Be Careful What You Wish For: Three women, three men, three deaths (Kitty Thomas)

by Sue Nicholls

  ‘Where are you …?’ The end of Gloria’s question is cut off by the slam.

  ***

  ‘You should have told Mum where you were going.’ Mick pulls his shirt over his head and drops it on the floor by the bed. ‘What if there’d been an emergency?

  ‘Don’t you know, your mother’s better than me at everything? Emergencies? Huh. She wouldn’t need me to help.’ Millie glares. ‘I can’t do anything right.’

  ‘Keep your voice down, she’ll hear you.’

  ‘And you think that worries me?’ Millie turns from Mick, drops onto the side of the bed, to take off her shoes. ‘She’s your mother Mick - your guest. You spend time with her. Don’t bugger off for a whole day and leave her with me.’

  Mick’s apologetic voice reaches her. ‘I couldn’t help that. Barry was in a car accident for goodness sake. I couldn’t have known I’d be needed.’

  Barry was supposed to have been yesterday’s duty chef, but instead is in hospital after he and his car connected with a lorry on the road to Chelterton.

  ‘That’s right. Work must come first. Never mind your poor wife left to cope with a pair of demanding children, and an incredibly bossy mother in law.’ Millie grasps her shoes and throws them at the wardrobe. They bounce off and roll to the floor.

  ‘Millie. Calm down.’

  Millie rests her elbows on her knees and drops her head onto her hands, digging hot fingers into her curls. The bed sags as Mick sits beside her. His big arm lands on her shoulder, and he pulls her into his armpit. She holds her body stiff, keeping her head in her hands. ‘I’m telling you Mick. If you ever do that again I won’t come back until she’s gone.’

  ‘OK, OK. I’m home now.’

  They sit for a while in silence, and Millie thinks back to her visit to Twitch, and later Fee. She had poured out her frustrations, ending up in tears, as usual. She gives herself a mental shake and straightens up, patting Micks brown knee. ‘Come on, it’s getting late. Let’s get some sleep.’

  Later, when Mick reaches for her, she pretends to be asleep. The crumpled pillow presses its creases into her cheek and her mind ranges, searching for a way out. Mick might die - instantly she feels guilty for letting the thought enter her head. Perhaps she will win the lottery. Gloria could die – if she carries on as she did today, Millie might murder her.

  She gives a mental shrug. None of this will happen so she needs to get on with things.

  ***

  A few weeks later she stands at the sink, gazing out of the window. The garden needs weeding again, and the children need new shoes. At her feet, the kitchen floor is scuffed with muddy footprints and the beds upstairs have yet to be made. Millie’s hands hang motionless in deep suds, and she dreams of a buzzing restaurant. Happy customers raising forks of spicy deliciousness to their lips and raising their eyes to the ceiling in ecstasy. Bustling waiters and waitresses carrying bottles of wine and plates, and Millie, in the kitchen conducting events, a taste here, an instruction there.

  The post drops through the letter box behind her with a clatter and a flop and pulls her back to the present. She has made her decision and Fee and Twitch have agreed. It will be a squash, but she and the children will move in with them at the weekend.

  CONSEQUENCES

  Chapter 14

  Paul licks his lips and his tongue rasps past teeth coated with flock. He shifts his aching body, opens one eye to look at the ceiling and lies still, waiting for his sleep-fog to clear. His bladder begins to nag so he forces open the other eye and swings stiff legs from the sofa.

  The television is on standby, its light, redly accusing. On the coffee table lie discarded foil take-away containers, scabbed with the congealed remains, some stabbed with the ends of doused cigarettes, others with the first mycelia of mould creeping across their surfaces.

  He stretches his back and rises with a hammering head. Kicking beer cans and a pizza box out of the way he crosses the room. In the toilet he stares at his foaming urine as it plunges into the water. Splashes of ochre spray the rim, and small drops burst out and settle in a jaundiced sweat on the surrounding tiles.

  In the kitchen he throws three Paracetamol to the back of his throat and gulps a pint of water then, waiting for the kettle to boil, passes an eye round the kitchen, where he has been working on the bike again, aggressively cleaning wire wheels on the kitchen table and willing Fee to come back and witness the desecration. A thought winkles its way into his head. A woman is coming at eleven, from Green and Roe, the estate agents. He squints at his watch. 10.30, already. Tea forgotten he takes the stairs two at a time, pulling off yesterday’s shirt as he goes.

