Murder-De-Sac

by Jim Bennett

  Much like her own house, there was no window in the hall, giving it a gloomy quality. Julie had counteracted this by painting the walls a shade of sky blue to give the impression that you could in fact see the sky. Mrs McGrath had gone a slightly different route and elected to paint the walls a dark rouge. There was no dirt to speak of, but the entryway did seem to be incredibly dusty. On closer inspection, Julie saw that it was only the top half of the walls that were caked with this layer of dust. Throughout the day, Julie saw this was a common theme in the rest of the house and realised that it was because Mrs McGrath couldn’t reach the higher points in the rooms . Of course the old woman couldn’t ask for any help with the cleaning.

  ‘What are you doing standing there?' Mrs McGrath said, reappearing at the end of the hall.

  ‘I wasn’t sure where you wanted me’.

  ‘In your own bloody house ideally. You want a drink?'

  She went back into the kitchen, and Julie thought it would be the wisest course of action to follow.

  Much like the hall, the kitchen had been cleaned to the minimum standard required for hygienic living. No efforts had been made to improve the aesthetic of the room. It was the kind of kitchen designed for cooking, not entertaining. The sort of room you would expect to find in the galley of a boat or in a prison, not in someone’s home.

  ‘I’m sure I can find someone else to stay with, if I’m in the way', Julie said, although she wasn’t sure who. She could always go and stay with her sister Amanda, but she lived just outside Birmingham. She thought of all those people who had been so kind when Greg had died and how she had disregarded their company with apathy, if not cruelty. She winced to think that many of them would likely still be willing to offer their homes to her, despite the years of neglect that she had subject them to.

  ‘Sit down, will you?' Mrs McGrath said. She took a teapot off the shelf above the cooker and plonked it down on the side. Still holding her cane in her hand, she took the lid off the caddy and shook four bags into the pot.

  ‘Actually do you have coffee?' Julie asked, taking a seat at the oak table in the middle of the room.

  Mrs McGrath scowled at her. ‘You’ll find none of that Yankee nonsense here'. She lurched towards the table with the teapot in one hand. Julie could see the hot water inching dangerously close to the top of the spout. It took two further trips to bring the milk and the mugs to the table. She put them down with such force that Julie was surprised that the procelin didn’t break. Then, Mrs McGrath took a bottle of a suspicious looking dark liquid and two glasses from one of the far cupboards, holding all three in one hand with surprising dexterity. She poured Julie a mug of tea and a small measure of the brown liquid.

  ‘For the nerves', Mrs McGrath said, filling her own glass. She toasted Julie and downed it in one.

  ‘But it’s not even 11 oclock’.

  ‘More’s happened to you today than would to most folk by midnight'. She refilled her own glass and held it aloft until Julie did the same. The hot liquid burned as it went down her throat and hit her stomach with a punch.

  ‘Bloody hell’, Julie said, coughing. ‘What is that?'

  ‘My own blend', she said, looking pleased with herself. ‘Make it in the outhouses around the back'.

  ‘Is that legal?'

  ‘I’m not hurting anyone’, Mrs McGrath replied, from which Julie took the answer to be no. ‘What the tax man doesn’t know won’t hurt him'.

  Without asking, Mrs McGrath refilled Julie’s glass. Julie took a big mouthful of tea, barely feeling it burn the roof of her mouth.

  ‘Come on then', Mrs McGrath said. ‘Tell me what happened?’

  ‘What do you want to know?'

  ‘Did you kill him?' Mrs McGrath asked the question and then kept her eyes fixed on Julie.

  ‘What kind of idiot kills someone in their own house and then calls the police?’

  ‘Lots of idiots around here'.

  ‘Well I’m not one of them'.

  ‘So you didn’t kill him?'

  ‘No I bloody didn’t'.

  ‘That’s good'. Mrs McGrath said, having another shot. ‘Don’t think I’d want a murderer staying the night’.

  Julie had only drunk her second shot after much coaxing from Mrs McGrath. It had been more pleasant than the first. Despite still lighting her insides on fire as it slid down her gullet, she found herself enjoying the dizzying after effects.

