*****
Turns out 64A Clydescross Drive is part of a huge old Victorian house, more run down than shabby, and nowhere nearly as sophisticated as my new place. Well, clearly I’m going up in the world. I follow the signs to flat 3, which lead me through a broken gate, down a long path which goes to the back of the house, and up some dodgy stone stairs. It must have been really hard to get up these after a few jars, in the night. Maybe I was teetotal, that’s how I managed it? Wow, what a scary thought.
Anyway, no time for looking backwards, I think, as I get to the door of what I guess is flat 3. And I have a key, kindly provided in the personal possessions bag of my former self. Something useful at least, unlike the contents of the wallet which had a few foreign notes in it. I mean what use was that.
I enter the narrow hallway, and switch on the light. Nothing. Great. Tight bastard probably didn’t even pay his electric, god knows why, god knows what he did with his money, seeing as he didn’t drink. Bet he didn’t smoke either, in fact maybe there’s a secret stash somewhere here, maybe I could find it. There may not be a lot but it all comes in handy, even though I’m quite well to do these days. I’m not ashamed to admit it.
There’s a noise, I’m sure it’s a cough, from a room just to the right, and I’m thinking, hey, who’s in my flat, well it may not be much, but it’s mine, and I will be really fed up if there are squatters here. Already. Jesus. I just died this morning. I march towards the room, and hear it again, definitely a cough, and so I go in there, chest forward, ready to sort this out.
There’s a fat old woman (and I really mean old and really fat) sat on a battered green sofa, staring at the telly (which is switched off). She looks up as I come in. “Oh, hello” she croaks. “Are you a friend of John’s?”
“Erm” I say, “well, sort of. What are you doing in my flat?”
“Oh!” she gets up quickly, or at least she tries, her old bones don’t really let her and I actually have to help her as she stumbles. I brush my hands quickly in case she’s diseased. “You’re the landlord. Oh, I’m sure John was up to date with his rent. I haven’t got any money, I’m sorry, and he died you see….”
“No, no” I say quickly, “I’m not the landlord. Sorry, slip of the tongue. I meant his flat. I’m, well, I’m from the hospital.”
“Oh. Well, pleased to meet you. My name’s Patience, John’s great aunt Patience…”
“Oh, yes, hello Patience” I say, “my name’s J… I mean Mark, Mark erm, Dr, Dr Mark Forth, that’s me.” I give her a big smile.
“Oh, pleased to meet you Dr Forth” she lunges forward and for a minute I think she’s going to try to give me a hug but she’s just kind of toppling. I step back to avoid being crushed and she manages to steady herself.
“Too much gin” she laughs and I laugh too. At least there may be some alcohol here. I start sniffing.
“Were you a friend of John’s?” she asks.
“Erm, well sort of, erm, no not really, I was, well I was his doctor, you know… I just came to check the place out…” That sounds bad. “I mean, because he didn’t have any next of kin, you know. Oh, though are you his great aunt, that means you’re kind of kin right?”
“No!” she laughs, though it’s more of a kind of walrus sound, “no, I was just his mother’s best friend. Dear Pru, Prudence, what a lovely lady, I do miss her…”
Hmm, Prudence and Patience, must have been a barrel of laughs. She sits herself back down, heavily on the sofa, it seems to creak under her weight, and I’m sure I see the floorboards buckle a bit.
“Poor old girl, going like she did,” she continues, “and with Jack, that’s her husband, God rest his soul, though he was no good.” I’m getting a headache. Did I dial up the wrong TV station?
“How did she die?” I ask.
She looks at me with her grey eyes. “They drove her to drink, they did. She couldn’t handle it any more. She never used to drink. None of us did. Used to drink a nice warm cup of tea with two sugars and a couple of those lovely biscuits you can dunk in them. Bliss it was. But that’s when they was kids. Used to live in that big old house up on the hill, playing in the front room and in the garden if it was warm, had to mind out for the alligators though, they can be rough, never knew how to play with young kids, but apart from that it was…”
“Do you have a drink?” I ask. Little fucking house on the prairie. Except for the alligators, maybe.
