I been stupid and I thought I wasn’t any mor. I did it of Enid It was Louse who put me up to it. I’m going after her, TJ. Dont worry. I can look after myself. I’m going to be sent to prison [I didn’t put ‘back’] TJ, so you wont ever see me again. That’s a pity because you been a good frend.
Writing doesn’t half take it out of you. I felt drained after and my eyes were sore.
I sent Enid a postcard of Trafalgar Square. I’d bought it when I’d gone to the Portrait Gallery with TJ. When my life was different.
I have blown it Enid. I am off. I am very glad you are OK. Fantastick you are in R. [Romania wasn’t in the dictionary and I never thought about copying it off her postcard. I just put a capital R.] Glad you got a good life now Enid. You deserv it. Love of your frend Maggsie M xx
I didn’t bother putting the little ‘c’ after the ‘M’. No point now.
No idea how much it would cost to send a postcard to Romania. I stuck on three second-class stamps and hoped for the best.
I took the letter into work. My last day, only no one else knew that. Last time I’d see TJ, Primrose, the roof garden, the toilets with the posh soap dispensers, the fancy sandwiches. The dishwasher that always worked so smooth. Dwelling on it wouldn’t do any good. Dwelling on anything doesn’t.
TJ noticed me light a second fag at break. I normally just had the one. I turned away. ‘Alright, alright, you ain’t my nan.’
Actually Nan had smoked like a trooper. Said it kept her slim for her ballroom dancing.
TJ thought I wasn’t myself because of Enid.
‘Nah,’ I snapped, licking the paper to roll another fag. ‘Enid’s better. Out of hospital, out of prison. In Romania.’ I looked down, concentrating on the rollie. I’d said ‘prison’. TJ would guess that was where I’d met her. Well, who cared now? Now that was where I was going back to.
TJ didn’t seem to twig about prison. ‘Is good news, no?’
‘Yeah. Fantastic.’ I clicked my lighter, frowning.
‘But . . .?’ TJ’s eyebrows were raised, focused on me.
‘But what?’ I snapped the lid of my baccy tin shut. It was annoying TJ knew something was wrong when I hadn’t even said anything. When he was foreign. And his English wasn’t perfect. And he was a man. It gave him an advantage. I couldn’t tell him to his face. Not have him angry, ashamed of me, with me sat there listening to it all. I should have been open about it. To a lot of people, a lot earlier. Then it would never have happened. I made a mistake, OK? No need to go on about it.
TJ looked at me funny when I said goodbye that afternoon. Shook his head. ‘You talk to me tomorrow, yes? Talk more.’ He undid his apron and hung it up. ‘A trouble shared is a trouble split.’
I buttoned up my jacket. ‘Halved.’ Came out automatically, only my heart wasn’t in it.
He dashed off to his English class. I propped the note on the peg where he hung his jacket. Then I got out of the building quick as I could. ‘Goodnight, Miss,’ said Mike at Reception, with a little salute like I was as good as anyone else.
I’d leave first thing next morning. I was desperate, yeah, but not desperate enough to go hitching in the dark.
I woke at five. Put on two pairs of jeans. Two extra T-shirts. God knows where I’d be sleeping tonight. Two pairs of socks, which made my shoes tight. Three pairs of pants in my rucksack, a small one I’d got in the pound shop. My phone. Yesterday’s work sandwiches that I hadn’t felt like eating. My comb and toothbrush, although my teeth were a lost cause. Another one. Never had got myself in the right frame of mind to see TJ’s dentist mate. Another wasted opportunity.
I left my holdall and the things stuck up on my wall. The evidence I’d been respectable. What good was it now? The only thing I took was the A Present from Margate box. Then I snatched up my make-up bag. Stopped. You’re either going to be banged up or homeless, Maggsie. I only took my eyebrow pencil and mascara. I left TJ’s bottle of perfume behind. He wouldn’t want to know me and I didn’t want to be reminded. I remembered Nan’s earrings just in time. I’d need them. They were like Nan pushing me forward.
I had over a hundred and forty pounds saved and there was still a bit left on my Oyster card. I took a quick look round. My personal spelling dictionary was on the table. I hesitated. Picked it up.
