Balls

  They shrugged it off. A mystery it would remain.

  Dennis Quigley explained himself as best he could in layman's terms. It was difficult avoiding his legal jargon because it was the language he used every day, and because he enjoyed sounding like a learned gentleman. It gave him credibility, the way doctors baffle their patients by telling them they have articular synovitis, instead of swollen joints. But Ron and Daphne would have none of it and would frown when he used subpoena or section fifteen, article six of the penal code. Keep it simple Dennis, we're paying.

  His voice didn't help, either. He had a slightly higher than normal pitch, with a shadow of a lisp, difficult to pin down but definitely in there somewhere. If it wasn't for the fact that he was married with two kids... Perhaps he could learn something from Daphne about presentation after all.

  The news was not all bad. He had spoken to both the prosecution and the judge assigned to the case, and neither of them seemed too convinced about Ken's involvement. They had urged the police to re-examine the evidence and to search for another possible culprit. Ken for his part was bearing up alright, the fact that nearly everyone believed he was innocent helping to bolster his spirits. Jill had been to see him again and this time he had agreed to see her. She would be taking the kids next time. Either way he would be appearing in court for the first hearing sometime next week, most likely Wednesday morning, so they could all get to see him then and try to lift his morale. Bail was out of the question unless the police dropped charges, which at his moment in time was wishful thinking. They needed a lead, but for the time being they had nothing to go on.

  In a worst case scenario Ken would stay in jail until his trial, say in four or five month's time if all went well, then be released on lack of evidence. He had it on good authority the Crown would not appeal, the case was too weak.

  Ron smiled and slapped his thighs as if to say 'fine, well that's that, then'. Quigley bowed his head slightly in recognition and acceptance of this subtle praise. Luckily they were in good hands, he seemed to say. Had the men been alone, preferably at a snooker table, they could have shaken hands, maybe shared a few jokes over a decent whiskey, perhaps even have mentioned the unmentionable – fees and compensation.

  But Daphne was present and she was not so easily contented. She inhaled deeply, ostentatiously, as if counting to ten very patiently, then slowly exhaled through her nose in a weary, it looks as if it's up to me again sigh. Ron recognised the gesture, it reminded him of his father-in-law. Not a pretty sight. He sank back into his passenger seat.

  Daphne turned to Dennis Quigley and gave him a six inch nail gaze.

  ‘I think you have met Mr. Wallace, Carlton? He is a security guard. He now lives here with us, on a permanent basis, day in , day out. I have to say he is discreet, and very courteous, but his presence in this house is, how shall I put it...? Let us just say that Carlton is unfortunately very welcome, but we would prefer not to have him around, if you follow me.’

  ‘Naturally, and of course I fully..’

  ‘Mr. Wallace is protecting us, Mr. Quigley, protecting us with his own life. That is praiseworthy.’

  The slight emphasis on that was lost on Quigley, but not on Ronald. Should he come to Dennis's rescue? Best not be too hasty.

  ‘You say Kenneth, poor Kenneth, is apparently not considered guilty of murder. I am very glad to hear that. We both know he is capable of many things, but murder.....’

  ‘And as I pointed out..’

  ‘So he is innocent, it appears. Fine. Let us all thank god for that. Shall I tell Mr. Wallace, too? I'm sure he'll be very interested to hear that.’

  Quigley wriggled uneasily. What was she trying to say? Why wouldn't she let him get a word in edgeways? She smoothed down her dress and spoke to her knees.

  ‘But answer me this. If Kenneth did not kill this Swan character, does that mean that the real killer is still at large?’

  ‘If I may just..’

  ‘And if this madman is still stalking the streets, does it mean that we are safe? That we have nothing to worry about, that he is not going to attack us?’

  She stood up abruptly.

  ‘We are fortunate, Mr. Quigley. We have Carlton here to look after us. I fear Jill, or Paul, or the other sect members have no protection whatsoever. I do not feel it is time for self-congratulation at all. Not at all.’

