closed it and sat back in the chair. ‘A Tiki,’ he said. ‘That’s what I need. Greenstone figure, something like jade. Might have to import it.’ He glanced at Jody. ‘Lot to do,’ he said. ‘Three shows this week, another woman to disappear, brain tumour to cure.’ He left his chair and reached down to take her by the hand. ‘And then there’s the question of getting you sorted, my darling.’
‘Do you remember,’ Danny had said to the inert body of Katherine Turner, ‘do you remember a time when the world was full of noises, sounds and sweet airs, that gave delight and no pain? When you thought the clouds would open and show riches ready to drop upon you? And did you cry to dream again?’
He spoke the lines to the still-warm corpse on the bed because there had been such a time in Danny’s life, a time when he hadn’t needed to make his own magic at all. When the whole of his known world had been filled with constant melody.
At the University of Durham all those years ago Danny’s degree had been in Drama. He had not enjoyed the separation from his mother but there had been aspects of the course that had given him joy. He had learned how to present himself, how to project outwards from his centre, almost anything at all. He could make himself appear tall or short with a mere shift of his internal focus. In a group or in front of an audience he could be regarded as aggressive or passive or any of the nuances in between simply by an adjustment to his posture or a shift in the position of his shoulders.
And as part of the course he had had to attend lectures in the English department, where the gift of words had absorbed him and would continue to fascinate him for the rest of his life. The richness of his native tongue had been a revelation, a blessed relief for a mind which never dreamed on aught but butcheries.
9
Marilyn wanted to know everything about this man. The colour of the carpet in his bedroom, what he ate for breakfast, his favourite television show and the book that he’d always remember because it changed his life.
She knew already what his hand felt like, the tone of his voice and the sweet smell of menthol on his breath. She knew that his front door was painted red and his back door an olive shade of green. Marilyn knew that Danny had oyster-coloured net curtains and pink drapes at his double-glazed windows.
There was always something new to learn about a new man but already she had his telephone number and his car registration. From his dustbin she’d culled more information; that he was a member of the AA and that he used a MasterCard which expired next month. Danny’s membership of the Magic Circle had lapsed. He paid his bills on time, gas, electric, telephone, garage, credit card, and he didn’t have a mortgage. He used Wilkinson Sword razor blades and Gillette shaving gel in a pressurized container. But none of this was sufficient. There was still a sizeable part of the man that she hadn’t quite grasped.
Marilyn was good at lying. She could convince anyone of anything. The key to a good lie was to tell it as if you believed it yourself, and that came easily to Marilyn because as soon as she started to tell a story she began living it as well.
‘You love drama,’ Ellen had said to her a thousand times. ‘It would be better if you didn’t love it so much. Or maybe you should have been an actress, got it out of your system by playing it on the stage.’
But Marilyn wasn’t so sure about that. She wasn’t interested in the stage. It was real life that fascinated her. It was love and hatred, pain and romance, the ways that destiny threw lovers into each other’s arms and wrenched them apart. It was separation, death, guilt and an overflowing heart.
‘Who were you ringing?’ Ellen asked.
‘Mind your own business.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘That’s for me to know.’
‘Have you taken your lithium?’
‘Christ, will you leave me alone?
‘Do you remember,’ Danny had said to the inert body of Katherine Turner, ‘do you remember a time when the world was full of noises, sounds and sweet airs, that gave delight and no pain? When you thought the clouds would open and show riches ready to drop upon you? And did you cry to dream again?’
He spoke the lines to the still-warm corpse on the bed because there had been such a time in Danny’s life, a time when he hadn’t needed to make his own magic at all. When the whole of his known world had been filled with constant melody.
At the University of Durham all those years ago Danny’s degree had been in Drama. He had not enjoyed the separation from his mother but there had been aspects of the course that had given him joy. He had learned how to present himself, how to project outwards from his centre, almost anything at all. He could make himself appear tall or short with a mere shift of his internal focus. In a group or in front of an audience he could be regarded as aggressive or passive or any of the nuances in between simply by an adjustment to his posture or a shift in the position of his shoulders.
And as part of the course he had had to attend lectures in the English department, where the gift of words had absorbed him and would continue to fascinate him for the rest of his life. The richness of his native tongue had been a revelation, a blessed relief for a mind which never dreamed on aught but butcheries.
9
Marilyn wanted to know everything about this man. The colour of the carpet in his bedroom, what he ate for breakfast, his favourite television show and the book that he’d always remember because it changed his life.
She knew already what his hand felt like, the tone of his voice and the sweet smell of menthol on his breath. She knew that his front door was painted red and his back door an olive shade of green. Marilyn knew that Danny had oyster-coloured net curtains and pink drapes at his double-glazed windows.
There was always something new to learn about a new man but already she had his telephone number and his car registration. From his dustbin she’d culled more information; that he was a member of the AA and that he used a MasterCard which expired next month. Danny’s membership of the Magic Circle had lapsed. He paid his bills on time, gas, electric, telephone, garage, credit card, and he didn’t have a mortgage. He used Wilkinson Sword razor blades and Gillette shaving gel in a pressurized container. But none of this was sufficient. There was still a sizeable part of the man that she hadn’t quite grasped.
Marilyn was good at lying. She could convince anyone of anything. The key to a good lie was to tell it as if you believed it yourself, and that came easily to Marilyn because as soon as she started to tell a story she began living it as well.
‘You love drama,’ Ellen had said to her a thousand times. ‘It would be better if you didn’t love it so much. Or maybe you should have been an actress, got it out of your system by playing it on the stage.’
But Marilyn wasn’t so sure about that. She wasn’t interested in the stage. It was real life that fascinated her. It was love and hatred, pain and romance, the ways that destiny threw lovers into each other’s arms and wrenched them apart. It was separation, death, guilt and an overflowing heart.
‘Who were you ringing?’ Ellen asked.
‘Mind your own business.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘That’s for me to know.’
‘Have you taken your lithium?’
‘Christ, will you leave me alone?
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