  Fee is arranging for the house to be sold. This woman is the first of three Estate Agents, booked in over the next couple of days. No doubt they will report back that the house is a refuse tip and then, he grins to himself, the shit will hit the fan.

  While he massages his body with a musty smelling towel, he enjoys the sight of the ring of scum round the sink, and the pattern of curly hairs on the sides and bottom of the bath.

  The bell rings while he is applying deodorant, and after sniffing a few shirts draped round the bedroom, he dons one and gallops downstairs.

  A strong smell of make-up and powder rises from a scarlet haired apparition in a fur coat. The woman’s shrinking red lips are warped into a professional smile, while arched eyebrows that could have been drawn on with a marker pen, are raised in confident expectation of a warm welcome.

  ‘Mr Thomas?’ She extends a gloved hand and meets his startled gaze. Her nose screws up in a brief expression of distaste as she steps into the hall, and Paul smirks.

  Viv-ee-anne (don’t call me Viv) says she will explore on her own, ‘Don’t even think of putting yourself out, Mr T.’

  He does not. He retreats to the kitchen to finish making breakfast and listens to footsteps above his head. He pictures Viv-ee-anne’s face as she takes in the squalor. The footsteps descend and doors open and close in the hall, then she clops into the kitchen. Paul is rescuing two slices of toast from a stream of smoke issuing from the toaster, and observes the woman through a floating, black fog.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Thomas.’ The agent keeps her distance and gives a wave with her glove. ‘I’ll send a report to Ms Thomas. I’m sure she’ll be in touch.’ The felt tip lines shoot into her ruby fringe and like a disapproving drag queen, her seamed stockings and patent leather stilettoes stalk elegantly down the hallway and out of the house.

  Black carbon flies from the toast via the blade of a knife. It coats the sink in a black scum. A burning cigarette balances next to him on the edge of the drainer as he plans the day ahead. Kitty’s birthday party is this afternoon, and he has yet to buy the present. Of one thing he is convinced though, it will be the biggest and best gift she has ever seen.

  ***

  ‘Daddy!’ Kitty ogles Paul, who is hampered by a huge parcel wrapped in mismatched paper.

  ‘Happy birthday Pops.’ He dumps the parcel on the hall carpet next to the familiar old grandfather clock and pokes a poster sized envelope behind it.

  ‘Come and see everything.’ Kitty grabs his hand. ‘This is the lounge.’

  Fee stands by the patio doors looking out into the night, and their eyes meet in the reflection.

  ‘Hello Paul. I see you’ve found the birthday girl.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it wasn’t hard.’

  The room smells of new paint. The peach coloured walls are cool and calm, as is his wife.

  ‘Come on Daddy, come and see my room.’ Kitty yanks him towards the stairs. ‘The kitchen’s through there.’ Kitty indicates the room to their right, where Paul glimpses Millie placing snacks into small bowls. The smell of cake and crisps triggers memories of his own childhood parties.

  Upstairs he follows his daughter along the narrow landing.

  ‘That’s Aunty Twitch’s room, that’s Auntie Millie’s.’ She pushes a door on the right. ‘Tadaa.’ Fee’s compact room houses a double bed with a smal
l mattress on the floor beside it, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers.

  ‘Where’s your bed Pops?’

  ‘It’s coming tomorrow. Then I’ll stop sleeping in Mummy’s bed because I’m a big girl of five.’ Kitty’s face begins to fall, and Paul drops to his knees to hug her. ‘You are such brave girl.’

  He fumes silently. ‘And you’re going to have a terrific time today.’

  ‘I know.’ She pauses. ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Don’t you miss me?’

  Paul squeezes tighter and blinks his eyes. ‘Of course I do Pops. Of course.’ They cuddle for a few minutes until the door-bell interrupts. Paul forces a smile. ‘Sounds like someone’s arrived.’ His voice conveys unconvincing optimism. ‘Come on birthday girl, let’s go and open your presents.’

  ‘Present opening is at the end, after everyone’s gone.’

  ‘Oh. OK. Well we can play games then.’ He pushes Kitty gently through the door. ‘When I was your age, I used to have parties in the garden.’

