Clock Face of Ills

by Paige Elizabeth Turner

  I swipe away time on my mobile, checking emails, blogs, and message boards. Three little characters, A44, prick my attention. The road is one of my most travelled out of Worcester. I skim through a rant about sleazy coppers who patrol the A44. I know most of the locals, but I object to the blogger’s use of plural, in referring to ‘coppers’. I type out my alter ego cyber chick response: Yeah. Agree wid ya. I had an old fogy try it on. Reckoned my car would fail an MOT check but sed hed let me off if we could cum to an agreement. I havent done nothing yet coz Im scared of what might happen. Cant afford to fix my car. I spose the best thing in these situations is to stay strong. They cant do nothing if we dont give them the chance.

  By the time I arrive home there’ll be twenty more replies.

  I had not been fully briefed about Gillian’s tenure in the pub. The terms of appointment are crucial, because the owner or proprietor could be a weak link if he knows that his de facto barmaid is informing on customers. I hope that Thornton hasn’t instituted the arrangement under such perilous circumstances. Gillian, meanwhile, flits about like the perfect barmaid. Has the job down pat. Perhaps too well.

  Bugger me. Talk about a trial run. I’ve barely put down the guy’s photo when he walks in, strides up to the bar, orders a drink, and strokes Gillian’s hand.

  From beneath the table I aim my phone and snap off a couple of quick shots. Their intimacy might be totally innocent because I too, have performed the role of prospective lover, enamouring myself to men solely to win their confidence and trust. Perhaps Gillian is over-playing the role, but my interest is tuned not to dizzy gazes but to their conversation.

  While Gillian ogles McMaster, I pounce on the opportunity to gain essential background knowledge. I flick through Thornton’s notes. Thumb to Gillian’s address which I assume will be a budget rental somewhat like my own: lounge room converted to a home office, main bedroom demoted to a lounge room, and the second bedroom barely accommodating a king-size bed and small dressing table – a dual purpose establishment set up to claim tax deductions on home purchases that will be defrayed as office expenses. I’ve purchased a leather settee under that very scam. The settee became part of my clients’ waiting area furnishings, which I later replaced with a budget sofa.

  I take the scenic route home – a circuitous thirty-mile detour – to check out Gillian’s address. I locate the average, two-bedroom terrace in one of Cheltenham’s quieter back streets. It reeks of rental: weeds sprout across the frontage; cobwebs span windows’ corners, and flakes of white paint fall from windowsills like coconut off a lamington. In the local paper, real estate professionals would declare it a ‘renovator’s delight awaiting tender-loving care’. I dump my car in a side street and trek back to the building. Knock on the door. No reply, as expected. I disadvantage myself by standing in view of the half-dozen neighbours who have little other to do than gawk from their windows. That rules out lock picking and window forcing. I reschedule the search and find mission.

  Cheltenham is laid out in the grid pattern popular in the late 1700s. Running parallel with major streets are barely traversable lanes allowing access to the homes’ rear yard. I often use those lanes for covert surveillance – a purpose far disconnected from their original function of providing discrete access to collect night tins. I canvass the narrow thoroughfare, checking for entry points along the squiggly line of battered corrugated iron fences. Frenzied ivy strangles trees, rickety fence panels and dilapidated gates. I leap over soiled nappies and plastic shopping bags bulging with household refuse, and sidestep smashed beer and spirit bottles glinting on the cobblestones. The odour of a departed pet assails my nostrils.

  When faced with rows of cloned pre-war red brick, grey-slated roof, two up and two down terraces, a problem exists in trying to identify a specific property from the rear. The fail-safe method is to scan the roofline and count back chimneys from the end home.

  I tally five clay pots holding up skewed television antennas, and arrive at Gillian’s rear gate, one of few intact. It is padlocked from inside. I peer through the hand-hole. It is clearly Gillian Trotter’s home. She uses my brand of security: curtains left open, old tops and underwear left on the clothes line, and one that truly impresses me, what appears to be a redundant store mannequin sitting behind an upstairs window. The alternative is unthinkable.

