Authors: Margot Livesey
Banishing Verona (8 page)
“Christ if I know,” said Emmanuel. “I came round to give you the message and let you know I'll be back at work soon. Verona isn't my problem. Yours either.”
As Emmanuel's footsteps receded down the stairs, Zeke looked around his familiar kitchen and saw that his possessions had heard the news. The stove gleamed, the fridge purred, the cupboards kept their orderly secrets, the saucepans shone, even the grout between the tiles was lustrous.
“Verona MacIntyre,” he said. He could not imagine six more perfect syllables.
Until that Monday afternoon, a damp, drab day in early February remarkable only for fulfilling all expectations of the season, Verona would have claimed herself to be among those few, those happy few, who see themselves clearly. It was a point of obscure and prickly pride that she, unlike her hapless parents, both dead now for several years, or her ne'er-do-well brother, alive and well in Kentish Town, did not harbor illusions, flattering or otherwise, about her own person or nature. She knew she was tall, ambitious, hot-tempered, stubborn, eloquent, an excellent cook, attractive to a fairly small number of men, and, as she'd been slower to realize, a significant number of women. If pressed, she would also have said that she believed herself perfectly capable of following in the footsteps of her grandfather, who had fought in the First World War, of pointing a gun at the enemy, and pulling the trigger. She had ridden a motorcycle at university, tried parachuting and rock climbing, and had twice consumed drugs rashly purchased in public places; she was not afraid of arguments, or dogs, or fast cars, or bad water, or foreign travel.
She had come home that Monday after a production meeting of exasperating length and inconclusiveness, carrying two bags: one
containing milk, bread, and muesli, the other orange juice, apples, beetroot, and bananas. Later she was to think of her banter with Lionel at the corner shopâso you're going to call the baby after me? Leonie if it's a girl, promiseâas the last exchange of her old life. At the house, she had to juggle the bags in order to fit her keys in the locks: first the outside door; then, upstairs, her own door. When she stepped inside, she switched on the hall light, an ugly fifties fixture that cast a nice rosy glow over the pale walls, and, without stopping to take off her coat, headed to the kitchen. Only after she had set the bags on the counter did she turn on that light. And only then, as the light spilled through the kitchen door into the living room, did she see, seated on the calico-covered sofa she had purchased last autumn after the results of the amniocentesis, two men watching her. For a fraction of a second, such was their dress and demeanor, she was convinced she knew them: that she had asked over some friends from work, lent them a set of keys, and somehow forgotten the whole arrangement.
containing milk, bread, and muesli, the other orange juice, apples, beetroot, and bananas. Later she was to think of her banter with Lionel at the corner shopâso you're going to call the baby after me? Leonie if it's a girl, promiseâas the last exchange of her old life. At the house, she had to juggle the bags in order to fit her keys in the locks: first the outside door; then, upstairs, her own door. When she stepped inside, she switched on the hall light, an ugly fifties fixture that cast a nice rosy glow over the pale walls, and, without stopping to take off her coat, headed to the kitchen. Only after she had set the bags on the counter did she turn on that light. And only then, as the light spilled through the kitchen door into the living room, did she see, seated on the calico-covered sofa she had purchased last autumn after the results of the amniocentesis, two men watching her. For a fraction of a second, such was their dress and demeanor, she was convinced she knew them: that she had asked over some friends from work, lent them a set of keys, and somehow forgotten the whole arrangement.
“Miss MacIntyre,” said the man nearer the kitchen, the paler, plumper one, rising to his feet, “don't be upset. My name is Nigel, and this is George. We're friends of Henry's and we just need a word with you. Here, take a seat.” He turned on the standard lamp and motioned for her to sit in the wicker armchair, before returning to the sofa.
She could have run for the door, she could have screamed, but she did neither. She did exactly what he asked. Her fear was still tinged with confusion and indignation. Besides, the man had invoked her brother. But as she sat down, the wicker creaked beneath her weight and the small sound brought home what was happening: two strange men had broken into her flat and she was alone with them. Was this a burglary? A kidnapping? A rape? The men seemed so calm, so respectable, more like policemen than thieves.
