by Ben Elton
Newson thanked Mrs Bishop and put the phone down. He went to his computer with the intention of searching the files on the Spencer and Tatum murders again to see if there had been mention of music that he’d so far missed. However, something was waiting for him that required instant attention.—
There was an email from Christine Copperfield.
Disappointingly it was not a personal message. His name was only one of many on the list in the address box. She was contacting the whole class. Nonetheless he was included, and she was definitely back. After twenty years Christine Copperfield and he were sharing the same environment. Even if it was only a virtual one.
Hi Guys! How’s it GOING! Christine here. Yeah! Looks like once you start with this Friends Reunited thing you just can’t STOP. Look, I had a thought OK’ Did you see that they’re having a big Eighties concert in Hyde Park? YAVI It’s called ‘How Cool Were We?’ and weren’t we just!! It’s an incredible line-up too! Duran, The Thompson Twins, Spandau!! I mean COME ON GUYS! This one was made for US! And, more importantly, it’s all for charity! Kidcall! Yeah, it’s being organized by Dick Crosby, isn’t he the greatest? I SO admire all the brilliant stuff he’s done. Anyway I was thinking why don’t we use it as an excuse for a reunion! Yeah! We could meet somewhere cool like maybe Pizza On The Park (gotta eat! Don’t want to get TOO pissed!!!) and then go on to the gig! How cool would that be? I’d be happy to organize the tickets (might even be able to get some concessions through my PR job daaaaarling), so I only need to know the numbers. INTERESTED??? Get back to me. And hey, Roger? Gary? If you’re around you guys HAVE to come, can’t hold grudges, LIFE’S TOO SHORT!! See ya!!
Newson wrote back immediately.
Dear Christine, You ask how cool would that be? My answer is WAY COOL! Count me IN! It’s wonderful of you to offer to organize this, I must say, but then you always were rather wonderful, weren’t you? Particularly during the period between the 12th and 18th of December 1984 which still ranks for me as the best week of my school days. I THINK you know why. Listen, I’m SO glad you’re an admirer of Dick Crosby, I think he’s great too. In fact I sort of know him! Yeah! jealous? Get OVER it. Yeah, he’s done some work with the Police Officers’ Federation. He addressed our last conference and I got chatting to him. Maybe I’ll be able to introduce you at the Hyde Park thing, although no promises! Hey, it’s so great that you’ve broken into the media! You really followed your dream, didn’t you? And I thought I had an exciting job as Senior Murder Detective with the National Crime Agency working out of New Scotland Yard, and yes, before you ask, I am cleared to carry firearms, but I promise not to bring a gun to the gig. HEY! How cool are we! GOLD! as Spandau Ballet used to say. I guess you can’t put it better than that, can you?
Feeling rather ashamed but very pleased with himself, Newson pressed ‘send’ before his conscience had a chance to stop him.
Almost immediately he had mail, but it wasn’t from Christine, it was from Helen. He’d been expecting to hear from her sooner rather than later. There was no way he was ever going to have been able to simply walk away from that one. What he hadn’t expected was for the note to have a jpeg attached to it. Helen had sent him a photograph.
The subject in the title bar said ‘This Is Me’ and when Newson opened the jpeg it was a picture of Helen naked. She was standing in her flat with her arms slightly apart, the palms of her hands turned outwards to show the cuts. Apart from the scarring it was in fact a very pretty photograph. Helen’s body did not look as skinny as Newson had expected it to and her legs were shapely with nice calves. Her pubic mound was bushy, natural and unwaxed, which Newson remembered from when they had slept together and rather liked, and those tiny, weird little breasts stuck straight out from her ribcage in an engaging manner. Helen wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t frowning either. There was just enough quizzical curl at the corner of her mouth to bring out one of her dimples, and her short cropped hair had clearly had some product put in it. Newson considered that Helen must have been quite pleased with this photograph, for overall she looked very cute.
He opened the email.
Dear Ed,
So now you know my weakness. My shameful secret. I cut myself. I know. I know. Get a grip, girl. Get a life. I wasn’t lying when I said that I don’t do it often, but I was lying when I told you that I hadn’t done it recently. I expect you knew that, didn’t you? You’re a detective after all. I expect you know all about scars. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that the fact that I’m a self-abuser is not all of me, in fact it’s not much of me at all…just a tiny part, something that comes upon me from time to time, a kind of self-hate. I suppose when I’m down I get this kind of idle curiosity about how much worse I can feel. It’s almost like doodling. I don’t know what to do with myself so I make marks on my arms. But most of the time I’m not like that at all. I love my boy and I love my job. I told you that I was bullied and it’s really important to me to help other kids who find themselves in the same situation. That’s why I work for Kidcall. You wouldn’t believe the things that happen, the pain that’s caused. Kids, as they say, can be so cruel. But the positive side is we can help and we do help. That’s what I hang on to, always accentuate the positive.
I hope you like the photo and I hope you don’t think that sending it to you is too weird a thing to do, but having made such a point about the darkness last night I wanted you to know that I am not ashamed of who I am or for you to see me in the light.