  The next on Mrs McGrath’s list of home remedies for shock had been a blisteringly hot bath.

  Again, the focus had been placed on the medicinal rather than the therapeutic, with no bubbles added to the water. Her pale body was clearly visible directly under the surface, and Julie spent her fourty or so minutes in the bathroom trying not to focus on her form made distorted by the clear liquid.

  The temperature was just dipping to a point where the experience might have been deemed pleasurable when Julie heard Mrs McGrath’s cane wrapping on the outside of the door.

  ‘Not good for you to stay in there for too long’, she called. ‘Lie down is what you need’.

  Much like Julie’s own bathroom, two steep steps were located just outside the exit. As she went to leave, she almost tripped on a tray that Mrs McGrath had left directly outside of the door. Julie nudged it hard and the crockery positioned on it rattled loudly.

  ‘Left some food for you', Mrs McGrath called redundantly from downstairs. ‘Don’t make a mess. Those sheets are clean on. The room to the right of the bathroom'.

  Julie took the tray and put it on the bed in Mrs McGrath’s spare room. Her duffle bag was there waiting for her. She opened it and found a few oversized t-shirts and a pair of jeans that were so faded that they looked like they had been designed that way. In normal circumstances, these were the clothes Julie wore on the very rare occasion that she did jobs around the house. Thankfully, on further rummaging, Julie was relieved to see that Mrs McGrath had thought to include a few pairs of underwear, although they were the most beige and sensible articles that her collection afforded. Julie took the largest t-shirt out of the selection of three and put it on. It had an indefinable smell that made her think of Greg and home.

  Julie was unsure what Mrs McGrath thought that she was going to be able to stain the sheets with as the tray only had a glass of water and two pieces of plain toast on it. It was just past lunchtime and given that she hadn’t eaten since the night before, Julie was surprised that she still didn’t feel the least bit hungry. She chewed the toast methodically. Her mouth was still dry and she had to take the occasional sip of water to aid her swallowing.

  The bed wasn’t plush. If anything, it most closely resembled a hospital bed, albeit without the due care to fold the sheet over the corners. But with the sun coming through the windows and a pleasant little breeze making its way into the room, Julie felt momentarily contented.

  Just as she had come to really relish the idea of an afternoon nap, Harry popped into her head. All of a sudden, it occurred to her that her son didn’t know that his friend was dead, and that there was no other way for him to find out. She thought about putting it off. Wouldn’t it be better to wait until she felt a bit more steady? Afterall, she had found her dead body in her house a few hours ago. Julie didn’t think that anyone would blame her if she put off notifying her son for a few hours. But no, it couldn’t wait. She was sure that she wouldn’t be able to sleep until she had got it over and done with.

  Julie selected Harry’s name from her contact list, remembering what he had told her about making the call over the internet. He wasn’t going to answer, Julie thought, and that was absolutely fine with her. How many times did it need to ring before she could convince herself that she had made a good go of it? 5? 10? 10 seemed fair. Then she could go to sleep with a clear conscience then.

  When her son answered on the ninth ring, she inwardly cursed him. ‘Hello love', she said, attempting to hide her annoyance,‘everything okay with you?’

  ‘Yeah Mum, it’s not a good time. I’
m alright though. Eating well, not spending too much money, staying away from large bodies of water'. If she had been calling for a chat, this quick inventory would have obliterated any chance they had at a conversation. It remained a bit of a mystery to her what her son was actually doing on her travels, and she found herself not caring too much.

  ‘I won’t keep you’, she said, getting down to business. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got something sad to tell you'.

  ‘Nan, is it?' He said, even trying to move the news of a deceased relative on at a fair old clip. ‘She had a good innings. Probably for the best’.

  ‘Your nan is fine, although I’ll let her know that her only grandson thinks it’s time she gave it up. No, it’s about Jack’.

  ‘Christ, Mum. There was no need to throw him out'.

  ‘It’s not that’.

  You knew he was a musician when he moved in. A bit wild but harmless'.

