by Nev Fountain
‘Mmm…’ she said. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for some time…’
Mervyn’s voice was quiet, reverent. ‘Thank God you finally did.’
‘God had nothing to do with it, Mervyn.’
He picked up her tiny form, removed it from the wheelchair and took her into the makeshift bedroom that had been set up in the front room after she had started to struggle with the stairs. He pushed aside dormant machines and trolleys laden with empty cups and sample bottles, and lay her down on crisp, starched sheets.
His hands were working furiously, trying to undo her blouse and his shirt at the same time. It wasn’t working. Cheryl obliged, tearing open her blouse with surprising force and sending buttons pinging into space. Mervyn concentrated on his shirt now, and as soon as the buttons came loose, her hands moved inside, gripping his spare tyre urgently, squeezing his back, pulling him on to her.
‘I’m not hurting you, am I?’ he asked.
‘Just kiss me, you sad old bastard,’ she laughed.
Mervyn was happy to oblige. Her spindly hands scuttled down his waist and grabbed his buttocks. Grabbed them with surprising force.
…And then her hands were gone. She disengaged her lips from his. Her expression was puzzled, almost upset.
‘Are you all right?’ Mervyn didn’t know what had happened. He felt like an astronaut counting down and facing the sky only for a little voice to tell him that there was a problem and he’d have to undo the straps and leave the capsule.
‘Get off me, please.’
She moved her hands up to her face. She was holding the flask that Mervyn had stuffed into his back pocket.
Oh dear.
She examined the flask, read the initials on the back, and her eyes closed wearily. ‘A monogrammed flask? Oh Mervyn…’
‘Look, don’t be too judgemental…’
‘Not you too.’
Mervyn was confused. ‘“Not me too” what?’
She folded her arms, a bleak look on her face. ‘I’m sorry. I just can’t go through that again. Not with another man. Not the lies, the secrets, the hidden bottles… You’ll have to sort out your problem by yourself. I know that sounds harsh, but… I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’
‘But you don’t understand, I don’t have a problem. It’s not mine.’
‘Don’t lie to me Mervyn!’ Her voice was suddenly angry; it was so raw and dry it was barely a scream; more like a furious rasp. ‘Get out! Get out of here! I never want to see you again!’
Mervyn’s mouth opened and closed, guppy-like. It was still flapping bonelessly when he found himself on the other side of the front door of Earthly Delights. She thought he, Mervyn Stone, had a drink problem?
Yes, she thought he had a drink problem. He had a hip flask in his back pocket with M.S. inscribed on it. Of course she thought he had a drink problem. It was funny, but in all the years he’d known Marcus, it had never struck him that they had the same initials.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
‘I was just wondering if there were any developments with the Marcus Spicer murder?’
‘He’s still dead.’
‘Thank you for that, I was talking about the investigation. Do you have any leads?’
‘Oh, we think we’ve definitely got our murderer.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yeah. God is still our top suspect. We have attempted to contact the gentleman in question, but he seems to have made himself scarce. His next of kin seem pretty hard to get hold of as well. It’s all very suspicious.’
‘Oh, I can see you lot have been having fun down at the station.’
‘We have had some information about his movements; apparently he’s recently moved in mysterious ways. Combine that with the fact he’s already got form with murder, manslaughter and wholesale destruction of property, and the circumstantial evidence is overwhelming.’
Mervyn was trying to look anywhere but in the direction of Mick’s naked bottom. Their latest rendezvous was not in a motorway café. Mick’s head was close to Mervyn’s, but while Mervyn was sitting in a chair, Mick was leaning across a table with her trousers round her ankles. A large man with a drooping moustache and a spider’s web on his cheek was crouching between her buttocks, staring intently at her bum and emitting a low buzzing noise.
‘So you got to see Mr Godbotherer himself? Fuck. I’m impressed,’ said Mick, not sounding impressed at all.
‘Yes,’ said Mervyn.’
‘Amazing. But then that’s you. You are amazing. You are Mervyn fucking Stone.’