This Is Me.
Love and love, Helen.
PS Karl is with his grandmother tomorrow night. I could come to you if you like. No pressure. Don’t even feel that you have to reply. I promise I won’t slash myself. H. xxx.
It was a very nice note to go with a very nice photo. Newson looked at the picture again.
When he’d left Helen’s flat the previous night he’d been quite sure that their new relationship such as it was would end right there, Too much baggage, as they say, far too much baggage. On the other hand, who was he to be so proud? He was a lonely man of thirty-four who was quite gruesomely obsessed with his entirely attached and equally uninterested sergeant. He drank too much, occasionally used pornography and was having rings run round him by a mysterious psychopath. He was useless.—
Helen, on the other hand, was all right. So she had her problems? Just because he went to bed with her did not make those problems his. She was lonely, he was lonely. What was more, he imagined that she, with her dimpled smile and pixie eyes, would find it a lot easier to meet people than he did. And yet she wanted him. That was nice. He felt flattered.
Dear Helen,
I thought the photograph was a lovely gesture and also a very lovely photograph. Forgive me if I don’t reciprocate with one of my own, but I’m not sure the net is ready yet for my naked ginger sauciness. It would be very nice to see you tomorrow night. Do you eat fish?
Ed
Newson toyed with the issue of how many crosses to add for some little while. How many? If any? In his suddenly fired up and horny state he was tempted to put about ten, but he knew that the sensible thing would be to go easy. Because of a combination of their ancient intimacy and the curious familiarity that emailing allowed, they’d come a long way very quickly. This woman was effectively a stranger, and yet he had already slept with her once and was now arranging almost immediately to do so again. Ed put one cross beside his name.
Ed. x.
Then he added another. And another.
Ed. xxx.
The following day was a Friday, most of which Newson spent at the Home Office in various political briefings and self-consciously cloak-and-dagger meetings. He had been told to proceed there urgently by no less a figure than Chief Superintendent Ward, because for all her youth Farrah Porter had been a high-profile MP.
‘A chance to redeem yourself on this one,’ Ward had said. ‘Don’t want another unsolved Tory politico on your record, do you? They’ll be giving you honorary membership of Sinn Fein.’
‘Lord Scanlan-McGregor’s absence from the House had a significant effect on the fate of both the Northern Ireland Police Bill and the blood sports second reading,’ Ward said. ‘In my opinion it seems a near certainty that he was abducted for political motives, and I don’t think we can rule that out in the case of Farrah Porter’s murder.’
Except, of course, in Newson’s mind it could be ruled out because as far as he was concerned it was quite the stupidest idea he had heard in a long time. He said as much to the lady from MI6 with whom he had been instructed to liaise as they sat opposite each other in a featureless, windowless basement room in Whitehall.
‘Why would a terrorist or maliciously motivated foreign power murder an opposition back-bencher, bleach her skin and dye her hair orange?’ he asked.
‘She was no longer merely a back-bencher,’ the woman replied. ‘Porter had just been co-opted on to the Shadow Cabinet steering committee for Northern Ireland.’
‘The parliamentary Tory Party isn’t as big as it used to be,’ said Newson. ‘Most of their MPs are on some standing committee or other.’
‘Orange. Very emotive colour in Northern Ireland, don’t you think?’
‘You’re kidding me, of course. This is a joke, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all. Porter was an unashamed Unionist, reactionary even by Northern Irish standards. Opposed to the Good Friday Agreement, opposed to any form of power-sharing with Sinn Fein. Apart from the fact that she was born in Basingstoke, she was an out-and-out Orangewoman. Perhaps somebody decided to actually turn her into one.’
‘You think some loony Republican dyed her hair orange to show what happens to people who oppose a united Ireland?’
‘We have to be alert to every possibility.’
‘In that case you should be alert to the possibility that this is completely insane.’
Newson left the meeting promising to keep MI6 closely informed of any developments in his investigation and went in search of rainbow trout. He intended to microwave it with butter and herbs and offer it with new potatoes and a summer salad.
This was going to be a nice evening. He was going to enjoy himself and hopefully get laid again. He was careful choosing the wine. A Margaret River Chardonnay.
Helen arrived almost exactly on time, having walked from West Hampstead tube station. She had with her an overnight bag. This took Newson slightly aback. While he realized that there could be little doubt about the nature of their intended liaison and that it was perhaps sensible of Helen to bring a toothbrush and a change of pants, nonetheless it made him feel a little uncomfortable. After all, sex had not actually been discussed, and if Newson was honest with himself he had rather hoped that at some point in the night Helen would return to her own home.
Clearly she did not feel the same way.
‘Hello, you,’ she said when Newson opened the door. She had on a tight white T-shirt from DKNY, white baggy combat pants with lots of bits hanging off them, and pink Doc Martens. She had obviously made an effort and looked sexy in a politically aware, feminist sort of way.
‘Hi,’ Newson replied. He too had done his best and was sporting chinos and a blue silk shirt.
