Surface Tension - Chapter 18 Part 1

“So you going to be my guide?”

“If you want Tony,” Ellen smiles and firmly takes hold of my hand. I expect her to lead me into the depths of the gathering but all she does is look at me. Her grip tightens on my hand and even though her hand is soft and reassuring I feel perturbed; there’s something coming. She leans forward, her cheek brushing mine, her breath is warm as she whispers: “Want to know everything about Mr Sandy McClelland, Tony? I can tell you, even better I can show you. You got to be sure though, yeah?”

            She stands back, head to one side, a bemused look on her face. Part challenge, part come on and for one fleeting moment I wonder what she knows and wants. I squash that and give her my best non-committal shrug; don't want to be too keen, but she's still holding my hand.

            We weave through the room, me following in Ellen's wake as she cuts through the people. From the packed room we're plunged into the dark hall.    She moves to the stairs, paused and twists to look at me, “You sure about this Tony?”

            Again, my shrug.

            “OK,” she leads me up the stairs. She shivers in the cold and I chivalrously wrap my jacket round her shoulders. She smiles at me. We reach the top.

Ellen pauses. At first I think it's because she's working out where to go but then I realise she's listening. The only noise is leaking from the floor below. She gives me a tug and we head left.

            “It's impressive in the day light,” she whispers, warm breath and soft scent on my skin again.

            “Where are we going?”

            “If you're going to be involved with this family, you need to know them,”     There’s a half formed question in my mind. I don’t like the word ‘involved’. I’m not involved with the family am I, but then there is £500 grand that I’ve begun to think of as mine.

Does she know?

She's hesitates in front of double fronted door, hand resting on the door knob. She's listening again.  Carefully she cracks it open, peering round the door as it swings wide. She steps inside, leaving me in the corridor.

“Come on then.” She grabs me and pulls me into a dark room, scented with a heavy musky aroma that even before the lights go on suggest a male enclave. The door clicks shut. The burst of light blinds sending my

hand to my face as my eyes strain to adjust.

            “Sorry, wrong switch,” Ellen murmurs.

The lights graciously dim revealing a square room. The walls at right angles to the door are lined with books. Opposite are two arched windows with flamboyantly draped curtains framing the darkness beyond. We're overlooking the front of the house.  A heavy, dark desk sits diagonally across from the door, at an angle to the corner. A large leather backed chair behind it and two smaller ones in front.  A gold lamp glows on the desk and there are papers and books scattered across it.

            “It’s a study.”  My statement of the obvious doesn't draw a response from Ellen. She turns round to face the wall with the door we’ve come in by.  I follow her gaze. The wall is plastered with newspaper cuttings and photos, each neatly framed in a dark wood that matches the table.

            “See,” she says softly.

            I walk over to them, starting on the left. It's a vanity gallery describing a career in newsprint and grainy pictures. Ellen joins me. 

            “That's him.” She points to a three quarter portrait in the centre of the display.

            I walk the exhibition. Pictures of McClelland glad handing local celebrities, business men in matching suits, with faces to compliment, dinner suits, business suits, they jostle with photo’s depicting casual scenes, drinks by the pool somewhere exotic, a golf course,  a cup raised.  Most faces are meaningless but as I progress along the wall some are familiar, University people, local council and the like. There are few constants in the pictures other than McClelland himself.  The casual pictures, showing family celebrations have different people each time.  The social ones, opening nights, gala openings, he has woman on his arm, none of them Mrs McClelland.  The common link is that they're blonde.  Finally I reach one I recognise. McClelland’s arm is draped round her shoulder in a proprietary way.  She wears a long black dress and carries a small clutch bag.  Her smile suggests a degree of discomfort that McClelland neither acknowledges nor recognises.

            “That’s you.”

            “Yes,” Ellen comes and stands by me, slipping her hand it to mine as if she needs the reassurance.  I’ve turned to her and as I do I catch a sorrowful look, regret and hurt blended.  “I suppose I'm not the only one here who's come to make sure the swine is dead but…” she sighs and now there’s a rueful look progressing across her face.  She steps away from the photos walking to the desk. She perches on the corner. I turn to face her. Her dress rides up.

            “Mr McClelland isn't, wasn't a nice piece of work Tony and by all accounts neither is his son. I wouldn’t get into bed with either.”  The look of regret’s there again.

            “I’m not sure why you are telling me this Ellen.”  I’m genuinely perplexed; so far this doesn’t make sense. The only way would be that she knows and that’s impossible, or at least improbable. I push the creeping doubt down.

