiding inside?

There’s not, you said.

Sandra didn’t believe you. Sandra offered them her keys, and there was nothing you could think to do as the officers went to the front door. When you tried to go after them, Sandra stopped you. Did you have him do that? she asked, and she was angry, vein-throbbing angry, not like the time you forgot your anniversary a few years back but closer to the time you forgot her birthday. Which you hadn’t forgotten this time, but were somehow in the process of ruining.

What? Who?

You know what and you know who, she said.

I really don’t, you said, and you really didn’t.

Because you don’t remember. You’re going to use this . . . this stupid disease as an excuse for everything now, aren’t you?

She was frustrated and lashing out, and the counselor had warned that you wouldn’t be the only one going through the five stages of grief. In all your wallowing and angst, buddy, you’d forgotten that. Sandra is at anger, coming right off the back of stage one—infidelity.

I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.

Hans set that car on fire to hide the fact you were the one who spray-painted her house, she said, and now he’s hiding in our house and you know he’s in there.

I did no such thing, you said. And he’s not in there. I promise.

I don’t want you seeing him anymore, are we clear on that?

You weren’t up for an argument, so you told her you were clear on that.

Then make sure you write it down in your bloody Madness Diary.

It’s a journal.

The police were at the door. Both of you were close enough to the house to hear everybody shout out surprise as the lights inside were thrown on as the police walked inside. In hindsight, you were lucky nobody got shot.

Sandra’s anger disappeared then. The police backed out and read the situation accurately, gave Sandra a few minutes to acknowledge the occasion, then spent the next hour taking statements as everybody else socialized.

Do me a favor, you asked them as they left.

And what favor would that be, sir?

When you find who set fire to her car, why don ’t you ask them if they know how to use a can of spray-paint instead of accusing me, huh?

You made a good point, partner.

You went back to the party. Sandra hugged you, and apologized for jumping to the conclusion that Hans was inside, and you forgave her, and wondered if she wasn’t right in her assumption he was involved. Eva came over and told you the ruined surprise wasn’t your fault, and even though it wasn’t, it still somehow feels like it was. Even now you don’t know what you could have done or said to stop the officers opening your door, but you suspect that Past Jerry, even one as recent as a month ago, would have known.

Other than that, the party went off well, and the guests, of which there were over thirty of them, all had a good time. Sandra got a lot of fiftieth birthday cards, even though she’s only forty-nine, joke messages written on the inside. You stayed sober right until after the last guest left and you started writing in the journal, and even now you feel as sharp as a tack. The police ruining the surprise actually made the evening better somehow, as if everybody there had been in on a great story that they could tell—it made the party unique. For her birthday, you got hold of the original lyrics for “The Broken Man” that Eva wrote on a napkin and had it framed, complete with the doodles Eva had drawn in the corners and the lines that had been crossed out and replaced. She actually cried when you gave it to her. Plus some shoes that Eva helped you pick out. You can’t go wrong with shoes, Future Jerry, no matter what the occasion.

Good news—hopefully Mrs. Smith and her pastel wardrobe will move out of the neighborhood.

Good news—everything went well. You’ve known all along that the birthday party was a rehearsal for the wedding, a test to see what you can and can’t do, and you passed. It looks like there’s some plain sailing ahead.

Jerry is helped out to the car. The world doesn’t disappear, but the lights are turned down. He has one arm around Nurse Hamilton and one arm around Orderly Eric, and they’re walking down a pathway that seems familiar, as does the house over the road where the old lady is walking from, and the silt that was stirred up before is settling. It’s hiding the past. He can feel Jerry disappearing.

“You’re a no-good murderer,” the woman says, and he thinks that’s not true, that he’s actually a good murderer since he’s been getting away with it. He misses his wife and he misses his life and he just wants to hit the big reset button and have it all back.

The woman talking isn’t done. “I hope you rot in Hell,” she adds, and it makes him think, why would he ever have wanted to live here?

They get him to the car. They buckle him into the backseat. “Did we get it? The Madness Journal?”

