Have It All

By Lewis Attrib

Dr Hamid Mansourian, successful consultant gynaecologist, is the man who has everything, but wants more.

When his brother-in-law, Geoffrey Lyle, is crushed to death by a mad cow during a bleak Christmas celebration, Mansourian’s wife, Margaret, inherits Thorne Hall in remotest Norfolk. Under the influence of his mistress, Nurse Mei-Mei Moon, Mansourian is persuaded to misappropriate the fortune and invest everything in the privatisation of an NHS Psychiatric Unit. In retaliation the widow, Caroline Lyle, uses blackmail and political corruption to contest the terms of the family trust fund, and Dr Mansourian finds himself bankrupt and medically discredited.

Mansourian’s adolescent daughter, Jocanda, is besotted with the Lyle’s uncouth farm labourer, Brick, who is persuaded by Mei-Mei Moon to murder Caroline Lyle. A suggestion the youth pursues so incompetently his sawn-through brake pipe kills Margaret Mansourian instead - just as she uncovers a conspiracy between Caroline and their local MP to sell the estate for a new toll-motorway development.

Nurse Moon decides Hamid must sacrifice himself and marry the widow Caroline Lyle to regain the legacy. At the wedding reception Brick, unrecognisably burnt in a hotel explosion, makes a second, successful murder attempt on Caroline.

The police close in, their suspicions fuelled by Hamid Mansourian’s malicious rival, the pathologist Dr Victoria Keene - who soon becomes Brick’s third victim. Mansourian is forced to steal Caroline’s body from the morgue; however an uncharacteristic good deed aiding a depressed patient evicted from the privatised Psychiatric Unit results in Mansourian being accused of necrophilia. Suspended from his hospital consultancy he comes under the scrutiny of Detective Sergeant Dutton of the CID.

Having lost wealth, family and professional standing, now the prime suspect for several murders, and under siege by armed police surrounding Thorne Farm, Hamid is talked by Nurse Moon into a suicide disguised for insurance purposes as a bizarre sexual experiment. Mei-Mei Moon makes her escape while Brick fulfils his dream and flees to Mexico. Hamid’s neglected daughter, Jocanda – who as the only surviving family member now inherits the estate – joins forces with his mistress at his funeral. They leave arm-in-arm to transform Thorne Hall into a New Age Therapy Centre.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lewis Attrib
• Release date: Mar 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301600885

Lewis Attrib

Lewis Attrib was born in El Mina, Lebanon, his father a Syrian businessman, his mother a French academic. The family moved to London and Lewis began studying medicine at Cambridge, but with no liking for blood left without taking a degree to follow a career in major provincial and West End theatre, first as a director and later in artist management. He has been married twice and divorced twice but now prefers expensive motor cars. Have It All is his first novel.

Book preview

Have It All

Lewis Attrib

Copyright Lewis Attrib 2013

Published by Galcom Editions at Smashwords

"Tha mun ta'e th' rough wi' th' smooth."

D H Lawrence

Lady Chatterley’s Lover

Chapter 1

Outside in the darkness outbursts of menace had sounded all evening. The cows mooed, half bovine threat, half warning; acting more like a pack of dogs than a herd of ruminants. Inside the farmhouse a warm glow insulated the family party.

Why not?

Not for the first time Dr Hamid Mansourian had made a great discovery. It was all focus. A matter of perception. Seem to admire with studied, close examination the gold wristwatch his wife had given him that Christmas morning, then narrow his eyes and stare across the room with impunity at Caroline Lyle's magnificent bosom. It was an effort but Mansourian raised his left arm again. The good things in life were worth it.

Over the watch’s fuzzy radar sweep he contemplated what was left of his weekend. Sunk in the armchair’s sanctuary he was confident the worst was over, the blood all spilt, the ritual sacrifices offered. Any day that started before dawn was bound to be bad but things had at last settled down. They had changed from their damp, muddy, gore-splattered outdoor gear into formal evening wear. He expected before long to be overwhelmed by seasonal relaxation. Hope glowed with each passing drink. The armchair was a supple Italian leather. All that was keeping him awake was his stomach's faith that abundant food would soon rain like manna onto a sufficiency of alcohol.

