fucking insurance man again’. Richard ‘Spotty’ Dodd opened the door.
‘What do you want?’
Matti McCormack was not easily ruffled.
‘Good day to you, Mr. Dodd. May I?’
He made as if to enter.
‘No. Stay where the fuck you are. What do you want with us, want to suck our blood again. They cut off payments.’
‘They are under review, that’s not the same. Once they have been reviewed by our experts..’
‘And what are we supposed to do while you bastards ‘review’ the payments, eh?’
Matti McCormack took the three steps that led to the front door of the Dodd house. He was not prepared to be sworn at by his client’s offspring. He had come to inform her, and her alone.
‘I have come to talk to your mother. If you don’t mind.’
It was then that Spotty kicked him in the stomach, and caught him with a right hook that lifted him into the air and sent him flying back down the steps. His head hit the ground with a simultaneous thud and crack. Spotty went back inside and slammed the door.
It was some time before Danny told him that the insurance man was still there, and that blood was oozing from his head. They called the emergency service, but Mr. McCormack died from his hemorrhage three days later. His luck had been changed.
At the trial it turned out that Mr. McCormack had an adopted daughter, now well into her twenties. That had surprised Spotty; he hadn’t imagined the man behind the mask. He had been truly moved by the sight of McCormack’s widow and adopted daughter attending the viewings, two dark ghosts hit by falling marbles. But he had no remorse for Matti; the man had decided to wear the mask. It let no-one see in, but it was a two-way mask and it had prevented him from seeing beyond it, too. ’Like a high wall, Bro, built so they can’t see in, but it means you can’t see out either, you get that?’
Ambrose thought about the prison then, and the simile confused him. ‘Those on one side can’t see the others, right?’
Even more curious was the fact that Matti McCormack had an elderly mother – in a wheelchair! She had fallen down the steps at the local library and shattered her hip. Her son had taken the council to court and was granted generous indemnification. He was in the trade. It took Spotty years of reflection to understand that this was circumstantial evidence and had no real bearing on the case in hand; it was nothing more than a ‘philosophical red herring’, as he put it. Ambrose nodded.
‘You know who the really lucky ones are?’
He stared at Ambrose, though both of them knew that the answer, if there was one, would be supplied by Spotty himself.
‘Well it ain’t me and it ain’t you, right?’
Ambrose laughed. That meant that his friend needed a break, wanted to snap out of it for a few minutes. He would return to the topic sooner or later, but for now he wanted to change the subject. Perhaps it was a cue, the perfect moment to raise his own issue, to talk about what he had come for.
‘How are the … the plans… coming on? Have you ‘ironed them out’ yet?’
Spotty smiled. It was time to have a bit of fun with his old pal Bro.
‘What you got in the bag? Eh, what’s in the bag, let me see. Put the things on the table, let’s have a look at them.’
Then he saw it, the puzzled look he enjoyed so much. Ambrose was trying desperately to figure out why on earth he should empty his few mundane belongings on to Myra’s kitchen table. Why would Spotty want to have a look at them? What could possibly be of interest in such everyday objects? It never occurred to him that he was being taken for a ride, being ridiculed, being laughed at. No matter how many times you did things like that to Bro, he never clicked, never for a moment doubted your sincerity. Poor fool.
‘Well, there’s not much here, really. A shaver, Phillips, ….’
‘Stop! I don’t give a fuck what’s in your bag, Bro. They’re your things, your personal belongings. Keep them to yourself, or for your next of kin. You’ve got no business showing them to anyone, not even me, right? Try and remember that. Nobody. O.k.?’
Spotty looked irritated. He was angry with Ambrose because Ambrose never learnt his lessons, or if he did, then he learnt them too slowly. How many times had he told him to keep his dignity? How often had he warned him about people taking advantage of him? Ambrose noticed it and tried to make amends.
‘OK, I just thought you wanted to have a look. I don’t mind. There’s nothing …..’
But Spotty cut him short, stopped him in his tracks.
‘I got the final contact. All I need to do is make a few phone calls.’
