by CJ Hannon
Once her breath returns, she reads him his rights.
Olaf sobs. If this wretch had reached the top, he just may have been desperate enough to jump.
42
Melody
Melody throws a holdall bag onto her bed and raids the wardrobes and chest of drawers for clothes.
Vet field kit from the closet.
Washbag from the bathroom.
Think.
Phone charger. Laptop.
In the closet she finds the GPS tracker packaging Martin had bought for the Defender. It had been her salvation from scrutiny. Now it could serve a second purpose. Inside the box is a second device in bubble wrap. She takes it, a plan solidifying.
Outside, a car rumbles down a street, she parts the blind. Not Pug’s car.
Breathe.
The message on her phone from Pug had been short.
Humans can be animals.
Had Tristan tipped them off? Spineless idiot. And that puts Ally’s house out of the question. In her bedside drawer: codeine tablets, vapour rub, and a canister of pepper spray. She bags it all and leaves the front bedroom light on.
The street’s clear. She tosses her bags into the Defender, and starts driving.
She parks the Defender on a quiet residential road skirting Hove Park, loads herself up, and walks the leaf-slimed pavement, watchful for black 4 x 4’s with tinted windows. She cuts through the park, keeping her eyes low when she passes an evening dog walker.
Twenty minutes later, the apartment block looms down at her. The flat numbers are meticulously labelled, and she holds her finger down on the call button.
The fumble of a handset being picked up. Then Kathy’s voice over the intercom.
‘Who is it?’
‘Melody Kitteridge. May I come in?’
‘Melody…? Of course…’ The buzzer sounds and she lets herself in.
No bloody lift. The stairwell reeks of disinfectant and rubbery plimsolls.
Kathy is waiting for her on the landing, in pyjama bottoms and a jumper. The sleeves are stretched beyond her wrists. She gnaws on a thread end.
‘Could you help me with these bags?’
‘Of course! Sorry…’ Kathy snaps into action, unburdening the heavy holdall from Melody’s shoulder. The release of the weight is a relief.
Once inside, Melody goes through to the lounge and collapses onto the sofa, loosening the zip of her coat. Kathy’s housemate, Alice… Alicia?... is also in pyjamas, sitting on the single seater cross-legged, a laptop balanced on her knees.
‘Hello there,’ she says with a stiff wave.
‘Studies suggest radiation from laptop batteries can cause cancerous effects. Try putting a tray underneath, a barrier of some sort.’
‘Good to know…’
Kathy drops the bag in the hallway and joins them.
‘Is this because of the funeral tomorrow, did you want some company?’
‘Actually, there’s a gas leak at the house. I wondered if I could impose? I wouldn’t need a bed.’ She tests the springiness of the sofa.
‘Okay…’ Kathy says. ‘That cool with you, Alice?’
Alice is wide-eyed ‘Yeah… I mean, if it’s cool with you, Kathy?’
‘Me? Oh yeah, totally fine,’ Kathy says. ‘One hundred percent.’
Melody nods. ‘It’s good of you both. I’ll leave you some money towards electricity and what have you for the inconvenience.’
‘That’s really not necessary,’ Kathy says.
‘No, I insist. And you wouldn’t believe it but my car has given up the ghost. Kathy, might I borrow your Micra this evening?’
‘That old banger?’ She tucks her hair behind her ear, and gnaws on one her sleeves.
‘Kathy, you’ll ruin your jumper.’
Kathy lowers her arms. ‘The thing is, I’m just not sure because, you know, insurance and stuff.’
‘I’m an excellent driver. It’s just to run a few errands. In the remote circumstance that any damage is rendered, I’ll cover it.’
Kathy considers. Nods. ‘OK. I’ll get you the keys.’
Irritatingly, the Micra has a tape deck. Under different circumstances she could have dug out some of her old cassettes from the loft. She changes the radio station, but it is crackly, the reception terrible, so she drives in silence.
