Valentine Present and Other Diabolical Liberties

by Lynda Renham

  ‘We’re a newsagent, not a dental surgery. I don’t have a waiting area,’ he had snapped.

  Fiona had suggested thirty-one but of course that adds up to four doesn’t it, and I couldn’t use five as that is the same as fourteen if you add them together. So that also meant I couldn’t use number forty-six either, as that makes ten, and that’s my birthday again. Honestly, buying a lottery ticket almost gave me a mental breakdown. Eventually Fiona had blown her top and forced me to buy a lucky dip. I ask you with the way my life is spiralling at the moment it is more likely to be the unlucky dip. But I wasn’t in the mood to argue and I was beginning to wonder if I would be able to circle the numbers with my Morticia Addams nails anyway.

  I feel quite relieved when Claude, the chauffeur, drops us outside the Mansions. Curtains twitch as we pull up and Alistair rushes towards us, the sight of the limousine comforting him no doubt. I spend a full minute trying to open the door but fail miserably and manage to leave a little rip in the upholstery instead. I don’t think I need be too concerned about a visit from the Jacks while I am Harriet Scissorhands. Mrs Mollard appears in the doorway, a scarf knotted around her throat and a dustpan and brush in her hand. For a second I think she is going to offer to clean the limo but she just stands there open-mouthed.

  Fiona casually nods at Claude as though she has been stepping out of limousines all her life.

  ‘Thank you Claude,’ she says in a posh voice.

  I give her a startled look. Where did that come from? Sid is at the doorway and so many net curtains are swaying that I am beginning to wonder if there is a small hurricane blowing up in Marlborough Terrace.

  ‘Bucking hell,’ says Mrs Mollard.

  ‘Christ, and I thought she was broke,’ adds Sid.

  ‘I am,’ I say quickly. ‘Honestly Sid.’

  ‘Yeah, I can see that. Traded in your old Mini did you? Still, it’s your business Harriet. You’ve paid your rent so I’m not complaining.’

  ‘It’s c-c-c-complicated,’ says Alistair, his shoulders twitching. Half the street has turned out now and I feel like I should break into song or something. The drug-fuelled yobs begin yelling and rush towards the car.

  ‘Yeah, so is my marriage but I haven’t got a car like that,’ grins Sid.

  ‘I shall see you tomorrow madam,’ Claude says politely.

  I nod and the residents of Marlborough Mansions watch the limo drive away.

  ‘Got a rich punter?’ asks one of the youths.

  ‘Oh honestly,’ groans Alistair.

  I begin climbing the stairs with Alistair panting behind me, the aromatic smells of curry and exotic foods emanating from behind the doors.

  ‘Oh yeah, I nearly forgot, your brother Jack came by,’ calls Sid.

  I turn so fast that my head spins.

  ‘What?’ I croak.

  ‘I wouldn’t have let him in but he had a key and everything. Nice lad. You never mentioned a brother. We had a laugh …’

  ‘You did?’ I say, finding it hard to breathe.

  ‘God, are you okay?’ Fiona asks.

  ‘Nice lad. He left a little something for you. A late birthday present I expect.’

  Oh my God. Please let it be Julian’s ear. Obviously I don’t want it to be any part of his body but if I have to choose then I think the ear is preferable. At least he has another one to hear with. Maybe it can be sewn back on, although, with the NHS waiting lists the way they are these days perhaps not. I should have agreed to that private health insurance that Julian wanted; they would have sewn it back on in a jiffy no doubt. Oh Christ, what if it is his tongue. He’ll never be able to speak to me again. I’ll never hear him whisper sweet nothings into my ear. Mind you, he never did that much anyway. Jesus, it might be his penis, what the hell do I do with that? A vision of Julian bleeding to death in the gutter appears in front of my eyes and I fly up the stairs with Alistair and Fiona trailing behind me.

  ‘I feel faint, the Jacks have been here,’ I say dramatically, fumbling with the key in the lock.

  ‘Oh God,’ says Fiona in a hushed tone. ‘Do you think they’ve trashed the place again?’

  ‘It’s like being in an episode of The Sopranos except it’s ten times more sordid,’ quips Alistair, walking slowly behind.

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t go in without a weapon,’ whispers Fiona.

  ‘Why do we need a weapon?’ I whisper back.

  ‘In case they are still in there.’

