by Emmy Ellis
God, that was a bit rude.
Shouter did the same back, only she gave him the middle finger, then turned to speak to her colleagues, effectively dismissing him.
Jenny was glad when the corner was nothing but a speck behind them, although she was uncomfortable because Ollie hadn’t said anything else. It was as if she’d been plonked into the car with a stranger, prickles coming off him and attaching themselves to her skin, so much so she got goosebumps and the hairs on her arms stood up.
She threw her unease out of her head—after all, she was with him, the gorgeous Ollie, and she’d enjoy it as much as she could.
“I’ve got an E each.” He leant to switch on the CD player. “Can’t beat a bit of dance music, can you.”
“Oh right.” That was her answer about the E, but what she wanted to say was, “No, thanks.” She was scared of drugs, had seen her friends go off on one after swallowing a pill, and there was all the stuff in the news about people dying. But this was Ollie, and she wanted to fit in. Could she pretend to take it? Act like she had?
“You don’t seem impressed.” He sounded sulky, angry.
She jumped at his harsh tone. “Oh, I am, just that it’ll be my first time.”
“Thought so.” He smiled her way, all traces of anger gone.
Just that alone would convince her to do anything. What was it about love—or the desire for it—that sent people silly? She knew it was wrong to take the drug, yet she contemplated it. Because he’d smile at her again? That was bloody stupid, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from wanting to please him.
“I’ll look after you,” he said. “They’re amazing. Make you feel like you can do anything. Like kill your boss who’s pissed you off, which happened to me yesterday.”
She laughed. “Yeah, I could do with having the balls to kill mine. She’s a right cow. Picks on me.” Lies, all of it, big fat black ones. Gail Boulton was bloody lovely. So why had Jenny said that?
“So you’d murder her if you could get away with it?”
“Yeah.” She wouldn’t, of course not, but it was the answer he’d expect, she reckoned. She couldn’t imagine killing Gail, someone who took time out of her day to listen to Jenny’s problems. And she brought cakes in for break, and there was never any of that worrying over staff milk or teabags. Gail bought the lot.
Guilt arrived in the form of another blush.
“Don’t be embarrassed by having those kinds of thoughts,” Ollie said. “We all have them.”
She didn’t put him straight, that her hot cheeks were nothing to do with embarrassment but everything to do with shame. Again. God, today was a weird one. First the women on the corner, then Ollie having a go at them, and now they were discussing murder like it was normal.
Shit.
“I suppose,” she said.
“I’d do it,” he said. “Loads of people are on my list.” He laughed and tapped the steering wheel to the mad beat of a song. Was he on something? Had he dropped an upper before coming to pick her up? “Like, people who’ve done me wrong. I wouldn’t kill just anyone.”
“Me neither.” She wanted to change the subject but didn’t have the balls. “How would you do it?” Why had she asked that when she didn’t want to know?
“I’ve got a flick knife. I’d slash them up. Cut them to ribbons.”
She told herself he was joking and laughed again. “Messy.”
“Yeah, but the blood’s the best bit. Proof you did it. Like, all that red everywhere.” He laughed, too. “I’m glad you feel the same way.”
She didn’t, fuck no, but she shrugged and said, “Not many people would have this conversation.”
“No. My mates talk about it, but no one else, and I don’t think they’d actually do it.”
What had she saddled herself with here? A maniac? But the thing was, she didn’t feel scared. He wasn’t giving off murderer vibes. Then again, what were those? She’d never sat with a killer before so wouldn’t know. “We women don’t…chat about that sort of thing.”
“That makes it even more difficult for you then, keeping this stuff to yourself. Well, you’ve got me now.”
“Hmm.” Bloody hell. “So where’s this bedsit you mentioned?”
“On the seafront.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It’s all right until the gulls make a racket. When you’ve got a banging head an’ all that, the day after a rave… The sodding things go mad around lunchtime. It’s all them chips.”