Despite everything he couldn't help admiring them, the way the Lyles kept up so many Victorian values. To hell with the reforms those buggers kept touting round the Hospital Trust. Miserable progressives with charity cards, lean cuisine and other politically correct abominations. Endless humbug with its desperate inclusivity of Ramadan, Diwali and Chinese New Year, though never, Mansourian had noted, any reference to Zoroastrianism. Not enough votes in that. Real Christmas was about keeping things the way they’d always been. Old traditions. Dressing for dinner with no expense spared. High Noon one year, Ice Cold in Alex the next. A stuffed turkey on its back like an over-tanned Australian nudist. Orphaned children to feel sorry for somewhere in the distance. Dickens. Carols. Blazing log fires. Mansourian had committed himself to all these things since making his home in Britain. When in Rome. And he knew Geoffrey must get real satisfaction from chopping his own wood. Other than the missing thumb.

Do they make a special effort to tidy those refugee camps before Princess Anne arrives? Caroline asked irritably. There was faffing about for weeks when she came to the Norfolk Show.

It makes you wonder about our sense of priorities, observed Geoffrey Lyle.

Oh I think the refugees benefit from a new helicopter landing pad.

Hamid blinked at the television. Depressing how Her Majesty had aged since she’d modelled for the bank notes. Grown old though no matter how much you spent the portrait on the money stayed eternally young, a fiscal Dorian Grey, unless it was vice versa, economics wasn’t his patch. He felt disinclined to concentrate except when squinting at Caroline’s brace of swelling mounds, heavy as the anticipated Christmas pudding, an abandonment of cream poured generously over. Delicious, almost unbearable temptation. A pity that stiff wing collar turned Geoffrey into... into what? A pompous mutton chop. And in the face of competition from her sister-in-law even his wife Margaret making an effort on this one day of the year. Done up in a high-necked outfit but at least not welded from tweed. As futile gestures went not to be wholly discouraged. If only to prove perfection came with practice. Anyway, that wasn’t what he wanted from her.

Do you need glasses, Hamid? Margaret Mansourian demanded. Her own spectacles peering at him.

I've got one thanks. He skilfully defocused from his sister-in-law’s cleavage and picked up his glass of sherry, raising it in the general direction of his wife. When all she did was continue to stare at him he concentrated his attention on the glass and gulped the contents down.

The armchairs were grouped around the open hearth, a large recessed construction of herringbone brick and copper ornaments. A pile of burning logs in the iron grate radiated almost too much heat. The television was in one facing corner of the room. In the other a full-bodied Christmas tree, decked with red bows and flashing yellow lights, pressed against the black oak beams of the low ceiling. He held his empty glass up and admired the reflection of fairly lamps, Queen and flames in the crystal surface until Geoffrey wandered across and refilled it. Life inched closer to perfection. He risked a quick glance at Caroline and smiled without focusing.

I’m sorry about this wait. It's so inconsiderate of her.

Jocanda was told the precise time she had to get back. It'll be that subnormal yokel you allow her to go off with, said Margaret bitterly.

Well I for one don't think we should wait any longer. We can't ruin Caroline’s preparations. Hamid hoped this show of consideration would be enough to return him to his sister-in-law’s good favours, as well as hurrying some food. She’d made it plain enough she was annoyed about the morning’s episode. Unfair but that was women for you. At the time she'd been hiding her assets under a ludicrous red hunting jacket. No incentive at all for anyone to make allowances for the sins of the father.

Geoffrey Lyle hovered beside the fireplace. From time to time, like a good host, he poked a log he judged was blazing insufficiently. Even allowing for the normal stress of a family gathering he seemed unusually nervous. He shook his head at Hamid’s suggestion Oh, Caroline’s easy. He glanced at his wife who merely shrugged. We'll give Jocanda a while longer, he continued more confidently. After all she is your daughter and it is meant to be a family gathering. Yule-tide get-together. Crackers to pull and so-on. I expect they’ve run into some problem on the road.

Don't say that, Geoffrey, Margaret scolded her younger brother.

Why not?

You make it sound like she's had an accident.

Oh, no, I don’t mean that at all. I just meant the weather and Christmas traffic and...

Though if she’s in the hands of that loutish youth she may have been better off in a crash, Mansourian ventured.

Are you drunk, Hamid? his wife demanded.

Just a joke.

Anyway it isn’t a youth, that’s the problem. Just exactly how old is this individual of yours she’s gone off with, Geoffrey?

Geoffrey Lyle shook his head helplessly. Brick’s very well qualified.