She stops at the Co-op; buys a little pack of sliced carrot sticks, flavoured rice crackers, an apple, a bottle of water and a pack of Marlboro Lights. It’s gone ten when she pulls back into Medina Villas, miraculously finding a parking spot on the opposite side of the street to her house. She turns off the engine, reclines the seat and nibbles at one of her rice crackers.
An hour passes. Then another. The windows fog with condensation and she burrows deeper into her down jacket. She yawns.
Coffee. Why hadn’t she brought a flask with her?
She has her house keys, she could just risk it and run inside. It’d be five minutes tops.
No… stay disciplined.
Her bedroom light shines, the only one on in the street. A lamp on a timer would have been a better idea, but there’s not much she can do about it now.
A little after two am, she is cold, needs to pee, and calls it a night.
A shadow approaches her. Faceless. There’s something cold in her hand. She looks down. A gun. It glints.
Melody raises it, somehow knowing instinctively what to do, thumb disengaging the safety.
The shadow nears.
‘Stop where you are,’ she says through gritted teeth.
It takes another step closer.
‘I mean it.’
Another step.
‘One more step and I swear…’
It doesn’t stop and she squeezes the trigger, once, twice, finger pumping but nothing happens. She lowers the useless gun, takes a step backward from the approaching figure.
The gun wriggles in her hand.
She looks down. It’s a snake coiled and twisting around her wrist, it rears its head and hisses.
She wakes with a start, gasping for air.
‘Melody?’
Where is she? Unfamiliar shapes take form.
‘Are you okay?’
Kathy. She’s in Kathy’s lounge. She rubs her eyes, Kathy’s outline haloed by the hallway light.
Melody sits up, gathering the duvet around herself. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s a quarter to five. You shouted out… are you okay? Bad dream?’
Melody reaches down, finds the glass and takes a big gulp of water. ‘Yes, I do believe it was.’
‘About Martin?’
She lets out a little breath. ‘Do you miss him, Kathy?’
There’s a silence, Kathy stares. ‘Yeah… Don’t you? I miss everything, the practice, the job, it’s all, like enmeshed together into this thing that disappeared with him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe I should get back to bed, at least try and get some shut-eye, not that I will. I never liked funerals. Who does? At least we can sort of, you know, say goodbye.’
The funeral… yes.
‘And you? You must miss him. Obviously. Dumb question.’
‘The hardest thing is the empty space lying next to you in the morning.’
‘Yeah… I guess that must be weird.’
‘Very strange. It’s not Martin, per se, just the absence of a previous constant. Like the sun suddenly not being there in the sky. There and then… not.’
Kathy clasps her hands together, fingers squirming, interlocking. ‘Melody, I’m just so sorry.’
‘You’ve no reason to be sorry, Kathy.’
‘No… I, just you know, feel sorrow. The whole… God… look, I’m just going to…’ she points back to her bedroom.
Melody reclines again, pulls the duvet over herself. ‘Good idea. We all need our beauty sleep, don’t we?’
‘Night.’
‘Oh, Kathy.’
/>
‘Yes?’
‘I hate to ask you for another favour, but I left the house in a bit of a hurry. I didn’t bring anything to wear. Do you have a black dress I could borrow?’
43
Six months prior to the death of Martin Kitteridge
It is becoming increasingly hard not to hate Martin. As the Vet of the Year awards approach, Martin expects a First Lady-type effort from her; flyering their customers with voting instructions, helping Hugh ring around the digitally challenged clients, and assisting an online vote for Kitteridge’s.
It is work she is ill-suited for.
‘It’s not about me, this is about all of us, the Kitteridge brand,’ Martin says, too regularly.
The staff go along with his whims, but if they have any sense, they’ll be poking fun at him behind his back. Yes, victory would bring some benefit, but the Argus has already featured their nomination. Would the additional benefit of winning really justify the considerable effort and expense?