Jenny thought about fish and chips, sitting on a wall and staring out to sea, Ollie beside her. The romantic in her longed for it. Was he that type of man? “I love chips straight out of the packet.”
“Same. And they taste different at the seaside.”
At last, something they had in common. “I remember it from being a kid, going to Landerlay and eating them. Dad always got me a Mr Whippy for afters, a Flake stuck in the side, pink sauce and all those tiny pieces of nuts on top.”
Ollie nodded. “Same. The good old days, although my mum never came with us. Just me and Dad. Before he fucked off. Can’t say I blame him, but it would have been nice if he took me with him instead of leaving me with Mum.”
Jenny relaxed now the talk of murder had passed, although the subject matter was still dark. He’d given her an insight into his life, and it sounded as though he resented his mother and missed his father. The conversation went on, and they chatted about anything and everything. Later, when they crested the top of a hill and the sea was laid out in the distance, the blue horizon like the edge of the world, she gasped, as she always did when she saw it.
“The sea!” she said automatically, the same words she’d used as a child, then she felt daft and wished she hadn’t blurted it.
Ollie laughed. “At last, a woman after my own heart. Nothing beats seeing it.”
She glanced across at him, and for a brief moment, they made eye contact. Everything was so right during those seconds, her here with him, his little car going down the hill, tall trees either side creating an avenue, the sea down at the bottom, shimmering in the sun, so blue, so perfect.
The moment passed, and Ollie navigated the streets, winding through them as if he knew them like the back of his hand. He nosed the Fiat out onto the seafront road, and Jenny’s heart flipped. It was nine o’clock now, her throat sore from all that chatting, and loads of people were out and about. She opened the window to hear everything: the gulls, the swoosh of the water, the shrieks of the kids. And the smells: salty air, the tang of blooms in hanging baskets on the lampposts, and she swore she detected sun cream. It would be needed today, the heat much stronger than in London despite the breeze coming in off the sea, and she imagined her feet on the baking sand, scrunching her toes in it.
“Can we go to the beach?” she asked.
“Yeah. We’ll dump our stuff first, though.”
Ollie turned left and went up the road a bit, then veered beside a house onto a sloping-downwards driveway. At the bottom, he took a right and stopped on a patch of tarmac behind the large Victorian house, beside another two cars. The garden started after the little parking area, just grass and side borders with loads of flowers in them. Someone had green fingers, as the lawn was clipped short and had lines down it from a mower, and no unwelcome weeds poked out of the soil, waving their raggedy arms.
They got out, and nerves took hold of Jenny. She clutched her bag to her tummy and followed Ollie into the back of the house. What if they bumped into the other residents?
“Shared kitchen,” he said. “Same with the bathroom, although there’s two of those upstairs. Don’t worry, everyone’s clean and tidy.”
She looked around. The worktops were wiped down, the floor shining, and a load of washing tumbled around in the machine, white bubbles pressing onto the inside of the glass door. The place smelt of disinfectant.
“How come you have this house plus you live in London?” What she hadn’t asked was: How can you afford both? As far as she
was aware, he worked at the factory.
“I live with my old dear and come down here most weekends, even in winter. Everything’s registered here. There’s nothing that’s official to do with her house. She only wants a hundred a month for my keep, so I’m well away. That’s the nice side of her, which rarely comes out. She’s…a bit of a bitch, to be fair. Probably why I started thinking about murder.” He shrugged and went down a hallway.
A mother who drove you to contemplate killing? Fucking hell. How bad must she be?
Jenny tailed him, and he stuck a key in the Yale lock of a door to her left. On the right, stairs with ornate carved banisters snaked upwards, and at the foot, mounted on the wall beside the stained-glass front door, was a pigeonhole box for the post. He walked inside his room, and the faint smell of aftershave hit her. She joined him and gave it the once-over.