  ‘I hardly think they would have locked themselves in.’

  Then again, Julian did say they were a bit crazy. I’m feeling just a touch crazy myself. What am I doing? In a matter of days my life has gone mad. It isn’t my fault that Julian’s stupid restaurant has failed is it? I never even wanted the damn place. I was just supporting him. I didn’t ask him to borrow money from loan sharks, and I didn’t see the need for the sodding van, and now because of all that I have bugger all. I can’t even pay the rent because of him and now I am in far too deep. I’ve already taken half the money and paid off a lot of the debts. I now have just enough to pay the rent and my tuition fees but if I don’t see this thing through, Hamilton will demand the money back. God, this is awful. I don’t know what is worse, the three Jacks or the Hamilton Lancaster agreement.

  The flat looks fine and everything is as it should be. I can’t even see the little present that Sid mentioned.

  ‘See, everything is fine,’ says Fiona, relief evident in her voice. ‘Shall we order pizza? We’ll stay with you for a while and then you need to rest, you’ve got your big day tomorrow.’

  I look around the flat nervously, feeling my shoulders tense. I listen to Alistair stuttering our order down the phone and feel sorry for the poor bugger at the other end.

  ‘I’ll clear the kitchen table,’ Fiona offers as I begin to relax. ‘Shall I throw this old paper away?’

  I freeze. Fiona is holding up what looks like a crumpled bunch of old newspapers.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I cry. ‘It’s Julian’s ear.’

  ‘Holy fuck,’ she screams, dropping it to the floor.

  We stare at the newspaper in silence.

  ‘How do you know this is it?’ she says, looking horrified.

  ‘Yes and how d-d-do you know it’s his ear?’ asks Alistair.

  ‘Well it isn’t going to be an expensive bottle of French perfume is it? And it wasn’t here earlier which can only mean …’

  ‘Who’s going to open it?’ Fiona asks so quietly that I barely hear her.

  ‘Well I can’t, not with these bloody scissors for hands.’

  ‘I c-c-c-can’t, I’m not good with b-b-b-b- …’ says Alistair.

  ‘Body parts?’ I say helpfully.

  ‘Blood,’ he finishes.

  Oh God, I hadn’t thought about the blood. Well I had, in that I had thought of Julian lying in a pool of it, but not the blood that would come with the dismembered ear/tongue/penis.

  ‘God, this is worse than a Stephen King novel,’ groans Fiona. ‘Maybe we can pay someone to unwrap it.’

  ‘Oh great idea. Where do you suggest we find someone? I suppose we could look in the yellow pages for ‘Specialists in unwrapping severed body parts?’ I say cynically.

  ‘Okay, just a thought.’

  ‘I’ll get a towel,’ I say, rushing to the bathroom.

  ‘Why?’ asks Fiona.

  ‘For the blood of course.’

  ‘I’m phoning the p-p-p- …’

  ‘Christ Alistair, how can you think about pizza now,’ snaps Fiona.

  ‘Police,’ he blurts out. ‘We need to call them.’

  ‘No,’ I yell. ‘God knows what they’ll cut off next. We have to see what’s in the parcel. There might be a note.’

  I hand Fiona scissors and give her a reassuring nod. We stare mesmerised as she carefully cuts through the newspaper. Alistair can barely watch and stands clutching the pizza menu to his chest. Two layers later and we have still found nothing. I feel myself begin to relax. Maybe it isn’t a
nything after all. Maybe it was sent just to scare us, and God knows it did. Fiona carefully pulls back the next layer and stops.

  ‘I can feel a box,’ she says in a trembling voice.

  ‘Is it big enough for a penis or just small enough for a tongue or …’

  ‘Oh, C-C-C-Christ,’ groans Alistair stepping back.

  ‘Shall I put on an apron?’ says Fiona. ‘You know, for the blood.’

  ‘It isn’t going to exactly spurt out at you is it?’

  She takes a breath and with shaking hands removes the final layer, and we all stare at the small white box. I swallow and Fiona licks her lips. Alistair clenches his knuckles. The only sound is the bass from someone’s stereo thumping in the flat above.

  ‘I’ll take the lid off but I can’t look,’ offers Fiona.

