Past Mortem

by Ben Elton

  The big, tough, sad-looking men smiled and thanked him. ‘That’s right, lad. You tell ‘em.’

  Christine could not help but be impressed, even though she strongly disapproved of the strike. ‘You know they get loads of money from Russia, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s a Tory lie,’ Newson replied. ‘The Russians don’t have loads of money.

  Newson paid for the tickets and bought choc ices and Kia-Ora orange juice, which Christine informed him was for babies and nerds and sent him back for a Coke.

  ‘I’m a traditionalist when it comes to eating at the flicks,’ he informed her. ‘Gotta be a choc ice, never mind all that King Cone crap. That’s all wrong, that is.’

  Christine laughed. She laughed at almost everything Newson said, and his reward had been a snog. A genuine full-on, back-seat snog and fumble. She’d let him put his tongue in her mouth and his hand up her jumper. She’d even placed her hand in his lap and rubbed a bit, although only on the outside of his trousers. He’d never been more excited in his whole life.

  When they emerged from the cinema it was dark and the High Street Christmas lights were on. They’d stopped by the church’s Christmas crib and listened to the Salvation Army band playing carols. ‘I hate the way Christmas has been overtaken by religion,’ the young Newson had quipped. ‘People seem to have forgotten that Christmas is supposed to be a commercial festival about getting pissed and spending too much money.

  ‘You are so funny,’ Christine had said and kissed him again.

  He could still recall the exquisite feeling of her cold face against his. They’d had supper in McDonald’s, which was still relatively new and exciting, and then took the bus to Godalming, where Christine lived. He walked her to her house and received one last lingering Christmas tonguey under the mistletoe that hung above the door. Then her dad called her in and she was gone. He floated home as if the return bus was a hovercraft. He’d never been so happy.

  The next day Christine rang him up and told him he was dumped. It was tough, but he was not as devastated as he might have been. He’d known that he was in a dream and that sooner rather than later he would wake up.

  ‘I didn’t really want to dump you,’ Christine said now, pouring more wine. ‘I just sort of had to.’

  ‘Because I was Spewsome Newson and you were Christine Copperfield and there are rules about these things.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘That’s OK, Christine. I was amazed you bucked popular opinion for as long as you did.’

  ‘Well, you were cool, you know, sort of. Everybody thought that, even if you didn’t yourself. I think that was always part of your attraction, that you were kind of cool but you obviously didn’t think so…You just weren’t sexy, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, clearly not’

  ‘Not then, anyway.’ She smiled prettily and looked into Newson’s eyes. ‘Who’d have thought you’d end up a detective and Paul Thorogood would end up in Tesco?’

  ‘I don’t understand your problem with Tesco.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Ed, you know.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t dump you for Paul, anyway. I already knew he was a loser. I dumped you for Pete Congreve.’

  ‘Yes, he was a sixth-former, wasn’t he? I didn’t know him. You were pretty brutal when you did your dumping, Christine. Once out of the circle you were well and truly out. Do you know, I think we hardly ever spoke to each other again.’

  ‘God, I must have been such a bitch. I still see Pete occasionally when I go home at Christmas. He’s a postman.’

  ‘I suppose you think that’s uncool too.’

  ‘Well, postmen aren’t licensed to carry guns, are they?’

  ‘I very rarely carry a gun.’

  ‘You see!’ she squealed. ‘I can’t believe that Ed Newson is even saying that! No one would ever have thought it.’

  The bottle of wine they had been sharing was nearly empty, and they were both quite drunk. Christine leaned forwards, resting her elbows on the table and her chin on her- hands. Her surgically enhanced, horizontally mounted attachments hung in the air like two big guided missiles, frozen in flight. It had to be said that they did not look very natural, or even comfortable…Not like Natasha’s. For a moment Newson found himself thinking of Natasha.

  But then Christine kissed him on the lips. ‘That’s for making today so special,’ Christine said.

  ‘You did it, not me,’ Newson replied, his heart flying and his groin straining. ‘You organized everything.

