artery and then passed through and only missed the comrade behind him by a whisker. Half a centimeter closer and that man would’ve lost his face. Mr. Perkiss’s arm was hanging from a thread. Snip, snip, and that was it. Neat job. They left it where it fell. In Catalonia. Didn’t even save his watch. Didn’t stop him doing this, though. One arm’s enough.” Leonard raises his clenched fist, feeling foolish, finally. “The Socialist salute. That’s who I got it from.”
By now it’s obvious Lucy is not truly interested in Leonard’s hero of the left or the fact that Leonard himself, when he was Lucy’s age, still dreamed of emulating this man and hoped, when he was older, in his gap year possibly, to make a sacrifice, though not of a limb, for something he believed in.
“I’m only telling you all this,” he says, hoping to regain lost ground, “because the one other man I’ve met who’s come close to Mr. Perkiss is your father. You know, prepared to lay down his life for a cause. He was always lost in one cause or another.” He doesn’t add out loud what he is thinking: that unlike Mr. Perkiss, Maxie Lermon could be brutal and stone-hearted, that his high-sounding principles were only a smokescreen for his transgressions, that her father was fanatical, preoccupied with action, careless of effect.
“That’s why we have to stop him, isn’t it?” she says. “Because he’s not the sort to stop himself.”
What she proposes is a mirror kidnapping. “You kidnap me, or seem to anyway,” she says, too sweetly passionate to warrant opposition. “You threaten tit for tat. It’s quite a neat idea. It’s biblical. It’s eyes and teeth. No one’s going to guess what’s really going on.”
“So what is really going on?” Leonard hasn’t understood. The drink has made him sluggish.
“Not a lot, in fact. And that’s the joy of it. I only disappear into your spare room for however long it takes. A week at most … Come on!” She slaps his hand. “I bet three days. I just hang out, read books and stuff. I’ll be your cook! And you send ransom notes and make phone calls. You say, ‘We’ve got the headbanger’s darling girl here. She won’t get free until the hostages get free. And if he hurts the hostages, then she’s hurt too. If they go hungry, she goes hungry. Shout at them, and she gets shouted at. Simplissimo as that. But when you free them, the family, we free her, the long-lost daughter. It’s your call, Mr. Lemon.’ No, this is really genius.” And it does seem genius. It seems the sort of intervention that is both honorable and risk-free and, with red wine on its side, might even be mistaken for daring.
“What do you reckon?” Lucy asks. Her hand is on his arm again.
“I reckon, let’s have another drink and talk it through,” Leonard says, managing to sound both hesitant and roguish. “See if it’s okay.”
“What’s not okay?”
“‘See if,’ I said.”
“It’s so okay that Dad”—her first use of the word—“is going to be totally disarmed. You know, disarmed , like doesn’t have a choice. Not unless he is a complete monster.” Lucy is becoming more excited with everything she says.
“Well, that’s a possibility.”
“It’s not. It’s truly not.”
“Maxie’s not predictable. Maxie can be”—Leonard has to say it carefully—“too passionate.” He means unhinged . Thuggish and unhinged.
“I think he is predictable. I’ve met him for myself. We’ve talked—”
“For twenty minutes at the most. Three birthday cards and a photograph, you said.”
“No, more than that. Not only on the doorstep when he came in August, just suddenly. But since.” She lowers her voice and leans in toward Leonard, as if to trust him with an intimate disclosure. “He’s phoned. We’ve met. We’ve been on walks. We’ve been in pubs. Don’t say. My mum’d have a stroke if she found out.”
“Well, mum’s the word. Trust me.” Her eyes are wet, he
By now it’s obvious Lucy is not truly interested in Leonard’s hero of the left or the fact that Leonard himself, when he was Lucy’s age, still dreamed of emulating this man and hoped, when he was older, in his gap year possibly, to make a sacrifice, though not of a limb, for something he believed in.
“I’m only telling you all this,” he says, hoping to regain lost ground, “because the one other man I’ve met who’s come close to Mr. Perkiss is your father. You know, prepared to lay down his life for a cause. He was always lost in one cause or another.” He doesn’t add out loud what he is thinking: that unlike Mr. Perkiss, Maxie Lermon could be brutal and stone-hearted, that his high-sounding principles were only a smokescreen for his transgressions, that her father was fanatical, preoccupied with action, careless of effect.
“That’s why we have to stop him, isn’t it?” she says. “Because he’s not the sort to stop himself.”
What she proposes is a mirror kidnapping. “You kidnap me, or seem to anyway,” she says, too sweetly passionate to warrant opposition. “You threaten tit for tat. It’s quite a neat idea. It’s biblical. It’s eyes and teeth. No one’s going to guess what’s really going on.”
“So what is really going on?” Leonard hasn’t understood. The drink has made him sluggish.
“Not a lot, in fact. And that’s the joy of it. I only disappear into your spare room for however long it takes. A week at most … Come on!” She slaps his hand. “I bet three days. I just hang out, read books and stuff. I’ll be your cook! And you send ransom notes and make phone calls. You say, ‘We’ve got the headbanger’s darling girl here. She won’t get free until the hostages get free. And if he hurts the hostages, then she’s hurt too. If they go hungry, she goes hungry. Shout at them, and she gets shouted at. Simplissimo as that. But when you free them, the family, we free her, the long-lost daughter. It’s your call, Mr. Lemon.’ No, this is really genius.” And it does seem genius. It seems the sort of intervention that is both honorable and risk-free and, with red wine on its side, might even be mistaken for daring.
“What do you reckon?” Lucy asks. Her hand is on his arm again.
“I reckon, let’s have another drink and talk it through,” Leonard says, managing to sound both hesitant and roguish. “See if it’s okay.”
“What’s not okay?”
“‘See if,’ I said.”
“It’s so okay that Dad”—her first use of the word—“is going to be totally disarmed. You know, disarmed , like doesn’t have a choice. Not unless he is a complete monster.” Lucy is becoming more excited with everything she says.
“Well, that’s a possibility.”
“It’s not. It’s truly not.”
“Maxie’s not predictable. Maxie can be”—Leonard has to say it carefully—“too passionate.” He means unhinged . Thuggish and unhinged.
“I think he is predictable. I’ve met him for myself. We’ve talked—”
“For twenty minutes at the most. Three birthday cards and a photograph, you said.”
“No, more than that. Not only on the doorstep when he came in August, just suddenly. But since.” She lowers her voice and leans in toward Leonard, as if to trust him with an intimate disclosure. “He’s phoned. We’ve met. We’ve been on walks. We’ve been in pubs. Don’t say. My mum’d have a stroke if she found out.”
“Well, mum’s the word. Trust me.” Her eyes are wet, he
Similar Books
A Load of Hooey
Bob Odenkirk
The Buddha's Return
Gaito Gazdánov
Enticed
J.A. Belfield
The Bone Flute
Patricia Bow
Mackenzie's Pleasure
Linda Howard
Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand
Carla Kelly
Who Wants to Live Forever?
Steve Wilson
Money-Makin' Mamas
Smooth Silk
Pixilated
Jane Atchley
The Ravine
Robert Pascuzzi