“But then they started to grow up. John, he was a good boy, really, I always liked him. I know what they said about him, but he was a good boy. Mike was the one who was wild. I was scared of him, really, if truth be told. It was him that pushed poor old Pru over the edge, it really was. Even though they all blamed it on John, cos he was the one who was easy to blame, he was the one who couldn’t get a girlfriend or a job or anything, he was the one who was stayed at home. Sat upstairs in his room. But he was a good boy really.”
“Do you mind if I smoke?” I ask.
“Go on then, thanks, I will have one” and she reaches over and takes about five cigarettes from my packet, stuffing them into the folds of fat on her face. She leans her head forward for a light. “I always knew fags weren’t bad for you, I always said” she says, wheezing heavily. “I mean look at you, young, good looking successful doctor, I mean you know really don’t you. They was all lying all this time, wasn’t they. You can tell me, I won’t tell, promise.”
I sigh and smile, lighting up for both of us. I mean, who cares really. Have to do some damage to this body too.
“There’s some drinks over there” she says, nodding at a decaying piece of furniture propping up a lamp. “There’s a bag there with what’s left of his stuff too, I had a look through it but it’s just like papers and everything, so I left it.”
I find a bottle of vodka, half full, a dirty glass and a cup, so I pour each of us a decent drink, giving her the cup. I can hardly drink vodka out of a cup, being a doctor. “How did he die?” I ask.
She takes a long drag and sniffs. “What?”
“How did he die?” I ask again. She throws back the vodka. “Who?”
Jesus. “Erm, John” I say.
“Oh, yeah, John. Poor John. Well, like I said, I told the police everything I know.”
“Really?” I ask, scratching my head.
“No,” she sighs. “They didn’t even ask me. Weren’t even interested. And I’d had me hair done and everything for it. Even got out me best dress, the one with flowers, you know which one I mean, right, and they didn’t even ask me, rotten buggers, not even a phone call. Same thing when poor Pru and Jack died, mind you, she was drinking a bottle of voddy a day, starting in the a.m., so it wasn’t really no surprise that she ran her car off the road, you know. But Mike, he didn’t even go to the funeral, you know, at least John went, I told you he was a good boy. It was just the two of us, me and John, standing there I remember it like it was yesterday, you know they gave me some of those little strawberry flavoured sweets, they was lovely, I saved a few. Wait, maybe I still have some…” She’s starting to fish in a huge pocket of her dirty brown cardigan, and she brings out a mass of stuff in her fat hand. There’s a comb with hair stuck in it, a calculator, something that looks like a knife, and a clump of red-brown stuff, which she starts to pull apart with her other hand. “They’re a bit old now, love, sorry, the funeral being so many years ago and everything, but they still taste lovely.” She offers one to me, but I’m not that hungry, so I ignore her and she shrugs, throwing the whole lot in her mouth and chewing loudly.
“Absolutely lovely, they are, just like Pru was.”
“So, erm, about John, you were telling me what happened” I try.
“Was I?” Her eyes narrow. “Why are you so interested? Were you his friend, did you say? You looked after him at the hospital, did you? Did he do anything? You’re not the police, are you? I’m not going to tell them, not after how they treated me and everything. Didn’t even want to know, they didn’t. I know he
was a bad child, but he was a good boy, really. Did he owe you money? Cos I don’t have any, honestly.”
“No, no,” I cough. It’s kind of hard to explain to her, really, isn’t it. That I’d like to know why I died. And if someone cracked my head open with a metal bar, I’d really like to meet them. With a bar of my own. “I’d just like to, you know, clear stuff up. He was a good guy. I liked him….”
“He was a good boy!” she shouts, and little bits of red gloop fly over and hit me on the chest. “Unlike his brother. Mike was the real bad one. He was in with a real bad crowd. Left suddenly, went off to the continent. Don’t know why he wanted to go over there. Warsaw, that was the last I heard. That’s in France, you know. Got to be careful. Never could trust the French.”