  For now, I’ll store the information for the later mission.

  Three hours after downing a chicken schnitzel at the Knight’s Arms, I fancy a cake-hunting stroll along Cheltenham’s High Street mall and swanky arcades. I’ve walked only fifty metres when a flashing sign attracts me: Heavenly Spirits. It is heaven-sent because if not for a faulty electrical component known as a fluorescent starter, I would have continued blindly by the bottle shop. I take advantage of the find to top up my two-bottle alcohol cupboard. I enter the store, acknowledge a young woman stacking shelves, and browse the liqueur section. I snub the droned ‘Can I help you?’ with retail customers’ stock response: ‘Just looking thanks.’ To negate any perception of ignorance, I look up, and after making eye contact, read the staff member’s name badge: Rose Hernandez.

  I scan the kaleidoscope of coloured liqueurs in peculiar bottles. I seize my standby Bailey’s Irish Cream, approach Miss Hernandez, and ask if a new taste sensation has recently captured the market. She assesses me as if I am crazy and looks about ready blurt, ‘How the fuck would I know?’

  It’s all about product knowledge, isn’t it? If I go to a library or bookstore and ask for a book written similar to, say, John Grisham, a knowledgeable librarian might recommend Scott Turow or Lisa Scottoline. Equally, if Jackie Collins takes my fancy, I might pick up Danielle Steele or Nora Roberts.

  ‘Sorry,’ I stutter. ‘I thought you might suggest something nice. I don’t want to waste twenty quid on something I’ll later tip down the sink.’

  Hernandez switches from the couldn’t-give-a-damn attitude to sales mode and suggests I try Orange Shock which sells in 375 and 750ml bottles. I grab the smaller sampling and grace the ‘Customer Service’ podium, which has become a sugary description of the cash desk.

  I pass the bottle over the counter and hand her a debit card along with one of my business cards as egotistical self-promotion.

  VI

  Determined to avoid his father, Angelo visits his parents’ home only during Giuseppe’s habitual afternoon nap. On this particular Saturday, his mother raises the topic that continues to shake her marriage. Maria offloads her stress over the boundary dispute, claiming that the mammoth shed wreaked the final blow; Giuseppe so enraged by Westlands Council ignoring the rights of a seventeen-year responsible ratepayer in favour of an upstart hobby farmer.

  ‘Angelo, you speak more sense than your father. He thinks of the past, not the future. You talk to papa. You tell him just don’t look the shed too much, look other way and if you’re still angry you don’t need to talk to Mr Mac. You better with words. I no say things with the same sense like you.’

  ‘You know papa and I don’t talk. He’ll think I’m trying to tell him what to do and how to run his life. I don’t want to make trouble, and you know mama; it will make trouble for you also. I think I’ll go now and see you later in the week.’

  * * *

  With a whole afternoon before Saturday’s late shift start of 6.00 p.m., McMaster settles in his conservatory to enjoy a home-cooked lunch. His estrangement from Gloria means that the meal of eggs, sausages, bacon, beans and tomatoes, smothered with chilli sauce, is ‘home-cooked’ by himself.

  Don McLean’s ‘American Pie’ wails from a pair of Bose speakers. McMaster utters the interesting proposition: Why has no one composed a song about Spotted Dick? An opportunity awaits an aspiring artist prepared to deliver a unique rendition through one of many talent productions: I get my kicks from Spotted Dicks.

  Beyond the rear garden’s green expanse he notices a black Audi parked at the rear of the Caruso’s
property. Angelo. too A Caruso get together could be discussing his purchase offer: McMaster’s wishful thinking. He’d earlier considered convening a meeting to present the bid and embellish the benefits to his small audience. However, their fractious relationship dashed the prospect of his doing so, leaving hope of cordial negotiations as distant as the likelihood of resurrecting his marriage.