  ‘It was never my intention..’

  ‘I have a list of things I want you to take care of. In my office.’

  She left. Ron looked at Quigley in disbelief and stroked his goatee beard in wonder. Had she really shown compassion, for Ken, for Jill? It was possible, he supposed, theoretically. But to extend that to the sect members? Astonishing. He had liked the bit about the list, though, his influence undoubtedly, although 'my' office was going a bit too far. Dennis, who had not understood a word, mistook Ron's facial expressions. He thought he was just saying 'huh, women!'. A touch cliché, but a sentiment he wholeheartedly agreed with. He winked good-humouredly and took his leave.

  Daphne escorted him to his car.

  ‘I want you to do your best to find out what you can about Ronald's father.’

  Quigley's eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Yes. As July Andrews would say, let's start at the very beginning. I'm sure it is all tied up with that horrid rape business.’

  Dennis couldn't imagine Daphne watching The Sound of Music. He felt relieved that at least she hadn't broken into song.

  ‘His father? Yes, of course, I'll do whatever is in my power, though......’

  ‘I'm sure you will. Not a word to Ronald. We must get to the killer before he gets to us.’

  Newspapers around the world have learnt to move with the times. Like the Catholic Church and latter day Monarchs they have understood the need to emerge from behind their lofty walls of scholarship and superiority and mingle with the crowd if they are to survive. Every so often they take the temperature of their influence in the public debate and react accordingly. Changes are made. Sometimes it's the content, sometimes the packaging. Broad sheet s go tabloid, advertisements go full colour double page spread, information extends its hand to entertainment, rigour bows out to impact, impartiality becomes synonymous to sitting on the fence and is therefore ridiculed.

  Still, as the Germans used to say, twenty million fascists can't be wrong.

  So it was that one fine Sunday the nation woke up to yet another Exclusive. Well, it was sold as such, though in reality it was simply an in depth article about Paul's Sect, commonly nicknamed the Sex Pistols Sect (Never Mind the Bollocks). Months after his initial fame had fizzled out, months after his brother had been hauled in for murder, a respected, perhaps even respectable National newspaper had decided to give him a re-run. What made it different? Firstly, the sheer weight of a Sunday paper, both literally and figuratively. Also, the scale of the investigation – professional photography, excellent graphic design, lengthy interviews, well-documented background, even an investigation into its funding. Reading between the lines it became apparent to the more perspicacious that the Established Religions wanted this newcomer off their patch and had flexed their muscles. They had learnt their mistake. Unless you stop the rot right from the beginning you never know what might happen. Any madcap idea seemed to catch on at an amazing rate, and now Mormons and Scientologists were skimming off revenue which used to belong to them. Zero tolerance was the key, as any Church worth its salt will tell you.

  But this insight into human frailty alone wouldn't have been enough to warrant a sixteen page Sunday tour de force. The fact that large parts of the human race have a Hubbard in the cupboard or believe wholeheartedly in Star Wars or The Old Testament is eye-openingly sad, but it does not sell papers. No, as always it was the violence that tipped the balance. From rape, to self-castration to murder. In a quasi religious context. What more did we need?

  The Kavanaghs and their world were analysed in detail, and conclusions were drawn from the available evidence. Given
the reputation of the newspaper in question, these conclusions would now be accepted as standard, would take the place of the truth, and could be quoted in good company without fear of contradiction, because we now had it 'on good authority'.

  The Sect was dissected. The reporters were let loose and encouraged to sharpen their teeth on their prey. As we all know, criticism is subjective, therefore any attribute can be easily and safely ridiculed. If it is big, it is unwieldy, if small, insignificant, if medium-sized, neither big nor small, neither here nor there. Paul's Religion was not worthy of that name, it was not mono theist, there was no written code of conduct, no established system of rites. It seemed like a cheap imitation of Buddhism with a dash of late sixties hippy-ism and some left wing influenced nonsense. Kid's stuff when compared to the Anglican Church or Islam. No points.