“No,” the nurse says, and the silt has settled over her name, hiding it from view.

“It’s going to be okay,” the orderly says, and why do people keep insisting on that? What is it they know that he doesn’t?

A police car shows up. It parks next to them and the old woman approaches it and starts pointing at Jerry while she talks animatedly. The nurse gets involved and there’s a long conversation, a lot of head shaking and nodding and the two officers keep looking over at him, but they don’t come over. He closes his eyes. The car starts moving. It’s relaxing, and he dozes a little, opening his eyes every now and then to look at the road. When they reach the home he’s helped out of the car and into a wheelchair. He’s wheeled down a corridor and into a small room with a bed in the middle and a bookcase against the wall and a view onto a garden. Two people help him up onto the bed.

“Do you know where you are, Jerry?” a man asks.

“Where’s my shirt?” Jerry asks.

“The police have it,” a woman says.

“Are they going to arrest me?”

“Get some rest,” the woman says, this bear-sized woman who bear hugged him earlier and abducted him from his home.

Then he’s all alone. When he tries to sit up he finds he can’t, that he’s too tired. There is a way out of this nursing home—he’s done it before and he can do it again. He’ll find the journal and he’ll solve the puzzle and then they’ll let him go because he can show them he’s not a killer at all, that something else is going on here, and once he shows them they’ll have to let him live back in his house and he’ll be allowed to have the life back they’ve taken from him. Captain A isn’t going to get away with this.

But for now, sleep.

Then dinner.

Then he’s getting the hell out of here.

DAY SIXTY

You know what—it might not be sixty. It might be fifty-eight. Or sixty-two. Who knows, and who really cares?

Actually, Madness Journal, let’s start over, shall we?

DAY WHO GIVES A FUCK?

That’s better. You’ve been wanting to make more regular updates, but here’s what happened—you lost the Madness Journal. In a way it’s a good thing too, because you know Sandra has been looking for it. You’ve caught her. Henry can explain it better. Of course Henry has never been that great at writing from the female point of view (You just don’t get women, Henry—because you’re a chauvinistic asshole, according to one cat-loving, man-hating blogger), but he’s willing, if you are, Future Jerry, to let him give it a shot. Henry?

It was dark outside. Rain hammered the shit out of the roof, it hammered the shit out of the windows. Sandra sat at the window thinking about how, once her husband was gone, she wouldn’t have to sneak out to spread her legs for people in the back of cars and in restaurant toilets, because that was all very what her mother would call unladylike. Soon she could have people stay over, maybe get a bit of a gang bang going on like the one she had the day the alarms got installed. She was looking forward to spending all of Jerry’s money—oh, the things she would buy! And poor Jerry, sitting in a nursing home with a feeding tube jammed up his ass because that’s the way she asked them to do it—sure, it cost extra, but it was money well spent because it amused her, the same way Jerry amused her when he got confused or lost. The wedding was approaching, and she was hoping his mind would have reached full collapse by then, not only because she was scared about him forgetting who his daughter was when he gave her away and embarrassing Eva, but because there was going to be a lot of cock at that reception and she was definitely up for her share.

She was curious as to what Jerry was up to. Planning on sneaking back over the road to Mrs. Smith’s house? She wondered what he would do next, and concluded he was going to rape the old lady. It would be such a classic Jerry thing to do. She wouldn’t care if Jerry did sneak over there to cut the old lady’s tits off; however, she did worry about how that would reflect on her. She would always be the woman with the rapey husband, and what country club was going to let her in with that label?

There was a flash of lightning and the night sky lit up, she saw her reflection in the window, her cheating whore face looking back, and she slipped out of her chair and was at the door to Jerry’s office when the thunder struck, so loud and so close she held her breath and waited for the pictures to fall off the walls, and when they didn’t, she opened the office door, stepped inside, and closed it behind her.

The first place she looked for Jerry’s Madness Journal was in his desk drawers. Nothing. She checked the couch where she thought Jerry was spending too much time—behind the cushions, under the couch, then she sighed, pushed the desk aside, used the screwdriver from Jerry’s drawer to lift the floorboard, and reached under. Her plan was to read it and rip out some of the pages so he would forget what he had been up to. It amused her to screw with him.

