One Way or Another(55)

Morrie lived in a done-over apartment in an old brick building in a newly gentrified part of Brixton, which used to be where nobody dared set foot after dark, or even during daytime, but had now been cleaned up, money had moved in, taken over. All was well, in Morrie’s world, until his first encounter with Ahmet Ghulbian and the infamous Mehitabel.

They met at Marshmallows, where he had driven with Lucy, taking Martha’s place while she took care of the everlasting arrangements for the ball.

“Just check that everything has arrived, finally,” she told him. “You have the floor plans, you know where everything should go, you understand how the curtains should hang, that the lights are inset in the correct places, that the witch Mehitabel has not changed everything so she can blame the mess on me when Ahmet finally gets to approve it.”

“Shit,” Morrie said, bewildered. “I thought you were working with him. She’s just the assistant, isn’t she?”

“Trust me, she’ll let you know exactly who she is, and exactly who you are on the scale of things. Don’t take it to heart,” she added with a laugh. “We’ve all been there. Mehitabel is a cow.”

“Hmm, I could probably think of a better c-word, though I won’t say it in your company.”

“You might though, in hers.”

Lucy was sitting next to him as they drove up to Marshmallows, between the avenue of stunted trees that looked, Morrie thought, taking a quick glance from side to side, like something from a Disney movie where the witch might be seen floating over the top. Mehitabel, in fact, he guessed.

“Well, so here we are at last,” he said, climbing out, then grabbing his jacket from the backseat and slipping it on. He’d thought the Harris tweed appropriate for a country estate, but looking at this one he changed his mind; a top hat and tails, morning dress, might have been more appropriate.

“Do those birds always sit there, watching?” he asked Lucy, staring warily at the herons who had their claws wrapped around the curved edge of the roof tiles and were glaring menacingly at them.

“They just think we might be after their babies,” Lucy said. “They’re not dangerous. It’s that woman we have to watch out for.” But she laughed as she said it; very little upset Lucy.

To her surprise, the door was flung open by a manservant she’d never before seen before they had even mounted the four stone steps that led to a pillared porch, so obviously an addition Lucy wondered what Martha was going to do about it. It would have to go, she was sure of that.

“Hi,” she said, “we’re the decorators.” The man looked at her blankly. “From London,” she added. “Patrons, that is. Mr. Sorris and I—Lucy Patron—have come to check work progress.” Still he said nothing, made no move to let them in. “Mr. Ghulbian wanted us to check everything,” she added, her voice faltering a bit; she had never before encountered such a silent reception.

“I must check that with Mr. Ghulbian,” the man said abruptly, and shut the door in their faces.

“Shit!” Morrie said. “What the f*ck’s up with him, then?”

Lucy was already on her cell, calling her sister. “Buggie-wuggie, Marthie,” she said when Martha answered, “they wouldn’t let us in.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“Some full-of-himself guy in a morning suit pretending to be a butler. My bet, though, is he’s just out of prison.”

She heard Martha laugh. “I’ll call Mehitabel,” she said.

“That cow,” Lucy said.

“Don’t worry, the cow will let you in, I’ll make sure of that. And Lucy, while you’re there, try and sneak upstairs, why don’t you? It’s like they have a yellow police tape at the bottom of that staircase, and God forbid you should try to get past it.”

“Mmm, skeletons in the attic?”

“I surely hope not, but something’s up. Anyway, you see what you can find out.”

“The ex-jailbird in the morning suit is back,” Lucy said. “Don’t worry, big sister, I know this house like the back of my hand by now. Well, the kitchen quarters, anyhow. I’ll demand to see upstairs.”

“And I’m calling Ahmet to tell him you are going to do just that.”





38





ANGIE


When I came around I was lying in a low tub. The water was cool and came up to my neck; only my head stuck out above. Instantly, I panicked. I was drowning again, going down into that bridesmaid’s velvet blue, deeper into azure, darker into cobalt.…

“Sit up, for God’s sake, why don’t you,” a voice snarled at me.

I felt Mehitabel’s hand under the back of my bald head, gripping, viselike, to stop me I supposed from simply sliding back underwater again. I wished she would let go. Wished everyone would simply let go. I wanted to leave, didn’t they know that by now, that I could take no more; that death was easier, softer, the gentler way out. Though out of what I had no idea, no concept, no inkling of what I was involved in.

My voice came back, throaty, raspy, yet my own, and I heard myself say: “What do you know about God, anyway. Just let go of my f*ckin’ head you f*ckin’ bitch and I’ll happily go away.”

I never cursed, well, only when I was pissed off at female customers in the bar when they gave me the superior stare, the up-and-down, look-at-that-poor-bitch look, that made me want to throw their stupid cosmos in their faces and to hell with the job. But now I had no job, no drink to throw at anybody, no strength left anyway to so much as lift an arm to throw anything. Yet inside I burned with the new raw energy of hate.