  Paul himself had to be dragged over the coals if his new religion was to be dented. He was portrayed as a drug soaked visionary, a megalomaniac who would stop at nothing to gain fame and fortune. He somehow manipulated his followers through his hypnotic powers until they too would do whatever he commanded, like domesticated zombies or customs officials. Like his brothers he was genetically flawed and violence was his natural language. At best his self castration had been an attempt to curb his inbred aggression, to stifle his instinctive anger. At worst it was a callous, drastic and profitable publicity stunt. Some, who wished to remain anonymous, even suspected that he had urged his brother Kenneth Kavanagh to kill Mr. Swan, co-founder and treasurer, so as to be able to place his sister-in-law in charge of financial affairs. He was intelligent and cunning, devious and conspiratorial, and quite probably the worst thing imaginable – a drug trafficker.

  Damning stuff. Only the thick-skinned or those in the trade managed to take it with the mandatory and advisable pinch of salt.

  As for the rest of the family – off with their heads!

  Ronald came from a broken home. His father was a drunken, womanising, child-beating despot, his mother an unnerving creature who had somehow inspired and encouraged this domestic hell. There was talk of a rape and attempted murder. The father ran off, the mother covered his tracks and refused to collaborate with the police. The case was never closed.

  Against that background of fear and oppression, young Ronald had forged his character. He would not only survive, he would thrive. He would dominate and achieve success no matter what the cost, not unlike his younger brother Paul. But whereas Paul had chosen to exert his influence through an invented religion, Ronald had decided to use an already existing route to goal – Politics. Much of a muchness, as both sought the road to Power; the doorway to financial well-being and the right to decide for others. Luckily for society in general he and his cohorts (sorry Daphne, mud-slinging is not an exact science) had been brought to their knees.

  So what hope was there for Kenneth, sandwiched between these two calculating siblings? Ken was the dim one, the brute strength. He beat his wife (supposedly), he beat his children (apparently), he terrorised the whole neighbourhood (reportedly). He would even scrap with his brothers given half a chance, half a reason. Now he was legally separated and awaiting trial in jail. For murder. Of none other than his brother's chief rival. Meanwhile his ex wife raked in the cash.

  There was a little obligatory if insincere soul searching, too, at the end of the masterpiece. Is society, that is each and every one of us, to blame? What conditions are necessary to create such aberrant social behaviour? What can we do to assure these dysfunctional, unstructured families cease to exist? How many more are there out there threatening our way of life, our very existence (see graph)?

  It was poured over at breakfast, digested after lunch. The public had been informed, had been warned. Beware the Kavanaghs, beware brainwashing sects, beware the rockers of boats.

  Chris Morton tossed the glossy mag onto the coffee table, then quickly repented and folded it neatly back into the newspaper and popped it into the magazine rack. Tidy is as tidy does. He needed to think, so he went out into the yard to play basketball.

  The trick is to find the game that best suits your build and skills. If you are burly and brash, try rugby or handball. If you are lean with a keen eye, why not give squash a go, or ping pong? Chris was tall and strong, disciplined and competitive. He loved precision and power and smashing the ball through the ring over and over again. Basketball.

  It was all coming to a head and he would have to move fast, to take the important decisions now, over the next few days. From what he had understood the Kavanagh trial would be a matter of weeks rather than months, so it was now or never.