  His intense observation of the Caruso property fuels paranoiac thoughts of the family plotting against him. Desperate to satisfy his curiosity, he abandons his meal and creeps to the rear boundary where he shields behind a stand of straggly poplars. He lights a cigarette but quickly crushes it into the ground lest the smoke disclose his presence. The conversation is barely perceptible, although a snatch of Giuseppe’s gruff voice wavers across the boundary: ‘I no want him here. He always do what he wants. He have no consideration for others.’ And then, like a blaring commercial injected into a silent movie, a cacophony of yells and screams explode from the Caruso kitchen.

  Angelo exits the back door, walks to his car and falls inside. Doesn’t move.

  McMaster recognises the trait. He adopts a similar ritual to calm his temper or collect thoughts. But he isn’t calm now. He takes the slur to heart: I no want him here… He have no consideration for others. Marchant clenches his fists. Fails to consider that the comment might have been made against Giuseppe’s own son.

  When a police officer rushes to a domestic disturbance, an ethical dilemma presents itself: intervene to avert a potentially volatile confrontation, or turn a blind-eye and let the quarrelling participants resolve their own differences. It disturbs him that hostility could fracture the lifelong relationship of the devoted couple. McMaster has attended numerous domestic conflicts – triggered, in the main, by the male partner. Consequently, he harbours great resentment against instigators of domestic violence, and that compounds his predicament: act or retreat?

  He returns to his conservatory. Slugs another double shot of Dewar’s and heaves in unfiltered cigarette.

  ‘Mr Mac. Mr Mac. Come quick. My husband. He’s a fallen down. Not good. Not good.’

  McMaster guzzles the remaining inch of whisky like a toilet cistern dropping its ten-litre flush. Races to the back door. ‘Maria, what is it? Joe’s hurt?’

  ‘You musta come quick. Please.’

  McMaster realises that Maria has hobbled 300 metres across uneven pasture to his door. He helps her to his car, and moments later halts at the rear of the Caruso property. He prises open the back door and tiptoes across the terrazzo floor. Enters the kitchen. The room reeks of a commercial galley whose aromas of garlic, tomato paste and boiling pasta cling to walls and ceilings. Giuseppe lays motionless on the floor, face down, arms outstretched above his head. McMaster checks for a pulse. Nothing. He commences CPR – preservation of human life taking priority over yet-to-attend paramedics and crime-scene investigators. He pumps his patient’s chest – 100 to the minute. Nothing. Repeats the series: press and press and press and press. No twitch. No sudden jerks. No eye movement. No sign of recovery. He heaves air into the man he has for the past few weeks treated with disdain. Maria fills the doorway, hands clasped to her face.

  ‘Phone 999,’ McMaster yells, while silently berating her for having not already done so instead of wasting time running a cross-country marathon to his home. Panic. Does strange things to people.

  His resuscitative efforts fail, as do those of paramedics who arrive twelve minutes later.

  McMaster’s investigative instincts beat 220. During recent protracted discussions with Giuseppe, he’d witnessed no sign of a heart condition or other physical ailment. That’s not to say that Giuseppe isn’t riddled with cancer, but to Phillip McMaster the death of a seemingly healthy person is not normal. He switches to police mode: ‘Maria. Your husband on medication?’

  ‘No Mr Mac. He’s take nothing. He’s healthy. He’ll be all right?’

  McMaster looks to the paramedics and exhales a desperate sigh. An officer shakes his head. His colleague, wise to the situation, avoids eye contact. McMaster accepts the grim task. Pulls himself from the floor and takes Maria’s hand. ‘I’m sorry, Maria. He’s gone. Could be a heart attack. We’ll know more once these gentlemen have finished. Is there someone I can call?’

  Maria clasps her hand to her chest and lets out a piercing ‘Noooo.’

  McMaster tries again. ‘Let me get someone to sit with you. Who can I call?’

  ‘I have my Angelo, but I’m prefer be alone.’

  He leads Maria to the lounge room and returns to the kitchen. Makes a pot of tea. Notes furniture placement and removes evidence of disarray. And then he wipes the back door frame and latch.

  The Coroner notes a fracture at the base of Giuseppe’s skull. He will not comment on whether the break was caused by the deceased falling to the floor or whether it was occasioned pre- or post-mortem. He confirms the cause of death is subject to autopsy, but does offer a preliminary determination of death occurring between 2.00 and 4.00 p.m.

