by Alex Marwood
‘Fair point,’ she says. There are two murders every day in the UK. Only a third of them make much more than a downpage NiB in the papers. You’ve got to have a stand-out quality, or a determined family, for your death to get past the news editors. ‘But I’m here now. At least it’s a chance to put that right now, eh?’
‘You gonna buy something?’ he asks gruffly, glaring with deep dark eyes.
‘What’s good?’
‘Everything’s good.’
‘I’ll have a doner and a Coke, please.’
‘Chips?’ he barks.
‘No,’ she begins, then hurriedly assents. No point in blowing her chances for the price of a bag of chips. ‘And a receipt, please.’
She waits a couple of beats as he turns to the fryer and plunges the basket into the oil. ‘So do you remember her?’
He has his back turned. She can see his reflection in the mirrored wall behind the grill, napkin-scrawled, sellotaped-on specials framing his black hair. He’s fifty-something, and looks older. Everyone looks older around here.
Stop it, she thinks. You’ve turned into the worst sort of bourgeois snob while you weren’t looking. Just because you write for an audience doesn’t mean you have to share their views.
He shrugs. ‘Not really. Yes, sort of. But only because of what happened. I wouldn’t have remembered anything about her except for the fact that I found her body in among my dustbins. Then I remember her. Sort of.’
‘Was she with people? Alone?’
‘I don’t know. A lot of the time it’s hard to tell, especially on a Saturday. Sometimes they’re alone when they come in and not when they leave. They’re like animals on Saturday night. You’d think, what with them being on holiday, Saturday wouldn’t be such a big deal, but you’d be surprised. They still get dressed up, get drunker, stay out later. Don’t know how to queue, don’t know how to wait. Must’ve been twenty, thirty, hanging around, inside, dropping stuff on the pavement. Chips, chips, chips. Twenty alcopops and then they think chips will put them right. I’ve got CCTV. Something kicks off every Saturday. CCTV saves me hours giving statements.’
‘So she’s on it?’
He nods. ‘Yeah. Like I say, nothing remarkable. She comes in, she gets her chips, she talks to some boys while she waits. She liked vinegar. Must’ve used up half a bottle. Fanta. She drank Fanta.’
‘And the boys?’
‘I don’t know. Ask the police. They must’ve told you anyway. It wasn’t them. They were too drunk to stand up, most of them, let alone strangle someone. Except by accident maybe. So she gets her chips, she leaves, I carry on serving. We’re open till four on Saturday. I can turn two hundred kilos of chips on a good night, high season. We’re the only shop that’s open when the clubs let out, and most of them would sell their aunties for a bag of chips.’
‘So then?’ she prompts.
‘Half-four I’m taking out the trash, waiting for the oil to cool down enough to drain the fryer, and …’ He shrugs again. As an obituary, it’s not much.
‘It must have been awful,’ she says sympathetically.
‘Yeah …’ He starts to wrap her kebab in paper. ‘It’s not something you see every day. You want chilli sauce?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Thanks no or thanks yes?’
‘Thanks yes. Thanks.’
‘Open or closed?’
‘Closed, please.’ It’s only going to go into the first bin she passes when she gets out of sight.
He slaps the bundle down on the counter.
‘Twelve pound fifty.’
‘Twelve fifty?’ she squeaks.
‘Twelve fifty,’ he says firmly. ‘And a receipt.’
Kirsty suppresses an eye-roll and hands over the money. The press aren’t the only people for whom serial murder represents a business opportunity.
She can’t get into Funnland. A notice on the staff gate, where a handful of cold-looking hacks and snappers huddles among piles of cellophane-wrapped carnations, says that it will reopen tomorrow. She’s worked with one of the photographers a few times before, and wanders over. ‘Anything much?’ she asks. ‘Seen Stan Marshall?’
He shakes his head. ‘I should think he’s in the pub. Nothing much here. Managing director, that Suzanne Oddie, and some other suits.’
‘Anything to say?’
‘Blah blah unprecedented, blah blah sympathies to family, blah blah cooperating with the police to the fullest extent, blah blah reassure our customers. There’s a press release.’