  Anyway, it’s not over yet. We still have to meet Dick. Come on,’ he said, getting up.

  They left the catering tent and made their way to the stage. Dick Crosby was standing at the side talking to Simon Bates. Newson boldly led Christine up one of the trolley ramps, at the top of which they were stopped once more by the omniscient security figures, but once again Newson’s badge worked its magic. ‘Police,’ he said curtly, and they were allowed through.

  ‘Are you sure you’re not going to get into terrible trouble doing this?’ asked Christine.

  ‘I might, if I was caught. But as I’m pretty certain I’m the most senior officer present on the site I don’t really see who’s going to do the catching.’

  ‘Ed! Will you please stop being so cool!’

  But he just couldn’t help it. He was on a roll.

  They had arrived side stage and they paused for a moment to take in the view. The whole east side of Hyde Park was a seething mass of people, fifteen thousand of them at least, all hopping and bopping to ‘Down Under’ performed by one Man At Work.

  ‘So this is how it feels to be a pop star,’ Christine said, squeezing Newson’s hand once more and pressing her thigh against his.

  Just ahead of them Dick Crosby was checking his notes before making another appeal.

  ‘Come on. I said I was going to introduce you to the main man, didn’t I? Let’s grab him before he goes back on.

  With only the tiniest pretence at shy resistance Christine allowed herself to be dragged through the mass of cables, flight cases, large men in black and women talking earnestly into headsets.

  ‘Mr Crosby?…Dick,’ Newson said. ‘Newson. Detective Inspector Ed Newson, New Scotland Yard.’

  Crosby looked up. ‘Yes, Inspector?’

  ‘This is Christine Copperfield, a friend of mine,’ Newson said and Crosby turned his smile on Christine, which she returned with a dazzling combination of teeth, bust and fluttering eyelashes. Crosby was famous for his womanizing and for a moment Newson wondered whether introducing Christine had been a mistake. The last thing he wanted was for Crosby to pull her. He need not have worried. Crosby obviously liked the look of Christine but he seemed more interested in what a detective inspector was doing backstage at his gig.

  ‘Police business,’ Newson explained. ‘Nothing to concern you. An event like this is always going to attract lowlife and my officers and I like to keep our eyes on it. I just thought while I was backstage I’d say hello. We spoke at the FPO a couple of years back…The Police Officers’ Federation…You were working on initiatives around urban bullying. You know, neighbours from hell.’

  ‘Ah yes, I remember,’ said Crosby, who was obviously pretending that he recalled Newson, to whom of course he’d never actually spoken. ‘We thought we were facing up to a massive social problem, and it turned out we were just researching a reality TV programme.’

  They all laughed at Crosby’s quip and then once more the afternoon’s biggest star was called upon to cajole the audience into making further donations to Kidcall.

  Newson and Christine descended the trolley ramps with Christine prattling ecstatically about what a thrill and an honour it had been to meet Mr Crosby.

  And that was when they bumped into Helen Smart. She was heading towards the stage-right stairs and they quite literally bumped into each other. Helen was holding a large sheaf of papers covered in figures and graphs and she was forced to bend down and pick them
up. Newson tried to help her, but she pushed him aside.

  ‘Helen!’ he said. ‘Wow. Hello…um. Christine, Helen, you remember each other…you know, from school. Yes, of course you do.’

  ‘Helen!’ Christine squealed. ‘Helen Smart! I can’t believe it’s you. You look great. I love your hair. So funky! No, really, I just love it.’

  ‘Hello, Ed,’ Helen said, refusing to look at Christine. Christine ploughed on. ‘But, Helen, this is great! You’re here! Ed told me you might be. I was really hoping we’d bump into you, that’s really why we came backstage, isn’t it, Ed? I mentioned you when we had our drinks. Didn’t I, Ed?’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘So now you just have to come and see everyone, join the reunion, because I think it’s time to move on, don’t you, Helen? I mean about the things you wrote — ’

  ‘I’m not coming — to your poxy fucking reunion, you disgusting bitch.’