It wasn’t what she’d expected. The bed was made nice, the carpet hoovered, and as far as she could see, no dust on the chest of drawers or the telly cabinet. A small table-and-chairs set stood in the deep bay window area, a large black vase on the sill in front of the white voile nets. The curtains, a nice blue, hung from the ceiling to the floor. The quilt cover matched them. Then there was the two-seater sofa, blue again, and a low-pile navy rug in front of it. He was as tidy as the house-share people then. She liked that. Her last two boyfriends had been pigs.
He shut the door. “The sofa pulls out into a bed if you don’t want to share with me. I’m not fussed either way.”
So if he wasn’t fussed, she was a friend, nothing more. Unless he meant she could share his bed and they could, you know, do stuff but they weren’t a couple. She’d be a one-night stand, something she’d never envisaged, but for him, she’d do it.
Confused as to where she stood with him, she asked, “What would you prefer?”
“You in bed with me, obviously. Fancied you for ages, haven’t I.” He took his bag to his bed and pulled the zip across. “Feel free to use the drawers. The bottom one’s always empty.”
For other girls he brought here? That didn’t make sense if he didn’t take them to the raves, but then gossip wasn’t always true, was it. Maybe he brought people he met at the raves.
“You’re the first to kip here,” he said, as if reading her mind. “This is where I come to relax, get away from my mum. It’s…well, it’s a bolt-hole. I wouldn’t bring just anyone.”
Her mind caught up with what he’d said earlier. He’d fancied her for ages? And was he implying she was special because he’d allowed her into his private space? She didn’t want to assume so kept quiet, plonking her overnight bag beside his and removing her clothes. Her pyjamas looked so stupid with their cartoon characters on them, and she wished she’d bought a new set. Something sexier.
“Thank God you don’t wear all that silk and lace shit,” he said. “Teddies or whatever they’re called. Fucking hell, my mum does, and I think it makes her look a tart, to be honest. She swans around in it when I’m home. Like, really? I’m her son. I shouldn’t be seeing that bollocks, knowing she puts it on when her bloke’s due round. Or the latest bloke, I should say. She’s had a long line of them since I was a kid. Some of them even moved in.”
Oh. So he didn’t like the fancy stuff. Did she detect a hint of dislike for women who chose to wear it? Was it like his contempt for the ladies on the corner? Or was she imagining it? Was it linked to how he felt about his mother?
“There’s a time and place,” she said, “but I prefer cotton, thanks. My knickers aren’t exactly something to get men going either. Belly warmers.”
“Good. I don’t like slappers.”
She’d gathered that much. “Do you mean those up by The Flag? I feel sorry for them. Imagine having to still be there at six in the morning.”
“Why feel sorry? They’re dirty.” He placed his clothes in a drawer on top of other folded items. “No better than my mother, although she does it in a less obvious way.”
So Jenny had been right. He had issues.
She did the same as him, putting her stuff away, then stood awkwardly, not knowing where to look or how to feel. She was five years old again, an outsider and unsure.
Ollie shoulder-bumped her. “Come on, let’s have a nose around.”
The sudden tension evaporated, and she let him guide the way out of the house. On the doorstep, she breathed in the scent of holidays, and memories took hold. A red bucket in the shape of a castle; a spade; a pink-and-white-striped swimming costume; a rubber ring for when she went in the sea—Mum worried a lot; Dad in a baseball cap, moaning the sun was burning his neck; Mum telling him to give over and enjoy himself.
“What,” he’d said. “With sand in my arse crack? Who’d enjoy that?”
“Derek! There are kids around.”
Jenny smiled. She missed being a little girl, the good parts anyway, and for a smidgen of time, she was one, back there in the past, gazing across the road at the sea, at the sunbathers, the people in the water, the white-capped waves seeping onto the beige sand. A small boy ran towards his mother, tripping on a towel, and he went flying, dropping his ice cream on the beach. Poor sod.
“Chip shop’s down this way.” Ollie draped an arm across her shoulders.
