All the Rage (21 page)

He arrived at Cork Street fifty minutes late. Ronald had the day off; Kara was excused for obvious reasons. He hated being late. It always put him in a bad mood. He resigned himself to another bollocking day in the gallery. In spite of two aspirin, he couldn't shift the monumental headache blasting across his brain.

At lunchtime, Kara rang in. It was good news. Marcus had been discharged and they were home at last, where he was confined to bed. She was exhausted and still tearful, but enormously grateful for his safety. Kara also explained they had deliberately avoided the reasons for his lapse into a drunken stupor. Things were still too delicate and that could wait for another day. Michael almost laughed. A drunken stupor was often a great state to be in.

He consoled himself with a ham and salad sandwich. It was dull. The day unfolded in just the same manner. Nearer closing time, a bohemian type came in and tried to introduce her work to the gallery. The metal installation was ghastly. It was the wrong day to call, but she wasn't to know that. Michael gave her short shrift. She departed rapidly, muttering some kind of obscenities under her breath. Try the local tip, he had suggested helpfully. He hated himself, but what the hell.

Another visitor, someone he instantly recognised, shoved past the irate artist as their paths crossed on the doorstep.

‘Blimey,' Terence Miles said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Do you treat all the girls the same way, Michael? '

‘Only when I'm mad, and she made me seriously mad. '

They shook hands warmly. Michael checked his watch.

‘Fancy a pint? ' he asked.

After closing, they retreated to the Duke of Westminster pub on the corner adjacent to the gallery. Although the main bar was crowded, they found a private booth at the rear in which to talk.

‘Cheers,' Terence said, raising his glass of Guinness.

‘Have you got anything for me? ' Michael asked, skipping any kind of pleasantries.

‘Plenty,' Terence replied. The old fox downed his black amber and smacked his lips. He moved to the bar and reordered identical drinks, plonking another gin and tonic in front of his companion. This had all the hallmarks of a very long night, Michael thought. He had known Terence since schooldays. He was a damned good news reporter, the right guy to have on your side. Hard as nails, he could handle anything, although last year had been a harrowing time for him. Terence lost his wife to cancer, and just three months ago he had been subjected to a beating from local youths after he had exposed a story of drug trafficking on an estate in East Ham. He still carried the scars on his face. Michael wondered what scars he had concealed in his heart.

‘Everything all right, Terry? ' Michael asked.

Terry gave a world-weary shrug. ‘Could be better, I suppose. I'm still having physiotherapy on the shoulder, the wire in the jaw is out, but now I have to have corrective surgery on my teeth. On top of that barrel of laughs, I have persistent headaches and dizziness, which could mean the loss of my driving licence. Bravo. Life is just dandy. How is it for you, you idle rich tosser? '

They enjoyed the moment, laughing at the obvious disparity in their lifestyles, although Michael was quick to correct him on one thing which rankled. ‘Right on two counts. Leave the rich bit out. '

‘Ah, the old divorce swansong, eh? '

‘Not good. '

‘Never is, unless your name's Donald Trump. ' Terry shrugged again. ‘To be honest, I couldn't stand her, Michael. She always looked down on people, particularly those like me. ' He scanned the bar; then moved closer, whispering, ‘I'll arrange a timely demise if you want. I know some boys out at East Ham. '

‘That's sick, Terry. Besides, you could have been killed that night.'

Terry leaned back and savoured the remains in his glass, smacking his lips. ‘Sometimes, I rather wish I had been. '

Michael reflected on the long battle that Terry had with his wife's illness and understood a little of the pain his friend had gone through. They always say that death and divorce have the same impact, but Michael wasn't prepared to argue the point. Given the circumstances, Terry was in a far darker place.

‘Just believe it will get better…' It was all that he could offer. It wasn't much. ‘I'll get the next round in. '

They discussed football, a favourite subject. It was another hour and two more rounds before they exhausted the argument of the fight for supremacy between Chelsea and Arsenal. The banter was good, and just what Terry needed, Michael realised with a rush of pleasure. In fact, it was what they both needed. It replenished them.

Now it was down to business.