I dithered over the Scanda calendar. Eleven months of ticks. Written proof I’d lived normal and hadn’t had a drink. It was the last little bit of hope. Yeah, but what for, now? I couldn’t waste time deciding so in the end I took it. I ripped Scanda’s furniture pictures off first to fit it in the rucksack. I left my other stuff, my new black trousers, my school dictionary, my pile – eleven months’ worth – of Woman’s Worlds, behind. You got to travel light when you’re running away.
I took a knife from the kitchen. A small one, but sharp, the one Juicy Lucy used for slicing veg. Tucked it into my sock.
I opened a new tin of pilchards. Audrey was in her box, all curled up. She opened one eye at the sound of the tin opener. Closed it again and curled up tighter. Out for the count. I gave her a last stroke. Her fur crackled and she put her ears back like I’d done it on purpose. Like she knew how stupid I’d been. I wanted her to wake up, have the warmth of her settled on my lap. But that would be mean, seeing as I’d have to go straight off again, seeing as I was running away. She’d have Trudie fussing over her now, I told myself. Only that made me feel worse.
I walked to the tube. I was heading for Osterley. It was south-west and near the motorway – I’d checked with a guard at the station yesterday. The south-west was where Louise lived. I’d trawl round all the posh places down there, looking for her.
Six a.m. A glitter of frost on the pavement. Glad I’d put on extra clothes. I walked to a clear bit of road. Each step was one nearer to finding Louise. And killing her.
I picked a stretch, under a streetlamp, where a driver could pull in. Stuck out my thumb and waited.
Yeah, yeah. I know what you’re thinking. I did know hitching was dangerous. But it was getting light now. And I was past caring, anyway.
It was only a couple of minutes before a lorry slowed down, the driver staring. He pulled in ahead and I ran towards him.
You’ve probably never been in a lorry cab. People that read books aren’t likely to have. But, take my word for it, they are really high up. You got to haul yourself in, especially if your legs are shorter.
‘Thought you were a little kid.’ The lorry driver looked in the mirror, setting off again. He was dark and sweaty-looking. Had a gut that reached the steering wheel. ‘Where you going then? Early bird, aren’t you?’
‘South.’ I put down my rucksack. ‘South-west. Dorset.’
I wasn’t sure if Dorset was a town or a county. I just remembered Louise saying that’s where her dad’s place was, in the wilds of Dorset.
Being in a lorry cab is like sitting on the top deck of a bus. Right at the front. You own the road, you’re in charge, special. I leant back, legs dangling. At least I was doing something. Always better to be doing something. Especially if you are a practical person. Which I am. Have to be when you’re dyslexic. Like at work it had been my idea to heat up the breakfast beans in the microwave. Left more room on the hob for Primrose to do the eggs and fried bread. Eased congestion like they were always going on about in London. I could come up with good ideas sometimes, see; ways round things. Clever ways. You might think trusting Louise showed the opposite, mind. But what would you have done? Go on. Tell me. In my situation, not yours? Yeah, exactly.
‘Got friends down there, have you?’ the driver asked, his eyes on the road.
Lorry drivers don’t have to concentrate on driving because everything else just gets out of their way. Quite fancied driving one myself. It gives them plenty of time to talk, though. That’s one of the drawbacks of hitching.
‘Yeah, got a mate down there.’ My lip curled on the word mate.
‘Expecting you early, is he?’
‘She ain’t expecting me
at all,’ I growled, under my breath.
He only heard the she. Seemed to think it was a green light to get matey. Fumbled in a door compartment.
He offered me a fag from a crumpled packet. ‘I’m on the e-cigs now, myself. Vaping.’ He lit up and the cab filled with mint-flavoured steam. TJ’s e-cigs smelt of fruit. I’d never see him again. I bit down on my lip because it didn’t do to weaken.
Soon as I lit up, John – that was his name; I told him mine was Mary – started on about his ex-wife. That is another drawback of hitching. Another way you pay for it. Drivers tell you their problems. You’re alone, just the two of you, see, and they’re not looking at you, they’re looking at the road. They don’t know you and won’t ever see you again. So you’re their psychiatrist. But at least when they’re telling you their problems, they’re not asking you about yours.
