‘All right, he came there to bomb you. But think about it. If it’s true what your psychic detective friend was telling you . . . I mean, if Dar Tariki Tariqat are all abused people, trying to get their revenge . . . well, you can see why they went for a program like Pigs.’
‘Pigs is a comedy, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Yes, but it’s folksy and warm and it’s happy.’
‘It’s not always happy. Most of the time, Dusty and Henry are pretty miserable. And their dad is practically a manic depressive.’
‘I know. But things always work out in the end, don’t they? Every episode finishes up with that cheesy scene of the Dunger family gathered around the pigsty, laughing and hugging each other and scuffing the kids’ hair.’
‘Astrid, that’s supposed to be a parody. Like, you know, “goodnight, John Boy.”’
‘Oh, yes? Tell that to some lonely kid who was beaten with a belt buckle and sent to bed without any supper.’
‘So what are you saying? That TV families should always be dysfunctional, with dads who sodomize their daughters, and moms who drink, and kids who take crack and set fire to tramps, just so the viewing audience won’t think we’re being smug? For Christ’s sake, Astrid, we’ve never tried to pretend that the world is perfect. But people like to feel folksy and warm and happy, and why not? What harm does it do?’
‘You tell me. Look what happened to Lizzie and Mo and Daphne, and all of those other people. Look what happened to Danny.’
Frank covered his face with his hands, as if his hands were doors and he wanted them to remain closed for ever, so that he could stay in the dark. He was still shocked, and he still found it impossible to believe that Lizzie and Mo had been killed. He felt like crying, but he didn’t seem to have any tears. He kept picturing Mo, frowning at the end of his cigar, trying to make up his mind if it was worth relighting; and Lizzie, toying with her Ethiopian food and telling him to enjoy life while he was still above ground.
Astrid sat close to him and stroked his hair. He could smell her perfume and her warm leather pants. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t even begin to imagine how bad you must feel.’
‘Tell me it’s still morning,’ he said, his voice muffled behind his hands. ‘Tell me I’ve just woken up and I haven’t gone to the office yet.’
Astrid kissed him. ‘When I was little, and something really bad happened, I used to pretend that it was only a movie, and that I was only playing a part. Somehow that made it easier to bear.’
Frank took his hands away from his face and looked at her. ‘Do you know something . . . that’s the first time you’ve ever told me anything personal.’
‘I’m always telling you personal things, Frank. It’s just that you don’t always hear me.’
‘All right. So what was so bad that you used to pretend it was only a movie?’
She smiled at him, still stroking his hair. ‘I lost my innocence.’
‘You lost your innocence? Who took it?’
‘The world is full of thieves, Frank, and they don’t only take wallets. They take everything and anything that’s worth having. Beauty, joy, innocence. They don’t really want it for themselves, they just don’t want anybody else to have it.’
‘Tell me,’ said Frank.
‘No. You’re not in any fit state. You need a sedative and you need some sleep.’
‘Sleep? No thanks. I’ll only have nightmares.’
At that moment there was a knock at the door. Astrid went to answer it, and it was Nevile. He was immaculately dressed in a black shirt and black pants, as if he had been playing Well-Groomed Vampire #2 in the same movie as Astrid, and he smelled of Burberry aftershave.
‘Oh,’ he said in his tensile British accent. ‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’
‘Of course not,’ said Frank. ‘Come on in. This is Astrid, by the way. Astrid, this is Nevile – Nevile Strange, the world-famous psychic detective.’
‘Well, well,’ said Astrid. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you at last. Frank and I were just talking about you.’
‘I wondered why my ears were burning,’ said Nevile. He held out his hand but Astrid smiled and turned away as if she preferred not to make any physical contact.
Frank said, ‘We’ve been trying to work out why Dar Tariki Tariqat would want to blow up Pigs. Listen, how about a drink? There’s a bottle of dry white wine in the fridge.’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks. The police told me all about the bombing and I just called by to make sure that you were all right.’
‘I’m covered in so many bruises I look like a patchwork quilt, and a trolley car keeps ringing in my ears. But they took me to Mount Sinai for a check-up and otherwise I’m all in one piece.’
Nevile came over and peered into his bloodshot eyes. ‘You were damned lucky you weren’t in the office with the others. I’m so sorry about your friends; it’s absolutely tragic.’
Frank lifted both hands. ‘I feel, mentally, like I’ve had my arms torn off. Can you understand that?’ He suddenly found it difficult to speak. ‘I mean, we wrote that series together every working day for three and a half years and it was like we were . . .’
‘I know. I don’t know what to say.’
Frank cleared his throat. ‘I need to talk to you, as a matter of fact.’
‘I’m rather pushed for time, I’m afraid. Perhaps we can make it tomorrow.’
‘The cops told you that it was a pizza delivery boy?’
Nevile nodded.
‘Well, a couple of minutes before that pizza delivery boy showed up, Daphne took a phone message for me. She said it was a woman. Somebody wanted to meet me in the parking lot, urgently. I looked out of the window and I swear to you, I could see Danny standing out there. He was in shadow, I could only see a silhouette, but I swear it was him. That’s why I left the office in such a hurry, thank God.’
Nevile raised one eyebrow. ‘Was Danny still there when you got outside?’
‘No, he wasn’t, and nobody else had seen him, either. I was still looking for him when it suddenly hit me that none of us had ordered pizza. I mean, the delivery boy had asked me which was our office – Bell, Cohen and Fries – but none of us had ordered pizza. I could see Mo up at the window, and I tried to warn him. You know, I waved, and I shouted . . .’ Frank became silent for a moment at the memory of it. ‘I guess he thought I was joking. Mo was incapable of taking anything seriously. Even a bomb warning.’
Nevile looked thoughtful. ‘Seeing Danny in the parking lot could have been some kind of premonition, I suppose. Sometimes we see things that warn us of coming events. Birds, animals, certain vehicles like ambulances or hearses. But in this case, I’m not so sure. What makes this really unusual is that your secretary received an actual phone call, saying that you were needed outside.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Either a real woman was ringing you, to warn you, or else you were receiving a warning from a very powerful psychic source – so powerful that it could make your phone ring. It’s been known before, spirit voices being heard over the telephone. A woman in Wales used to hear her mother talking, even though she had died of cancer more than five years before. Electrical circuits are highly sensitive to spirit messages, like the automatic writing I picked up on my computer.’
‘Any way of telling whether this was a real message or a spirit message?’
‘We should meet tomorrow, and try another séance. Meanwhile, I really have to go. Lieutenant Chessman called me and I’m on my way to Century City right now. They want to see if I can pick up any vibrations from the bomber’s shoes – although they’re pretty sure that they know his name already.’