‘This story,' the reporter said, in a more sober tone, ‘does it have a connection to you? '

‘Possibly,' Michael said. ‘At this stage, I would prefer to hear what you have to say. Only then can I make a judgement. I may need you to dig up more information. '

Terry nodded, and took a notepad from his pocket. ‘On the face of it, it's a straightforward case that wouldn't be out of place in an episode of Eastenders. It transpired that one member of the family, a young daughter, killed her father in retaliation for persistent abuse. He was a drunkard. It turns out that he – the father – subjected all of the family to this routine violence. It stands to reason than that he was more often than not pissed on a regular basis. The girl battered him to death using a poker. She was only twelve years of age, a minor. Against overwhelming evidence to the contrary, she was found guilty of manslaughter owing to the severity of the attack. It was not deemed self-defence. The case attracted huge national coverage at the time. The girl was detained in a psychiatric secure ward for minors, her sentence and appeal reassessed by specialist doctors during her time in prison. When she was finally released, she obtained a new identity, and slipped into obscurity. '

‘What was her name? '

‘Laura. '

‘You say “all the family.” What were their individual names? '

Terence Miles flicked a couple of pages. He put on glasses and read slowly, focusing his eyes. ‘The parents were Frank and Delores. The other daughter was Margaret. '

‘Maggie,' Michael said, stunned. This was the very same Maggie that had told him a pack of lies when they first met. What had she claimed? Their father was killed in a drink driving accident. Was everything that came out of her mouth a lie? He feared so.

Terence raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you know her? '

‘Just maybe…tell me their surname. '

‘Hang on. ' He turned a page. ‘Porter. '

The word slammed into Michael's chest as if he'd been kicked by a mule. He could hardly breathe, the sudden shock necessitating him to gulp down a full glass of gin and tonic. He removed his tie and felt the sticky sweat on his brow.

‘Jesus Christ, are you all right, mate? ' Terry asked.

‘I'm fine,' Michael replied, feeling not at all fine
.
His head was pounding. The noise and heat from the crowded room closed in and began to suffocate him. His reasoning had gone. Dizziness started to overcome him, so much so that he hardly registered Terry's last remark.

‘Oh,' his friend added, scrolling down the next page of his notepad,'It seems they also had a baby brother, aged three, who died under suspicious circumstances. His name was Patrick. '

Patrick.
The stale air and intake of alcohol overtook Michael for the last time. He slid under the table, gasping for breath, grasping for something tangible to hold on to. Above all, he wanted to grasp onto something that he could positively believe in. The dividing line between the whole truth and damn lies was a barely visible thread.

Chapter Thirteen

 

It took three men to lift him from the flagstone floor. It was a hard place to land. He was drenched in spilled beer from the upturned table. Between them, the group of men helped him to an outside bench at the front of the pub, where he remained slumped and dazed. Inhaling fresh air, he slowly recovered his composure, if not his dignity.

‘What the hell happened? ' he asked, drinking slowly from the glass of water that Terry had brought from the bar. The crowd dispersed.

‘You passed out, mate, simple as that. No food, too much drink.'

‘Christ, I feel rough. '

Terry knelt beside him, touching his shoulder to offer reassurance. ‘Stay calm and breathe deeply, Michael. I've called a cab. Lucky you didn't bang your head. I always thought you had thick skin. '

Michael gulped the cold air and tried to unwind. The conversation with Terry had knocked the wind from his sails. Could it really be true? If so, then Maggie had deliberately lied to him, on all counts. Was the past so evil that she felt it necessary to protect him from it?
Was that it
? Or was there something else, an altogether more sinister background – a cover up, that he was only now stumbling upon?

‘Terry, that last part…' He tried to clear his head. ‘Were you right in saying that the young child died aged three and his name was Patrick? Are you absolutely sure about that? '

‘Yeah, it was well documented in the Press at the time. He died from injuries consistent with a fall. The mother said he fell down the stairs, unsupervised. A tragic accident, supposedly. However, in light of the history of violence within the family, the circumstances were regarded as highly suspicious. But no charges were brought, as no criminal evidence could be used against the parents. '

‘Can you find out the name of the senior police officer who conducted the investigation into the murder on Clonmore Terrace?'

Terry stood, and peered down the road. ‘For sure. '

The headlamps from the taxi loomed into view, blinding them momentarily. Rain began to hit the pavement. Terry helped Michael into the rear of the vehicle.

‘Are you going to be OK? ' the reporter asked with concern.

‘Perfectly,' Michael said. ‘Ring me, Terry. '

The taxi pulled out into the ribbon of traffic and headed toward the embankment. Michael turned and glanced back at his friend standing on the pavement, watching his tail lights. The rain drilled down now, hammering on the roof of the cab. Michael couldn't decide which was worse, the noise from above or the noise in his head. Both were relentless.