She still had her arm under the floor when Jerry walked in.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m worried about you, Jerry,” she said, pulling her arm out as though withdrawing it from the mouth of a shark, but what she really meant was I wish you didn’t live here anymore. You may be the best-looking man I’ve ever seen, but you’re holding me back.

“Are you looking for my journal?”

“I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“It’s my journal!” he said, and he sounded like a whiny little bitch, and God how she was resenting him. “It’s like a diary, Sandra, you can’t read other people’s diaries.”

“You said I could.”

“When?”

“A few hours ago,” she said, but it was a lie. It was one of the benefits of late. She could say anything now and he couldn’t be sure if she was making it up. She thought about telling him how she had been bumping uglies with Greg from yoga class just to break his heart, then put her theory to the test to prove he wouldn’t remember. She wished Greg was here. That guy knew how to bend a body.

“If that was true, then why are you looking for it?” he asked. “Why didn’t I just hand it to you?”

“Because you couldn’t remember where you had put it.”

He nodded then, and she realized something—he really couldn’t remember where he had put it.

“I was trying to help you, Jerry.”

“How do I know you’re not lying to me?” he asked, and he started to cry again, and seriously, she was one sobbing fit away from stabbing him in the throat.

“It’s the dementia, honey,” she said, and by now she had stood back up. She reached out and Jerry fell into her embrace, and she started rubbing his back, and she knew he was feeling loved, but really all she was doing was wiping the cobwebs off her fingers from under the floorboards. “Would you like me to carry on helping you look for it?”

“No,” he said. “It’s okay. It’ll show up—it always does.”

“Shall we head back up to bed? Belinda is coming over early in the morning.”

“Who’s Belinda?”

She sighed. She had gone through this already. “Belinda is the florist.”

And . . . . . . . . . scene.

The irony is at that point you really had lost the journal. You’d forgotten all about the hiding place, and there was even an entire day in there (which you spent in bed) that you had forgotten you have a journal.

You did find the journal, obviously—it happened without you even thinking about it. It’s where you’ve been hiding the gin. Problem is you’ve been out of gin for the last week. Hans came over yesterday. You hadn’t invited him because Sandra said you couldn’t see him anymore, but he showed up unannounced and Sandra couldn’t bring herself to ask him to leave. You sat out on the deck. He was wearing a T-shirt that said Drugs Not Hugs. Summer is approaching and the days are getting longer, and you need to enjoy every sunset that you can now because you never know when it will be your last—at least the last one you’re conscious of. Hans, by the way, is coming to the wedding. Sandra was against it, but ultimately it was Eva’s decision—to her Hans is Uncle Hans. He isn’t Prison Hans. When Sandra was somewhere deep inside the house Hans pulled a couple of bottles of gin out of his bag.

Here you go, buddy. I’ ll always be there for you, you know that, right?

I think Sandra is having an affair.

What, Sandra? No way, buddy, he said.

But—

But nothing, Jerry. Trust me, she loves you man, really loves you. I wish I had somebody in my life who was even a tenth of the woman Sandra is. When it comes to love, buddy, you’re the luckiest man in the world.

But—

He put his hand out in a stop gesture. He looked annoyed. Seriously, Jerry, don’t piss me off, okay? You don’t see it because you’re too close, but all of this—it’s hard on her too. I know Sandra doesn’t like me, but don’t go saying stupid shit like that, okay? It’s this bloody Alzheimer’s of yours, buddy, it’s scrambling your brain.

Did you set fire to the neighbor’ s car?

He laughed and shook his head. You know Hans really well, but even you couldn’t tell if that was a yes or a no.

Good news—you found the journal, and you’ve got another week’s worth of gin.

Bad news—the way Hans defended Sandra, the way she makes herself absent when he’s around—it’s pretty obvious what’s going on here. It’s hard to know who to feel more betrayed by, your best friend or your wife.