  I nod and look to Alistair who turns away. I lift my head, take a deep breath and glance at the goldfish bowl and am about to look back when I realise the goldfish is not in it. Before I can open my mouth Fiona has removed the lid and lying helpless on a box of cotton wool is my goldfish.

  ‘They killed Billy,’ I scream. ‘They murdered my bleeding goldfish.’

  Fiona’s eyes snap open and she stares at the fish. Alistair lets out a sigh and says,

  ‘Well at least they didn’t leave its head in your b-b-bed.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’ I say stupidly.

  ‘In The Godfather …’

  ‘Oh sod The Godfather, this is bloody Battersea not Sicily.’

  I look at little Billy the goldfish and sigh.

  ‘Why kill a goldfish? I mean, it’s upsetting but I’m not exactly going to go into mourning am I?’

  Alistair claps his hands.

  ‘Of c-c-c-course,’ he says excitedly. ‘It, m-m-m-means that J-Ju-Ju …’

  ‘Julian yes,’ I interrupt.

  ‘He’s getting excited,’ says Fiona, stating the obvious yet again.

  God, at times like these do I need a friend who stammers?

  ‘Yes, it means what?’

  ‘Sleeps with the fishes.’

  Well that was worth waiting for I don’t think. What does that mean?

  ‘Oh God, like in The Godfather,’ whimpers Fiona.

  I bloody hate that film.

  ‘It means Julian is sleeping with goldfish, is that what you’re saying and where would that be exactly, at the local funfair or should I pop to the nearest pet shop?’

  ‘It means he sleeps with the fishes at the bottom of the Thames,’ says Alistair confidently. ‘I love The Godfather.’

  ‘I didn’t know there were goldfish in the Thames,’ I say stupidly.

  ‘Mind you,’ he adds ignoring me. ‘The fish is usually wrapped up in an article of clothing of the person who has been hit or w-w-w-w- …’

  ‘Wiped out,’ offers Fiona.

  ‘Washed up,’ I mutter.

  ‘Whacked,’ finishes Alistair.

  ‘Christ,’ I mumble.

  ‘Shall I order the pizza now?’ he asks. ‘Fi, do you want anchovies?’

  God, I think I’m going to be sick. My mobile rings and I grab it, stupidly thinking it might be Julian which is unlikely of course unless he has an underwater phone.

  ‘Ello ‘arriet, did you get our little gift. Thoughtful don’t yer think? Babyface wrapped it nicely. We wanted to congratulate yer.’

  I fall onto the couch and mouth Jack to Fiona.

  ‘Congratulate me?’ I say. ‘Most people send cards and flowers not bleeding dead goldfish.’

  Congratulate me on what? Christ, I haven’t gone and won the bleeding lottery have I?

  ‘I saw The Times announcement of your little engagement to that nice rich snobby bastard, ‘amilton Lancaster. You’ve got taste, I’ll give yer that.’

  What bleeding announcement? Oh no, what if Celia Blakely sees it, or my boss at the laundrette? Or shit, even worse my mum. Calm down Harriet, what the hell would Celia Blakely be doing with a paper like that unless it has her fish and chips wrapped in it, and the only page of a paper my boss reads is the back page.

  ‘Thought yer might need a little reminder that you and Julian still owe us some dosh, ‘specially now you’re in with that nice rich family. Don’t want yer forgetting us do we?’

  Hang on a minute.

  ‘What about your code of honour, what the bleeding hell happened to that?’ I say, opening my mouth before engaging my brain.

  Alistair winces and shakes his head.

  ‘What code of bleeding ‘onour? This ain’t the bleeding Godfather you know.’

  Huh, try telling everyone else that.

  ‘But …’

  ‘‘eard from Julian ‘ave yer?’

  ‘No,’ I say hoarsely while thinking this is a good sign if he’s asking me if I’ve heard from Julian.

  ‘You taking over that Colonel Gaddafi are yer?’

  What has Colonel Gaddafi got to do with anything? I suppose that’s in The Godfather too.

  ‘Colonel Gaddafi?’ I mouth to Fiona and Alistair.

  They both give me a puzzled look and Fiona shrugs.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say shakily.

  ‘Now, there’s me thinking you’s a London girl. Colonel Gaddafi, café, get it? Now Julian and I had a little arrangement. I was giving ‘im a little security. You know what yobs are these days. Need a bleedin’ good ‘iding some of ‘em. I said as much to Julian. “They’ll turn your place over” I said to ‘im. So we agreed I’d look after that side of things, save ‘im the worry. Know what I mean?’

