by Peter Benson
‘Bob! Two people are dead! The police think we know something they don’t, and if we don’t get our story right, we could be in the shit!’
‘What’s to get right?’ Bob put his hand on Frank’s shoulder and spilt whisky down his back. ‘Did you do it?’
‘No.’
‘Nor did I.’ He spread his arms and raised his voice. ‘Two innocents in a world of guilt!’ The vet looked up. ‘Don’t worry!’
‘Easy enough to say if you’ve spent the day in the bath.’
‘The truth will hurt,’ said Bob, ‘even if you are innocent,’ and he took another drink.
‘Shit,’ said Frank.
‘And foul language will get you nowhere.’
‘Fuck you.’
Bob turned and picked up a china tortoise. He began to examine it, fingering the pattern on its shell; Frank left him and walked across the room to join Lisa. She was holding a winebottle, and standing on her toes to look at a painting. This was of a sailing ship in a storm, a crowded lifeboat, an angry sky and waves the size of the ship. She was wearing a short skirt, a blue shirt buttoned to her throat and sling-backs. ‘Is he all right?’ she said.
‘Drunk,’ he said. ‘Drunk and sad. The old brothers in arms.’
‘I know them.’
Frank hung his head and rubbed his eyes.
‘What about you?’ she said.
‘It’s been a long day.’
‘And I never thanked you, I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’
She poured some wine into her glass and put the bottle on a shelf. ‘Adrian.’ She drank. ‘He can go to hell. Leaving was the best thing he ever did.’ She patted her stomach. ‘We’re stronger without him.’
‘Mrs Platt?’ The vet’s guilt was building houses in his head, furnishing them with blood and crushed bones. Strings of lies dangled in front of his eyes. He wasn’t meant to feel like this.
‘Yes?’
‘I have to tell you something.’
‘What, dear?’ Mrs Platt smiled.
The vet envied Joey. He looked at the bird. It had oozed fluid on to its satin bed. ‘It’s about Joey,’ he said.
‘What about him?’
‘When he died…’
Mrs Platt looked at the vet’s glass. ‘Do you want another drink?’ she said.
‘He was suffering,’ he said.
‘I know.’ She patted his arm. ‘And you did everything you could.’
‘I did more than that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I had to make a decision.’
‘I’m sure you did, dear, and I’m sure it was the right one.’
‘He could have gone on for days, but when I looked at him I decided that the kindest thing to do was to let him go.’
‘And then he did…’
‘I killed him, Mrs Platt.’ He looked at the bird. ‘I killed Joey.’
Mrs Platt followed the vet’s eyes as the words dumped themselves in her head.
‘I broke his neck.’
Mrs Platt was holding a wineglass; her hand tightened around it, her lips puckered and her tongue flicked out and back in. She looked at the vet, she looked at the floor and back at the vet, and then she crushed the glass. The stem fell to the floor, she screamed and held out her hand. Slivers of glass had embedded themselves in her fingers and palm, and blood was dripping to the floor. ‘You killed him?’
The vet nodded.
‘Murderer!’ she yelled. ‘Murderer! And then you come round here and drink my sherry!’
‘He didn’t feel a thing.’
‘How do you know?’ She lunged at him but Lisa jumped between them.
‘Mrs Platt!’
‘That man!’ she screamed. ‘He’s evil!’ Her hands were shaking, blood was dripping on to the carpet, and spit flew from her mouth.
‘It was for the best,’ said the vet, as Frank took his arm and tried to get him out of the room. ‘I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t thought—’
‘There!’ Mrs Platt let go with a triumphant yelp. ‘He didn’t think! Frank!’
‘What?’
‘Leave him to me.’
‘I think you’d better go,’ Frank said to the vet. The man nodded, and grabbed his coat.
‘What is it?’ said Mrs Platt. ‘An eye for an eye?’ and she lunged again. This time, she slipped and fell on the floor. She snatched at the vet’s ankle, he shook her off, got through the door and crossed the hall. ‘I want him!’
‘Mrs Platt!’ said Lisa.
Bob filled his glass.
