by Edie Baylis
Feeling his mobile buzz in his trouser pocket, Heath smiled at the woman once again. ‘I’ll give you a few moments to think about it. Please let me know what you decide.’ He nodded towards the office. ‘I’ll be in there when you’re ready.’
Walking across the showroom, he pulled his mobile out and looked at the screen. Talk of the Devil – a text message from Teagan:
You won’t believe this - Helen has given me the night off. Is it too short notice to go out tonight? X
Grinning, Heath walked into the office and held his phone up. ‘Bingo! Helen’s only gone and given Teagan the night off, which means only one thing – she’s going in for a mega look around. We may be in luck. I’ve a good feeling she’ll find those bloody lovely jewels.’
Mike looked up from the pile of bills spread over the desk. ‘Then I suggest you get yourself up there and take her somewhere for the evening. She needs to be out of the house. Do me a favour though – somewhere less pricey this time, yeah?’
Heath tapped out his reply:
Fantastic! No, not too short notice. I’ll pick you up at 7. Can’t wait. Xx
Pressing send, he smiled. Today was the day – he could feel it.
Scrolling through his contacts, Heath found Helen’s mobile number and paced around the office as it rang out, eventually going to voicemail. ‘Helen, it’s Heath. I hear you’ve given a certain someone the night off. I’ll be round at 7 to collect her, giving you a free run for the evening, ok? Any problems or you need to change the time, call me. Speak later.’
Ending the call, Heath smiled at his father. ‘Right, I’ll go and see if I can shift that red Audi onto that woman and then I’d best go home and get myself spruced up ready to get on the road.’
JOE RESTED HIS HEAD against the moth-eaten upholstery of the Plough and Harrow and closed his eyes momentarily in the hope that the room might stop its never-ending spinning.
Some idiot had put Black Sabbath’s ‘Paranoid’ on the jukebox for the fourth time in a row and he was feeling even more deranged than he had when he’d first come in, which took some beating.
Rancidly hungover from yesterday’s blowout, Joe was surprised he’d even woken up at all this morning, but somehow he had. He couldn’t even recall getting home last night, let alone anything else, but being as he’d woken up in his own bed, albeit fully dressed, including his trainers, he’d obviously got back somehow.
At least Dave had been up for coming for a drink today so he didn’t have to deal with the hair of the dog on his tod. It wasn’t like Dave was a barrel of laughs though. He’d been miserable as sin since they’d got here a couple of hours ago and Joe would have thought the many pints they had so far would have cheered him up a bit, but no – Dave was still as moody as ever and it was starting to get on his nerves.
Opening his eyes, Joe waited for the bar to come into focus and then glanced at Dave staring forlornly into his pint. Sighing inwardly, he grabbed his drink and slugged three-quarters of it down in one go – it was already flat as buggery. ‘Come on, Dave. Get that down your neck. It’ll cheer you up.’ Hopefully...
‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ Dave said. ‘Doesn’t it bother you that we haven’t got enough to give Alan a decent send-off? Because it bothers me.’
Joe frowned. What was Dave talking about? He vaguely remembered him saying something about getting the loan for the funeral.
Dave rolled his eyes in despair. ‘For fuck’s sake, Joe. You’re that wankered all of the time you can’t remember anything. I told you last night and I’ve been talking about it for the last hour and yet you haven’t taken a word of it in.’
‘No, no... I have,’ Joe said, quickly. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ Shit. Quick. Think. What had Dave said? He wracked his brains only to find no memory whatsoever.
Dave pursed his lips. ‘Make a fucking effort! I know this has got to you, but you’re not the only one.’ He necked the rest of his pint. ‘I said, we’re five hundred quid short for the funeral and there’s nowhere else I can ask.’
Joe blinked. ‘The bank didn’t give you the loan?’
‘Of course they did, but they’d only give me two grand. You said the funeral’s going to cost two and a half?’
Joe felt a rush of nausea run over him. He slapped a ten pound note on the table and shakily stood up. ‘Get another round in. I just need a piss.’