Jeremy from the Express hands it to her. There’s not much. Park open again asap, Innfinnityland closed, probably to be demolished. Heartfelt sympathy. She takes a picture with her phone. She’ll read it off the jpeg later.
‘What are you doing here anyway? I thought Dave Park was here for the Trib.’
‘He is. He’s Mr Hard News. I’ve got the colour feature. Town in torment. Lock up your daughters. Price of beer. You know.’
‘Ah, the Sunday stuffies,’ says a hack from the Mirror. ‘Nothing new to say, just more of it.’
‘Still,’ says the snapper, ‘nice work if you can get it.’
‘Someone’s got to use the five-syllable words,’ she says. ‘To give the rest of you something to sneer at. So what do we know? Anything new on the vic?’
She quails faintly inside as she says it. The vic – a life reduced to flippancy.
‘Nothing new. The mum and dad are doing an appeal this arvo in the town hall.’
‘Is that where everybody else is?’
The man from the Mirror tuts. ‘Don’t be stupid. It’s not till four. They’re all in the White Horse, up on Dock Street.’
‘News-gathering,’ says the photographer, and winks.
Chapter Nine
Amber’s in the kitchen, on the phone in pursuit of a computer for Benedick, when someone starts pressing the doorbell. Urgently and insistently, over and over, a couple of seconds between each peal. Whoever it is, they want in, now.
‘I wonder who that is?’ she says, cutting the call.
Vic looks up from the Sun. ‘Well, I’ll guess it’s either a waif or a stray. Stray, probably, by the sound of the ring. Waifs don’t ring that hard.’
‘Ha,’ she says, and runs for the door.
A figure stands with its back to her, the hood of an Adidas top pulled up over its head, gym bag over its shoulder, scanning the cars and concrete bollards of Tennyson Way as though expecting someone to appear.
‘Can I help you?’ Amber asks. The figure turns. It’s Jackie Jacobs, looking just awful. Below the top she wears what look like pyjama bottoms and a pair of the shuffle-along flip-flops Romina used to wear. Her face, devoid of make-up, is lined and grey, with deep vertical runnels on her upper lip.
‘I didn’t know where else to come,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh my God,’ says Amber. ‘Come in.’
She stands back to let Jackie pass, and follows her indoors. Vic sees her from his seat at the kitchen table and shoots to his feet. ‘What’s up, Jacks?’
Jackie pushes her hood back. Her hair is greasy, unbrushed. Amber finds it hard to believe that this is the same exuberant creature she shared the beach with yesterday. ‘He’s just standing outside my flat and he won’t go away,’ she says, and bursts into tears.
Amber doesn’t need to ask who she’s talking about. ‘Oh my God,’ she says again.
‘He’s just … there. All the time. He just sits outside the flat. Or he’s … you know. Like yesterday. Down at the beach, or down at the supermarket, or wherever I am. I feel like I’m going mad.’
‘You’re not.’ Amber takes the bag, drops it on the stairs. It’s clear they’ve got a house-guest. Amber Gordon’s Home for Fallen Women, Vic calls it. When he’s feeling nice. Sometimes, depending on the guest, he calls it the Whitmouth Dog Sanctuary. ‘I can understand why you feel that way, but you’re not. You haven’t spoken to him, have you?’
‘No,’ says Vic. ‘You’re suppo
sed to ignore them.’
‘I’ve tried,’ says Jackie. ‘But what am I supposed to do? If someone’s there every day, when you go to the shops, waiting outside work, ringing on the doorbell, leaving messages, leaving … daisies on your doorstep … you try ignoring it.’
‘Oh God, Jackie. You always make a joke of things. I didn’t realise it was this serious.’
They follow Vic back into the kitchen. He goes to fill the kettle. The Whitmouth solution to all troubles, a nice cup of tea and a biscuit. And God knows, for most troubles it works a treat.
‘I know. Yes,’ says Jackie. ‘I guess maybe I didn’t either. I thought he’d get the message or something. Get bored. But since you … The body. That poor girl. One minute she’s alive and the next some bloke’s just … Maybe it’s freaked me out more than I thought it had. But it’s worse now. I can’t … I really can’t be there any more, Amber. He just stands there and stands there, and it doesn’t seem to make any difference what I do. I’ve no idea when he sleeps, ’cause it feels like he’s there twenty-four/seven.’