  Newson was taken aback by the ferocity of Helen’s tone.

  ‘Oh!’ said Christine. ‘There’s hardly any call to — ’

  Helen turned to Newson. ‘So you’ve pulled this slapper again, have you? Well done, you. Don’t let those tits get too close to the microwave, though. They might go pop.’

  ‘Now hang on a minute,’ Christine said.

  ‘No, you hang on. What the fuck are you doing back here, anyway? Where are your passes?’

  ‘We were just going, Helen,’ Newson said gently.

  ‘Good idea. Piss off.’

  ‘Look, Helen,’ Christine protested, ‘this is silly. If I said I was sorry, would that help? Because I am. I — ’

  ‘I said, piss off.’

  ‘Well, I think that’s pathetic.’

  ‘And I don’t give a flying fuck what an airhead slag like you thinks, Christine.’ Helen turned back to Newson. ‘I presume you used your warrant card to get back here because there’s no other way you’d have got through. That’s an abuse of authority and you’d better leave now or I’ll make a complaint against you. I will, Ed, don’t think I’m joking. I just can’t believe you brought her back here. After what you know she did to me…You must have known I’d be here.’

  ‘I thought you might be, Helen, but we wanted to meet Dick Crosby. Sorry, but there it is.’

  ‘Whatever. Who gives a fuck? Just go.’

  ‘No,’ said Christine, ‘I’m not going anywhere yet. In fact, I’m going to have another drink.’

  ‘You don’t have a pass. I’ll call security.’

  ‘Tell-tale tit, your tongue shall split. I’ll call security…I’ll tell teacher…You always were a bit sad, weren’t you, Helen? Call who you like. Ed’s the most senior policeman here and I’m with him. Do you think his own cops are going to nick him? Who are you going to call? Ghostbusters?’ Christine turned on her heel and headed back to the catering area.

  ‘Look, Helen,’ said Newson. ‘We’ll drink up and then we’ll go.’

  ‘Christine Copperfield. Jesus, Ed! Christine Copperfield. How could you?’

  Newson was getting bored with Helen Smart, bored and annoyed. If everything she had accused Christine of was true then she had every reason to be angry and unforgiving. But she did not have to be so completely grim the entire time. And she did not have to continually try to offload the whole thing on to him. He had not stuffed a tampon in her mouth twenty years before. On the other hand, less than two weeks previously she had tricked him into having unprotected anal sex. That was almost certainly a criminal act if it could be proved. If it had been the other way round and he had played the same trick on her, it would have been called a serious sexual assault, and quite rightly so. Helen Smart had no call to be so high and mighty.

  ‘Helen. Please. Do yourself a favour. Get over it. You only get one life. You should be getting on with yours. We’ll be out of here very soon. All right?’ He turned away.

  ‘My nipple’s fine, thanks for asking,’ Helen said bitterly.

  ‘I didn’t cut you, Helen. You did that yourself and I’m telling you now, you really need to get some help. Think of Karl.’

  ‘You know something, Ed? One thing I’ve learnt working for Kidcall is that with bullying it isn’t enough to stand round shaking your head. You have to do something about it.’

  ‘I’ve made a donation, Helen. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?’

  ‘You make me sick. Bye.’

  Newson walked away and joined Christine in the catering tent.

  ‘I’ve got us a drink and some pudding,’ she said. ‘Pavlova. The meringue is lovely! I really admire people who do mass catering, don’t you?’

  Newson smiled at her. There was something about Christine’s emotional resilience that he found refreshing. Yes, she was a little shallow, but she was happy being shallow, so why try to be anything else?

  ‘Poor old Helen,’ Christine said, daintily wiping cream from her lips. ‘You really would not want to be her, would you? She so needs to get over herself! I mean, come on, Helen!’

  ‘That’s exactly what I said to her.’

  ‘And you were right. Anyway, let’s forget her, she’s not going to ruin my day, which is turning out to be just the best. The only question is, what can we do to top it?’ Christine looked Newson steadily in the eye. He knew that the time had come to make his move.