Staggering off to the Gents leaving Dave staring bemusedly after him, Joe slammed the door of the one and only cubicle and leant against the wall, choosing to ignore the scrunched up dirty toilet roll on the floor, precariously close to his feet. He also averted his eyes from the toilet itself, suspecting that looking into that would cause the contents of his stomach to evacuate his body – not that there was much in there, apart from beer. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything.
Aside from that, toilet bowls reminded him of having his head shoved down one not that long ago. An experience he was not happy to be reminded of. But what had surged from his memory was worse than that. A lot worse.
Fumbling in his pocket, Joe pulled out the envelope the nutter had given him yesterday. Finding it empty, his heart raced. The money must be loose in his pocket. It couldn’t have disappeared.
Shoving his hand into his inside pocket, Joe was relieved to find a load of bunched up notes. Pulling them out, he frantically straightened them one by one, his stomach plunging. Where was the rest? Where was the fucking rest?
He quickly thumbed through the twenties. Oh, shit. No! Come on!
Pushing his hand back into his pocket, he felt around, growing sicker by the second. He rummaged through all his other pockets, finding one lone tenner and a mangled betting slip. Totting up what he had, Joe swallowed hard. Jesus wept! That envelope had contained two grand yesterday and he knew that because he’d counted it in the pub toilet before he’d started at the bar. How could he only have seven hundred left?
Slowly the dregs of what he could remember of yesterday afternoon, which had morphed into the evening and then most of the night, slithered into his mind. He knew he’d spent a shed load in the pub and also knew, by what was on his bedside table this morning, he’d bought fags and more beer from the offy, as well as scoring a decent amount of weed from a dealer he didn’t care to recall. But 1300 quid? He’d spent 1300 quid?
Ah, but then there had been that bet. He had hazy recollections of putting an extortionate amount on a horse, the name of which escaped him. He could only presume he’d lost...
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.
Sweat ran down the back of Joe’s stained T-shirt as he took a hundred quid worth of grubby twenties from the pile, shoving the rest back in the envelope. At least he still had enough money to make up what was needed for the funeral costs. But how would he tell Dave that the nutter had given him two grand and he’d inadvertently blown most of it? Shit – Dave would go apeshit.
Coming out of the cubicle, Joe stared at his reflection in the piece of mirror attached to the wall above the lone rusted-up sink. He looked like shit as well as feeling like it. A fucking tramp, that’s what he looked like. Christ, he needed to sort himself out.
Joe walked back into the bar and stumbled his way across the room, pleased to see Dave had got another round in. Sitting back down, he scraped the change off the table and shoved it into his jeans pocket. This would work. ‘Don’t worry about the shortfall for the funeral,’ he said, managing to manoeuvre his face into a smile.
‘How can I not worry?’ Dave moaned. ‘It’s alright for you – nothing bothers you anymore.’
‘That’s not true,’ Joe countered. More stuff bothered him than Dave could ever realise, but he wouldn’t tell him about it. If he knew those blokes were still on the scene, he’d go batshit. Completely batshit.
What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, but it would hurt all of them if he got any of it off his chest and then Dave, the prat, opened his gob. ‘That’s why I’ve been so long in the bogs. I was just checking before I said an
ything cos I didn’t want to get your hopes up.’
Dave frowned. ‘What are you going on about?’
Joe leaned across the table, keeping his voice as low as possible. ‘I’ve got the rest of the money for Al’s funeral. With the loan you’ve got and this, we’ll be able to make the bill.’
‘What? How?’ Dave eyed Joe suspiciously.
Joe shrugged. ‘Thought I’d chance my luck on a little bet yesterday. Must have been the luck of the alcohol. Anyway, I ran a bit of an accumulator and pulled in – wait for it, 700 quid!’
Dave nearly choked on a mouthful of lager. ‘700 quid? Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely!’ Joe grinned. ‘It’s in my pocket. 500 quid to make up the funeral costs, 100 quid to buy us some new clobber for the funeral itself, which leave 100 quid to get bladdered tonight, plus a curry on the way home. What do you reckon?’
Dave beamed. ‘Fucking hell! Thank God for that! That’s really generous of you, mate. I know you’re strapped for cash.’