He couldn’t avoid playing cat and mouse with Ambrose; it was too tempting, too easy. From the moment they had met Spotty had noticed the lost expression on Ambrose’s face. It was the look of someone who didn’t understand what was going on, but who had come to terms with that. He had never understood, so it was second nature. Ambrose Ork. With a name like that was it any wonder? He had been dealt the worst hand, the low numbers, and didn’t even have the intelligence to bluff, or hold his cards to his chest. He was the typical idiot who would show them to whoever asked to see them. A loser. Worse. A born loser. Others were born with aces stashed away up every sleeve, or knew how to make you think they had even if they hadn’t. But Ork was always going to lose one way or another, because he set himself up for it. He said ‘here I am, fool me, trick me, I won’t even realize it so don’t bother your conscience too much over that.’
Spotty had joined in the fun at first and made a scapegoat of him. There was always one, often more than one, who was needed to run errands, to do the chores nobody else wanted to do. Someone to dupe, someone you knew would swallow every absurd lie and tall tale, someone who could be turned into collateral damage if necessary.
But Ambrose was different because he was innocent. By that Spotty didn’t mean ‘not guilty’, that was another matter altogether. He meant that Ambrose was innocent the way children are innocent, because he had no malice. He had no malice because he could never be sure that the fault was not his, could so easily be led to believe that it was slow-off-the-mark Ambrose Ork who should be asking for forgiveness. Which did not turn him into a saint, either. He could get angry like the rest of them, over meals, over someone taking his things. He could be bad-mannered, foul-mouthed, foul-minded. But there was no malice, and Spotty had recognized that.
That, and the fact that he was a great listener.
So little by little Richard ‘Spotty’ Dodd had taken Ambrose under his wing. He became his protector, and kept him from coming to too much harm. In return Ambrose would listen and nod, often with his mouth just a little open, while Spotty exercised his genius.
Spotty had met many like Bro in his time. They were the coat-holders, the street sweepers, the uncomplaining doormat of humanity. He had worked beside them in factories, punching out ball bearings so that the likes of Mr. Haute could live in luxury, in lofty warehouses pushing the dust from shelf to shelf, on hot, dry roads as the tarmac poured out, on dredgers in murky canals. There was no romance in them. They were like everybody else, some of them were sullen, some clowns, others were violent, or timid. The only difference was that they seemed to work on a different timescale, as if they lived in slow motion, the way an elephant or a Galapagos tortoise would live. Bradypsychia the nurses and doctors called it at the prison hospital. They knew that two plus two plus two makes six, but take their own sweet time to reach that conclusion. They make you want to finish their sentences for them because you know what they are going to say long before they have even reached half way. In short, thick. Thick as a brick, thick as two short planks.
He himself had been confused for one of them by that insurance man. MCormack had assumed that, being poor, Spotty was therefore a fool, a blunt tool. Now he was dead. One more less of the bastards.
Why was that? What was the difference? Because Spotty had fought back. That was the worst of the dimwits; they just take things as they are, never compla
ining, just getting on with it like beasts of burden. Well nothing is gained by conformity. For a few months in prison Spotty had run a section called Thought of the Day. It had been an attempt at sparking a little debate, but had eventually been taken over by the religious elements, who began to cover the notice board in glib biblical quotations about succour and redemption. So he had abandoned the idea. Spotty preferred a more rebellious line, and one of his favourites had been ‘A slave is one who waits for someone to free him’, by Ezra Pound. Not that he had ever read Pound, or Nietzsche, or Socrates. He was not interested in the buildup, only the conclusion, the crystallized philosophy. Don’t be a slave. Fight back. How he had tried to beat that into Ambrose’s thick head. To no avail, of course. Ambrose did not see himself as a slave, and knew the date of his release. So what was Spotty on about?
It was frustrating the way he refused to help himself.
‘There are two contacts who are going to help us out on this. You don’t need to know who the first one is, that’s all taken care of and the less you know the better.’
He stared at Ambrose as if to make sure he was still awake, still paying attention. Ambrose nodded.
‘You don’t need to know any more than that your friend Spotty has sorted it all out.’
Time for a little more praise.
