KEEP READING, MATT! I realize you’re pissed off with me now. You didn’t know, did you? You didn’t want to know. I just want you to understand that I do. I know everything about you. Your other mother, so to speak, is Frances, known as Fran, age sixty-three, address 24 Collingwood Grove, Muswell Hill. Profession-children’s author. Surely she could give you some hints about how to get back into the publishing business. She still produces a book a year. The last one was Milly’s Excellent Adventure, wasn’t it? DO NOT STOP READING, MATT! I’ve got much more to tell you.
My heart was pounding. He knew where my mother…my adoptive mother lived. And the tone had changed. This was no longer a besotted fan; this was someone who was able to manipulate. I glanced down at the wads of money in my lap and pushed them to the floor.
Good, you’re still with me! What else have I got for you? Father-not your real one, of course, even I couldn’t find that out; I don’t suppose your birth mother knew herself-father, Paul Jeremy Wells, born September 2, 1932, first secretary at the Department of Transport.
I felt my eyes dampen again.
Killed in a hit-and-run incident in Fortis Green, July 8, 2004. The driver who ran him down was never found. Would you like me to try to find him or her, Matt? My powers of research are formidable, as you can see. Just let me know. You attended Tumblegreen Primary School and Fortis Park Comprehensive. Your parents were-Fran still is-in the Labor Party, the old-style Labor Party, so no hoity-toity private education for you. But you were a good student, you got yourself two As and a D (what happened in that Modern History A level, Matt?) and went off to University College, Durham, to study English. You were on the rugby team there, not the union game that the toffs play, but league, the sport of the northern working man. Bravo, comrade. You were a fast and slippery winger who scored a lot of tries. But you let your studies slide, getting yourself covered in mud most afternoons and pissed most nights, so you ended up with a pretty average two-one. Were Paul and Fran impressed?
The bastard had left another space in his text, no doubt because he guessed that I was smarting. WD1612 was really sticking it to me, the pretence of worship completely abandoned. Maybe he thought that the five grand bought him mocking rights. He’d soon find out otherwise.
No, they weren’t, were they? And Paul was even less pleased when you went off to Cardiff to do a journalism course and got yourself on the staff of Melody Maker before it went down the toilet. Still, I suppose he must have been proud of you when The Italian Tragedy was published. And when it won that award. What was it? The Lord Peter Wimsey Cocktail Glass? Handy.
I looked up at the red display case on the bookshelf above my desk. The tacky piece of engraved glass stood there as a symbol of my pathetic career. I should have smashed it years ago.
Still, I read, Paul and Fran must have been pleased when you and Caroline got married. Caroline Anna-belle Zerb (crazy name…), born Bristol, December 27,1969. Studied economics at Durham and the LSE. City highflier. How on earth did you two get together? Were you her bit of rugby-playing rough?
I clenched my fists. He was getting very close to the bone. Caroline had been a bit naive about life when I first met her on the train to an Emmylou Harris gig in Newcastle. I’d always had a suspicion that she was initially attracted to me because I was well known in the university for my on- and off-field antics.
After that, WD continued, you moved to Maximum, didn’t you? “The Mag for Lads who Live for Sex, Sport and Rock ’n’ Roll.” That must have gone down really well with Caroline’s friends in the City.
Jesus, this was getting well beyond a joke. How much more had WD1612 dug up? He knew about Caroline as well as me.
Anyway, Matt, I won’t bore you with too much about yourself. Just to add that your favorite musicians are The Clash, Richmond Fontaine, The Who, Joni Mitchell, King Crimson and the Drive By Truckers. Nothing if not Catholic, at least in your music tastes if not your religion. (Why do you boast of being an atheist on your Web site? Are you so sure that powers beyond mankind do not exist? Better to be an agnostic, my friend.)
Better to be a smart-arse, you shithead, I said to myself. He could have worked out my favorite music from my reviews-he didn’t need to have seen my CD collection.
And you’re a devotee of film noir and crime movies in general, particularly Hitchcock. Good choice, Matt! The dirty old fat man is one of my top five directors, too. When you’re not reading the competition (who, let’s face it, are doing a lot better than you), you’re down at the South London Bison clubhouse getting shitfaced with your former teammates. The South London Bison. Record in your last season-played 21, won 2, drawn 1, lost 18. Not much better this year, are they? Still, win or lose, the mud tastes the same, I guess.
“Like it will when I fill your mouth with it,” I muttered. “If you’re dumb enough to want to meet up.”
Last, but very much not least, you’re the doting father of Lucy Emilia Wells, born King’s College Hospital, Denmark Hill, January 18, 1997, currently attending Form 3M at Dulwich Village Primary School, home address 48C Ferndene Road.
Now there was a mist obscuring my vision. A sour taste had shot up my throat and my fingernails were cutting into the fabric of my jeans. The bastard knew about Lucy. What did he want with me?
Oh, I almost forgot, the message continued. For the past three months you’ve been going out with Sara Margaret Robbins, born London, August 22, 1971, reporter on the Daily Independent. Good-looking woman, Matt. God knows what she sees in-
Right, that was enough. I moved the mouse, intending to log off the e-mail program. Then I saw the pile of banknotes on the floor. WD1612 had shown me that he knew how to get at me and my loved ones, but he’d also given me five grand. It wasn’t as if I had anything more pressing to do.
So I kept reading.-you. Let’s get down to it, Matt. What do I want for my five thousand? Well, first of all, I need an act of good faith. Don’t worry, it’s nothing too difficult. But it does concern your daughter, Lucy.
He had my full attention.
To be more specific, it concerns her bedroom. You need to get round there and clean up. Someone’s made a terrible mess. And, Matt? There’s just one ground rule. Don’t tell anyone about this. Not your ex-wife, not your girlfriend, not your mother, not any of your mates from the rugby club, and certainly not the police. I’ll be watching. You’ll never know when and where, but I’ll be watching. And I’ll be listening. So take the money and do what I say or the people dear to you will feel serious pain. I’ll be in touch again soon and I’ll be wanting an answer from you. Make sure I don’t lose my patience. Now go!
I was out of the house like an Olympic sprinter on the latest dope.
It couldn’t have taken me more than three minutes to get to the house in Ferndene Road. It had been half mine until Caroline bought me out last year-I put the money in a trust fund for Lucy-and I didn’t like going back when my daughter wasn’t there. Caroline didn’t like it, either. She only allowed me a key because I needed to lock up after I picked up Lucy in the mornings and to get back in after school. I glanced at my watch as I ran. It was coming up to eleven. What was this mess WD1612 had mentioned? At least I had four hours until I went to pick Lucy up. But how long would my correspondent wait for an answer?
I slowed down as I approached the house, my knee suddenly starting to complain. It didn’t take much these days. I’d been neglecting my fitness in general. The small front garden was full of bushes and trees that I’d planted, pink and white blossom in their full spring glory. I looked down at the paving stones as I went up the path. There was no sign of any strange footprints. The paint on the door was untouched and there were no scratches around the keyhole. Was this some kind of idiotic hoax?