Joe waved his hand dismissively, also to help mentally diffuse his raging guilt. ‘Nah, it’s nothing. It’s all cool and the least I can do. So, let’s drink up and get the next round in.’
‘I’m up for that,’ Dave smiled. ‘You’re a good mate.’
Joe grinned. No he wasn’t, he was a shit one. He felt bad, but not bad enough to do anything about it. He’d also remembered that he was supposed to be calling Teagan last night and was fairly sure he hadn’t got around to it. He could hardly do that now with Dave here.
He’d wait until Dave next went for a slash and then he’d call and see when she next had a night off.
Thirty Nine
NERO WATCHED KEITH help himself to a handful of delicately cut sandwiches from one of the many plates arranged on the huge buffet tables and nudged him sharply. ‘Pack that in! Jonah and Lena aren’t even here yet.’
Keith shoved a crustless quarter of bread containing the finest Wiltshire ham and Dijon mustard into his mouth and pushed the edge in with his fingers. ‘Aw, fuck off. I’m starving. Jonah won’t mind.’
Nero scowled. Jonah would mind. He’d mind very much. Not about Keith’s rudeness over the food. Keith may have only had eyes for the grub and the open bar since he’d arrived, but he’d noticed the rest. And judging by the on-edge looks on the faces of the rest of the firm dotted around the room, they had too.
Jonah would definitely notice and he wouldn’t be impressed.
Nero nodded in acknowledgment to a man smiling in his direction as he passed. It was that bloke off EastEnders; he couldn’t remember the guy’s name, but it was him all the same. Not that he’d watched it for years.
In addition to members of the firm, their wives or girlfriends and a healthy assortment of dancing girls, there were also many faces he recognised from the TV. His eyebrows furrowed. Lena must have enjoyed seeing how many famous faces she could use Jonah’s clout to invite, but would bet his bottom dollar Jonah wouldn’t have a clue who most of these alleged celebs were. He didn’t either.
Half of the security and the majority of the dancers were still at work in the main club downstairs. It wasn’t like everyone could be up here, but this shindig would undoubtedly be running well into the early hours, so they’d have time to join in after the show, no doubt.
Nero glanced at his watch. Jonah and Lena should be here anytime soon. The press was assembled ready by the door, so it wouldn’t be long.
He was still confused as to why Jonah would be doing any of this with Lena, but hey – none of his business. He glanced around at the décor once again and sighed.
Spotting Gwen mingling with the guests, Nero dragged Keith away from the buffet then made his way over to Gwen. ‘You look nice,’ he smiled, then nodded towards the tables. ‘I take it Jonah isn’t aware of the party’s theme?’
Gwen rolled her eyes and gave Nero a tight smile. ‘I only hope he keeps it together when he sees it. You haven’t seen the cake yet either...’
‘Don’t tell me that’s a diamond too?’ Nero gasped. ‘Jesus Christ. Could Lena have picked anything more insulting? Is she taking the piss?’
‘I don’t think she’s got the brains for that.’ Gwen grabbed the arm of Nero’s tuxedo sleeve. ‘I don’t trust her.’
Nero grinned. ‘She’s a bimbo - harmless enough, just thick as shit.’ He glanced around the room once again. ‘Clearly thick as shit.’
Sensing a sudden change in the atmosphere, Nero watched the press scuffle to get into prime position. ‘I’m guessing the guests of honour have arrived?’
HELEN PUT HER FOOT DOWN as she sped along the road towards home. She wasn’t looking forward to putting up with James’ whinging face, but she had no intention of allowing that to drag out any longer than necessary. She was only going back to grab those pills, so she’d listen to what he’d got to bleat on about and then get over to Footlights.
She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Already 6 o’clock, damn it. She rarely spent a full day at work on a Saturday, but she had so much paperwork to catch up with. All this other business had made her slack with the admin side of things lately, so she’d had to make the effort to bring that up to date.
At least one of her sales had unexpectedly closed, meaning a nice bit of commission was finally coming her way.