‘It’s OK,’ says Amber. ‘You can stay here. As long as you like. Till we work out what to do.’
She glances up at Vic. He’s standing by the sink, his face inexpressive. If he has any feelings on the subject, he’s not sharing.
Jackie goes pink about the nose and takes a pack of blue Camels from the pocket of her jacket. Searches around for a lighter. Vic clears his throat.
‘I’m sorry, Jackie,’ he says, ‘d’you mind taking it out to the garden?’
She looks surprised, as though no one has ever suggested such a thing before, but picks up the pack and starts to get up from the table.
‘I’ll get you an ashtray,’ says Vic.
She looks unexpectedly grateful. ‘Thanks,’ she says.
Amber follows her out on to the patio, Mary-Kate and Ashley tip-tapping quietly at their heels. She’s proud of her little patch of ground. The salty estuarine soil makes it fairly useless for growing things, but she’s filled it with pots and baskets of busy Lizzies and geraniums and verbena, and the little garden is bright and welcoming. The chairs are tipped up against rain, their cushions in the shed. She pulls them out, brushes water off their coated-wire seats. ‘Sorry,’ she says.
‘What? Oh, no. Don’t be stupid. It’s your house.’
Vic appears with the ashtray, puts it on the table, smiles and retreats indoors.
Jackie lights up. Amber can see the nicotine bliss cross her face, remembers it well. She gave up for Vic, but she still misses it, every day. ‘God, you have an ashtray. Most people don’t do that, and then they give your stubs looks, like they’re nuclear waste or something. Even when they’re in the bin with the potato peelings.’
‘Yeah, we’d never do that,’ says Amber.
‘No,’ says Jackie, ‘Vic’s got the manners of a priest.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ says Amber, but quietly she thinks, yes, that’s how the world would sum up our relationship, probably: polite. Vic has great manners. It was like getting into a big warm bath, meeting Vic: having doors held open and appreciation shown, knowing that a dish eaten from would quickly be cleared and cleaned. After all those years, she’d been quite afraid of men, of their drives and stubbornness; thought them bullies, only interested in personal gratification.
And then there was Vic. Hands always clean despite the running repairs that form a large part of his duties on the Funnland rides. A please and a thank-you and a protective arm ushering her through the crowds. She remembers noticing him, the way he’d give a helping hand to customers as they tottered on and off the rides; how he’d always have a smile and a laugh for anyone who wanted one; how he could appease the most swaggering yob in search of aggro. Whitmouth relationships aren’t long relationships, on the whole, but it’s six years they’ve been together now, and if politeness is the price you pay for longevity, then thank God for good manners. All those years, when she longed to fetch up in a place of calm – she still finds it difficult to believe it’s happened.
‘You don’t realise how lucky you are. I’d give anything to have a bloke like that,’ says Jackie, and looks tearful again.
Amber reaches out and rubs her forearm, feels awkward doing it. She’s never really learned the touchy-feely habit; hasn’t thought of Jackie as an intimate. ‘Don’t, Jackie,’ she says. ‘It’s all right. You’ll be all right.’
Jackie stares at her cigarette, her face working. Mary-Kate comes and stands on her back legs, front paws resting on Amber’s thigh. Automatically she takes her hand from the arm and chucks her dog behind the ear.
‘It’s not fair,’ Jackie bursts out. ‘It’s just not bloody fair. I never catch a break.’
Vic appears in the doorway, calm as ever. He’s carrying Jackie’s bag. ‘I’ll put this in the spare room, Jackie,’ he says. ‘OK?’
Amber knows that the gesture is more about his aversion to mess than about hospitality. Vic likes everything to have a place. The bag will have been bugging him since she arrived. Jackie interprets it differently and sees it as a gesture of welcome. She tears up again. ‘God, you guys. I don’t know what I’d do … Honestly. I swear, half this town would’ve fallen apart without you.’
‘Oh, come on, Jackie,’ says Amber uncomfortably.
‘She’s right, you know,’ says Vic, from the door. ‘Salt of the earth, our Amber. D’you know what she’s been doing all morning?’
