Death of a Perfect Mother by Robert Barnard

to make head or tail of the mysterious phone calls, the multiple identities, the inexplicable goings-on in the stockbroker belt. It took his mind off Debbie for the moment, but he came back to her. No doubt Lill was right. She always was. And what the girl had done was shocking—real disgusting. He played with the idea of sexual licence, and felt a vague pang of unease somewhere at the back of his head. No—he wouldn’t take a bite up to Debbie. He’d do as Lill had told him. Naturally he would. He settled down into his usual rut of non-thought . . .
    Suddenly he shook himself. The Francis Durbridge was over, and he hardly remembered a thing that had happened in it. Must watch out. He’d nearly dropped off then.
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    The evening at the Rose and Crown developed as such evenings do. By ten o’clock the bridegroom-to-be was in a state that could only be described as off-putting, but of course the bride was not there to be put off. Red, sweaty, distended and bulbous of eye, he was alternately raucous and maudlin, and resisted all attempts by his more responsible mates to get him home to bed. ‘It’s my last night,’ he kept saying, as though the hangman were coming for him in the cold quiet early hours.
    As far as Brian could tell—and he was pretty high now, with drink and relief—Gordon was mixing with dazzling virtuosity among the various groups: a word here, a jokethere, hands on shoulders for a rugby song elsewhere. It was a marvel: he was everywhere, and yet nowhere in particular. He’s keyed up, thought Brian, exhilarated by the thought of Saturday, just as I’m relieved we won’t be doing anything. The thought suddenly depressed him again. How long before the project came up for discussion once more, even if they did shelve it for the present? And Brian had a sudden stab of fear that Gordon never would consent to shelve it. He was emotionally committed, and for all his apparently cool tactical planning, Gordon ran on his emotions. What if the thing went ahead after all? Fear now was back with him, back with that iron grip on his stomach it had had all week, making ominous rollings among the beer. But even if Gordon got caught and jailed, he told himself through a haze of drink and uncertainty, they could never pin anything on him, Brian. That was what was so humiliating in a way: his part in the whole thing amounted to nothing plus, and that was why nothing could be pinned on him. And then, if Gordon went to jail, for a long, long sentence . . . The thought of life without Lill or Gordon sent that strange pang of longing and fear through him again. It would be freedom. But could he cope with freedom?
    On one of his bee-like hops from group to group Gordon found Brian temporarily alone, and stopped.
    â€˜How did it go? Anyone notice I was gone?’
    â€˜No. Nobody would, not in this shambles. Gord, there’s something I want to say—’
    â€˜Not here, you fool. The mugs have ears.’ And with a smile in which only Brian could detect signs of strain Gordon sailed into his next all-boys-together encounter.
    And now it was all songs. You had to end the evening with a song, didn’t you? And then another. The plasticated imitation oak rafters rang, and Methodist households streets away shut their windows and doors. The beer-loosened voices rose in ecstatically scatological songsof praise, and in the unholy din Brian did not hear the phone ring in the landlord’s little den behind the bar, or see him disappear into it. But minutes later he registered with bleary surprise the figure of the landlord coming round the bar with an odd, unaccustomed expression of worry and uncertainty in his face and bearing—not like Jack Perkins, life and soul of the party except with his wife and kids. And Brian saw him enquiring something of one or two of the less drunk, saw him move towards Gordon, saw him bring him