The Mentor. Steve Jackson
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Every spare surface was covered with candles, some in holders, some in saucers, but most welded in place with melted wax. The wardrobes and drawers still held her clothes, and Aston swore a hint of her perfume remained in the air. An ivory handled hairbrush and hand mirror sat gathering dust on the dressing table, where perfume bottles were lined up like soldiers, all the labels facing out. The bed was immaculately made up: razor sharp creases in the linen, the pillows fluffed up and placed with military precision. One wall was covered in photographs, all Blu-tacked neatly in place; a scattering of pictures had fallen off and lay on the floor. The pictures had been taken all over the world, the light and architecture changing from photo to photo. Here, the bright sunshine and tall skyscraper backdrop of Singapore. There, the dull light and severe Tsarist palaces of Moscow. Japan, Italy and Austria. New York and Paris. And in all of them Sophia was smiling and happy, radiating health and without a care, completely unaware of the disease waiting to strike her down, not knowing that she was living on borrowed time.
‘Well, they certainly got around,’ George said, gazing over his shoulder at the photos. ‘Seems Sophia had money as well as looks.’
‘Who’s to say Mac didn’t pay for all the travelling?’
‘You’re kidding, right? You’ve seen what we’re paid. You don’t get into this line of work for the money.’
Aston stooped down and picked up one of the photos from the floor. It was older than the rest, and Mac was in it, too. Behind the smiling couple, an antiquated big wheel loomed, the same big wheel from the picture in Mac’s office. Aston had always assumed that he had it there as a souvenir of his time in Vienna. Holding the photo he realised there was probably more to that picture than he thought. They made a good-looking couple. Sophia had a soft, innocent face and slim body, a feline beauty that complemented Mac, who, with his corn-coloured hair and piercing blue eyes, had more than a touch of the Robert Redfords about him.
‘So what do you make of all this?’ George asked.
‘Pretty fucked up,’ Aston said, echoing her earlier sentiments.
‘Pretty unsettling, too,’ George said. ‘Makes you wonder what’s going on in his head, right now. You know him as well as anyone. Any ideas?’
Aston shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t even like to hazard a guess.’
‘Seen enough?’
‘Yeah,’ Aston said, but George hadn’t bothered to wait for an answer. She was already halfway along the landing. Aston backed out of the room, but before he hit the light switch he took one last look at the mannequin, one last look at the tiara of dead flowers in her hair. The dummy stared back with blank indifference, which unsettled him even more. He pulled the door closed and headed downstairs. At the bottom he passed the open door to the study and the grey filing cabinet called to him. He stopped dead. ‘Hang on,’ he shouted to George.
‘What is it now?’ She was standing by the front door, hand on the handle.
‘There’s something I need to check out.’ He disappeared into the study. Through the open door he heard George sigh, her footsteps getting closer.
‘This better be good, Paul.’
Aston didn’t reply. He stared at the filing cabinet for a moment then walked towards it and pulled the top drawer open. Empty. Something wasn’t right here. He went through the other two drawers. The folders in the middle drawer contained household bills and bank statements. Nothing exciting. The bottom drawer contained a couple of software CDs, a small guillotine and a portable document shredder. There was something wrong with this picture. Aston took a step back, looking at the cabinet, seeing it in the context of the study. It was a big filing cabinet for the size of room, yet it wasn’t really being used. That didn’t make sense. There was no way Mac would do that. Aston focused on the space around the cabinet and suddenly saw it. He got down on his hands and knees and ran his hands across the carpet. There were two shallow parallel grooves in front of the cabinet, barely visible. His hands ran frantically across the cold steel, pulling open drawers, clanging them shut, searching. The lever was at the back. A sharp tug and the wheels creaked into place. The cabinet slid forward easily. Aston got back on his knees and rolled the carpet away. He checked the floorboards until he found the loose one. He pulled it up and reached into the dark, fingers finding smooth plastic. The rattle of a handle. Aston lifted out the laptop case and handed it to George.
Words float across the table, but there’s no substance to the conversation. It’s all part of the act. Words to pad out the silences, words to create the illusion that everything’s A-OK. After all, this is something we do once a month, schedules depending. Just two old friends getting together to chew the fat. As usual there’s the occasional stroll down memory lane, trips to places and events history turned a blind eye to, some shop talk. And as usual I smile when I’m supposed to smile, nod when I’m supposed to nod, let loose with the occasional laugh. My skin is prickling, the hairs on the back of my neck itching. And all the time I’m watching, taking everything in.
He reaches over the table, candlelight shadows streaking his face. As he grabs the bottle and tops up our glasses, he jokes about the cost of the wine. ‘At least we’re not picking up the tab, eh, Mac?’ I laugh with him. He’s nervous but hiding it well. Suspicious of silence, he’s anxious to keep the conversation going, working hard to avoid any awkward pauses.
The waiter brings our main course and presents my plate with a flourish. His stink is offensive, sweet and cloying; a caterpillar moustache crawls across his top lip. He steps back smiling. Can I get sir anything else? ‘No, thank you,’ I say, turning on the charm and firing a sunny smile right back at him. His smile widens and he’s so pleased that I’m pleased. He flutters back to the kitchen, weaving between tables positioned far enough apart to ensure privacy. All are occupied. Usually there’s a wait of a month to get in to Carmichael’s, but not for us. The maître d’ gets a monthly retainer. For what we’re paying it’s the least he could do.
I recognise some of the faces. Tabloid fodder for the most part. There are soap stars and pop stars, MPs and models. In a quiet corner a young movie wannabe is being entertained by a grey-haired man who’s old enough to be her grandfather. He’s got sagging jowls, piggy eyes and a stomach straining to get free from its black silk prison. A fat Hollywood cigar steams away between thick ring-encrusted fingers. The little poppet’s perfect in a little black dress. She’s got the perfect body, the perfect skin, the perfect teeth. Beauty and the Beast. I don’t recognise him. He looks important – a big shot director, perhaps. She’s hanging on his every word, desperate to get onto that A-list, giggling at his stories. Her fingertips brush the back of his hand; champagne touches, light and bubbly. And he’s buying the act. What does Mr Big Shot think? That she’s after him for his looks? I watch her take a dainty sip, a little Dutch courage so she can deal with the next bit. Enough alcohol and she’ll be able to blot it out: the sweaty whale blubber slimy against her skin, his bulk burying her deeper and deeper into the mattress.
God, I hate this place. I hate the falseness, hate the sycophancy, most of all I hate the desperation of the wannabes. But Kinclave loves it here, so I smile and endure. He’s always been blinded by the glitter and glam, gets a kick from rubbing shoulders with the Beautiful Ones.
My knife slices easily through the steak. Rare, only the briefest acquaintance with the flame. The butterflies in my stomach have stripped my appetite, but I chew and swallow and make like it’s the best steak ever. Kinclave is banging on about the old days, eyes misty with remembrance and too much wine. He always gets maudlin when he’s been drinking. His voice washes over me as he launches into another Russia story, an old favourite. I tune him out, tune into the burble of the restaurant. I catch snatches of conversation from all directions, odd words that merge into surreal sentences. Cutlery scratches against crockery and glasses tinkle. There’s classical music playing gently in the background, a string quartet. I clocked the couple at the table by the door straightaway.