            “Look, my ‘association’,” her lips curl, “with him was, necessary for my career.  I was part of a deal, arm candy to make him sweet,” she looks away and down from me, pausing to adjust her dress. “The fact that I never completed my part of the deal, caused,” she’s looking straight at me again, as if she wants to see how I react, “...a few problems. Let’s say I found certain things a,” she rolls her tongue round her mouth, “...touch, well not exactly criminal but the boundaries of legality were stretched to their limit,  which can be a bit of a problem in my profession.” She reads my mind, “Law, for the record Tony, law. But Mr McClelland had his ways and suddenly my sky rocketing career is a damp squib.”

            I shrug. There’s a big part of me that wants to empathise but I’ve got this wobbliness in my stomach, the type of feeling you get at the top of a roller coaster after it’s clanked its way to the top and everything goes quiet before it careens downwards.

            “Let's say someone else took my place. Providing the facilitation I wasn't prepared to offer.”

            “Facilitation?”

            “In a business sense Tony, a business sense. Someone not a million miles from your friend,” she slips of the table.

            “My friend?”

            “Your friend,” she delicately places a finger on my chest, “the woman you were with, Sybil or is it Bill?”

            I stutter a response, regretting the word as I say it, “Bill.”

            Ellen nods, the light catches her hair emphasising the movement. The finger’s retracted.

            It takes a moment: “You mean Jonah? Jonah was 'facilitating' stuff for McClelland?”

            This time Ellen shrugs, ““There's a rumour that some cash is missing, stashed somewhere.  The money was part of,” she chews her top lip looking for the right phrase, “part of the off the record business dealings that oiled the wheels of commerce, as Mr McClelland would say. Swine of a man but always liked a poetic turn of phrase. Have you found that Tony, sometimes the most thuggish of people have the most refined tastes?”

            “Sorry, you’re saying McClelland had what, a slush fund and Jonah was there to help administer it?”

            Ellen turns back to the desk. Her shoulders tense underneath my jacket.

            “So Tony, look, if you know something about it…the money,” she turns back, “Tony, he didn't play by the rules and neither does his son. There’s an expectation...”

There’s a crash. Ellen’s face twists, I jump swinging round to find that the door’s swung open bouncing of the wall; it arcs back towards its place leaving a shattered picture behind. A man is standing in the doorway; he’s tall and even in the half light I can tell he's been regularly going to the gym. For real.

            “What you doing in here?”

            Ellen moves stepping in front of me, half shielding me.

            “I came up here it re-live a few memories that's all.”

            “Why's he here?” the suit nods aggressively at me.

            “Company.”

             “Well, this is out of bounds.”   He steps into the room opening the door as he does so. “Leave.”

            Ellen doesn't move.             “Sandy was such a wonderful man; I wanted to remember him as I last saw him, here.” Even I can tell the sarcasm in her honeyed words.  

            He moves across the room.  The walk is measured, contained but there’s a tension, something beneath waiting, wanting to be released.

He stops in front of Ellen. There’s barely a hands breadth between them. He’s focused , coal black eyes stare the face taut with violence. I’m invisible.

            “Leave, leave now,” the lips are thin, white strips.

            “Steven,” Ellen leans back on me, “now where are your manners?”

            A hand juts out and grabs Ellen’s arm above the wrist. He flesh turns white as he squeezes, but she makes no response, just continues to hold his stare.

            “Steven,” her tone’s as light as it was with me.

            “Leave...” the face creases, “Please.”

            Ellen tilts her head, “thank you Steven.” She picks his hand off her arm. “It's amazing what a little courtesy will do.” She steps aside ‘revealing me for the first time. He twitches. “We were just leaving, weren't we Tony.”

She takes my hand and brushes past him, sauntering from the room and down the stairs. We reach the bottom. Ellen turns to go back into the reception. There are hurried steps behind us, a low growl and he pushes past us, breaking our hands apart. He spins round placing his hands on either side of the balustrade, barring our way. Ellen reaches for my hand. She squeezes it.

            “No, you're leaving, do you understand?” He steps back and gestures to the main door. He wings back into Ellen’s face “You love are the one face,” the words are low and guttural, “that my mother doesn't need to see again.” The thin white lips ruck up into something vaguely like a smile, “Please.”

            Ellen tilts her head to the side again, considering the instruction. She reminds me of a mother with a five year old on the verge of tantrum, carefully weighing options.

            “OK.”  She's not let go of my hand. She steers me to the front door. He follows jerking the door open.

            “Thank you, my family appreciates your kindness at this difficult time..”