‘Go!’ said Frank.
The vet went.
10
Bob slept on Frank’s sofa. He dreamt, but in the morning could not remember his dreams. They were like people in the street, hurrying to work. He saw them, then they were gone. They left clouds of mist that clotted and then faded into buildings. When he woke up, Frank had left for the office. There was a note on the table. ‘Bob. Do you remember what I said last night? If you do, call me. If you don’t, call me. Frank.’ Bob went back to sleep.
Inspector Evans called Frank and asked him to come to the police station.
Frank looked at his legs. ‘Now?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Evans.
Frank looked at the cover of the Austin file, and at a stack of paper in a wire tray. Unpaid bills, letters of introduction and requests for information spilled out of it. ‘I’ll be there,’ he said.
A fresh fall of snow had layered the slush, the roofs of cars and houses, and the branches of the squat trees that lined the pavement. Frank walked. Workmen were spreading grit from the back of a lorry, and an angry Father Christmas argued with a policeman, shaking his bell and stamping his feet. The festive lights shone through a murk of car exhausts and gently falling snow. Old men and women looked up at the weather and rattled their teeth, and children yelled at each other.
‘Good of you to come.’ Evans stood up and smiled, but didn’t feel very well. He was beginning to trust Frank; he saw something of himself in the man, the man he would have become if he’d avoided family. He was glad he hadn’t avoided family; his wife and children and his children’s children gave his life life. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘take a seat.’
‘Thanks,’ said Frank.
Evans sat down and scratched his head. ‘Eastbourne called.’ He picked up a sheet of paper and passed it across his desk. ‘Austin’s sister’s dead.’
Frank read.
‘I don’t know,’ said Evans. ‘Austin kills his wife, then commits suicide. Filled with remorse, his sister throws herself off Beachy Head?’
Frank passed the paper back. ‘Or Austin throws his sister off Beachy Head, cuts his wife’s throat, gets drunk and slips off the end of the pier? How long had she been dead?’
‘Twelve hours.’
Frank raised his eyebrows.
‘Maybe fourteen.’
‘How about Austin kills his wife, his sister kills him, she kills herself.’
Evans swivelled in his chair, put his hands behind his head and tipped back. ‘Bob, isn’t it?’
‘My boss?’
‘I haven’t spoken to him.’
‘You’d be wasting your time. These days he can barely remember his name.’
‘That bad?’ said Evans.
‘Not so much bad as weird,’ said Frank.
‘Weird’s the worst sort of bad. Where is he?’
‘I left him at my place.’
‘You drive.’
Mrs Platt tidied up. Joey remained on his stained satin pillow, his tiny legs clenched like pliers and all his feathers lank. Mrs Platt picked up one bottle at a time and carried them to the kitchen. She stood them by the back door and stared outside. Then she opened this door and aired her rooms.
Frank and Evans arrived as she was stacking plates in the sink and running the taps. She didn’t hear them. Evans climbed the stairs quickly, Frank loped behind him. He touched Lisa’s door as he passed, then took the flight to his fl
at in three strides.
Bob had made himself a cup of coffee and was lying in the bath, drinking and reading a copy of H.G. Wells’s A Short History of the World. When Frank and Evans walked in, he said, ‘I’ve got a problem. Given that the speed of light is the fastest anything can travel, how did the universe expand from nothing to infinity in a nanosecond?’
‘Bob?’ said Evans.
‘Who’s your friend, Frank?’
‘Evans.’ He flipped his card. ‘And I’ve got a problem too.’
‘Then take a bath. I never really appreciated how good they could be for you, not just as a way of getting clean, but as a restorative.’
‘Where were you last night?’
‘Me?’ Bob rubbed his chest with a bar of soap and looked at Frank. ‘Frank?’
‘He was with me,’ said Frank. ‘We were at a wake.’
‘Anyone we know?’ said Evans.
‘Joey.’
‘Joey who?’
‘Joey the budgie.’
‘The budgie?’
‘Yes.’
‘A budgie?’
Frank nodded.
‘You went to a wake for a budgie?’