‘And you thought I’d forget!’
‘No, no, I was sure you’d be there, I knew it, I was sure.’
Ambrose was about to go into a typical, heartfelt gratitude speech, using phrases he had picked up during his life, platitudes mostly as he was not prone to originality, but Spotty would not give him the satisfaction. He wanted to remain just a touch hurt, to wallow in self-pity for a while just for the hell of it. It was the best way to stay one step ahead of them all. Pretend, give a false impression, hold something back, keep them guessing.
‘O.k., o.k., don’t start getting all sincere on me, for fuck’s sake. I’m doing it for you because you’re like a brother to me. Bro, eh?’
He struck his chest with his fist.
‘I’m doing this for you, Bro, I don’t get anything out of this but trouble, big trouble. That’s why I don’t want you to know any more than is strictly necessary. Modus operandi. Incognito.’
He winked and chuckled to himself. He could be a bastard at times.
Still there was an element of truth in everything he said. He was indeed helping Ambrose for no ulterior motive. He was taking risks too, even though he was sure they were minimal. The most he could stand to make out of the whole deal was a word of thanks, and maybe a cut from the car dealers, though that was by no means assured; they were shifty customers. The worst he could expect it was better not to dwell on.
‘Thanks, thanks.’
Ambrose was lost for words. He grinned.
‘You’re the boss, you’re the best.’
He realized that sounded stupid, but it was the best he could do.
‘Shut up and give me a cigarette.’
They smoked, seriously, the way others fiddle with rosary beads. Every so often the fridge jumped to life, competing for a time with the electric sounds of the table fan, but it didn’t have the necessary stamina and soon fell silent again. The sun’s rays now came in slanted through the glass panels of the back door, picking out the rising smoke like the light from a projector at an old fashioned cinema. The day was gradually fading though the heat remained, as heavy and sticky as guilt.
The whole plan was Spotty’s idea; everything was Spotty’s idea. He had heard Ambrose’s unlikely tale, had quizzed him over and over again until he was convinced of its truth. Then he had started to make his plan. Why? That was a question not even Spotty could have answered clearly, let alone Ambrose. There had been so many long chats about the reasons behind his friend’s interest in the case that Ambrose had long given up any hope of understanding anything except the barest bones of the final plan. How could he possibly keep track of all that high level philosophy? They had talked about, correction, Spotty had talked about, revenge, justice, punishment, remorse. Restoring the balance. Something about cold dishes and settling scores, a lot of new words whose meaning he had felt too embarrassed to ask about. On and on, mixing it all up, going all over it again but in a different sequence, rambling, reaching conclusions that were always only temporary. Now all this stuff about luck again, and whether it was good or bad or in between; it was enough to baffle anyone. One thing was clear, though; Spotty had taken on Ambrose’s cause as if it were his own.
And the plan was a good one, water-tight and carefully put together.
‘When are you thinking of doing this, then?’
‘Soon as possible?’
‘That’s up to you, Bro, that’s up to you. Ready when you are.’
‘And those phone calls? They alright?’
‘Ready when you are.’
Spotty should have wound it up then, it was his cue. But he had not finished yet.
‘Remember- the luckiest are those who make no noise, attract no attention to themselves, who glide from birth to death without too much success or tragedy.’
Was this advice? Was he trying to warn Ambrose about something? Or was he back to his philosophising again?
‘They complain about how boring life is, how they never had any adventure. ¨Never seen a dead body¨ they say, as if that were something to look forward to. Never been in trouble, never had to steal or beg, never had a really bad accident. Never won the lottery and had my kids kidnapped. So they watch those shitty soap operas and dramas and stuff, and cry their eyes out for those others they see, so much suffering, so much pain. But it never happens to them. And instead of feeling lucky and thanking god, they feel that they’ve missed out on something, for fuck’s sake. ¨We want tragedy! ¨ Well they are the lucky ones, Bro.´
So he had wanted to clear that up, make his final comment. That was fine by Ambrose.
‘You’re right, Spotty.’
‘Of course I’m fucking right. I’m always right, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Well as long as we all agree on that… Let’s make a couple of calls.’