For a cowman. Twenty five if he’s a day. I hope he realises Jocanda’s only fifteen. And what sort of name is Brick for goodness sake? Does it describe his mental abilities?

You know these young people. Appearances can be deceptive. Geoffrey switched from shaking his head to nodding it. I'm almost sure there’s no reason to worry, I'm pretty certain he’s a vegetarian.

Caroline killed the television with the remote just as the muted strains of Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darlin' promised Mansourian the consolation of High Noon. Look, I don’t mind waiting, she snapped. Anyway, Geoffrey and I have something of an announcement to make. Important news. Haven’t we, Geoffrey.

Well, no. After dinner. Didn’t we say? When the family is all here. I thought...

Mansourian risked a direct look. As far as his professional judgement went she didn’t appear to be pregnant. He glanced at Geoffrey to confirm the negative prognosis. He’d seen plenty of unlikely fathers in his time but the wrong sort of fear lurked in the man’s eyes. A flicker of alarm disturbed his complacency. Are you expecting anyone else?

Only the runaway. Your daughter, Caroline exposed her perfect, if overlarge, teeth in a humourless smile. If you’re thinking of Daddy he has a prior appointment.

He’s not coming over?

A standing engagement. Chums from his old regiment.

Do they still keep up the pig sticking?

You drank far too much this morning, Margaret told him.

Every reason.

Margaret snorted.

On top of everything it was a shock to the system. Dawn on Christmas day. A more superstitious man could read all manner of things into it. Hamid looked ingenuously at Caroline. And it was terribly cold. A man needs something to warm him up.

No one ever really needs as much as you had, Margaret stated.

I’d call it overheated, Caroline confirmed. Indignation made her pink bosom lunge aggressively.

And I hadn’t had much sleep, Hamid protested. Then all that rustic frenzy. Frankly, he spread his hands, more than I’d planned for.

Nonsense.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m for midnight mass in its place, Catholic countries, on television. But I was frozen on one side and gassed by paraffin fumes on the other.

That doesn’t justify telling Caroline’s father you recognised the rabbits.

No use pretending.

There's every use pretending.

I recognised the big spotted one we saw left over in Petworld Superstore. No shadow of doubt.

Certainty is a very dangerous delusion, Hamid.

It caught my eye when we bought the toys for Geoffrey’s fish tank. A mottled sort of rabbit hopping about smugly assuming it was safe from humanity until Easter at least. All gay and fluffy until it was torn apart by those slavering jaws. Give Jocanda her due she’s right about one thing. Much as I hate agreeing with the younger generation it’s not my idea of sport. We’d all have been better off raving in the back room of whatever dingy hole she’s been abducted to.

Hamid’s very selective about sport, Margaret announced to the room in general.

Caroline was visibly roused. Breakfast bloodings go back at least two centuries. The Hunt’s a traditional country pursuit. Part of our English culture. Our authentic heritage. Hallowed by history.

Isn’t it illegal now?

Only the hunting. Not bringing the prey to the hounds. Those socialist bastards can never do anything without leaving loopholes.

Still…. said Mansourian.

Townies could never understand.

You can rub in I come from Tehran all you like, Caroline, but after three decades in the semi-rural suburbs here I count myself a traditionalist. In the sensible and progressive meaning of that word. I was simply making light-hearted remarks to jolly up scenes of barbaric carnage.

Daddy was bloody furious. He’s waited years for the Mastership to come his way.

You know it’s within the margins of possibility it’s obsolete Masters of Hounds with nothing they can hunt anymore who have the problem. Two centuries is a concept gap, Caroline. We’re a different generation. We live in the real world. We have to keep up with the times.

You’d better watch out if you’re going to take that attitude. Important people move in those circles.

Hamid smiled tolerantly.

He was glued to the television when there was synchronised swimming in the Olympics, Margaret continued.

They showed team spirit. More than you can say for most athletes these days. Even when they lost those girls kept a smile on their faces. Not easy when you surface after being underwater for five and a half minutes.

It didn’t seem to be their faces you were looking at.

Anyway it's more of a sport than watching yokels throw bunnies into a baying mob of rabid, cross-bred pitbulls.

Caroline flushed red. There is no cross-breeding in the Norfolk Borders beagle hounds, she hissed.

Margaret stood up with the authority of a headmistress practised in quelling classroom riots. Shouldn’t we go and check the turkey? We don't want it to burn, do we?