Besides, she was in no rush to get home early as that meant more time with James. The longer she spent listening to the rubbish coming from his mouth, the more likely she’d lose her temper and waste time arguing when her time was much better spent looking for what was important at Footlights.
Her face cracked into a smile, tinged with smug satisfaction. She was definitely the shining star in Teagan’s book. The stupid girl could hardly believe she was getting an extra evening off. Helen had turned the charm on, alright. She’d promised to be at Footlights by 7 o’clock and Teagan had been both pleasantly surprised and grateful when Helen had insisted it was the ‘least’ she could offer for all her hard work.
Her face cracked into an even wider smile. It all fitted in nicely. The voice mail Heath had left matched perfectly with her plans and she didn’t need to rearrange anything at all.
He was another thick bastard. Thinking that he and his idiotic father would benefit from anything she found. Would they hell?
All she had to do now was to make sure her mother buggered off to bed out of the way and she’d be sorted. Every second spent with that woman and not screaming that she knew the sordid truth got harder all the time, but she’d keep it together.
On the up side, she’d also managed a quick call in to Robert and the completion date for the Oak Apple apartment was next week. Wonderful. He hadn’t mentioned anything else about James, so it looked like her prat of a husband had quit with his snooping around as well, which was good. However, she was still going to have it out with him about that.
Pulling into her driveway, Helen leapt out of the Mercedes, spotting James’ car. Irritation shot up her back and her neck became tense as she headed straight for the garage. She’d grab those extra pills before going into the house.
Closing the garage door behind her, Helen got to work moving the toolboxes and workbench. Where was the box? Where was her goddamn box? She’d put it back the other day, so where had it gone?
‘Looking for these?’
Helen swung around, seeing James holding a box. Her box. What the hell?
‘All that time...’ James stepped from the house into the garage through the adjoining door. He put the box containing the tablets on the workbench. ‘I spent days terrified that you were ill. I thought you were depressed – these... these pills... these antidepressants and anti-anxiety drugs... Then after what the chemist said, I realised one of these... well, I was terrified you had Parkinson’s.’
Helen was rooted to the spot, processing what James was saying. How long had he known about this? He’d asked the chemist? Jesus. Ok, think. What could she say? ‘You thought I had Parkinson’s?’ A huge rush of annoyance flooded
her. ‘Parkinson’s? Do I look like I’ve got bloody Parkinson’s?’
James screwed his face up as he fought to keep his emotions under control. ‘I was horrified, Helen. I thought you were self-medicating and I was gutted that you hadn’t come to me with your problems.’
Helen’s eyes narrowed. The stupid prick. ‘You’ve been going through my things? How dare you! How bloody well dare y...’
‘But then I found this.’ James pulled a copy of the remortgage documentation from his pocket and watched his wife’s face morph into pure rage. ‘You remortgaged our home and ploughed the money into Shepherd, Percival and Proctor? Do you not think you should have discussed that with me?’
‘With you?’ Helen shrieked. ‘Why? It’s not like you’ve ever contributed anything! I’ve worked my backside off for years whilst you sat there and...’
‘We’re supposed to be married, Helen. It almost destroyed me thinking you were unwell and it really hurts that you don’t think me worthy of being included when you’ve basically given all of our money to your business.’
Helen eyes flashed and she slammed her handbag down. ‘Our money? It’s mine. I earnt it, not you. I don’t have to discuss anything with you. And, oh my heart bleeds that you felt hurt and distressed.’ She scowled venomously, looking James up and down with contempt. ‘And married? Yes, that was another mistake I made. A massive one. You’re ridiculous and can’t be trusted. I want a divorce.’
She moved forward to snatch up the box, jumping back when James slammed his hand down on the top of it.
‘It took me ages to work it out, but it’s you who can’t be trusted.’ James studied Helen. ‘I looked for every excuse in the book, but I couldn’t ignore what I’d seen with my own eyes.’
Helen laughed shrilly, her eyes cold. ‘Oh and what did you see, you fount of all wisdom? What conclusion did you reach?’
James paused. He hadn’t wanted it to be like this, but she’d left him with no choice. ‘Dulcie hasn’t got dementia. You’ve been fabricating her illness, I know you have.’