5
Harvey had taken over one of the ground floor rooms for himself. He was never sure if it was now his study, somewhere cosy and personal, or his office, a place where work is done and decisions are made. The walls were lined with books, as were a number of rooms in the house, and the furniture was extremely old world. The writing desk was huge and heavy, and shone with a dull, dark brown light. The chairs were also sturdy, cushioned, straight backed affairs as if they had been picked up from a notary’s office. And despite the large windows, the ceiling lights, and the many corner lamps, a residual darkness still lurked around the huge oil paintings and along the skirting boards. So to cheer the place up, to modernise it, to leave his mark, Harvey had added a large, leather, ultra modern executive swivel chair, a glass and stainless steel side desk cluttered with all the latest technological advances, and by the door a water dispenser, clear and cool, exactly like the one in his city office. He offered a tiny, inverted cone of spring water to Joe Stein, who declined the offer. Ambrose? There was a moment’s hesitation as Ambrose searched for Stein’s advice, which was not forthcoming. So he took one and swallowed it in a gulp. Then, unsure what to do with the paper cup, he decided to screw it up and pop it in his pocket. Harvey tossed his into a waste paper bin specifically placed by the dispenser for such occasions. But no comment was made, so Ambrose relaxed again.
As Stein by now knew, Mr. Paulson had a plan. He had first mentioned it some months back, but since then Harvey had done his homework and the project was now, as he had put it, ‘mature’. So he had called for Joe Stein and Ambrose to meet him in his office, or study, so that he could go over the details with them, in detail. He suggested they take a chair each. So they sat, perfectly erect, as if sitting to attention, whilst Harvey leant back in his chair and swivelled, looking at them from across his chest.
‘Now I’ve gi
ven this a lot of thought and it’s something I, we, have been meaning to do for some time.’
He paused here, as if he expected either Stein or Ambrose to interject, but neither of them did, so he continued.
‘I spoke to you about this a few months back, Mr. Stein, about the layout and the design. Well since then I’ve been in touch with a number of specialised firms, some more specialised than others!’
A little joke that he was happy to see raised a smile on Stein’s face. Ambrose hadn’t picked up on it. Typical. Enough humour, back to business.
‘Anyway, after sifting through god knows how many brochures, quotes.... and after deciding exactly what we want done, we have decided it is time to put the plan into action. So that we can get started and hopefully have it all finished by the time the good weather arrives.’
Mr. Stein nodded his agreement. Ambrose followed suit.
‘I assume that so far you have not discussed this with anyone?’
Stein was under orders not to do so. He confirmed that the secret was indeed still a secret.
‘Right Ambrose, let me fill you in. What I want is to re-do the entire pool area. Most of the flagstones are cracked, the showers look as if they were built before the war, the benches are old and buckled.....’
He waved his hands about and grimaced as if to say ‘a disaster, unfit for us’.
Ambrose, unsure what to do, did nothing.
‘It’s going to cost quite a lot of money, but it is something that has to be done, not only for us, but for visitors and guests. We can hardly throw a barbecue or a pool party with a pool like that, now can we?’
Another little joke, another smile from Stein. Ambrose was beginning to feel left out.
‘It’s out of date, run down, ugly, and....’
He let the sentence fade out as he realised he could not state here that the whole pool area stank of the past, of the Haute family, of bygone days that no longer concerned him. He wanted to rip out the last vestiges of that dynasty and start afresh. Andrea was with him on this. They had to turn Haute House into their home. To do so, they had to redecorate, redesign, and bring the place into line with their generation. The master of the house is dead; long live the master of the house.
‘The pool itself will be retiled. Andrea has already chosen the colours and the logo. The rest of the area will be ripped up, entirely, all of it, from the terrace steps down to the garden path, and as far as the flower beds. Wooden boarding will be placed around the pool, with sunken lights built in, and a row of lampposts will be strung around that, demarking the pool zone from the other zones. The benches will go, the old stonework will go, the showers will be replaced by modern units with push button controls. I had wanted to acclimatise the pool, too, but having studied the various offers and