John’s ex-wife had kept the house and the two kids and the two dogs. He seemed more worried about the dogs than anything else, how she was turning them against him, how one had snapped at his trouser leg last time . . . The cab was warm and stuffy and John’s voice went on and on. I hadn’t slept properly for days and I felt my eyes closing. I must have dropped off because when I lifted my head we were pulling into a service station. It was past nine by then. Snarls of traffic.
‘Wakey-wakey.’ John tapped my hand. He must have only just noticed I was asleep because he didn’t seem riled. He said he’d ask if any other drivers were going on to Dorset because he was headed for Portsmouth.
I had time to go to the toilet and have a drink of water. Wasn’t going to waste money on overpriced tea. When I came out John had fixed me up with a young bloke that had a truck and was going to the ferry in Poole, which was in Dorset.
The new bloke looked me up and down when I came out of the toilet. Bad sign. I’m not much to look at – and not much of me to look at neither. Not that he was anything to write home about himself. Shaved head and a squashed-looking nose. Normally, I would have given him a go-boil-your-head stare, but I couldn’t because he was doing me a favour.
‘In you go, missus,’ he opened his cab door. Practically pushed me in.
‘Good luck, John,’ I called out to the lorry driver because he wasn’t a bad bloke, just lonely.
I wasn’t so sure about this new one, Steve – ‘Stevey-boy’, he called himself. He texted while he was driving, laughed at the messages he got back. And when he wasn’t looking at his phone he was looking at me, at my legs, my legs in their two pairs of jeans. They were so tight they felt like they were cutting off my blood supply. Like the waistband button could pop off any moment. Glad I was wearing them, though, the way Stevey-boy was leching.
He could attack me, you might be thinking. Could be a serial killer. You probably got a good life going on, which is why you’d worry about stuff like that. My future had just vanished down the plughole – though that didn’t mean I wouldn’t fight back with every bone in my body. Takes people, men, off their guard when a woman stands up for herself, especially one that is smaller.
41
Woman’s World, 5 December 2018
Meet the Boys in Blue!
The truck rattled along. Stevey-boy drove too fast. Laughed when he went over bumps and dips and I flew up in the air. Kept talking. Took his eyes off the road. Pushed his great ugly mug up close. I ain’t deaf, I wanted to scream.
We passed a sign for Southampton. He asked me what I was going to get up to in Dorset. Would have given me a nudge only I was right up by the passenger door.
I’m going to kill someone, I nearly told him, to shut him up. Instead I came out with the ‘meeting up with an old mate’ story. Got the same old spiel from him too. No, she was a woman.
‘Where she live then, your mate?’ Stevey-boy leant right over. He was staring at my chest – probably trying to spot it, because what little there was of it was covered up by three T-shirts, a jumper and a jacket.
‘Out in the wilds somewhere.’
‘Yeah? Hippie, is she?’
‘Nah. She’s into . . . um . . . art.’
I shifted on the seat, trying to get comfortable. It was mostly the jeans digging in. No way was I undoing anything, though. Stevey-boy was seriously getting on my nerves. Nosey, too close, staring.
‘What’s her address, then? I’ll put the postcode in the sat-nav and take you right there.’ He gave me a wink. His broad nose got even wider when he smiled. Made me want to flatten it. Another wink. ‘You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.’ I waited for a know what I mean? but it didn’t come.
Yeah, right. I looked out of the window so he didn’t see me rolling my eyes. Then I had to tell him I didn’t actually know Louise’s address.
He handed me his phone. ‘Google your mate’s name and it’ll tell you. I’ve got an app for it.’
Mine was pay as you go. Didn’t have no internet. Or no app, whatever that was. It was switched off anyway, just in case TJ texted me. He’d have got my note by now. Be in shock, probably. Wouldn’t want anything more to do with me. But just a chance he might text to try to put me off hunting down Louise.
I fumbled with the phone. I wasn’t good with technology. Plus I didn’t know how to spell Louise’s surname. Not that I’d tell Stevey-boy that. I just knew it was a long one with a poncy little line in the middle. Trust her.
‘Here, you do it.’ I handed it back. I said her name. Made me feel sick, saying it.
Doing seventy, no hands on the wheel, Stevey-boy tapped in her name. And there she was:
Foxholes
Melbury Weston
Dorset
DT2 0LW
I hadn’t expected it to be that easy. Hadn’t been sure I’d ever find her. Definitely didn’t expect to be delivered to her doorstep. And you can bet your bottom dollar Louise wouldn’t be expecting it either.