 

***

 

Michael dragged himself in at eleven, still feeling the effects of the fainting episode in the pub. This had never happened to him before. Perhaps he should phone Age Concern. His humour was turning black.

Over coffee, he found out from Kara the heartening news that Marcus was much better and had resumed painting for the forthcoming exhibition at the gallery. Kara would not dwell on the reasons for her boyfriend's sudden collapse. It was a closed book, so Michael decided to drop the subject as well. It was a private matter. The episode with Terence was a different proposition, and was all consuming. It kept nagging at him like a persistent toothache.

Searching for answers put him in an impossible predicament. Maggie was hiding an unpalatable truth; her sister was living one. No wonder she had problems that appeared insurmountable. Julius, he was sure, was alive and seeking an anonymous existence in Venice. Antonia was protecting him and their child, to the exclusion of all others. As Lauren lived a life of self-delusion, which seemed likely, then they were right to find a new life, as far from her as possible. They were entitled to a fresh beginning. It began to dawn on Michael that Lauren was capable of great destruction in all matters of human contact. She simply could not handle alternative patterns of behaviour from anyone else which strayed from her own mad moral high ground. This displayed itself as a form of betrayal directed back at her, and was punished accordingly. In her eyes, she had killed Julius, just as she had killed her father in 1978. If anyone stood the wrong side of her, they were in danger. Mortal danger.

A decision had to be made. In the past, he had given Lauren the benefit of the doubt. He desperately wanted to believe in her, to fall in love with her. However, it had now become an uncontrollable situation, and Michael readily admitted to himself that he was frightened. The goalposts had been moved. It was time to leave the pitch. Quit the game.

His overriding fear was that someone would get hurt. No amount of money would compensate for this. The sale of the Patrick Porter collection was not his salvation; it was his demise. Whichever way he looked at it, the shadow of the Porter family was like a blanket which hung over everyone, blotting out every last lingering light. It was evil, and contagious. It touched the very soul of goodness.

And yet, despite all this, the mystery as to the true identity of Patrick Porter was a cause he could not give up on. Who was this man? This genius who no one really knew or understood? Michael suspected that it had to be Julius who masqueraded as this artist. After all, he too was an accomplished painter, and was more than capable of producing the fine collection at Laburnum Farm. The two portraits of Antonia bore out the quality of his work. Julius had the location, the motivation and the expertise to carry out this audacious ruse. This would also explain how Antonia could be the model to the both of them. The connection was there. It all began to make sense, except for the question of why did Julius need to –
want
to – become someone else, and adopt a nom de plume? In view of the name he chose, it was also clear that he and Lauren were accomplices in whatever they were trying to achieve.

Now they were at each other's' throats. Was blackmail the motive for the war between them? Here was the contradiction, and it had to be solved. This was a scenario so bizarre it defied logic. The answer had to be found in the forbidding links between Maggie and Lauren. What were they really hiding? Between them, the sisters had lived through a vivid history of lies and camouflage, self-denial and a vindictiveness bordering on obsession and insanity.

In spite of himself, he had to discover the truth: the whole truth. He, too, was deeply flawed. Entwined in the complexities of his own world, he sought an escape from a sharp reality that was simply overwhelming him. He felt strong and resourceful, and yet everything pointed to the exact opposite. For a long time now, he had been acutely aware of his own massive shortcomings in dealing with deeply personal issues. In short, they were swamping him.

He tried to hold it together, but it was becoming an increasingly impossible task. Just as he contemplated the merits of Age Concern again, all hell broke loose.

Kara rushed breathlessly into his office, without knocking. She brandished a piece of paper in her outstretched hand.

‘Another calling card,' she announced. He saw the thunder descending on her face. ‘An email arrived, just a moment ago,' she said, placing the paper in front of him. ‘I've printed it off. Michael, this is really pissing me off, big time. Whoever sent this is aware of the repositioning of the CCTV camera across the road. He or she is now using another route in order to get to us. They used my personal email, Michael. It's as if I'm being targeted in this as well…'

Equally alarmed, Michael saw the panic in her eyes. He could hardly speak, failing for the first time with a gesture of futile words to help calm her. Instead, he looked down and examined the document.

It read:

 

16
th
July 1982

 

Confidential Report

 

From: Dr. Joseph O'Connor, Psychiatric Unit, Young Offenders Ward, Dublin Prison Hospital, ‘C' Section.

