by Sam Anthony
Confused and frightened, Maureen waited for him to continue.
“If I’m inside your house, does that make it ‘breaking and entering’?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but the intruder put a finger on her lips. “No need to answer. That was a rhetorical question.”
Maureen took a step backwards.
“But I didn’t break anything to get into your lovely home. You let me in. So, it can’t be that. Is ‘entry’ a crime on its own? Perhaps they call it ‘trespass’ when you enter someone’s property without permission. But I’m not just a trespasser, am I?”
Maureen felt she ought to respond, but was too afraid to open her mouth. She shook her head.
“Because I’m here to take your money, aren’t I?”
She nodded.
“Which begs the question: Is this a robbery or a burglary? If you weren’t here, and I helped myself to your cash, that would be a burglary. But you are here, aren’t you, sweetheart? You let me in.”
She nodded again.
“So it’s not a burglary, but it’s not really a robbery either. It would only be a robbery if I used force or the threat of force to steal from you. And I haven’t done that. Yet. Do I have to do that?” He took a knife out of his pocket and used it to remove a speck of dirt from under his thumbnail. “This will be so much more pleasant if you simply give me all your cash and valuables without me even needing to ask. What do you say?”
“May I speak now?”
“Go for it.”
“Young man, I am eighty-one years old. I’ve lived through a world war. My dear husband – God rest his soul – and I survived the blitz. I was frightened then, and I am frightened now, but I have no intention of simply handing over any of my property to you. If you want my money, you could earn some by cutting back my hedge or weeding my garden, but I’m not going to just give it to you for nothing.”
Maureen McDonald stood defiantly as the first blow landed, breaking her nose. She lay unconscious as the second blow knocked out two teeth, and the third blow blackened her eye.
It was twenty minutes before Mr Pinkerton’s purring and insistent head-butting brought her back to consciousness, by which time £42.16 had been removed from her purse, and her mother’s engagement ring was missing from the drawer beside her bed.
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The following day, Maureen McDonald was interviewed in her hospital bed, first by the police and then by a nice lady from the local newspaper.
Despite the missing teeth and one eye swollen shut, she put on a brave face.
“When can I go home? They won’t let me go home. Mr Pinkerton will be worried sick.”
PC Patel scribbled in her notebook. “Mr Pinkerton is your husband?”
“No, dear,” she chuckled.
“Your ... boyfriend?”
“I’m eighty-one. Chance would be a fine thing.”
“Your lodger? A neighbour?”
“He’s my cat, dear. And if he doesn’t get his lunch soon, he’s going to be furious with me.”
“I see. You’ll need to speak to the doctor about going home, but before that I’d just like to ask you a few more questions. You described your assailant as wearing black jeans, a black hoodie and a black balaclava, is that correct?”
“Yes. All I could see was his eyes. Horrible evil eyes.”
“Brown?”
“That’s right.”
“Could it have been someone you know? Someone who lives in the village?”
“I don’t think so, dear. The people around here are all so nice.”
“Was he wearing gloves at all?”
“No, not even slightly. I’m sorry, that was facetious of me. It’s one of my pet peeves when people say ‘at all’ at the end of a question that can only have a binary answer. Either he was wearing gloves or he wasn’t. There are no stages of glove-wearing in between.”
“Indeed.”
“And it was such a hot day. He would have looked ridiculous wearing gloves.”
“Did you see him touch anything? Might he have left fingerprints anywhere in your house?”
“Let me think. He used his shoulder to barge open the front door. Erm … he put his finger on my lips here. Could you get fingerprints from that?”
PC Patel smiled. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“Well, the only other thing I saw him touch before he knocked me out was the knife, but I guess he took that with him.”
“Can you describe the knife?”
“One of those folding ones where the blade tucks away inside the handle.”
“You mean a flick knife.”
“Do I?”
PC Patel checked through her notes one last time. “Is there anything else you can tell us about the man who attacked you, Mrs McDonald?”
“I don’t think so, unless you’d like to know what his fingers smell like.”
“Pardon?”
“When he touched my lips, I could smell his fingers.”
“And?”
“Lavender. I think he must have washed his hands with lavender soap. Is that helpful?”
“It might be if we can find a suspect.”
◆◆◆
As they left the hospital, PC Patel said to her superior, “I don’t like this, Sarge. It’s clearly the same guy as before; all dressed in black with a balaclava. What worries me is the unnecessary violence. He didn’t need to hit her at all. He could have just tied her up or locked her in the garden shed while he ransacked the house. Mrs McDonald was lucky he didn’t cause more serious damage. We need to catch this bastard before he does it again.”
◆◆◆
The local newspaper was published once a week. That week the front-page headline read:
Violent Village Mugger Strikes Again
Chapter 17
Saturday 23 August, 2003
The pub, 9:42 p.m.
“Damn, she’s hot!” said Steve as he returned from the toilet.
“Who?”
“Mandy the barmaid. What a body! I’ve never been unfaithful to Fiona, but if anyone could tempt me, it’s her.”