  ‘I know. You told me before.’ Kitty’s spirits seem to be rising again.

  At the top of the staircase they look down upon several yummy mummies, and one or two gym-sculpted dads shaking hands and clapping arms. Millie ushers the adults into the kitchen, while the children, including little Sophie from bonfire night, are sent to the lounge. Paul’s parcel has vanished.

  Paul bobs through the kitchen door in search of beer and sensible conversation with Sophie’s dad. Parents mill round a table bearing filled wine glasses and bowls of nibbles, but no ale. Oh well. He lifts a glass of red and drains it then picks up a second. Sophie’s parents seem to have left. Damn.

  ‘I hope you’ve eaten.’ A voice at his ear jolts him, and he grips his glass to prevent it plummeting to the floor. A plump, vivacious woman with an impish smile is wagging a finger at him.

  ‘I think there are sandwiches under there. They’ll soak it up.’ She points at four covered plates balanced on the cooker hob. ‘I’m Nicola, from next door.’ Her handshake is firm and warm.

  ‘Paul, Fee’s ex.’

  ‘I guessed that when I saw you struggling up the path with that huge parcel.’ She grins. ‘That must be the biggest bear I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘It’s an elephant actually.’ Paul smiles back. ‘The trunk was a swine to wrap.’

  ‘Well,’ she puts her empty glass on the table, ‘I must go. Marking to do. Can’t let that empty house go to waste.’ She nods. ‘Nice to meet you. See you again I expect.’ And she is gone, squeezing through the crowd.

  Children’s voices reach him over the hubbub. Nobody seems to be paying them much attention in the other room. No party games? No music? Paul knocks back the glass of wine, picks up a third and weaves through the melee to the lounge.

  The children become quiet when he stumbles in, and Kitty’s eyebrows crinkle into a wave of worry.

  ‘Come on kids, time to have fun. Where’s the music in this place?’

  Soon Abba is blaring from the stereo, and the children are dancing wildly for musical statues. The music stops.

  ‘You’re out, and you.’ Come and stand at the side. ‘OK now - dance!’

  Voulez v…

  A small boy wavers.

  ‘Out, fella.’

  The child’s face takes on an aubergine hue.

  ‘I AM NOT OUT.’.

  ‘Sorry mate, I’m the judge and you are well and truly out. Come here with the others and stop being a berk.’

  ‘I AM NOT A BERK. WHAT’S A BERK?’

  ‘You are. Now stop that.’

  ‘MUMMY.’ The child rushes out.

  Paul starts the music again, but the game has lost its appeal and the participants shuffle from foot to foot without enthusiasm.

  ‘Come on kids, let me see you dance.’ Paul wiggles his hips and grins, but the room has become still, and the children’s faces are fixed on something behind him. He turns in a drunken skew, to find Fee leaning on the doorframe with folded arms. Behind her the astounded faces of other parents jostle for a view.

  ‘Paul. What happened?’

  ‘Happened?’ Paul looks innocent. ‘Oh, the kid. Well he wouldn’t accept that he was out - musical statues you know?’

  ‘Yes, I know. What I don’t understand is why you decided to interfere in our arrangements.’

  ‘Well excuse me if was trying to help at my own daughter’s party. Someone had to give these poor kids some fun.’

  Fee shakes her head in slow disapproval.

  ‘There are games organised, and we’re about to start. We delayed because one or two children had activities this afternoon.’

  Paul hides his humiliation with bluster. ‘Well you should have told me!’

  ‘Right. My fault again.’ Fee is infuriatingly calm, and Paul becomes aware that he is standing in the spotlight of everyone’s deep disapproval.

  He pushes past Fee, ignoring the undisguised glee of the small crowd, and hisses, ‘You know what you can do? Stuff your stupid party up your arse.’

  There is a childish gasp behind him and a gloating murmur of censure in front.

  As he powers from the house, Fee is calling the children to play Pass the Parcel.

  Chapter 15

  Fucking photocopier has packed up again. Give him a motorbike any time, at least if you fix a bike it stays fixed for longer than a bleeding week.

  Paul’s head throbs with another hang-over and he needs coffee. He stalks to the small kitchen to find a few lonely granules lurking in the bottom of the jar, and an unpleasant sticky mass adhering to the rim. The sink is full of dirty mugs, and the milk - he sniffs warily - is sour.

