A Ghost in the Machine Read online

  “Where are you?”

  “Home. Oh, Daddy…please come…”

  “What is it?”

  “Just come.”

  “OK, OK! I’m leaving now. Listen – don’t— I mean – stay where you are, all right? I might be— The traffic…”

  “Don’t tell anyone, please! Nobody.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Promise!”

  Of course he had promised before racing out like a mad thing and throwing himself into the car. Driving off, scraping the metal gatepost, he suddenly realised he had not asked which home she meant. Perhaps she’d been ringing from her flat, which was in Dalston, miles from Parsons Green. What if she was waiting there now, distraught, watching for him through the window?

  “Oh God.” Already in a solid jam he dialled home on his Nokia. When there was no reply he rang the number of her flat. Nothing. Mallory cursed himself for racing off in such a state. If he’d stopped even for a couple of minutes to think things through he might have dialled 1471. But then, if she wasn’t picking the phone up…

  He reran the few brief sentences over and over in his mind. She’d been terribly upset, yes. Crying, yes. Frightened? He wasn’t sure, perhaps because he had never seen Polly frightened in her whole life. It occurred to him then for the first time that she might not have been alone. That perhaps someone was forcing her to make the call. Standing over her. She might have discovered a burglar trashing the place…The very thought drove Mallory mad. He started putting his terror into words, mouthing threats, muttering obscenities. Then he punched the dashboard, hurting his hand.

  Two women paused on the pavement and bent to stare in through the car window at him. One of them mouthed what could have been, “Are you all right?” The other started laughing. The queue dragged itself slowly forwards.

  Mallory inhaled deeply and struggled to keep his mind on the traffic. He was a rational man, he must think rationally. Try and separate what he actually knew to be true from the seething mass of frightening images now threatening to burst his brain. Concentrate on the facts. His daughter was distressed and in some sort of trouble. She was at home and almost certainly by herself. He would be with her soon and between them they would work it out. More deep breaths.

  By the time he turned into the home stretch he was feeling slightly calmer. A feeling that vanished, giving ground to a great swoosh of alarm the moment he saw parked cars, nose to tail, both sides and the whole length of Cordwainer Road. He hesitated but was driven forwards by angry hooting from behind. At the corner was a red-and-white-striped hut used by workmen drilling the road and narrowing it to single traffic only. No space there then. He turned into Elmstone Road – hopeless. Harbiedown Road the same, plus skips. Desperate he finally left the car blocking a garage heavily inscribed “Positively No Parking.”

  Polly opened the door and stared at her father in amazement. Sweating, panting, holding his side against an agonising stitch, Mallory could hardly speak.

  “Dad?” She reached out and helped him inside. “What on earth have you been doing?”

  “Run…Running.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m all right.” She was struggling to support the full weight of him. “Honestly.”

  “Why were you running?”

  “Worried.” Mallory leaned against the stair banisters, feeling weak at the knees with anxiety. He released a single, rasping exhalation that really hurt. His breathing gradually became less laboured. “You sounded so…”

  “Oh, Dad.” She put her arms around him again. They swayed clumsily for a moment and almost overbalanced. “Here, come and sit down.”

  The sitting room, which he had been wildly seeing as half destroyed or at least intensely chaotic, looked just as usual. Weak rays from the afternoon sun spilled over the furniture, showing up the dust. Touching a vase of dying roses. Mallory made for the settee and Polly helped him as though he was an invalid.

  “I’ll make you a drink—”

  “No, no! Tell me Polly, for God’s sake.”

  Mallory gazed at her intently. There was no trace of tears. He was touched that she’d washed and dried her face and made an effort to overcome her distress. Now she appeared calmer than he was. But even as he watched her eyes darkened, her lips drooped and began to tremble. She clamped them together so forcefully they all but vanished. Mallory reached out and took her hand.

  “Just tell me, Poll.”