Jenny jolted at his action but kept silent. Tried to enjoy it. But she felt so out of his league. She could hardly believe she’d come here as his friend, let alone a potential girlfriend. He’d said he fancied her, but was that the truth or something he said to all women so he could get in their knickers?
“Will the chippy even be open?” she asked.
“At eleven.”
They walked along a bit, a few houses down, to a parade of shops, one of them the usual seaside place, selling souvenirs, sticks of rock. The chippy stood wedged between a fudge place and an express supermarket, the kind with only three or four aisles. At the end of the row was a café, seating outside.
“Fancy a coffee?” Ollie gestured to one of the tables.
“All right.”
“You sit, I’ll get them.”
She lowered onto a chair, self-conscious because a middle-aged man stared at her, and he was with his wife, too. Jenny swivelled to the sea, propped her elbow on the table, and rested her cheek in her hand so it hid her face.
The sea wall had a break in it, then steps leading to the sand. An elderly couple navigated them, the man holding her elbow, and Jenny hoped she’d be with the love of her life at that age, still coming to Landerlay for her holidays.
It was good to dream.
Chapter Four
It was bloody awkward at the table in The Flag, waiting for Ollie to buy drinks—she refused to call him Tickle now, too old for that ridiculousness. There was no way Princess would touching whatever he bought her. She wouldn’t be surprised if he slipped a roofie in it and waited for her to conk out. But, once again, all these years later, she told herself she wasn’t pretty enough for him; so things hadn’t changed that much then. But they had. Neither of them were the same people, not just in looks but in personality. She certainly wasn’t the shy version of herself anymore, and his time in prison would have probably warped him more than he’d been that dreadful night. He’d have mixed with all sorts of loons, their antics adding to his macabre thoughts, giving him ideas.
Gone were the youthful days, the wrinkle-free skin and, she was reminded when he turned around and offered a gaping smile, one of his teeth. He walked towards her, half a lager in each hand, and switched that smile off. Maybe because she hadn’t returned it. What the fuck would she want to smile at him for?
He placed the glasses on Guinness beer mats and sat, his baggy jeans draping off his thighs. Eyed her backpack. She’d let it dangle off one arm, not ready to relinquish it just yet, not placing it beside her on the booth seat in case he had a mind to snatch it. Their table in the corner meant they’d have privacy to exchange the goods, and him sitting on a chair with his back to the other customers three metres away was a good move on her part—she’d o
rchestrated it that way. She couldn’t have people copping an eyeful of that earring, though she doubted the blood would be visible. It had probably flaked off, but there’d still be that woman’s DNA on it, wouldn’t there? If he hadn’t kept it, it wouldn’t look like she had anything to hide, but because he had…
He must have found it. Lied by saying he hadn’t.
Ollie slurped his lager. What a grim bastard. He stared at her over the rim of the glass, his eyes rheumy, overly wet, like they went when the wind took it upon itself to attack you. She stared back, brazen—the Jenny of old no longer existed unless she allowed her to come out. Now wasn’t the time for that kind of vulnerability, and she’d never be who she used to be, not with him. Not with any man. She didn’t trust them as far as she could throw them. Obviously. He was the reason she’d remained single, giving up her dream of a husband, two kids, and a family home.
He burped like a gurgling drain, placed his drink down, and wiped condensation off his fingers on his jeans. Years ago she’d have been enthralled by that, loving his don’t-give-a-shit attitude, but now it churned her stomach. It was so weird. She acted older, yet sometimes she felt the same age as when she’d met him, as if some parts of her brain hadn’t caught up with her true age. Just for that fleeting second where he’d wiped his hand, she was transported back into the past, thinking of how things could have been, her and him together, eventually getting married, having children. Would him slurping and being a mucky fucker have grated on her if she’d shackled herself to him, or was it only now, when she knew exactly who he was? Would they still have looked so old, so ragged?
No, prison had done that to him, and fretting in her freedom had done that to her.