Caroline scowled at the interference then got up and followed.

Geoffrey shifted around in front of the fire. After a while he said Well. And how are things generally?

I have, said Hamid Mansourian, been extraordinarily fortunate this past year. But I think I deserve it.

Geoffrey’s nod could have meant anything. He patted the chest of his dinner jacket. Feel like a cigar?

Hamid hauled himself to his feet, reluctant but knowing Caroline forbade smoking on the carpet.

On the way out they passed the women in the kitchen. Europe and the Common Agricultural Policy had been generous to Thorne Hall. Everything was new since the last time Mansourian had been forced to visit. The old plaster walls were now covered in fashionable tiles. Cabinets installed using panelling torn from the heart of endangered forests. Electrical goods gleamed with showroom newness under designer strip lighting. Any smoke from a burning turkey had been ruthlessly extracted by the anodised aluminium hood above the ceramic cooking range.

The women ignored them. Margaret was intently moving Roy Lichtenstein fridge magnets over the white surface of the giant, upright freezer. She seemed to hope they might make sense if only she could work out their sequence. Caroline was leaning against the sink staring blankly at the smoke from the cigarette she was holding over it. The magnets, 25 in the set according to the package, were a Christmas present from Hamid and Margaret jointly, an easy choice when the alternative was a miniaturised plastic collection of Tracey Emin memorabilia. They were from the Royal Academy gift shop but so far Caroline had shown no interest in them. It was a long time since the Mansourians had been near the RA but with dog-like loyalty the institution still posted their mail order catalogue every year.

Geoffrey unlatched the door and led Hamid out into the gathering dusk. The frontage of Thorne Hall with its leaded, Tudor windows, trimmed lawn and gravel drive, concealed a backside that was, to both sight and smell, unmistakably a working farmyard. Barns and outbuildings in various stages of disrepair formed a ragged perimeter around an uneven quadrangle of mud. Parked near the kitchen door was the new Range Rover that Geoffrey had given Caroline for Christmas.

He seemed to have forgotten his suggestion about cigars. Hamid didn’t like to be too direct. He patted the car and asked What did Caroline get you?

I'm not sure. I don’t think anything.

Perhaps she’ll give it to you later.

Geoffrey looked doubtful.

A sure sign you’re getting old when you choose a big car because it’s easy to get in and out of, remarked Mansourian. Still there’s always hope while you keep up the same attitude to women.

Geoffrey shuffled politely and emitted a diffident laugh.

The arsenical green colour of the vehicle was a matter of taste. Its bright new paintwork reflected the Christmas tree lights twinkling through the window like a case of metallic measles.

Mansourian wondered who had put the Rhino Bait sticker in the back window. It must be some private joke between man and wife. Seriously, it was clever of you to buy this for her. Touch expensive, but at least she had to do the driving to the Colonel’s place this morning.

Might have gone a bit financially overboard as it turns out. There’s always the chance of surprises in this game. Something unpleasant springing out at you. What I wanted to talk to you about actually.

Can’t be avoided. We all do it. I overspent buying Margaret the ordnance survey maps. But it’s only once a year. Hamid stepped carefully round the Range Rover to estimate the degree of lean; the vehicle’s weight was making its wheels sink unevenly in the quagmire of the farmyard. Look on the bright side. Worth it so we could get stuck into the hot toddy, eh?

Actually it wasn’t the car I want to ask you about. It’s over there. Geoffrey squelched off across the muck leaving Hamid no option but to follow. He headed around the corner of a barn to a railed-off area. It seemed even deeper in rank-smelling mud until it became obvious it was a semi-liquid mixture of dung and urine it was deeper in.

A gang of cattle leant in line against the opposite fence. Condensation snorted insolently from their dripping nostrils. They flaunted large tags much like the earrings the worst of the criminal classes had taken to wearing. They stared back at the two men with the sullen hostility of drunks in a Glasgow bar.

The light had almost faded from a grey, overcast sky. Ducking into an outhouse Geoffrey switched on the halogen floodlamp fastened to the exterior of the rough stone wall. The gloom around them became darker by contrast. The cows took on the appearance of suspects in a police identity parade. Geoffrey came out and plunged his patent leather shoes back into the slurry.

I don’t like the look of a couple of them.

Hamid hopped from one patch of firmer ground to the next to catch up with him. He frowned at the cows, puzzled. Which ones do you like the look of?