  Everything had been meticulously planned, he had gone over every tiny detail again and again. This was not something he had learnt in the Army, where he had only been a link in the chain of command – he had received orders which he had then passed on. His was not to question why. They had taught him self-discipline, how to fold a uniform and polish boots, how to become a cog in a well-oiled machine, but not how to plan a mission. Leave that to the clever ones; Chris Morton was a fighting man. Unfortunately for him the war had arrived just a couple of years too late. His country had supplied weapons to a distant dictator over the years, and when he was finally armed to the teeth with obsolete military equipment they had decided it was safe enough to attack and try out their new, sophisticated armament. An excuse was found to take offence, the tension escalated, and at long last a new enemy was created. Chris had pulled every string he could think of to get sent to the front, but his superiors deemed he was of more use to them back home, training a new generation of cannon fodder. He had worked as hard as anyone, suffered, sweated, eaten trash and swallowed abuse, but he would not get to see the action, no do or die, no death or glory. After fifteen years faithful service he quit.

  The best way to forget something is to write it down, his father had told him. Well that may be so on a domestic basis, but at a busy insurance office it was next to suicide. Take notes, and re-read those notes every so often, or that phone call, that meeting, that visit will slip your memory and bounce back on you. If you want to succeed in business be meticulous (and keep your political beliefs to your chest).

  He had worked up a sweat now and was feeling good. He tried a long shot, a three pointer, but it hit the rim of the basket and skewed off into the hedge. The problem was that writing it all down generated evidence. So he was forced to memorise it and then destroy it, like a cold war spy, like ex-Councillor Ronald Kavanagh himself. He tapped a finger against his brow – it was all up here. He would revise constantly so as not to overlook any minor detail, so as not to forget the sequence of events. He had a plan, a good, flexible, well thought out plan, he had an escape route, various escape routes, he had contingency plans. If he could just control the boys and keep it all in place....

  Catherine flitted past an upstairs window like a ghost. He jumped and slammed the ball home at close range.

  Miss Reinhart entered with a smile and a folder full of clippings. She had been hard at it since nine o'clock, scouring the press for human weakness expressed through violence. There was always plenty of it. But once she had finished her daily compilation and handed it over, she could relax and pretend to enjoy her cup of instant decaf.

  ‘I've brought you this, too, though I expect you've already seen it. Still, just in case.’

  She thumped the Sunday paper and its inseparable colour supplement on his desk along with the clippings folder, and breezed out.

  Dr. Flynch had seen it already, needless to say, even though that particular newspaper was not his usual choice, and he had felt a little uncomfortable asking for it at his local newsagent's.

  In Spain, Italy, France and a host of other nations, you are offered a wide range of coffees: with milk, solo, long or short, espresso, cappuccino, with ice and so forth. In Britain and other similar countries you can decide how you would like your news served. To the left, to the right, sort of down the middle, extensive, brief, erudite, slangy; most tastes a
re catered for. Indeed some so called newspapers have no news at all, have dropped the prefix and become just 'papers', and are really just magazines without the gloss, dealing mainly in gossip, fashion, sports and TV. Some choose their daily as a matter of tradition, or class, others as a political statement. Many more because they like the sports coverage, or the crossword, the sudoku, or the special offers. There may even be a few who would genuinely like to read the news. How the reports are coloured is an exercise in free speech, is an editorial decision. Whether this is information, disinformation, hoodwinking or propaganda is up to each individual to decide.

  There was no point in going through it again, he had read every single article just the day before. Anyway, he knew far more about the case than the journalists; he had first hand knowledge. He had even been to Kenneth Kavanagh's home and interviewed both him and his wife, or rather his ex-wife, Jill. He had escorted her on her very first television appearance. How she had loved the make up department. It had been a real eye opener for her, and she had come out looking, well, quite simply, breathtakingly beautiful. A pity she had later been digitally disguised and distorted. Still, he had taken photos, all had not been in vain. He coughed. Guiltily? He cleaned his glasses. Nervously? He kept the photos in an envelope at home, and yes, he looked through them from time to time, there was no harm in that, nothing perverse. It helped him to remember, that's all. That was all in the past now, he had severed all contact, it was the only professional thing to do. Now he would not be tempted to say anything untoward, to make her feel uncomfortable, and there would be no risk of rejection. It was best that way.