  So she told him. About how she had got drawn into playing the market with a group of sharky people who she thought were friends. And how she won and won and then lost and lost. And how she had a chance to recoup everything and make lots more because there was a whisper everywhere that this new dot.com company were going to be the next big thing. Anguished at being excluded from this marvellous opportunity, when she was offered a loan by the group’s banker she jumped at it. He was sure the whisper was true and he was always right.

  “Honestly, Dad, this guy’s not even thirty and he’s so rich and he started with nothing. He drew up a contract. I signed and things were OK for a few weeks – not great but the shares seemed pretty stable – then everything just collapsed overnight and I lost the lot.

  “That was when I read the small print. Twenty-five per cent compound interest because I had no collateral. That was three months ago and the interest’s already nearly as high as the debt. He…um…did suggest another way out but I just couldn’t do it. He’s like a slug – so slimily foul, so greasy—”

  “Of course you mustn’t do anything like that!” Black rage welled up in Mallory. Hatred for the unknown man, a longing to grab him by the throat and squeeze and shake and throttle and choke. Christ! What a bastard.

  “Daddy, you’re hurting.”

  “Sorry.” He released her hand. “Sorry, love.”

  “So it’s just piling up and up and up. He’s like those vicious sharks on housing estates. Borrow five quid, turn around three times, you owe five hundred.”

  “How much did you borrow, Polly?”

  “Ten.”

  “Ten thousand?” Polly hung her head. Her hair fell forward, a thick mat of dark curls.

  “And how much does this debt stand at now?”

  “Nearly sixteen.”

  “This is unbelievable.” Mallory carefully drew in his breath and exhaled a long despairing sigh. “Have you talked to anyone about this?”

  “Like who?”

  “Doesn’t the LSE have an advice—”

  “I don’t need advice,” screamed Polly. “I need fucking money!” She burst into tears, covered her face with her hands and rocked slowly backwards and forwards.

  “Oh God.”

  “I thought you’d understand.” Her voice was muffled. Flat and dull as if the argument had been wrestled with for hours already and they had already worn it out. “I thought you’d help me.”

  “I do—I will. I only wish you’d come to me before.”

  “Couldn’t. Not with what you were going through.”

  “The thought of you carrying a burden like this all by yourself…”

  Mallory suddenly remembered the argument, weeks ago now, about Polly’s flat. The row that had been interrupted by Benny’s telephone call and the news of Carey’s death. This must have been what the money was for. He remembered Kate’s caution; her wary sceptism. And she had been right. Even just acknowledging this made him feel disloyal to Polly.

  “So that’s why, when Aunt Carey left me all those shares I went wild with relief. But you do see, Dad, waiting another ten months’ll be just crippling. Hardly any of it will be left.” Polly gazed directly at her father, eyes swimming with un-shed tears. “You’ve known Dennis all your life. If you asked him, as a special favour, to bend the rules just this once, I’m sure he would.”

  “Polly—”

  “I wouldn’t expect it all – just enough to cover the debt.”

  “There’s no need to ask Dennis.”

  “I don’t understand.” Polly sp
oke with simple bewilderment. She held Mallory’s gaze, her own, clear and shining. She had been preparing for this moment ever since discovering, in Dennis’s office, who actually had control of her legacy.

  “Your bequest is part of the Lawson estate. Which has all been transferred to me.”

  “I can’t…what?” Polly looked incredulous, her pretty mouth wide open. Then she was laughing and crying all at once. Flinging her arms around his neck, soaking his jacket with tears. “Then everything’s all right.”

  Mallory awkwardly patted her hair. After a while Polly sat back, wiped her face on her shirt and stared at him with great seriousness. She frowned, then squared her shoulders as if coming to a decision.

  “I did it for you, Dad.”

  “What?”

  “You were locked up in that hideous place like someone in a madhouse. It was so cruel. I watched it killing you. And all because there was no money.”

  “It’s over now.”

  “Once when I came round you looked so manic. You stared at me as if you didn’t know who I was. Do you remember that?”