  Kayleigh, bloody stupid name, bloody stupid tart, sits at her desk with a telephone scrunched between chin and shoulder. She is writing on a shorthand notebook.

  ‘I will, Mrs Jackson... Oh, OK – Jackie.’

  Jackie Jackson. Christ.

  The moment she replaces the telephone on the littered surface, it delivers another plaintive cry. ‘Brown and Martin, how may I help you?’ she sings.

  Paul waves a post-it note under her nose and a furrow digs in between her eyebrows as she tries to read it. Capital letters gouge the paper: BUY SOME COFFEE! WHAT THE HELL DO WE PAY YOU FOR? Smacking it on the desk he strides off to get some water instead.

  At the cooler, plump, middle aged Iris joins him.

  ‘How’s it going Paul?’

  ‘Crap.’

  ‘Fancy a ciggy?’

  Paul nods abruptly and makes for the door carrying his cone of chilled H20.

  Standing on the pavement they puff. Iris is quiet for the moment and Paul is relieved to avoid small talk. Then she says, ‘Paul?’ Her voice has the gravel of a habitual smoker.

  ‘What?’

  Countless lines slice from the corners of Iris’s eyes and her mouth is like the knotted end of a balloon. A jet of white smoke funnels from her nose into the chilly air. ‘I’ve got a friend whose husband went off with a younger model. Gabby, her name was.’ She takes another life-sucking lungful.

  What the fuck is she going on about? Women are all the same, on about feelings, sympathy, empathy.

  ‘Gabby got terribly angry and started hurting the people she loved: the kids, her parents and friends - me in fact.’ She studies the glowing end of her fag.

  ‘Can’t think why.’

  ‘Paul, I’m trying to tell you something.’ She looks straight at him. ‘I can’t help you, none of us can, but if you want to keep your job and your friends then you need to take action.’ She drops the dying cigarette on the paving and terminates it with a twist of her toe then presses something into his palm. ‘This man helped Gabby.’ She turns away and goes inside.

  Alone on the cold pavement Paul lifts a business card between thumb and forefinger. In plain black text he reads: Max Rutherford, Counsellor in relationship breakdown, bereavement and anger management, Marchmont House, Melmsbury.

  Chapter 16

  The room is airy,
with a tall bay window looking onto a tufted lawn and underscored by a cream, painted seat. The walls are hospital-coloured, but the ornate coving rescues them from the institutional. To his right, licks of flame insinuate themselves round nuggets of coal.

  A man in his thirties with flopping, light brown hair, rises from a deep armchair set behind a low table. ‘Mr Thomas, how do you do?’ The man extends a hand across the coffee table. ‘Max Rutherford.’ Max sweeps an arm past an assortment of chairs from an upright club chair to a squashy, leather one. ‘Take your pick.’ Paul selects a wooden carver. Max picks up a clipboard and sits in an upright chair nearby, smiling pleasantly. ‘Good to meet you,' he says. 'You need help with your marriage break up - is that right?’

  Paul’s mouth is welded shut. Over the last couple of days, he has been cursing himself for his behaviour at Kitty’s party and blaming Fee for his state of mind. Hardly a word has come from his lips, even at work. Staring at his interlaced fingers, he nods his head.

  ‘How long ago was the breakup?’

  The counsellor stands to pick up a crystal glass and water jug from the low table. He places them beside Paul. Paul pours and gulps, then stares at the weaving orange flames reflected in the bottom of the pitcher.

  ‘Six months.’

  Max nods, taking up a pen, and begins asking basic questions: workplace, full name and address, contact numbers and age, then he straightens his back, and his voice becomes brisk.

  ‘So, Paul, tell me about your life. How are you getting on?’

  Without warning Paul’s body tenses and a torrent of words breaches a barrier he hardly knew he had built.

  ‘Cross. No. Bloody furious. She took my life and screwed it up, threw it in the bin as if it didn’t matter, then swanned off to a new life with my kid. I couldn’t do a thing to change her mind, there wasn’t time. She said they were leaving then they left. After she told me I nearly killed myself on the motorbike.’ He is shouting and it feels good.

  ‘Well, anger would be a natural response to an experience like that.’ Max is calm.