‘Downstairs. It was my landlady’s. Mrs Platt. She worshipped the bird. People get very attached to their pets; she treated it like a kid.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Evans shook his head. ‘My sergeant’s like that with his dog.’
‘I hate dogs,’ said Bob.
‘You were at this wake all night?’
‘Why?’ said Bob. He squeezed his soap, and it flew out of his hand, crossed the bathroom, landed and skidded across the floor.
‘Another Austin’s dead.’
‘Another?’
‘The sister.’
‘God,’ said Bob. ‘What’s the matter with them?’
‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell me,’ said Evans.
‘Me?’ Bob shook his head. ‘I haven’t got a clue.’
‘You don’t seem very surprised.’
‘Why should I be? The world’s four and a half thousand million years old and you expect me to be surprised by three people dying? Tell me that they’ve turned into antelope and I’ll be surprised; I might even get out of the bath for that, but death…’ He stuck a finger in his right ear. ‘Death’s nothing. Happens every day.’
Evans looked at Frank and raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Okay,’ he said, and, ‘Thanks,’ and he left the bathroom.
Frank followed and said, ‘Satisfied?’
‘No,’ said Evans, ‘but I never am.’
The vet was distracted, he couldn’t concentrate, he couldn’t focus on a cat’s bollocks and had to ask for a five-minute break. When he went back to the operation, the surgery nurse offered to make him a cup of tea.
‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘but I’ll be all right now.’ He cut. ‘I had too much to drink last night.’
The nurse tutted and passed him a swab.
The vet sliced, removed and stitched automatically. He thought about his girlfriend as he worked, the firm and beautiful Cheryl. Cheryl with perfect teeth, slim hips and hair like cotton. He kept Mrs Platt away by thinking about the time he had sneaked into the surgery where Cheryl had worked. The dentists had gone to a party, the receptionist had gone home to cook a meal; the place had been dark, empty and smelt of mint. Cheryl and he had used a dentist’s chair to make love on, across, over, below, around, under and beside. He had been excited by the sterility of the place and thoughts of the germed fluids they were spreading, she had been juiced by the fear that a boss could walk in at any moment. Together, they made a lot of noise and tipped over trays of instruments; he smiled at the mess they left.
After the operation, he left the surgery and went for lunch. As he walked Rick Street, he continued to think about Cheryl. Her stomach, her thighs, her curly hair brushing against her cheeks, the sound of her voice and her laugh; all these things kept thoughts of the night before away. The clean taste of her mouth and her carefully trimmed fingernails; he stepped off the pavement and began to cross the road.
Two minutes earlier, Angela Switt had turned left into Rick Street, driven fifty yards and stopped at traffic lights. As she sat in the car, she drummed impatiently on the steering wheel and cursed her husband. At breakfast, he had told her that her plans to learn German were impractical, that she had never achieved anything and she wasn’t going to change now. She had achieved a lot, but not on his terms. He was a blinkered man, he had no sense of humour, and he owned three fruit and vegetable shops. His world was filled by apples and bananas, courgettes and Kenyan beans; his wife and children were minor irritations. For five years, she had convinced herself that he would change; now the truth had dawned, and it was not meant to be. She had married the wrong man.
She remembered Ronald, her first love. As the lights changed, she accelerated down Rick Street and her mind filled with him. His love for her had overwhelmed her; its intensity had lit streets. She wondered where he was now, she wished that she had not thrown away his letters, she remembered the way his hair curled over his neck. When he moved to Manchester, why hadn’t she pursued him? Why had she met her husband? How had her husband charmed her? Was Ronald still in Manchester? Could she find out where he lived? Was he married? Did he still taste of toffee? Did he ever think about her?
She pictured his face, and it filled her eyes. She was not driving down Rick Street in Brighton now, she was lying on a bed in Greece, and he was looking down at her. He was tanned and fit, and smelt of olives. A warm and gentle breeze rustled the curtains. There was a view from the window of scrubby hills, and beyond them, the sea. The sky was huge and blue, and the sun boiled sand. It was not Brighton and it was not snowing, she was not sitting in a muggy car with a crying child on the back seat. Garish lights did not hang between streetlamps, and morose shoppers did not stare at shop windows. Angela wanted to cry.