  Maria Caruso must now accept the possibility of someone having murdered her husband.

  * * *

  Over succeeding days McMaster works tirelessly, offers consolation to his neighbour, maintains the property, distributes feed to the few chickens, regulates watering systems, ensures gates are locked, and even collects weekly shopping. He tends Maria’s tiny vegetable garden and is rewarded with take-home casseroles and home-baked bread. ‘I can’t cook for only me,’ Maria cries. ‘I’m always cook the big pasta for Giuseppe. Now I’m give some for you and Angelo.’

  McMaster accepts the gifts, but seizes the mention of Angelo’s name as a means to further his own agenda. He had thought that Angelo would step in and take over the bulk of his father’s responsibilities. His conclusion is shattered when he learns that Angelo has no interest in working from dusk to dawn to grow what he could buy for less in Tesco. McMaster sees the once pristine farmlet blowing away with Midlands’ gusts: ‘Maria. This is not the life for you anymore. It’s not just the upkeep of the property. Taxes and maintenance will worry you more than you can imagine – especially while grieving for your dear husband.’

  To a less sympathetic person, the patronising, romanticised language would be nauseating. He continues: ‘You could be so happy in a small retirement unit. You’ll have all your mementos and memories close by; your children will visit; and you’ll make friendship with people in similar circumstances. I’ll buy the property. Remember I told you I’m thinking about farming? I’m closer to my dream. If I buy your land, I can develop an especially productive operation.’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Mac. It sounds good idea. I tell you I asked for Giuseppe to sell, but he’s just say I want to complicate his retirement. Maybe it’s not fair if I sell. Is like disrespect to my Giuseppe.’

  ‘No Maria. Giuseppe would want what’s best for you. He would want you to think of him and pray for him in peace. You can’t do that when you’re fighting council over taxes or trying to get plumbers to fix broken water pipes can you?’

  ‘Mr Mac. You’re like my Angelo. He’s always know the right thing to do. I’m speaking to him later. I think is good idea. I’m not liking being here where my Giuseppe’s passed away. That’s what is, how you say, disrespectful?’

  McMaster smiles. I’m on a winner. ‘You’re right. You speak with Angelo. I’ll write up an offer so you’ve got something to discuss. And I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll insert a clause that lets you stay here, rent-free, while you plan your future.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Mac. You’re a kind man. I’m tell that to Giuseppe when you offer to pay for the boundary mistake. I wish he’s just taked the money and then he’s maybe not have the stress that kills him.’

  McMaster realises that his fortune lies not only beneath Ashton Hill and Blackshaw’s Mill, but also with Angelo Caruso.

  Angelo Caruso is a disappointment to his parents.
He has pulled from life little other than perfecting (rated on his own scale) the art of deception. As a seven-year-old, he artfully deceived imprudent school students, graduating from sleight-of-hand swap card rorts to extorting Gameboys and mobile phones. His teen years saw him scam money, clothes and anything else he could lever from his younger and smaller victims. Angelo learned that verbal threats did more for his image than the anonymity of pickpocketing and general thieving. He was a true product of his environment, having grown up in a pressure-cooker of power and violence. How could he not believe that domination reaps rewards?

  Still hoodwinking the public, he now spends most of his working week in a twenty-four-hour gymnasium. With no qualifications or school certificate, he lounges behind the membership desk in runner’s shorts and tight muscle shirts. He’s never ‘trained’ a client in his three years of employment, but deceptively wears the self-aggrandising title of personal trainer.

  Angelo is a flesh covered rock. Victims of his extortion practices readily part with cash and valuables rather than risk an altercation with the ruffian. Built not from hours of sweat and toil in the hard-core gym, Angelo follows the fool’s guide to gaining size: eat all you can and down a regime of illegal steroids and Human Growth Hormone. His diet of pasta and oil-saturated cuisine ensures he exceeds the calorific requirements, and working in an environmental magnet of shady characters ensures he has easy access to banned substances.