They kissed in a slightly self-conscious manner in the open doorway and Newson showed Helen through the little house to the kitchen/dining room at the back, where he had been preparing the meal.
‘I brought some vodka,’ Helen said. ‘I hope you like vodka, because it cost fourteen pounds. It’s still pretty cold. I’ve had it in the freezer and I wrapped it in newspaper for the journey.’
‘Yes, I like vodka,’ Newson replied. ‘Shall we have it with orange juice? We could sit in the back garden. I’m rather proud of my garden.’
Newson’s kitchen opened on to a tiny garden, which lay between his house and the North London railway line. He loved this little oasis of nature and had been toying with the idea of doing the trout on his barbecue.
‘No orange juice,’ Helen said. ‘The whole point about vodka is you take it pure. You hit it back and then chase it with beer. Do you have any beer?’
‘Yes, loads. D’you want cold lager or Guinness at room temperature?’
‘Cold Guinness.’
‘That’ll take time.’
‘We don’t have time. Cold lager.’
There was undoubtedly something sexy about Helen’s brisk, almost urgent manner. It created a tension between them but one of expectation. Newson reached into the fridge to get the beer, and without asking Helen took two glass tumblers from a shelf.
She filled each of them three-quarters full with Stolichnaya vodka.
‘That’s a lot of vodka, Helen,’ Newson remarked, puffing the beer on the table.
‘If you want to get high on alcohol you have to drink it strong and fast. I hate the way most people drink. They drink just as much as this more, lots more — but they take all evening doing it and all the time they get more stupid and more brought down. If you take a big shot early and then relax into it, you get sharp and high. It’s a spin-out.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes. And it saves time.’ Helen picked up her near-full tumbler of vodka, put it to her lips and began to gulp it down. In moments she had finished. She slammed it down with a mighty gasp.
‘Fuck,’ she said. ‘Now you have to do it too or else we’ll spend the whole evening on entirely different levels of reality.’
Helen seemed more fun than she had done on their previous evening together, and much prettier too. The sudden alcohol rush had brought a pink hue to her cheeks.
Newson picked up the glass and drank the vodka down. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!’ he gasped, although scarcely able to raise a sound from his larynx. Then he began to gag.
‘Of course, you can’t be sick,’ Helen said. ‘That ruins it.’
‘Thanks,’ Newson replied, fighting with his stomach for mastery of his body.
‘The beer’ll taste good now,’ Helen said.
And it did. Having won the struggle to keep the vodka down, it was already having a marvellous heady effect on Newson. Helen was right, he thought. Getting drunk quickly at the start of an evening was much more fun than drinking slowly and ending up sozzled at the end. He was already enjoying a wicked, liberated feeling, the same sudden rush of joie de vivre that he got on occasions like his birthday when he allowed himself to drink at lunchtime. Of course, as with lunchtime drinking, Newson knew that there would be a price to pay later, but for the time being he was determined to live for the moment.
Helen drank most of a can of Stella and burped hugely. For some reason Newson found this amusing and also very attractive. He drank his own beer in two or three big gulps and belched.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now that the tone has been suitably lowered, dinner.’
Newson turned towards the chopping board, attempting to stay upright and conceal the fact that his head was spinning around somewhere close to the ceiling. ‘I’m doing rainbow trout. Mish is what ficrowaves were made for. I mean, fish is what ficr…Fircoowaves. Shit, you know what I mean. It’s what they were made for. That and porridge, as long as you have a big enough bowl, because it expands alarmingly.’
‘Really? Rather like you, as I recall,’ Helen said.
‘Ah. Yes. Well…um…Dinner.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Got to eat.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Helen repeated, crossing the kitchen to stand directly behind Newson at the workbench. Then she put her arms around him and began to undo his belt buckle.
‘Helen, I’ve already put the potatoes on.’
‘I said I’m not hungry.’
She had her hand inside his trousers now. The touch of her urgent, lively fingers trying to find a way inside his underpants was a welcome feeling, but the speed and intensity of her desire had taken him by surprise. And then there were the potatoes. They’d soon be boiling. Perhaps he should turn them off? Except that they really ought to eat. He felt as if his body contained nothing but alcohol, which was of course pretty close to the truth.
‘Helen…’
But her hand was already inside his underpants. She had hold of him now and further protest was useless. He was already expanding alarmingly like microwaved porridge, and as he hardened in her grip she began to jerk at him roughly.
‘Ow,’ Newson said. ‘That hurts.’
‘Good,’ Helen replied, and she pulled him around to face her. Clamping her mouth on his and using her free hand to pull open her own trousers, she grabbed at one of Newson’s hands and thrust it down between their bodies. It was the hand with which Newson had been about to chop some spring onions.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ Newson gasped into Helen’s mouth as the sharp cook’s knife clattered on to the floor. He had only had a second to let go of it before his hand was buried deep into the thick hair of Helen’s groin.
‘I was holding a knife!’
‘That’s nice,’ Helen said as she adjusted her legs to welcome Newson’s hand between them, pushing herself against him as he leant back on the workbench.