The Kitteridge Practice foots the bill. The marketing budget has been overspent six times over; flyers, online adverts, and worst of all, the tickets to the award ceremony. Two hundred and fifty pounds per ticket. And all the staff are going to witness an event they probably won’t even win. Before the Oscars, did all the Hollywood A-listers have to shell out for their seats at the table? She thinks not. Perhaps it would all be easier to stomach if there were an actual prize worthy of the title Vet of the Year. But no, besides the bragging rights and a pound shop trophy, the sponsor – a pet insurance company – would give a special 25 per cent offer on their insurance products to the clients of the winning practice.
‘Fierce competition, this year,’ Martin says, as if they’d been contenders every year. ‘There’s Wendover, Derby, Stoke-on-Trent, Truro, and the one in Swansea that won a few years ago.’
The week before the ceremony, she borrows Martin’s laptop and sees an e-mail receipt from a company in China. A quick search reveals itself to be an online voting service with packages of five hundred, one thousand, even going up to the tens and hundreds of thousands of votes. The receipt amount suggests he has opted for the thousand vote package.
‘Purchasing votes, are we, now?’
‘Don’t be so bloody naïve, Moody, they’ll all be doing it too! We need to do this just to keep pace.’
There could be no winning with him. ‘I understand. But just a thousand votes? Is that all? I mean, some of those other practices are large. Where’s your ambition? If you’re going to…’ she nearly says cheat, ‘…give us a boost, you should at least do it properly.’
He strokes his beard. ‘You think I should get more? Ten thousand? That wouldn’t be over-egging the pudding, would it?’
She shrugs. Perhaps the fool will expose himself for the vainglorious cheat he is to the competition adjudicators.
Alas, it doesn’t work. No disqualification e-mail arrives citing an unusual spike in votes from China. Nothing. When the day of the ceremony arrives, Martin produces a bag from an acceptable clothing store: Mango, characterised by its strikingly bold colours and cuts at mid-range prices.
‘Open it, Moody.’
Inside is a flowing sequined gown, not something she would ordinarily have chosen, but it’s glamorous and unexpectedly thoughtful. The colour is hard to pin down, but at her best guest it’s Vardo underneath, with the sequin shimmers something like Inchyra Blue, both by Farrow & Ball. She’ll have to consult the colour charts later and confirm. ‘Thank you.’
‘Sorry if I’ve been a bit insufferable.’
‘No more than usual. Come here, let me help you with your tie.’
On the train, they secure a table. Martin looks dashing in his tuxedo, as does Hugh. Kathy’s in a suitable, understated outfit, a high cut dress with purplish Pitch Blue by Farrow & Ball, which reminds her of Dairy Milk wrappers. Lydia would have benefited from a dark colour, but wears a dress is an unfortunate Tangerine Twist by Dulux. It is hideous.
Melody is nervous about the ceremony. Not at the prospect of victory exactly, but that Martin’s head will be too large to fit in the train carriage for the return journey if they do. Ally gave her some of her old Valium tablets, “to take the edge off” if she needed it, and as the train rocks them back and forth, she slides a 2 milligram tablet into her mouth, runs her tongue over its smooth surface and takes a swallow from her awful tin of gin and tonic.
The hall is fancy, reminiscent of her few formal Cambridge dinners. They each pluck something fizzy from a tray on arrival and take their appointed seats at a round table. There is a welcome speech while efficient waiters tong bread rolls onto side plates. It all feels strangely pleasant, like in a film.
Martin keeps wiping his hands on his trousers.
‘Did I pre-order the goat’s cheese tart with caramelised onions for the starter? I can’t remember.’
‘How’s my hair?’
‘To Kitteridge’s!’ says Hugh, raising a glass of red. Melody looks down and has one too. What happened to the champagne?
‘Cheers!’ She raises a glass. ‘To Martin, thanks for letting us ride your coat-tails, darling.’
They don’t so much as laugh as guffaw, like at a cracker joke. Glasses clink, wine is drunk.
Her starter turns out to be a cold Salmorejo soup which she would never have ordered, but the Valium is having a nice, neutralising effect. Martin has a duck pâté.
‘Blush by Little Greene.’ She points at the wedge of pink paste with her knife.
He raises his eyebrows in a humouring type of way. ‘Tastes fabulous. Worth every penny.’