  Dumbly Mallory shook his head.

  “I was afraid you’d do something desperate. And I couldn’t have borne that. I just couldn’t.” She clenched her fists, banging them hard on the arms of the chair. “They make obscene money, those arseholes. On the turn of a card. And I thought, why shouldn’t my dad have some of it?”

  “Oh, Polly.” Choked with emotion Mallory could hardly get his words out. So much was tumbling through his mind. Admiration for his daughter, for her courage in carrying all this in silence. Sick loathing for the unknown man who had dared, dared to try to blackmail Polly into having sex with him. But, most overwhelmingly of all, joy and gratitude at this demonstration of how much his daughter loved him. Of course he had always loved her. Most parents love their children, it comes with the territory. And they, thought Mallory, love us when they’re small. They must, for we are their life-lines. But when they are grown up and have no sensible reason to love you yet love you still then, my God, then aren’t we the lucky ones?

  “Dad?”

  “Sorry – yes, Poll.”

  “How long…I mean, when could you—”

  “Quickly. A couple of days.”

  “And could I have it in cash, please?”

  “Cash?”

  “A cheque he might just hold on to. Not bank it, I mean. Christ knows, he doesn’t need the money. Then, in a way, he’s still controlling the situation.”

  This was not the real reason. The truth was that Polly couldn’t wait to fling the money into Slaughter’s astonished face. Shove a giant fistful past those wet, slobbering chops. Ram some up his hairy nostrils. Stuff it into the waistband of his obscenely large trousers. Panting slightly now with triumphant expectation, she began to laugh. The vignette had been so vividly realised it was as if it had happened already. What he would do didn’t enter into it. Divorced from his power suddenly Billy Slaughter was nothing.

  Mallory had got up, was walking towards the window. “I’d better ring your mother—”

  “No!” Polly jumped up. Suddenly frantic she ran across the room and grabbed the phone. “You mustn’t.”

  “She’s expecting me.”

  “OK, but— I mean, don’t tell her about this, will you, Dad? Promise?”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “It’s none of her business.”

  “She’s your mother, Polly.”

  “She won’t understand – she doesn’t care.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “She hates me.”

  “Of course she doesn’t hate you.”

  “Now you’re getting angry,” cried Polly, swinging on her father’s arm like a child, trying to grab the phone. “You see—already she’s coming between us.”

  “You’re making all this up.”

  “Am I? Look how pleased she was when I left home.”

  Mallory said, “That’s nonsense” again but, even as he spoke, couldn’t help remembering the change in Kate once Polly had gone. Drowning as he had been in misery of his own making he had still been aware of the gradual lightening of her face and manner. She moved slowly, would spend time sitting about doing nothing special but smiling a lot. She was at home more and even gave up a couple of evening classes, which she had always said she couldn’t bear to miss. Yes, she had been happier after Polly left home.

  Polly watched her father, not without affection. He was so transparent. She said, with sorrowful gravity, “You see?”

  “I don’t ‘see’ anything.”

  “I shall never hear the end of it. How can I possibly come and visit under those circumstances?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, don’t look so stricken, Dad.” She released her tight grip on the telephone and replaced it on the table. She gave him a reassuring smile. “We shall still see each other. Meet up in town for lunch and stuff…”

  Mallory, cold to his stomach, said, “This is unworthy of you, Polly.”

  “It’s how it has to be. I’m sick of family rows. And this one’ll run and run.”

  Perhaps she was right. Mallory had never thought of Kate as naturally censorious but there was no doubt she would not just listen to the story and let it rest. There would be questions; she’d be as angry as he was. She’d demand the man’s name, perhaps try to see him. Which meant another person entangled in the mess. Two more really, for Mallory would not be able to stand aside if Kate got involved. Slowly he dialled the number of Appleby House.

  “Hello, darling…yes, everything’s fine. I’m just running a bit late…Oh, there was more to do at the last minute than I expected. People kept coming in to…er…say goodbye, you know? Wish me well…”

  “Are you ringing from home, Mal?”