‘Thanks.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Not a lot. He was a bit…odd, as you might expect. Unctuous, superior, smug…’
‘Sounds like a killer to me. It’s always the smug ones.’
‘I’m not sure. He seemed to want me to think that he did kill Marcus, or at least his God had a hand in it. I really don’t know if he was capable or not. He seemed pretty fanatical.’
‘I know the type. They can do pretty strange things.’
‘How’s your buttock?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’
‘Nah.’
‘He’s not hurting you either?’
‘Yeah he is, but I like pain. I used to draw pictures on my arm with a compass when I was bored at school. How’s he doing?’
Mervyn allowed himself a quick glance at what was happening on the other side of the table. A quick glance was all he was prepared to make.
‘How are you doing?’
The hairy man gave a cheery wink. ‘I’ve just started on the “S”.’
Mervyn turned to Mick, as if translating. ‘He’s just started on the “S”.’
‘Brilliant.’
Mick and Mervyn were in a tattoo parlour in Soho. The interior was intimidating, like any tattoo parlour. Pictures of skeletons, snakes, motorbikes and naked women decorated the walls, sometimes individually, sometimes in an exotic combination of two or more. One picture was of a flaming skeleton riding a flaming motorbike out of hell, with a naked woman riding pillion holding a snake.
Mervyn, being well into middle age, immediately wondered how much motorcycle insurance the skeleton would have to pay on his bike. Certainly quite a lot. The premiums must be huge. He couldn’t just take out third party, fire and theft, Mervyn mused, on account of his bike being on fire already. And it won’t help the premiums if the naked lady refuses to wear a crash helmet. But if she did, she wouldn’t be naked, I suppose…
‘That’s great. Thanks Judass.’
The tattooist had finished inscribing Mervyn’s autograph on Mick’s bottom and supplied a mirror for Mick to inspect it.
Mervyn looked at it out of the corner of his eye. Judass had stencilled over Mervyn’s original signature in a fetching navy blue.
‘Are you sure you want my autograph on your buttock?’
‘If I’m not sure, then it’s a bit fucking late. Judass just has to put your phone number under it so they know who to call if I get killed in the line of duty.’
‘What?’
‘Joke.’
A bandage was applied, and Mick pulled up her trousers.
‘There. Your name is on my body. Now you own me.’
‘Right… So… Shall we go somewhere and talk about the burglary?’
‘Not yet. Take your shirt off, Mervyn Stone.’
‘You are joking.’
‘No.’
‘I thought you were joking.’
‘I wasn’t.’
Judass pointed a stubby finger to the back of the shop. ‘If you can just hang your shirt on the chair and stand next to that wall—that would be great. And pick up that big sword.’
Mervyn slouched miserably to the wall and untucked his shirt. He slowly undid the buttons with the enthusiasm of a 50-year-old stripper trapped in a cheap Soho nightclub at three in the morning. ‘I’m not sure about this.’
Mick shrugged. ‘This is important. We had
a deal. I tell you about the burglary at the Spicer house, you get your top off and hold that sword up.’
Mervyn took his shirt off and shielded his nipples with his left arm, pressing tightly and giving his emerging cleavage a bit too much definition. He picked up the exotic bejewelled sword from where it was leaning against the wall, and held it half-heartedly.
‘Okay?’
‘Could you look a bit more aggressive?’
‘Not really. I’ve tried “aggressive” in the past and I always look constipated.’
‘Okay… Could you give out a cry?’
‘Give me ten more minutes and I’ll burst into tears.’
Judass picked up a camera and started taking photos, prodding Mervyn into a variety of almost-aggressive poses. Meanwhile, Mick was dipping into a briefcase and pulling out a yellow cardboard file.
‘So…the burglary. It happened eight weeks ago…’
Mervyn flicked his eyes across to Judass, who was happily snapping away. ‘Are you sure you want to discuss this here?’ he asked.
‘Judass is very discreet.’
Judass nodded. ‘I have to be. You wouldn’t believe what the stars say when they’re getting Chinese dragons burnt on to their boob.’
‘Other than “Ow”?’