The vet didn’t look and Angela did not see. One was thinking about his girlfriend’s perfect nails, the other could smell taramasalata in her car. Someone shouted ‘Look out!’ and another yelled ‘Watch it!’ The vet saw the car too late, Angela put her foot on the brakes, her wheels locked and she began to slide down the street sideways. He was clipped by the edge of the front bumper, then slammed by the driver’s door. He began to rise into the air, and as he did, he screamed.
Angela saw his face, and it was a face she had dreamt of. It was full of regret and grief, and topped up with longing. All it wanted was life, but it knew it had no chance. It knew it was moments from death, and though it was not afraid, it was not calm. It was tinted with remorse, haunted by love and creased by memories it did not want to lose. It had not wasted its life, but it was too young to die. She heard her baby yelling behind her but she was transfixed by the image that passed in front of her. She noticed that the man was wearing red socks; as they passed by the window she thought that her husband had never owned a pair of red socks. Had this flying man bought the socks himself or had they been bought for him? Bought by the person he was haunted by, given to him in a carefully wrapped parcel; the car skidded to a halt as the vet landed on his head. Blood began to seep from his nose and stain the slush. He lay very still. A woman ran from a teashop shouting, ‘Don’t move him! I’m a doctor!’ She knelt beside the vet but knew she could do nothing. One of his eyes was closed, the other stared at the sky. The doctor passed her hand over it, then removed her coat and laid it over his head. Then she stood and walked to the car; Angela was shaking and sobbing, and beating the steering wheel. ‘Come on,’ said the doctor. ‘There’s nothing we can do.’ She leaned into the back of the car, unclipped the baby and cradled it in her arms. A crowd had gathered and was staring at the vet’s body and pointing at Angela. The baby began to cry, and a police siren wailed in the distance. ‘You need a cup of tea,’ said the doctor.
Angela looked at the woman and shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I need someone like the man I killed.’
‘You didn’t kill
him.’
‘I killed him,’ said Angela, and she crashed her head against the steering wheel until blood filled her eyes.
11
Snow in Canterbury. Mrs Erica Austin sat in her kitchen, held her hands together in prayer, and waited for a taxi. The news of her children’s deaths had shifted her mind, but had not penetrated. She had asked to be told the facts and the truth, but the policewoman who was sitting with her had apologised and said that she was unable to do that. ‘I’m sorry. All I know is what I’ve already told you. My colleagues in Brighton will have the details…’
Mrs Austin nodded and said that she understood. She was seventy-one, and had worked as a nurse in the war. Wounded men had given her nylons and died, and she’d seen ten-year-old children hold oranges for the first time in their lives. Her husband had been a banker, and a frustrated opera singer. She had never been frustrated; she was a devout Christian, and believed that Christ’s mercy could be seen in affliction and tragedy. She had never worn make-up, and she had never owned an umbrella. She used to drive a car, but stopped in 1975, after she reversed into a lamppost that should not have been where it was. Her hair was thick and wiry, and she loved Danish pastries. The taxi arrived, and the driver honked his horn.
‘Mrs Austin?’ said the policewoman.
‘Yes?’ She’d been thinking about the Tibetan custom of laying corpses on rocks for vultures to eat. Death as a window to the sky, as a way of flying. Death, life’s widow. ‘Remember, O Lord, what is come upon us.’
‘Taxi’s here.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Shall I take your bag?’
‘No.’ Mrs Austin stood up. ‘I can manage.’
‘Okay.’
The two women left the house, and as they walked down the front path, the policewoman said, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to be met in Brighton?’
Mrs Austin raised her voice. ‘No!’ she said. ‘I can cope!’
‘I’m sorry…’ The policewoman stared at the ground, and felt tears behind her eyes. The taxi-driver stepped forward and took the bag. Mrs Austin shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry,’ and she touched the woman’s arm. ‘I didn’t mean to shout.’ She dredged a smile. ‘Bless you,’ she whispered, and she left.