‘See how good Stevey-boy is to you,’ he winked again. ‘Know what I mean?’
I had to nod, mutter, ‘Yeah, thanks.’ Try to smile, which isn’t easy when all the time you’re turning over in your mind exactly how you’re going to kill someone.
The roads got more winding. I felt sick even though it had been hours since the piece of bread and butter I’d eaten on the hoof earlier. Not long till I’d be banging on the door of Louise’s stately home.
I reached down to feel the knife in my sock. Hadn’t used a knife on anyone before. Only the painting. Louise had tricked me. Lost me nearly a year of being good. Lost me Alastair. She’d lied about Enid, used Enid, even though old Enid was frolicking in Romania now, not knowing anything about it.
I worked myself up so much I couldn’t hardly breathe. I’d been trying to keep a lid on things for weeks. Now I felt I could explode, boil over like one of Juice’s stews when she turned it up too high. Felt I could fly out the cab, into Louise’s stately bloody home’s bloody window and stab her in the heart. And before I killed her I’d hold the knife to her throat and make her tell me where the painting was. Her fat chins would wobble, her hair would be all over the place. But she’d give it back.
I’m going to stop calling her Louise. Spell her name wrong on purpose, not through being dyslexic. Put the ‘i’ the other side of the ‘s’ and you get lousie. Someone had spelt Louise like that on one of her certificates. It had given me and Enid a giggle. Lousie. That was her.
It was getting darker outside, which was odd seeing as it was the middle of the morning. Tree branches scraped against the cab’s roof. I looked at Stevey-boy. Wasn’t getting ideas, was he? Looking for somewhere quiet, out the way, to pull in so we could get to know each other better? I bent down to straighten my sock. Pulled the knife out a fraction.
But he’d stopped leering. Even put his phone down. He was swearing at the sat-nav. ‘Where the fuck have you taken us, bitch?’ and ‘I’m going to be fucking late!’ The sat-nav stayed calm, in spite of him swearing. She behaved like they tell you to in anger management. ‘Turn around where possible,’ she kept saying. Nice to hear her bossing Stevey-b
oy about.
The narrow road was like a tunnel. Trees overhanging it on both sides. No space to turn around. No time neither because Stevey boy wasn’t slowing down. We shot along. Flew up a hill, the wheels banging and crashing because the road was more like a track. Stevey-boy kept on about being in trouble at the depot if he was late again.
I pushed the knife back in my sock. No time for hanky-panky then. What a pity. Not. I could just concentrate on killing Louise, lousie, now. (I know she should have a capital letter but she’s not going to get one.)
Only it turned out there wasn’t time to concentrate on ruddy anything because the next second we flew off the top of the hill into outer space and it was only something coming up the other way that brought us back down to earth.
Just before everything went black, I felt a tingle of pleasure. I’d read the road sign, even though we were going so fast. It was a red triangle with a big exclamation mark. And the words BLIND SUMMIT.
I woke up to Stevey-boy groaning and the doom-laden nee-naw of a police car. To murky light like I was underwater.
I tried to get out of my seat. Had to get out. Else I’d be caught before I even got to lousie. But I couldn’t move.
I wasn’t hurt. I could wiggle my toes. Move my arms. My head ached and I’d kill for a drink and a fag, but that was normal. There was a heaviness in my chest. It was because my life had gone down the plughole. No, something was pressing on my chest. Something soft. I struggled. Felt panicky to be honest, but I had been through a lot.
It wasn’t a body. It was the airbag wedging me in my seat. The truck’s bonnet was all stove in. I was trapped. A sitting duck.
Weird when a person in a uniform is nice to you. It took me back to finding Jack in the lift, all those months ago. Before this year, they’d have been dragging me off somewhere. Clutching a notebook and not ruddy listening.
I sat inside the ambulance, getting my head together. There was a gash on my leg that I hadn’t even noticed. A paramedic, a no-nonsense sort, with a swinging ponytail, bandaged it up. Gave me one of those shiny blankets like what you wrap round a turkey at Christmas. I’d seen them on the ads. We’d only had a turkey once and that had been a present from Nan. Other years we’d had chicken, and not always a whole one, neither.
Maggsie McNaughton's Second Chance Page 22