“She’s a bit young for you, mate. And by ‘a bit’ I mean about a quarter of a century.”
“I know. Sometimes I forget I’m not twenty-one anymore.” He picked up his beer. “Then I get a depressing reminder.”
Ollie put his hand on Steve’s shoulder.
“You all right, buddy? You don’t seem like yourself tonight.”
“I’m worried I might be losing my touch.”
“What do you mean?”
“Only three women tried to seduce me this week.”
“Only three?”
“I used to average at least six a week. It’s surprising how many bored, lonely housewives there are out there.”
“God, I hate you. I can’t remember the last time anyone tried to seduce me. Not even Mia.”
“It’s different for you two. You work in a small office adding up numbers all day with the same bunch of people.” He turned to Eric. “And most of the people you interact with are either desperately ill or anaesthetised. I spend my days going from house to house meeting loads of new people, and the vast majority of them are women.”
“Surely, in this day and age, a lot more women have jobs. Why aren’t they out at work?”
Steve shrugged. “I guess, if it’s a couple and they’re both employed, it still tends to be the woman who has to stay in and wait for the handsome electrician.”
Ollie leaned forward conspiratorially. “Exactly how do they try to seduce you?”
“It varies. Some just come right out and say it. ‘We’re all alone in the house. My husband won’t be home for hours. How about we pop upstairs and you give my fuse box a damn good seeing to?’ Some offer to pay me. ‘There’s an extra fifty pounds cash in it for you if you fuck me right here on the kitchen table.’ Some suddenly come over all dirty. ‘If you need me for anything, I’ll be in the shower.’ Wink. One lady brought me a cup of
tea and a couple of Ginger Nuts stark naked. I didn’t know where to look. Some go for revealing outfits – short skirts, low-cut tops – and then do a lot of bending over and stretching. Quite a few ask me to repair one of their sex toys, which usually just involves changing the batteries. But the majority are more subtle. They sit down and talk to me while I’m working. They tell me how lonely they are and that their husband doesn’t understand them. They play with their hair and toy with the buttons on their blouse. They innocently touch me on the arm. You know the sort of thing.”
“I bloody don’t, but I wish I did,” said Ollie. “Are these attractive women?”
“Some are quite shaggable. They tend to be women of a certain age – thirty to fifty – who realise that their looks are on the wane.”
“And you’ve never succumbed to their charms?” Ollie asked.
“Never.”
“Why not? It sounds like they’re offering it to you on a plate.”
“Because I believe in the sanctity of marriage.”
“Oh.” Ollie didn’t know what to say.
Steve laughed. “I’m kidding, mate. You know I don’t believe in any of that religious bollocks.”
“Then, why not?”
“Two reasons. One: It’s my career and I’m a professional. I’d never do anything to jeopardise my job or damage my reputation as a reliable, trustworthy electrician.”
“And two?”
“I don’t want to get my testicles shot off by a jealous husband.”
“That’s a good point.” Ollie nodded. “It’s a violent world we live in.”
“Did you hear about the old dear down Netherwood Lane who was robbed and beaten up? Eighty-one. Right here in our little village.” Steve took a swallow from his pint. “He fucking clobbered her three times in the face. Eighty-one. What kind of sick bastard does that?”
Ollie shook his head. “They reckon it was the same guy who robbed that other lady by the post office. She was even older. Eighty-six, wasn’t it?”
“Eighty-seven,” said Eric. “Do you think we should do something about it?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know … set up a neighbourhood watch or something.”
“Us? That sounds like something the women of the village ought to be doing. They love getting together to gossip about their neighbours. I’ll suggest it to Fiona.”
“Shouldn’t we help too?” said Ollie.
“Nah, mate.” Steve punched the palm of his hand. “We’ll let the women do the detective work, and when they find a suspect, we three can put the fear of God into him.”
“Or we could let the police handle it,” suggested Eric.
“The police are too busy dealing with murderers and drug dealers to worry about petty crimes like mugging old ladies. We’ll take care of it ourselves. Are you with me?”
Eric and Ollie weren’t very enthusiastic, and before long Ollie introduced the topic of conversation for the evening.
“... personal philosophy of life.”
“Huh?” said Steve.
“What rules do you two live your lives by?”
“That’s a bit existential, isn’t it? Can’t we just talk about Man United’s flukey away win against Newcastle?”
“It wasn’t flukey, and you can’t distract me by bringing up the best football team in the world. We’re talking about our personal philosophies. Who wants to go first?”
“I think you’d better, mate,” said Steve. “You’ve clearly considered it already.”
“Okay. My first thought was the old golden rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. But then I thought about the way I treat Mia, and I changed my mind.”
“What do you mean by that?” Eric asked.
“Let’s just say, I could be a better husband. So, instead, I’m going for: Be kind.”
“That’s it?”
“Yep. That’s all you need to do. Treat people with kindness.”
“Be specific.”
“Okay. Help people if they need help. Care for people when they can’t care for themselves. Make sure nothing you say or do causes harm or hurt. Just be a nice guy.”