  ‘Christine?’

  ‘Yes, Ed?’

  ‘Can we go somewhere?’

  ‘Where?’—

  ‘Maybe your place. Or mine. Or a hotel?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘My place, if that’s OK. I have to feed my flatmates’ cats. They’re both away.’

  ‘The cats?’

  ‘You are so funny! The flatmates. That’s why I have to feed the cats.’

  ‘Right. Great. Do we need to say goodbye to the old gang?’

  ‘No. I collected their money. And you were the only one I really wanted to see anyway. God, didn’t Sally Warren look awful? If ever I have kids I will simply not let myself go like that.’

  They finished their drinks and made to leave. As they passed the security barrier Newson glanced over his shoulder and saw that Helen was watching them go, tears streaming down her face. He prayed that there were no sharp objects to hand.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Newson had been surprised to learn that Christine lived in shared accommodation. From the way she’d spoken about herself and her job on the Friends Reunited site, he’d thought that she would be able to afford her own place. This might have been the case had she been prepared to live in Barnet, Watford or Morden, but Christine was a city girl who put location before space and comfort. She lived with two friends in a very nice but very small flat in a thirties-built apartment block on Abbey Road.

  ‘It’s nearly Swiss Cottage, daaaarling,’ she joked in the taxi going up the Finchley Road. ‘Which is almost Hampstead.’ Soon they were pulling up outside the imposing listed-entrance porch of Christine’s block.

  ‘Both of my flatmates are air crew,’ she said as they entered the building and stepped into the old-fashioned lift with its big metal grille. ‘I love them, but I also love the fact that they’re away so much. They’re serving drinks and bits of shrink-wrapped cheese at thirty thousand feet while I get this fantastic flat all to myself. Mind you, they can’t complain. They make heaps of money.’

  Newson could not help but reflect that this said something about what Christine must be earning herself, because he knew that flight attendants did not make ‘heaps of money’.

  The flat was solidly built, with what would be described by an estate agent as period features, including big old-fashioned radiators and proper, decent-sized skirting boards. There were two bedrooms, a double and a single that was more of a large cupboard, a living room, a tiny kitchen and a bathroom.

  ‘When we’re all here together it’s a bit crowded for sure. I have to share the double with Maureen, because it was Sandy who found the flat. Her name’s on all the forms. Boys love it w
hen I tell them I sleep with a girl! I tell them we snuggle up together with our cocoa and talk about sex. It’s all good fun, though. We have a great laugh. The Sex and the City girls, that’s us.’

  It was a very girly flat, filled with magazines, paperback books and biscuit-packet wrappers. There was an old piano that was clearly never played because its lid was covered with numerous framed photographs of bikini-clad air crew having a fantastic laugh around pools in foreign hotels. The dining table that stood in the window bay and at which it was obvious no one ever ate was piled high with photos, CDs and cassettes, Nurofen boxes and more magazines. There were cushions strewn everywhere, and a huge television surrounded by DVD boxes. In front of that was a big saggy sofa on which, Christine explained, all three girls would sit and watch television together.

  ‘You should see us. Pjs, red wine, choccy biccies. We’re terrible. We have a rule that if ever we’re all single at the same time, we get a bottle of Baileys and do Dirty Dancing and Grease on DVD as a double bill. Who needs real men when you’ve got Patrick Swayze and John Travolta? By the time we get to ‘We’ll Stick Together’ we’re singing every word. The neighbours hate it.’

  Along one wall was a bookshelf filled with stuffed toys.

  ‘Most of them belong to the others, Christine explained. ‘They get given them by Japanese businessmen…This is mine, of course. My bestest and most precious friend in all the whole world.’ She plucked an ancient stuffed figure of the lazy-eyed cartoon cat Garfield from the group of simpering fabric monsters. ‘Say hello to Inspector Newson, Garfield. Do you remember him?’

  Newson could scarcely believe it. ‘Christ, Christine. That’s not — ’

  ‘Yes it is, Ed. I’ve still got it.’