The other man, the one who'd remained seated, took over. “You must be wondering why we're here,” he said. “Your brother is one of our clients. Or perhaps I should say was. He gives every
sign of wanting to quit the relationship.” His voice had a hint of a West Country accent and his lips moved in a slightly exaggerated way, as if he had grown up in the company of deaf people. Now that she was looking at him, Verona could see that he was older than she'd first thought. In his forties, perhaps. “We were meant to meet last Thursday,” he went on. “Henry didn't show up, and since Saturday we've found neither hide nor hair of him. Which, you'll agree, is a little odd for a man who has a pager, two cell phones, an answering machine, and a secretary.” Even in the midst of her terror, Verona was briefly comforted by his mild sarcasm. “So,” he concluded, “we were hoping you might know his whereabouts.”
sign of wanting to quit the relationship.” His voice had a hint of a West Country accent and his lips moved in a slightly exaggerated way, as if he had grown up in the company of deaf people. Now that she was looking at him, Verona could see that he was older than she'd first thought. In his forties, perhaps. “We were meant to meet last Thursday,” he went on. “Henry didn't show up, and since Saturday we've found neither hide nor hair of him. Which, you'll agree, is a little odd for a man who has a pager, two cell phones, an answering machine, and a secretary.” Even in the midst of her terror, Verona was briefly comforted by his mild sarcasm. “So,” he concluded, “we were hoping you might know his whereabouts.”
“Isn't he at home?” Seldom had she struggled harder to produce an audible sentence.
“He hasn't been there in forty-eight hours. And”âthe man grimacedâ“he phoned his office to say he had the flu. He told a couple of friends he'd gone to Paris. Apparently he didn't phone you.”
Involuntarily Verona glanced toward her answering machine.
“We checked,” he said.
The plumper, younger man weighed in again. “He's only making things worse by trying to avoid us. If you speak to him, tell him that. Right now, no harm done. Pay us what he owes and we'll forget the whole shenanigans.” He flung his arms wide, indicating the extent of the shenanigans and forcing his companion to lean back into the sofa. The pinky on his left hand, Verona saw, stuck out at an odd angle. “But pretty soon it will be too late. No way he'll get away with this unless he's prepared to live in a frigging cave”âhis arms flew againâ“in frigging Patagonia.”
He stood up, came over, and held something out toward her. Automatically her hand rose to accept the small cardboard rectangle: a business card.
“What Nigel's trying to tell you,” said the older man, shifting to a more comfortable position now that he had the sofa to himself, “is that as Henry's sister it's in both your and his best interests to get a message to him. Are you all right?” he added.
Yet again her body had betrayed her. Her heart, which she had thought was already pumping to capacity, leaped to some entirely unsuspected level of activity. At the same time, almost in an instant, her hands grew icy as if the blood were seeking safety deep inside her body. Nigel fetched a glass of water, and she made her fingers open and close around it. He stood beside her while she took a few shaky sips. She could smell cinnamon, faintly, on his hands or breath.
Then the two of them let themselves out.
As soon as she heard the outside door close, Verona stood up. The glass fell from her fingers and bounced twice, unbroken, on the rug. And in the time it took to do so she dramatically revised her picture of herself. Just because she was tall and quick-tempered and could clean a sixth-floor window without feeling dizzy did not mean she was brave; she had simply not been tested. She ran to the door and fumbled the mortise lock into place. Then she checked all the windows and drew all the curtains and blinds. As she moved from room to room, it became apparent that listening to her answering machine was only the start; the men had searched the flat meticulously. The novel she was currently reading was at the bottom of the stack of books beside her bed; the CDs she had left out were back in their cases. When she went, unthinkingly, to put away her groceries she noticed that even the boxes of cereal and pasta had been examined.
She seized the phone to call the police, but at the sound of the dial tone the trembling intensified. What on earth would she say? The men had come and gone, doing her no harm, taking nothing. She did not, for an instant, doubt their accusations. She put down the phone, picked it up again, and dialed Toby's number. Thank God, he answered. “Verona, I'm in the middle of cooking supper. Can I call you back?”
“No,” she said, but the rest came out jumbled and clotted.
“What is it? Are you on your mobile?”
She put her hand on her belly and, by dint of focusing on the
lettering on the phone book, managed to say, “When I came home two strange men were in my living room, looking for Henry.”
lettering on the phone book, managed to say, “When I came home two strange men were in my living room, looking for Henry.”
“Why would they be looking for Henry?” said Toby, clearly still not grasping the enormity of what had occurredâand why should he when Verona, with the men actually in her presence, had taken several minutes to do so? She heard the
ting
of metal on metal, a whisk or fork perhaps. “Isn't he inâ” Abruptly the clatter of cookware ceased. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
ting
of metal on metal, a whisk or fork perhaps. “Isn't he inâ” Abruptly the clatter of cookware ceased. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
She persuaded him to meet her at Henry's house. Perhaps he had left some clue to his whereabouts. She called a cab, found the keys they'd exchanged in a rare sibling gesture, and turned on every light, two radios, and the television. Stupid to think light and cacophony could protect her, but, closing the door, she felt a little better. And a little better still at the sight of Frazer, who often drove her to the radio station, sitting behind the wheel of the taxi. As usual, he talked incessantly about his five sons, two back in Pakistan, three here, all flourishing. Verona's only task was to say “Really?” or sometimes, for variety, “Great.”
