Strange Affair

“Generous of you.” No doubt, A

There was nothing more to be gained talking to Victor Parsons, A

“What am I going to do now?” Victor asked as A

“Maybe you should get out of the house a bit more often and try to get an audition?” A

“How is she?” Banks asked when he got back from town.

“No different,” said his father. “I told you she wasn’t well even before all this. It’s only made her worse. Anyway, she’s still in bed. Doesn’t seem to want to get up.”

“I’ll go up and see her in a while. I’ve decided to stay over tonight.”

“You’ve no need to,” said his father. “Not for our sake. We can manage.”

“I’d like to.” One thing Banks knew that his father might not have thought of was that Roy’s identity would now be public knowledge and there was a good chance that the phone would be ringing off the hook. He wanted to be there to field the calls for them.

“Suit yourself. Your room’s always here, you know that.”

“I know,” said Banks.

“I still can’t believe our Roy’s dead. Murdered.”

“Me neither. I wish there was something I could do.”

“You can’t bring him back.”

“No. Any signs of reporters while I was out?”

“No.”

“Thank the Lord for small mercies, then. Look, Dad, I don’t suppose Roy ever talked to you about his business interests, did he? What he was up to, that sort of thing?”

“Me? You must be joking. He knew I’d have about as much understanding of business as I have about rocket science.”

“And that you might not approve of how he made his money?”

“I’m not a bloody Communist. All I’ve ever asked for is a fair share for the workingman. What’s so wrong about that?”

“Nothing,” said Banks, who didn’t want to get into that old argument again. Not here, not now. Besides, he agreed. His father had been given a raw deal, made redundant from his job as a sheet-metal worker during the Thatcher years. He had seen the riot police taunting the striking coal miners, and as a result he had come to see the police as the right hand of the oppressor. Banks knew that could happen, had done in some countries, and there was a certain feeling, not entirely unjustified, that it had happened during the Thatcher years. But most of Banks’s attempts to explain to his father that he simply put in a long day’s work trying to catch criminals fell on deaf ears.

“Anyway,” said his father, “Roy was always generous to us.”

The implied barb wasn’t lost on Banks, but he managed to bite his tongue before asking his father whether it mattered where the money came from. “So he never mentioned any names?”

“Not as I remember.”

“The Berger-Le

“Never heard of them.”

“What about his girlfriends?”

“Only that young lass he brought over last year, for the a

“Cori

“That girl that got shot up in Yorkshire? You mentioned her earlier. No, I’m certain he never mentioned her to us.”

Arthur Banks sagged back in his favorite armchair. The television was turned off, which was unusual, and there was no sign of a newspaper. Even though Banks had been absent only a short while, he noticed more signs of neglect. And his father was clearly as much in the dark about Roy’s activities as he was. He picked up two empty cups from the floor beside the armchair. “Fancy a cup of tea?”

“If you like,” said his father.

“What about di

“Doesn’t matter as long as it’s not from that place over the road.”

Banks put the kettle on and found the tea bags, never an easy task as his mother seemed to keep moving them around like beans in a shell game. This time they were in a jar in the pantry marked “Cocoa.” While the kettle boiled, he washed the few dishes that had been used and stacked them in the rack to dry. He found some bread, tomatoes, cheese and boiled ham and made some sandwiches. They would have to do for di

“Any more idea when the funeral will be?” his father asked when Banks brought in the tea and sandwiches.

“I can’t say,” said Banks. “It depends when they release the body.”

“What do they want to hang on to it for?”

“Sometimes, if someone’s arrested and charged, the defense can ask for a second, independent postmortem. I don’t think that’s likely in this case, but it’s not my decision. Believe me, Dad. I’ll stay on top of it. I don’t want you and Mum worrying about the details.”

“Don’t we have to register the death?”

“You can’t do that until the coroner’s released the body. I’ll take care of it all when the time comes.”

“What else are we going to do except sit around and mope?”

“Just try to get through it day by day. It’ll take time.”

His father sat forward. “But that’s just it. We haven’t got time.”

Banks felt a shiver at the back of his neck.

“What do you mean? Has your heart been giving you more problems?”

“My heart’s fine. A touch of angina, that’s all. It’s not me. It’s your mother.”

“What about her?” Banks recalled his mother’s tired and listless appearance when he first arrived, before he had even told her about Roy, and again he took in the air of neglect about the house. “Is it something to do with these tests she’s been having?”

“They think she’s got cancer,” said Arthur Banks. “That’s why they want her in the hospital to do some more tests.”

“When?”

“They say they can’t fit her in until next week.”

Banks felt the need for a cigarette, but he didn’t give in to it, not there and then. He wished he could afford private insurance for his parents, then they wouldn’t have to wait. “Christ,” he said. “It never rains but it pours.”

“You can say that again.”

“What does the doctor think?”

“You know doctors. Won’t commit themselves without the test results. Anyway, it’s her colon they’re worried about. I can tell you what I think, though. The life’s slowly going out of her. I’ve been watching it drain away for weeks.”

“But even if it is cancer, there are treatments. Especially colon cancer. As far as I know, the cure rate’s pretty good.”

“Depends how far it’s spread, doesn’t it, how soon they catch it?”

“Look, Dad,” said Banks, “there’s no point getting pessimistic. You’ve got enough on your plate with our Roy. See her through this. That has to be your priority right now. We’ll deal with the other thing when we know more about it.”

“You’re right, but… it’s just so bloody hard, all the time thinking I might lose her. Now Roy.”

Banks could see that his father was close to tears, and he remembered that he had never seen him cry. His mother, yes, but not his father. He wanted to spare him the embarrassment, knowing he was a proud man, so he went upstairs to see his mother. She was lying in bed with the sheets pulled up to her neck, but her eyes were open.

“Roy?” she said when he first entered the room. “Is it really you?”

“No, Mum,” said Banks. “It’s me, Alan.”

He could swear he saw the disappointment register in her face. “Oh,” she said. “Where’s our Roy?”

Banks sat at the edge of the bed and grasped her hand. It felt dry and thin. “He’s gone. Mum. Our Roy’s gone.”