‘Nice one. I like you, Mervyn.’
‘Is that really your name? Judass?’
‘It is now.’
‘It’s an interesting name.’
‘Well, it sort of chose me, you know. I got a Judas Priest tattoo, and the twat spelt it wrong. I got Judass Priest, with two “s”s. So to save myself any grief and suchlike ridicule, I changed my name from Bernard Brook to Judass Priest. With one stroke, it went from embarrassing to cool.’
‘You’re a genius, Judass.’
‘Ta. Can you raise the sword a little higher?’
‘With my back? Not really.’
Mick had finished rifling through her notes and found the relevant sheet of paper. ‘It was reported at six o clock on August the 3rd by a Mrs C. Spicer. Stuff that was stolen: assorted cash and jewellery, two tellies, one ghetto blaster, one DVD player, one laptop, one computer, one ten-inch figurine of the Virgin Mary plus the infant Jesus, one iPod. All the stolen goods have some resale value, electronic stuff that gets fenced every day. The usual British currency which can be exchanged at the Bank of Chavland.’
‘All easy to sell on— apart from the statuette.’
‘You’re thinking someone broke into the house just to get the statuette and made it look like a burglary. Or the burglar just happened to know how collectable Vixens memorabilia was, realised its value when he broke in, and threw it in with the other stuff.’
‘It makes sense, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s more than sense. It’s brilliant, Mervyn Stone.’ She looked at the notes. ‘The laptop and telly were recovered, but the other stuff…not yet.’
‘Can I put my arm down now?’
‘In a sec.’ Judass was still clicking away, furiously dancing around Mervyn’s semi-naked form. ‘Can you do a stabbing pose with your legs apart? And open your mouth like you’re screaming?
‘If I must. Do you think it’s likely the statuette might turn up?’
Mick shrugged. ‘Bit of problem with that—the Spicers didn’t mark their stuff, so it’s difficult. I can do some checks, but it’s like looking for a needle in a tattoo parlour. Maybe I’ll check the police auctions.’
‘Also, I think it would be good idea to—’
‘Keep your mouth open, Mervyn mate. If you move your mouth you’ll blur your face.’
Mervyn obliged, keeping his mouth hanging open. ‘A’so, I ‘hnk, i’ wi’ be a gu’ iea hoo kek o’ rian a’ hananka…’
‘They’re already checking out Brian and Samantha. Believe it or not, they’re suspects. Like you.’
‘Oh. I huhoh e ar. Ho-hay.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Weeee e’ hing a’out…’
‘I’m done now Mervyn,’ said Judass, packing his camera away. ‘You can put your shirt on.’
Mervyn scrabbled to retain his dignity, diving for his shirt and struggling to put it back on. ‘Well the thing about Brian is, I saw him enter the Godbotherers building.’
‘He’s not on their records as a member. I’ll check that out.’
‘…And Samantha refused to drink the bottles of water on the table. She asked for a different brand of water to be sent in.’
‘Yeah, she did, didn’t she? The officers in charge of the case noticed that when they heard it on the CD. I wondered about that. You’ve got an amazing memory, Mervyn Stone.’
Mervyn hesitated. ‘It just came to me.’ He slipped on his jacket. ‘I seriously think we should find that statuette. It just seems important somehow.’
Mick folded her arms and looked even grimmer than usual. ‘Yeah, well, I’ve got a few suspicions about where it went. I’ll see if I’m right.’
Mick paid Judass, and Judass handed Mervyn a card with a heart, a sword, a snarling tiger and ‘Snakes and Ladettes Tattoo Parlour’ on it.
‘Thanks,’ said Mervyn. ‘You will let me know how it turns out?’
Judass grinned, stretching the cobweb on his cheek. ‘Well, it’s Mick that will have to show you. It will be on her body, you know.’
Mervyn cast a furtive glance at Mick. ‘Yes…whereabouts, exactly?’
‘I’ll show you,’ she said. ‘You see this dragon?’ She suddenly undid her belt and yanked down her trousers again. Mervyn was completely unprepared for that; his eyeballs dived for cover, and peered at the picture from behind the relative safety of half-closed eyelids.