  ‘But …’ I begin.

  ‘A monkey a month we agreed, in cash. Now, of course ole Julian is well overdue and you ‘aving this posh boyfriend and keeping the café open, well I thought to meself who’s going to protect it for yer while Julian’s away. You don’t want that little place burning to the ground now do yer?’

  Great, no one is going to invest in an arsoned restaurant are they? God, I’ll have to rob a bank at this rate.

  ‘But …’ I say again.

  ‘Of course I could ask your poncy future in-laws if …’

  ‘No,’ I scream.

  Oh God, this is getting direr by the second.

  ‘So, ‘ow ‘bout we say you leave it downstairs with that nice landlord of yours and Babyface Jack can collect it tomorrow. A monkey remember, don’t you go messin’ me around.’

  ‘No,’ I cry again before I can stop myself.

  I don’t want Sid getting pulled into this. There is a heavy silence.

  ‘That’s a shame. I was looking forward to popping round, you know, ‘aving a cuppa with that nice wife of ‘is and those two little nippers. I love kids. I’ve got two of me own. Little buggers they are though. I’ve got no control over them … Well, you know what I’m sayin.’

  Oh my God. Julian’s investor is bound to pull out if there is any trouble at the restaurant and we’ll never get out of this mess.

  ‘No, I understand exactly what you’re saying. I can get you the monkey, every month. But I’ll, I’ll, I’ll …’

  Spit it out Harriet for Christ’s sake. You’re sounding more like Alistair by the minute. Fiona is staring at me wide-eyed.

  ‘I’ll deliver it to you,’ I say quickly.

  Have I gone insane? There is silence and I try not to breathe too hard. Don’t let them know you’re scared, that’s the trick. What the hell am I talking about?

  ‘Okay, I’ll contact you with a meeting place and ‘arriet …’ he says pausing menacingly.

  ‘Yes,’ I say breathlessly.

  ‘You’d better answer the phone or Julian suffers.’

  Oh, don’t worry, Julian will suffer at some point and hopefully at my hands.

  ‘I will, I promise I will. I’ll give you a monkey every month, but …’

  Before I can finish the phone goes dead. This is terrible. It’s just getting worse and worse. I was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe I could back out of this whole thing with Hamilton Lancaster. I’d ev
en begun to stupidly think that perhaps I could appeal to his compassionate side and ask him to help me. Now I am completely buggered. The last thing I want to do is involve him and his family. The best thing to do is pay Jack Diamond the hundred or is it five hundred? How the hell am I supposed to know how much a monkey is? I’ll have to bloody Google it. What if they want the pay-off at the weekend when I am in bleeding Scotland?

  ‘Well?’ Fi asks.

  I fall onto the couch.

  ‘I’ve got to deliver a pay-off. They want a monkey every month or they’ll do something awful to the restaurant and something even worse to Julian if they find him,’ I say, sounding like Bonnie out of Bonnie and Clyde.

  Fiona looks horrified.

  ‘Every month?’ she echoes. ‘But where will you get one from and what are they going to do to the little thing. Oh God, they’re monsters, first your goldfish and now a monkey.’

  Alistair sighs. God help Julian when he does get home. I’ll give him monkey all right.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Lancaster family helicopter makes its turbulent descent into the grounds of the Glenwood estate and I feel like I could throw up at any minute. It’s not the bumpy ride that is making me want to gag. I love a good fairground ride, in fact, the scarier the better. It’s more that I am shit-scared about what I’ve let myself in for. I keep telling myself it’s only a weekend but we all know how long some weekends can be don’t we? Still, once it’s over and I’ve done my bit, I can get back to my life, thirty thousand pounds better off. I need to ask Hamilton about The Times announcement. I mean, what if my parents see it? I suppose on reflection that’s highly unlikely. I can’t imagine Mum walking back from the local Tesco with The Times under her arm somehow. Take a Break maybe but that’s about as highbrow as Mum gets and Dad never reads a newspaper. He prefers News 24 and I don’t think I’m going to make it onto there somehow, unless of course Julian’s dismembered body is found propping up a flyover somewhere in London or hanging from a meat hook in someone’s freezer. Then they might just flash up a picture of yours truly. I can see the headlines now.