  ‘Well I didn’t actually, because you didn’t tell me'.

  ‘He shouldn’t be punished for that though, should he?’

  ‘Harry can you listen to me for just a moment?' she said, becoming impatient now.

  ‘God, I can’t believe you’d embarrass me like this in front of my friends. Honestly, you’ve always been like this’.

  ‘He’s dead'. There was a moment’s silence on the other side of the line.

  ‘Wait, what?'

  ‘He’s dead. He took an overdose. I found him this morning'.

  Another pause followed. ‘Are you sure?'

  ‘Am I sure I found a body in your old room this morning?'

  ‘Well it’s a bit unlikely, isn’t it? I only ever saw him smoking dope and I don’t think you can overdose on that'.

  ‘He’d injected something into his arm, I don’t know what'.

  ‘You don’t inject cannabis Mum'.

  ‘I never said he had'.

  ‘I’m not saying I don’t believe you…',

  ‘You think that my grip on reality is so tenuous that I would imagine a dead body in my house?'

  ‘I’m just saying that sometimes you get confused'.

  She wondered if it was normal to want to slap your own child. ‘Thanks for that Harry. Your friend is dead and I thought you’d want to know'. With that, she ended the call before her son could ask her if she had managed to dress herself without any help this morning.

  Her conscience entirely appeased, Julie placed the tray on the floor and lay on top of the bedding. Whether it was the alcohol, the gentle heat of the day or bathing in something akin to lava, Julie wasn’t sure, but it was only a few moments before she had dozed off.

  Julie woke up with a thick head. At some point during her slumber, Mrs McGrath had been in and taken the tray with her. She also noticed that she had left two paracetamol and a glass of water on the table next to the bed, which she took gratefully. She glanced at her phone and saw that Harry hadn’t tried to get back in touch.

  One of the adornments that Mrs McGrath had thought it satisfactory to include in the room with its otherwise spartan furnishings was an old wooden clock. The actual face was so small that Julie had to get out of bed and move closer to read the time. She was surprised to find that it was almost six oclock and despite her lengthy nap, she didn’t feel refreshed. She downed the rest of the water in the glass but it seemed to make little difference to her pounding head. Looking for the clothes that she had arrived in, she surmised that her host had taken these too. She was forced to put on the faded jeans that Mrs McGrath had packed for her and then ventured downstairs.

  She found Mrs McGrath in the kitchen standing over several bubbling pots on the hob.

  ‘Shut that door’, she said as Julie entered the room. ‘Bloody smoke detectors will be the death of me. Have a cup of tea that’s too hot and it will set the little bastards off’.

  With real reluctance, Julie did as she was told. Whatever Mrs McGrath was cooking was generating an unnatural amount of heat. That coupled with the sun still blaring through the kitchen window made the atmosphere almost tropical.

  ‘I’ll open the back door', Julie said.

  ‘Good luck’, Mrs McGrath scoffed. ‘Haven’t been out there since 08'. Julie looked through the back window and saw how overgrown the garden was for the first time'.

  ‘Or maybe open the window?' Julie suggested as a last resort.

  ‘Had them painted shut. What’s the bloody point? If you’re inside, you want to be inside. Sit down, will you? All that moving about is making me dizzy'.

  Julie wasn’t aware that she had been moving about a great deal, but sat down at the kitchen table obediently.

  Mrs McGrath heavy handedly put a glass of red wine in front of Julie.

  ‘It’s spag for dinner. If you’re not happy with it then you’ll have to go without. Haven’t got anything else in’.

  ‘Spaghetti bolognaise?' Julie asked.

  ‘What else would ‘spag', be?’

  ‘Spaghetti carbonara? Or spaghetti and meatballs?’

  Mrs McGrath turned around and had such a look of disgust on her face that you would have thought Julie had suggested pairing the pasta with human meat.

  ‘I don’t eat that slop', she said.

  Julie nodded, reasoning that it was easier to pretend that she understood the bizarre logic governing what Mrs McGrath found objectionable. She took a sip of her wine and enjoyed the feeling of the alcohol hitting her bloodstream, even if the taste was slightly acrid.