A huge angry dragon crawled across Mick’s torso; the front claws extended down her hips, the tail curled upwards until it wrapped around her left breast. Her belly button was disguised as a lizard-like ear on the side of its head. The head itself was on her abdomen, partially obscured by the thin elastic of her knickers, and Mick obligingly yanked it aside to show him the rest. This time, Mervyn closed his eyes completely, but not before he realised what the tattooist had used to represent the dragon’s reptilian mouth.
‘You’ll be down here on the inner thigh, pointing your sword at my dragon’s salivating maw.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Mervyn didn’t know when the police were going to question Samantha, so he thought he’d get in there first, so to speak. He reasoned he’d probably get more out of her than some grim-faced copper.
He thought long and hard for a plausible reason to call her, but in the event he didn’t need to. She phoned him.
‘Hi Mervyn, guess who? It’s me.’
‘Hello Samantha. How funny, I was just thinking of calling you.’
‘Really? You were going to call me? How lovely! You were thinking of calling me…and I called you! That’s pure ESP! Have you tried using Zener cards?’
‘No I haven’t.’
‘Because we really should! Fancy you thinking of calling me! My gosh, that would have been so super if you had! I never get any calls during the day! Except for cold callers. Aren’t they annoying? But some of them sound so sad, you just want to buy their bathroom or their insurance to cheer them up, don’t you? Or is it just me? So they ring me up, and that’s about it… Though sometimes the salon rings up to remind me when my peel is due… Oh yes, and my psychic calls when she senses my aura isn’t in balance, and my life coach…’
Apparently, many people phoned Samantha during the day. Mervyn was told about each and every one, until the muscles in his arm cramped and his ear turned red. He would have to stop her soon or his brain would get microwaved into guacamole and start leaking out of his ears.
Mervyn cut through the flow. ‘So Samantha, what made you call me?’
‘Well it’s been on my mind since Marcus…passed over. The guilt. I do feel a lot of guilt about it all. I do feel guilty about Marcus…’
‘There’s nothing to feel guilty about.’
‘Well there is,
because…well, because of what I did. Because I think I killed Marcus.’
‘You think you killed him?’
‘Yeah, well, I’m more, sort of, sure I did. I need someone to talk to about it, if you’re free. Would that be okay?’
‘I’ll be right over.’
‘Oh gosh, during the day? I never get visitors during the day…’
* * *
Her house looked a lot like Mervyn expected it to look; a badly maintained Georgian monster in the unfashionable end of a well-to-do London borough—in this case, Richmond—sandwiched between a laundrette and a Chinese restaurant.
The outside of the house was grim and anonymous, save for a coat-hanger-type thing made of bells, wires and feathers that dangled by the porch, tinkling in rather a forlorn fashion.
He knocked and waited, more out of politeness than any need to be let in because the front door was ajar.
A cat was sitting at the window. Its fat form was shrouded by dusty net curtains, a hairy Alfred Hitchcock glaring at him in silhouette. He tried to stare it out, but the cat either couldn’t see him, or wasn’t interested in lowering itself to his level. He tapped on the window to get its attention, but the cat didn’t want to know. It just kept staring, immobile as a buddha, behind the curtains. Giving up, he stepped back—right into the new-age mobile behind him. It jangled at him angrily and the hooks caught in his hair. He set about trying to free himself, flapping like a panicked seagull in a fishing net.
He was still flapping impotently when Samantha appeared. She wore a baggy T-shirt; reds and blues and greens were scattered across it in a crazy paving style. It was bunched in at the waist by an orange leather belt, clashing with her floaty mauve paisley skirt and large stripy yellow and green socks pulled up over the knee. Her whole body was a battleground of colour, locked in an ugly war for domination.
At first, Mervyn thought she’d done something nasty to her face. Then he realised she’d put make-up on it.
‘Oh my gosh, what’s happened to you?’ She rushed to help him, inspecting his hair. ‘You have been in the wars haven’t you?’