The low lights and the low murmur of conversation around the hall are comfortable. Between the starter and the main, there’s a speech from the insurance sponsor, and even that doesn’t seem as dull as it ought in the Valium glow.
Martin has his head down, staring between his legs.
‘Are you okay?’
He folds something and tucks it into his breast pocket. ‘Just checking the speech. You know, just in case.’ He suppresses a belch, but the pâté afterdraft is enough to have her reaching for her napkin in case she’s suddenly sick.
‘Sorry, Moody.’
The main arrives. For her: pork belly with an apple jus with roasted carrots and fondant potatoes.
‘I thought I ordered the salmon?’ she whispers to Martin, who waves her away.
It looks impossibly heavy, like the table might buckle. There’s no way she’ll finish it. Martin has a confit of duck. He really has got it in for ducks this evening. But it doesn’t matter. Everyone seems happy. Kathy, rosy cheeked, a little tipsy. Lydia snorting at something funny. Hugh is checking out the bum of a waiter. Would it really be so awful if they won?
Feedback. The tap of a microphone. A throat clears.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to announce the award.’
Martin straightens his jacket, touches his hair.
They draw it out, taking forever to open the bloody envelope. Martin’s nails are digging into his forearm.
‘This is it.’ He says.
Her napkin drops to the floor and she bends to pick it up. There’s a round of applause. She’s missed it.
‘Who? What?’
They’re all on their feet.
‘Yeeeeees!’ Martin cries, yanking her up to her feet. He pats his pockets.
‘Breast pocket,’ she says, hating him.
He hugs Lydia and Kathy. She leans in. ‘I need to tell you something.’
Martin nods towards the stage, smiles, shakes Hugh’s hand, and he’s off. He tries to gather himself in front of the microphone. The Valium must be wearing off – or she hasn’t taken enough – because in that moment, he looks so insufferably smug she wants to throw her bread roll at him. He raises the trophy aloft, leaning down into the microphone.
‘Wow… thank you, thank you. This really is a special moment for the whole team.’
Oh, the faux
selflessness.
‘I’d like to thank everyone who voted for the Kitteridge Practice.’
‘They can’t hear you, they’re all in China,’ she mutters into her wine glass.
‘Shhh!’ someone says.
‘We’re extremely lucky to have such loyal customers, and privileged to have such amazing staff.’
‘Wahey!’ Lydia yells.
‘He doesn’t mean you,’ Melody says, but nobody seems to hear.
‘And thank you to my wife, Melody, our number two at the practice, this is for you too, darling.’
Two? That wasn’t even the right nomenclature! It was second vet!
Martin returns to the table. Why he’d needed to write those few lines of codswallop was beyond her. He holds the trophy aloft and pumps his arms twice, thrusting it in the air as the applause rains around them.
He gives an aw shucks smile and takes his seat, placing the trophy down in the middle of the table. As predicted, it really is a cheap piece of crap.
She leans in again, right to his ear. ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you, Martin. I went to the fertility doctor.’
‘What?’
‘The doctor. They had a cancellation and I got an earlier appointment.’
‘When? What did they say?’
‘I’m afraid it just isn’t biologically possible.’
He’s smiling, confused. ‘What? There must be some sort of mistake.’
‘No, Martin. It’s definite. I can’t have children.’
44
Astrid
It’s a little after eleven when Astrid lets herself into her flat. She’s dog tired. Thankfully, Smithes made the decision to interview Mr Gudmundson the following day. A good call. Taking a run at him when they were sharper and rested made the world of sense.
The TV is on low, Jenna sipping at a cradled mug.
‘Hey. What you watching?’
Jenna stretches, yawns like a cat. ‘Sofia Coppola’s most recent masterpiece.’
Coppola was a director Jenna really rated, though Astrid had little sense for what made something good, only whether she liked it or not. Whatever plot insights or cinematography analysis Jenna offers, Astrid absorbs and accepts like a student receiving a lecture. Film held secrets for Jenna to plunder, but for Astrid it was enough just to have an escape from the day job for a couple of hours.