“No, I guess not”, I mutter. “And, erm, John?”
“Well” she says conspiratorially, and she leans closer to me. “Do you have another drink?” I pour us both some more vodka.
“Well,” she says, “you know, a couple of weeks before he got attacked, he calls me, you know. Says he’s in a lot of trouble, asks if he can borrow some money. Well he can’t, course, can he, I felt bad about that but you know, what could I do. I don’t have nothing myself. Tells me he needs to go and see Mike, needs to get over there, but not to tell anyone. Whatever happens. So I didn’t, of course. Course I didn’t. And I ain’t seen him after that. I couldn’t give him any money, could I, seeing as I don’t have any myself. You mustn’t judge me, it’s not my fault is it.”
“No, no sure” I say quickly, “what happened then?”
“Well, erm, nothing” she says, “he got attacked, he went to the hospital and then he died. But you know that don’t you, that’s why you’re here. Listen, you couldn’t do us a favour could you? I wouldn’t ask only, you know, it’s been hard lately…”
I sit staring at her. She wants money, right? “Erm…” I say. She leans forward and I’m kind of scared she’s trying to pout or something, or even, I don’t know, whatever it is, it’s scary. A couple of the cigarettes work themselves free from the folds of her flesh and drop to the floor. Good, I’ll take those back later.
“Look,” she says, “I do know a couple of the people that John knew…”
“Great”
“Maybe I could have another drink?”
“Those people?”
“Look, darling, oh, sorry, yes, I mean, Doctor. Sorry. But…” and she takes a large drink, “you know, maybe, just for the fags, like, that’s all. And a bit of the rent. I’m not into any of the hard stuff….”
I sigh, reach into my shiny executive wallet and draw out a few sheets. I don’t even look at them as I hand them over, a man of my status shouldn’t have to.
“Oh, bless you” she sighs, “you’re such a good man. You and John, you would have got on well. He really was a good boy, even though, even after what he did to his poor old mum, he and that dirty brother of his. But he liked me, he was always good to me, always looked after his Auntie Pru, he was…”
“Erm…” I interrupt, “you said that you knew a couple of people that he knew…”
“Yes, that’s right love, I did!” she shouts, tapping me on the knee. “Now just hang on there for a minute” and she reaches into her right pocket and starts to root around. Eventually she brings out an old green book and opens it. “Now” she says, “yes, here we are, there was one boy, he was an old classmate of John’s, I think the only one he kept in touch with. I think he was his only friend, to be honest” and she sniffs loudly. God, maybe she’s going to cry in a minute then what the hell will I do. “Poor John, he wasn’t good at making friends, he was just a bit, well… strange. But he was a good boy, you know that, don’t you…”
“His friend?” I ask. Maybe I can punch her but I think my fist may just get absorbed into the rolls of fat, and get eaten by a monster, like from some horror film. Maybe I’ll get absorbed into her, maybe that’s why she’s so large. I down another large vodka just to get the thought out of my head.
“His friend, yes, that’s right darling, his friend Martin. Martin Jelfs. I know that John, he’d been in touch, they’d been doing a bunch of stuff together, you know, like, quite recently.” She leans forward towards me, conspiratorially, and I have to stop myself from being sick. “You know, my darling, I think Martin knows something. You know, about poor John’s death. They was spending a lot of time together, then suddenly John disappears, and then he dies. Don’t you think.” She gives me a long, hard look.
“He disappeared?” I ask. “Yes, yes, I told you darling, he calls me, says he’s in a lot of trouble, gets Mike’s address, and then I didn’t hear nothing more from him. So he must have disappeared.” I have to pull my eyes away from the sweat that’s dribbling down her face and over the pimples.
“You know where his friend lives?” I ask.
“Yes, yes, his friend, my darling, I am sorry. Well, here he is. Martin Jelfs. And I do have a number for him too. 07655 101669. There you go, darling. And don’t forget that bag over there, it’s got some of his things in it too. Oh, and don’t forget. John’s funeral. The poor thing. Saturday at two.”
Kings of the Night Page 12