 

To: Eric Stanton, Governor of Prisons, Eire.

 

In my opinion the patient is undergoing a process of prime case psychotic self-delusion. This is based on extensive interviews and examination over the last twelve months. On the one hand, she bears the scars of her past actions and shows deep remorse and understands fully the consequences of those actions. On the other side, I see a gradual diminishing responsi
bility, borne out of guilt for the suffering it has caused her family, in particular her mother, who is now frail and confined to a wheelchair. The patient clearly acknowledges the reasons for her violent conduct, but refuses to atone for it, as a testament to the plight of her mother.

 

The patient is currently in solitary confinement, under constant supervision. I strongly believe that she would harm herself if left alone. Strict medication is stabilising her behavior, which will eventually enable her to gradually engage with the other inmates. In the meantime, my recommendation, at this stage of my findings, is for her to remain here, under guard, and under my direct scrutiny. This will be a long recovery process.

 

At present, she is considered a clear danger to herself and the public and remains on “high risk” alert. In the past three months the patient has failed in one suicide attempt and my colleagues and I firmly believe this will not be an isolated incident.

 

Signed;

J O'Connor

 

Michael digested the words carefully. Coupled with what he now knew, it brought home the sheer gravity of the whole sad bloody “human cost” picture.

‘Who the fucking hell are they referring to, Michael? For God's sake, what do you know in all this? What are you hiding from me? '

For the very first time, Michael turned on Kara and vented his anger. He stood abruptly and thrust the document under her nose.

‘What am I hiding? What am I hiding? ' he snarled. ‘Perhaps you should question your own misguided motives before rounding on me!'

‘What are you talking about? ' Her eyes blazed.

‘I'm talking about your involvement. I'm talking about the simple fact that whatever I do, whatever I say, or wherever I go, it seems that my movements are continually monitored. It concerns me that my trust in you is being eroded. What are
you
hiding from me, Kara? '

She looked startled. ‘Are you implying that I am working against you, Michael? Is that what this is all about? '

He pressed on. ‘On my visit to Venice, I discovered that Antonia was expecting me. Now, how could that be possible, Kara? Tell me that, if you can. Only one person knew of my plans…'

‘Well, clearly someone else does as well. '

They stood head to head, inches apart. Michael gave no quarter, fuming, ‘Nobody else knew; that's the point. I phoned you from the airport. I booked my ticket online. I paid cash whenever I could. Even at the hotel I managed to keep my passport in my possession. I even booked in under an assumed name. Everything was done deliberately with the assistance of the Italian police. I have reliable contacts over there which enabled me to travel with a good degree of anonymity. ' He stood even closer, glaring at her. ‘So tell me, how come Antonia wasn't surprised to see me, uh? '

‘Sod you, Michael! Is this all the gratitude I get for watching over your arse? And now you are accusing me of tipping off someone I have never met in my life. What are you thinking? Have you gone absolutely mad? '

‘Quite possibly,' he said. ‘However, if you analyse it rationally, if it isn't you, Kara, then who have you been confiding in? '

Kara paced the room.

‘No one, damn it,' she replied indignantly. ‘My commitment to you is rock solid. A promise is a promise. You entrusted me with the secret sale of the Patrick Porters, remember? It was me who organised the CCTV cameras, remember? I was asked, no, instructed, to do the inventory of the paintings at the wacko farm, remember? Michael, get a grip. '

He shook his head, slowly. ‘Just do your job, Kara. Trust has to be earned from now on. '

She almost spat in his face. Visibly shaking, she shouted, ‘Oh, fuck off, Michael. You'll have my resignation on your desk this afternoon. Don't you see what all this is doing to you? To us? To everyone? ' Without waiting for a reply, Kara turned sharply and stormed from the room.

In her wake, he was left shocked by the hostility that reared up so suddenly and unexpectedly. He couldn't work out how the hell that all happened, and with such speed. He was losing his grip.

 

***

 

Kara hurried to the downstairs kitchen, slamming doors as she went. She wept uncontrollably and kicked the waste paper bin across the floor.

‘Fuck you! ' she screamed at the empty room. She felt the mascara running down her cheeks like the black markings on a circus clown. She felt like one. Utterly humiliated, and ridiculed. How could he possibly think like that?

‘The bastard! ' This time the word came out unintentionally loud. She washed her face in cold water. When she removed the towel from her face, Ronald was standing next to her. It gave her a sudden jolt.

‘Jesus, Ronald. Stop creeping around. '