Meanwhile her brain seethed. For nearly two decades she had allowed herself to hope that Henry had reformed; at the same time, she now realized, she had also been waiting for the ax to fall. There was a feeling akin to satisfaction in knowing that his true self had, at last, emerged. As the taxi turned into his street, she suddenly wondered if Nigel and George might have followed her. Or, even worse, not needed to because her next move was so obvious. She leaned forward to scan the sidewalks. In the spooky light of the streetlamps she made out a woman pushing a pram, a white car edging into a parking space. Then she saw a dark figure standing on Henry's doorstep.
“Frazer,” she said.
“âand Charles is captain of the hospital cricket teamâyes?”
The man stepped out of the doorway. As he bent to examine his watch, she recognized Toby. “Stop here,” she said, handing
Frazer a ten-pound note. In the midst of his farewells, she extricated herself from the car.
Frazer a ten-pound note. In the midst of his farewells, she extricated herself from the car.
“I thought you were never coming,” Toby said. “What's going on?”
Even his irritation was reassuring. She handed him the keys and when they were inside, standing in the kitchen, she told him again about her visitors, starting with the groceries and ending with the business card. As Toby listened, his face grew paleâshe could have counted his freckles if there weren't so manyâand his topaz-colored eyes widened. “My God, Verona. They could have killed you. Or the baby. Anything could have happened.”
“That's what I've been trying to tell you,” she said, but when she looked down she saw that her hands were trembling again. This time, though, partly from cold. The house, unlike any place Henry had ever lived, was freezing. Then she remembered that she and Toby had forgotten the burglar alarm. “They were here,” she whispered.
“Who?”
“The men who were in my living room. They've been here too.” She covered her mouth with her still-icy hands and let the trembling take over.
“Don't, Verona,” said Toby. “You've had a shock. I'll make some tea.” He turned on the heat, set the oven on high with the door open, and filled the kettle. Then he made her sit down, close to the stove, and knelt before her, rubbing her hands. “That stupid bastard,” he said. “What's he got himself into now?”
When they both had cups of teaâhe insisted on adding two spoonfuls of sugar to hersâshe did her best to tell him what the men had said about Henry. “I wish you'd been there. You'd have understood the implications.”
“The implications?” he repeated, his voice shrill. “I think the implications are fairly clear. Henry is involved in something dubious. He owes the men money and he's done a bunk. The question is where to, and can the situation be sorted? When did you last see him?”
“Two or three weeks ago. We had dinner. Maybe you could talk to the men? If we knew what the problem was, perhaps we could fix it.” As soon as she'd spoken, she heard how foolish she sounded. This was not some childish scrape she could make better for Henry, some petty wrongdoing to be, at best, apologized for, at worst, concealed.
“Business isn't really my area of expertise.” Toby pressed his lips together. “Henry's always led a charmed life, financially and otherwise. I'm sure this is just a temporary setback.”
She had forgotten, in spite of repeated evidence, that he was usually on her brother's side. “In general,” she said, drinking some tea, “I think a setback or two would be good for Henry, but not in this case. These men don't play by the normal rules. I can picture them shoving him under a bus, throwing him in a ditch.”
“Don't.” He stood up so quickly that his chair fell over. “Would you like some more tea?” He righted the chair and, not waiting for an answer, went to stand beside the counter.
During the two years Henry had lived in the house, she had been here half a dozen times but only once before, watering the plants while he was on holiday in Italy, without him. Now she looked around the immaculate kitchen as if seeing the sleek granite counters and glittering appliances for the first time. They spoke of something, something essential about her brother, and sitting there in the heat of his pristine oven, she at last understood the syllables they murmured. “The one thing Henry wants,” she said, “it isn't fame or love. It's money.”
“Doesn't everyone?” Toby said, at last turning around. “Here I am slaving away to write the introduction for a catalog that will earn me three hundred pounds.”
“No, that's different.” In her impatience to convey her insight, words spilled out. “There are all kinds of things you won't do for money. Basically you're like me; you want to be paid for doing something you'd do anyway. Money is Henry's raison d'être. I used to think he liked making mischief for its own sake. Maybe that was true when he was younger, but nowadays he's much too
practical to do something for its own sake. On the other hand, for enough cash, he would literally do almost anything.”
practical to do something for its own sake. On the other hand, for enough cash, he would literally do almost anything.”
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