  “Um. Sorry?” Mallory remembered now that he had packed everything into the car that morning so that he could drive down to Forbes Abbot straight from work. Kate had helped him. “Home…?”

  “I can hear the drilling.”

  “Ah, yes. Home, yes. I forgot something.”

  “What?”

  “…Some books. Look – you and Benny eat. I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

  He hung up and looked across the room at Polly. She was standing very still, her head drooping. He noticed her toes were very slightly turned in and felt a keen pang of memory. Exactly so had she used to stand as a child when, after some lengthy argument or discussion she had finally got her own way. A less subtle child would rejoice; be triumphant even. Not Polly. She never crowed. Just smiled, shrugged, murmured something more or less unintelligible and slipped quietly away.

  “Thanks, Dad. I’ll never forget this.”

  “It’ll take a few days to get the money transferred.”

  “OK, fine.”

  “And it’s just to cover what you owe, Polly. Don’t ask for any more.”

  “I won’t, I won’t,” cried Polly, recognising immediately what a fool she had been to name the correct amount.

  Kate had emptied the food cupboards and the freezer before driving down to Forbes Abbot. Quite unnecessary, really. She would pass plenty of supermarkets on the way and the sensible thing would have been to get there first, see what was actually needed, then go out and buy it. However, Kate was not feeling sensible. To her stripping the freezer, packing all the stuff into padded bags and polystyrene cartons then stuffing them into the car boot was moving house in miniature. A tiny step but something to be going on with till the real thing.

  Kate asked what Benny would like for supper, emptying all her bags on to the kitchen table. Benny had no preference. She said everything looked lovely and she would have what Kate had. So they decided on Sainsbury’s Goa Fish Curry with fragrant Thai rice and some mangetout from the garden.

  In spite of Mallory’s suggestion that they go ahead and eat, Kate delayed cooking for an hour or so, just in case. She opened a bottle of Vouvray demi-sec. Benny, after only one glass, started giggli
ng so much she couldn’t swallow. Consequently Kate drank rather more than she intended. And, as she poured a third glass, felt her mood beginning to change. In vino veritas and all that. She started to feel aggrieved and inclined to defiant behaviour. A bit silly as there was no one present to be defiant to.

  The truth was she had been tremendously looking forward to going out with Mallory tonight. To drawing a line under the past and celebrating the beginning of their new life together.

  When Judith had rung describing Benny’s distress Kate, genuinely alarmed, did not hesitate. Mallory would have come with her if he’d been able. Both agreed it was sad about Riva’s but they could go another time. Anyway, their dinner that evening could still be a celebration but this time for three, which would be quite right, said Kate, because Benny would also be working in the new business. But, as eight o’clock slowly came around, there were still only two of them.

  By now extremely hungry, she and Benny started to eat. They took it slowly and even had some pudding, apricot panacotta. Kate realised that in another hour or so this day, that was going to be so special, would be over.

  So where was Mallory? The journey, even during the worst the Friday evening London exodus could muster, had never taken longer than three hours. They had spoken on the phone at around 5:30 and it was now nearly half-past ten.

  Benny, aware that Kate was somewhat on edge, tried to express sympathy and concern without talking too much. Experience had taught her that this could be very annoying when a person was all wound up. She cleared the table, washed up quietly and put things away.

  In herself, Benny was feeling much better. The muddle over the phone, while not exactly cleared up, now seemed pretty childish. Kate had actually laughed about it and said weird things were always happening to her as well. It was lovely, Benny thought, that they would both be down here now for the whole weekend. She pictured them sitting at the kitchen table, planning all sorts of things to do with books, and herself making tea and producing sandwiches and biscuits to sustain them all. Busy, useful, contented.

  Suddenly headlights swept the faded walls, bathing them briefly in a flood of amber light. A car drew up outside and Benny hurried to open the door. It was Mallory.