One or two of them have been showing odd behaviour. I don’t know. There’s still a lot of it about. Not that anyone will admit it. I’d appreciate your expert opinion frankly.

My opinion? On what?

Symptoms. In strictest confidence of course.

Hamid pointed. Those?

Geoffrey nodded hopefully.

I'm a gynaecologist, not a vet.

Geoffrey had a pleading look in his eye. Same thing really isn’t it? I mean you’ve had medical training.

Cows and women, Geoffrey. Some of the differences may be subtle but not the gross anatomy. Anyway they look dangerous.

That’s just it. If they’ve got it their temperament changes. One of the first signs.

Hamid plunged his hands into the pockets of his jacket. It was cold out here. You must have a usual man for this sort of thing. A specialist. Why don’t you get him along?

I was trying to avoid it. Keep it in the family. For as long as possible. Even the suspicion can do permanent damage. National hysteria. You know it can mean economic ruin for a farmer.

One of the cows lurched away from the wall and took a few steps towards them, stomach swaggering from side to side, head lowered at an angle as if trying to eavesdrop on what Geoffrey was saying about it.

What are we talking about? Hamid asked.

Mood swings. Temperament. Aggression. First symptoms.

PMS?

BSE.

They’ve got Mad Cow Disease?

Not definitely. Not all of them. Necessarily. Anyway, one thing, it’ll make the decision easier, I really didn't know how I was going to break it to Margaret.

I didn’t think she took that much interest in the farm.

Well it is her childhood home. And with everything about to change...

The cow had evidently had enough of the discussion. It bellowed once, pawed the ground and broke into a lumbering charge. Hamid instinctively tried to back-pedal, instead he slipped and sat down in the mud. Geoffrey didn’t move. Either made of sterner stuff or his feet were stuck solidly in the goo. The cow hit the fence and kept on coming. There was a shower of splintering wood. Thrown off balance by the impact the cow skidded, teetered sideways to a halt, bellowed triumphantly, then with slow deliberation toppled over onto Geoffrey.

Hamid got up carefully. His backside felt cold and putrid, it was an uncomfortable and wetly embarrassing condition. You all right, Geoffrey? He realised as he spoke it was a foolish question to ask of a man who was pinned to the ground by one of his own cattle.

His brother-in-law’s once well-shod feet stuck out below the animal like a truncated third pair of legs. His head was protruding from beneath the cow’s back. They resembled a pantomime act that had split its seams. Geoffrey was struggling very feebly, he appeared to be helpless to extract himself.

Hamid cautiously limped around to the tail end to try kicking the animal, not very hard. The last thing he wanted was to enrage it any further. The cow snorted contemptuously and didn’t move. Hamid tried pushing with the sole of his shoe and was ignored completely. Having made its charge the collapsed beast appeared to think it had done enough. It was content to sink into some terminal paralysis. Crushed underneath it Geoffrey began to turn blue in the face.

Hamid bent and tried to get some leverage under the protruding backbone. The animal was covered in excrement and repulsively slippery. It steamed noxiously, a fever heat making the slime that coated it emit a stomach-turning vapour. When his hands found some purchase and he heaved it became obvious the thing weighed several tons. Unable to shift the cow in any way or direction he straightened up and looked around for inspiration. Geoffrey made a sound half-way between a grunt and a gurgle.

I’ll get help. Don’t try to move, Hamid told him. He ran for the women.

Caroline was first out. Hamid followed her back stiff-legged, his mud-soaked trousers were beginning to crust. She displayed no restraint in her own efforts to kick the beast into getting up. Stoically the cow ignored her. Its breath was blowing out in regular but diminishing clouds of foul-smelling steam, as if even the act of lying on top of a farmer was tedious and wearisome.

Margaret came across the yard at a run. Geoffrey? Where is he? she screamed.

Have you dialled 999?

They can’t say how long before the ambulance and fire brigade get here. What are we going to do?

Didn’t you tell them it was an emergency?

Of course I told them. I insisted. For goodness sake it’s a rural area. It’s Christmas. They were bloody rude and said the cuts in service weren’t their fault.

Margaret splashed across to help Caroline who had abandoned the cow and was now hauling at Geoffrey. Kneeling beside her brother Margaret emitted a cry anguished enough to drive all hope from any victim waiting for rescue. One on each side of his head the women groped frantically around and at length managed to extricate his upper limbs. With an arm each