Eric frowned. “Doesn’t that include being a better husband?”
“I’ve never said or done anything that’s hurt Mia, as far as I’m aware.”
“You mean you’ve never been caught?”
“Making sure I’m not caught is part of being kind.”
“I think you’re going to have to go into more detail, mate. What have you done exactly?”
“Nothing. Your turn, Steve.”
Steve took a sip of his pint. “Okay, mine’s going to be: Tell the truth.”
Ollie laughed. “That’s a risky one. Fraught with danger. When Mia tries on a new outfit and asks me if her bum looks big in it, there’s no way I’m telling her the truth. I do the kind thing and say, ‘Of course not, dear. You look gorgeous.’”
“But how does that help? Then she’ll start wearing clothes that don’t suit her. And what if she asks someone else and they give her an honest answer? She might never trust you again once you’ve lied to her once. Wouldn’t it be better to tactfully tell her the truth?”
“You can’t say that,” Eric interjected.
“Why not?”
“It’s a split infinite. You should have said ‘to tell her the truth tactfully’.”
“You’re missing the point. Okay, better example. What if she asks me if I fancy any of her friends? She’d be devastated if I admitted to lusting after …” He looked at Eric. “... one of her colleagues from work. It would be kinder to lie and say that I only have eyes for her.”
“But she’d know you were lying. If you didn’t fancy an attractive woman, there’d be something wrong with you.”
“True, but that’s still the answer that she wants to hear. I think it’s better to be kind than to be honest.”
“Being honest is being kind,” said Steve.
“What do you say to Fiona when she asks you if she’s put on weight?”
“She knows she’s put on weight. It would be a pointless question.”
“Well, what do you say when she asks if you still find her as attractive as you used to?”
“She knows better than to ask that because, after all these years together, she realises she’d get a truthful answer. Possibly one she won’t like. We’ve come to an understanding, Fiona and me. She now accepts that if she doesn’t want to know the truth about a sensitive issue, she’s better off not asking the question. But if she wants an honest opinion about anything, I’m her man.” He looked at Eric. “What do you think? Is it better to be honest or kind, Dr McDougal?”
“You tell me. Should I be honest and point out your ignorance just now – potentially causing you embarrassment – or should I be kind and ignore it?”
“Be honest. What did I say wrong?” Steve asked, bemused.
“You called me Doctor McDougal, but my official title is Mister Eric McDougal FRCS (Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons of England). In most of the world, all medical practitioners – physicians, GPs, surgeons, anaesthesiologists, pathologists, whatever – are referred to as Doctor, but here in the U.K. surgeons are known as Mr, Mrs, Miss or Ms.”
“That’s ridiculous. How come?”
“It dates all the way back to the Middle Ages when physicians had to undergo formal university training to earn a degree, or doctorate, before they could enter practice as a ‘Doctor of Medicine’ or just plain doctor. But surgeons, right up to the mid-19th century, didn’t have to go to university at all. Instead, they served as an apprentice to a surgeon, learning on the job. After their apprenticeship they took an exam conducted by the Royal College of Surgeons, and if they were successful, they’d be awarded a diploma, not a degree. Hence, they were unable to call themselves ‘Doctor’ and stuck with just plain ‘Mister’.”
“Fascinating,” said Steve sardonically.
“Did you know that already, Ollie?”
/>
“I did, actually.”
“Most people know it. It’s common knowledge. You must feel pretty foolish, Steve, now that Ollie and I know you’re an ignoramus.”
Eric winked at Ollie.
“On the contrary,” said Steve, with a forced smile. “I’ve learnt something new. I am now better informed. That’s a good thing. Thanks for being honest with me.”
“My pleasure.”
Steve turned to Ollie and said, intentionally loud enough for Eric to hear, “What a pretentious prick.”
They all laughed.
“I’ll get these in,” said Eric, gathering the three glasses and heading for the bar.
“Tell us your philosophy of life before you go.”
“Mine is very simple: It’s to drink as much red wine as possible before I die.”
“Is that it?” said Steve.
Olle wasn’t impressed either. “That’s not exactly altruistic. It’s all about your pleasure.”
“Exactly.”
“So, you’re an Epicurean?”
“No, I’m an oenophile. Someone who appreciates fine wines.”
“What a disappointing philosophy.” Steve folded his arms. “Talk about picking the low hanging fruit.”
Ollie looked at Steve in bemusement. “I don’t think that’s an expression, mate.”
Steve nodded sagely, like a wise mystic. “Oh, it will be. You just wait and see.”
Chapter 18
Wednesday 27 August, 2003
Public footpath, 9:25 p.m.
“How about here?” said Serena.
“We’re too close to those houses. What about over there behind that oak tree?”
“Perfect.”
“Can you see the dogs?”
“No, but I can hear them nearby. They’ll be all right.”
Serena hoiked up her skirt and pulled down her knickers, placing them in her jacket pocket.
“Ready?” said Ollie.
Bending forward and bracing herself against the tree, Serena said, “Hell, yeah! I’ve been looking forward to this all day. Give it to me.”
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