  Mrs McGrath thumped the food down in front of her.

  ‘That’s quite a lot of food’, Julie said, letting out a nervous chuckle. ‘I’m not sure if I can eat all that’.

  ‘One big meal in the evening and you’ll make it through the whole of tomorrow’. Mrs McGrath sat before her own meal and hung her walking stick over the back of her chair.

  ‘Well I’ll eat what I can’.

  ‘What you can is bloody all of it', Mrs McGrath said, cramming an impossible amount of spaghetti and sauce into her pinched mouth. Once she had swallowed, she said ‘I’m not in the business of wasting food'.

  For some unknown reason, Julie had expected the food to have some strange quality to it, most probably because everything else associated with Mrs McGrath didn’t conform to social norms in some not so subtle way. She had planned to take as many small mouthfuls as she could stomach and then push the remaining food to the edge of the plate giving the illusion that she had eaten much more than she had in reality. What she wasn’t prepared for was that the food would actually be fantastic. The sauce had a flavour that was so rich and satisfying that she found herself not being able to get it into her mouth fast enough. She began to eat in a frenzy, the fork bringing the delectable nosh up to her face almost mechanically. By the time she was finished, Julie was amazed to see that there were only a few odd strands of spaghetti left on her plate with the remaining pasta sauce.

  Julie inched her chair backwards and contemplated undoing the top button of her jeans. Judging by the colour of them, she had probably purchased them somewhere around the year 2000 and she definitely wasn’t still sporting her millenium figure. She had struggled to fasten them when she first put them on and a few pounds of pasta and mincemeat definitely hadn’t helped the situation.

  Mrs McGrath refilled Julie’s glass and pushed it over to her. Julie, not yet feeling able to speak again, smiled at her appreciatively and took another sip. Even after the monstrous amount of food she had eaten, she still felt like the alcohol was still affecting her more than it normally would.

  ‘Go on then’, Mrs McGrath said, raising her glass to her mouth. Julie noticed she didn’t sip her wine. Rather she wouldn’t drink anything for maybe a stretch of ten minutes and then would then talk an almighty gulp in one go.

  ‘I’m sorry'.

  ‘The lad'.

  ‘You mean Jack?'

  ‘The dead one'. In retrospect, Julie didn’t know why she had bothered to say ‘Jack’. She had never heard Mrs McGrath use anyone’s name, or even to not address the
m with a pejorative come to think of it.

  ‘What do you want to know?'

  ‘Enough to find out who killed him’.

  Julie sat stunned, staring at Mrs McGrath. She expected her to elaborate, but she seemed to think that the statement required no further explanation.

  ‘What makes you think that someone killed him?' Julie said when no further comment was forthcoming.

  ‘Had it coming to him, didn’t he? Mincing around like that, getting up people’s noses'.

  ‘Mincing around?'

  ‘In those skimpy little vests’.

  ‘Are you saying that someone killed him because he was gay?'

  ‘Who ever said anything about being gay?’

  ‘You said he was mincing about'.

  ‘Don’t need to be gay to mince about. He thought he was pretty. People don’t warm to that'.

  ‘Most of young people are sure of themselves, but they’re not getting killed on a daily basis, are they?'

  Julie took a sip of wine and decided to take another approach.

  ‘Do you actually know something Mrs McGrath? Something that makes you think that he was murdered'.

  ‘If I knew something, I wouldn’t need you, would I? Sometimes you can just tell when something doesn’t stack up right'.

  Julie pinched the bridge of her nose and tried not to show her frustration.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not quite following what you’re saying’.

  ‘What I’m saying girl is that I think that fancy man of yours was murdered and I need your help to prove it'. She necked the last inch of wine in her glass and immediately refilled it. When she went to top up Julie, she tried to cover it with her hand, but Mrs McGrath was too quick for her.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell the police this?’

  ‘I could have handed them the murder weapon and the buggers still wouldn’t know what to do with it. It happened here. Our street'. Mrs McGrath rapped her fist against her chest as she said it. ‘We’ve got to look after our own'.