‘No,’ says Jackie, with little enthusiasm. She’s never that interested in other people, especially when a drama of her own is under way.
‘Calling everyone on the estate to see if they’ve got a spare computer for Benedick Ongom. She’s been on the phone all morn ing, haven’t you, darling? I had to get my own bacon sandwich.’
He moderates the complaint with a bright and winning smile, but Amber hears it anyway.
‘Yes,’ he continues. ‘She’s amazing, really. Sometimes I can’t help wondering if she’s got a guilty conscience. If she’s making up for something she did in a past life, or something.’
Jackie laughs. Amber, blushing, hurries the subject away from herself. ‘So tell me what happened? I’m still not sure I get it.’
‘It just – I don’t know why he’s doing it. You know? I don’t get it.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘Well, I don’t suppose you would. He’s obviously not right, is he? Anyway, I thought Tadeusz had seen him off. With that text.’
Jackie shakes her head. ‘I think it’s made him worse. He’s angry now. I can feel it coming off him. He just seems to be out there the whole time. And it’s going to be worse when I go back to work. Going out at night, all by myself.’
‘That’s OK. I can give you a lift,’ says Amber, calmly adding another item to her list. There’s room in the car. She’s only shuttling Blessed at the moment.
‘But it’s not just that, it is? I’m not sleeping, either. I feel like I’m going to wake up and find him standing over me or something. Seriously. He’s just there, all the time. I feel like I’m going mad …’
Vic watches them through the kitchen window: the two blond heads bent together, the curl of smoke rising off Jackie’s cigarette. They’ve forgotten all about him. Out of sight, out of mind, he thinks. Women. The minute you’re not talking, you might as well not exist. He studies them quietly, his face blank. He feels dog-tired. He used to feel exhilarated for days at a time, during high season, but the thrill gets shorter-lived year on year. Eight different resorts he’s worked over the years, but nowadays Whitmouth seems to tire rather than thrill. It’s my age, he thinks, catching up with me. I’m getting too old for this. I need to find an easier way to live. I don’t think I’ll have the energy for much longer. It really takes it out of me.
Jackie’s left her tea mug on the table, a swill of tannin on the bone-china inside. He picks it up and takes it to the sink. Scrubs methodically, thoroughly, as he listens to the murmur of the women’s voices. Wipes round the sink, polishes
the chrome dry and puts the cup on the folded tea-towel on the drainer.
Out in the garden, Jackie’s phone starts to ring.
‘Don’t answer it,’ Amber says. ‘Leave it.’
Jackie regards the phone as though it’s a turd she’s found in her handbag. ‘I wasn’t planning to.’
The phone rings out. Jackie lights another cigarette. Amber suppresses an eye-roll.
‘I’ll get Vic to make up the spare bed,’ she tells Jackie.
‘God, he’s so great,’ says Jackie. ‘How did you manage to find him?’
Her phone rings again.
Chapter Ten
I’m a lousy wife. He’s really hacked off with me and I don’t blame him. Oh God, I can’t wait for this evening to be over. What the hell made me behave so stupidly? I don’t suppose I was even legal to drive when I got into the car this afternoon.
Kirsty uses the cover of being in the kitchen to down a pint of water and slam three ibuprofen down with it. She feels like she’s been turned inside out, and her guilty conscience makes it worse. It’s like a frenzy, she thinks. Not the drink in itself, but the company of journalists. You can’t have a dozen hacks spend an evening together without everyone getting so blotto they can barely stand up; it’s never happened.
She drains the glass and refills it. Opens the fridge and gets out the gravadlax, the bags of salad. The sort of food they’ve not been allowing themselves for months. But exigency has driven her through the aisles of Waitrose like a WAG with a Man U pay cheque. The whole family will be living on beans and rice for the rest of the week to pay for this dinner, but none of the people in the dining room is going to know that. Nothing breeds success like success, and if Jim’s going to get a job, they must persuade these money people that he doesn’t need one. The good side plates are laid out on the countertop, checked for chips, and all she needs to do is fill them, decoratively, while their guests drink Sophie’s shoe fund in Sémillon-Chardonnay.