Cut To The Bone

by Sally Spedding

  This seemed to represent a small fortune, and Rita glanced at the door, expecting to see a long queue of hopefuls. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but are you seeing anyone else?"

  He smiled. "My wife asks me that every Friday night. No. I haven’t time to waste, and as your children get older you may find that being full time here fits your plans even better. Until then, I'll share the load, and when the purchase of the Bowater Road shop goes through, there'll be further opportunities. Meanwhile, you’ll also be entitled to Working Tax Credits.”

  “Hopefully not for long.”

  “You are entitled. It’s the one decent thing this government’s not reneged on.”

  "I can't thank you enough," she said and, with other details sorted, he shook her hand.

  Rita emerged into the drizzle of Farnham Street as if entering Heaven, yet as she waited for the bus to the Driving Test Centre, soon brought herself down to earth by mentally preparing herself for her next ordeal.

  *

  The bus dropped her near the Cathedral and pausing outside a Classy Cards shop, she scanned the birthday display which included My DearEST Husband. Another, For the sexiest man in my life. Then, To my Man In A Million which conveyed nothing remotely close to what she felt about Frank. Forty or not. In fact, it was Tim Fraser who came to mind. Even though they'd not met since that grim March day in 2009, he'd never been far from her thoughts or the occasional dream.

  Anything was possible, Rita told herself. Especially after her recent success. But on what pretext could she contact him? He was off the Briar Bank patch with doubtless too many problems of his own to be bothered with hers. Yet he had left her a lifeline. Had said if she ever needed anything...

  But little did she know, standing there with the elation of her new job still uppermost in her mind, how great that need would soon prove to be.

  30

  Douglas Reynolds, ex-Royal Navy, of upright bearing and immaculate navy blazer, was already waiting for Rita when she left the Ram & Tether pub and crossed over towards the FIRST CLASS School of Motoring premises.

  "You're looking very chipper, if I may say so." Her instructor smiled as he opened the blue Micra's door for her. "All helps. And if Mrs Armitage is your examiner, well…" he got in beside her. "She’s a tough nut, but fair. And knows how you well you scored in both your Theory and Hazard Perception tests. So, let wagons roll…”

  *

  After his half hour lesson, Rita drove up Market Street and parked smoothly in the Test Centre's forecourt.

  "Excellent,” he said, and if you pass, or rather, when you've passed, my Moira says she'll knock five hundred off the price of her Peugeot for you. So, bit of an incentive, eh?"

  It was.

  But Rita's obvious pleasure disguised a sudden disabling bout of nerves. She felt hot then cold, her limbs trembling. If she failed today, it would mean buses and more buses for the next eight weeks until the next opportunity to re-take it.

  You drove that van to Walton-on-Sea and back, remember?

  “Thank you.”

  *

  "I’ll be asking you to do an emergency stop within the next five minutes, so be prepared," barked the stout woman with a crop of black hair and wearing a too-tight grey coat, as Rita passed the Crowmore Industrial Estate and entered the High Street. "Now!"

  Rita braked hard, causing the woman to tip forward in her seat belt.

  "Proceed," her passenger said flatly, resuming her notes.

  At least the Micra hadn't stalled, and Rita changed up into third gear as the traffic lights before St Matthew's church turned to green. She wanted to say that her son was in there, deep under the wet ground. That she was enduring this hour for what was left of her family, but instead, kept moving until all at once, she spotted someone leaving the churchyard gates. A tall, young man she recognised even without the black-framed glasses. He'd grown, but had the same walk, same light brown hair and, and those hooded eyes. Then he began to run.

  "There’s Pete Brown!" she cried out, slowing down to get a closer look. "I swear to God it's him!"

  "Mrs Martin, may I remind you that under Test conditions, you do not allow yourself to be distracted."

  “He led my son astray. May even have killed him. Please look, so the police will believe me."

  But Mrs Armitage's blunt profile faced ahead.

  "After the mini roundabout, take the next turning right past the police station then at the T junction follow the road signed for Marshfield." Was all she said. Her face still impassive.

  Keep going…

  Yet Rita could see the youth in her rear mirror, and her every nerve and fibre wanted to stop the car and grab him. So, he must still be living nearby, she reasoned, pausing to allow a slow pedestrian over a zebra crossing.

  Miraculously, there was no oncoming traffic when she finally turned right without checking in her mirrors, and the woman alongside had appeared not to notice. Nor when Rita slowed down by Briar Bank Police Station where Tim Fraser once greeted her so sympathetically. Where she'd soon be paying another call.

  *

  She’d passed, and immediately pinched herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming. But two things blunted her elation. If that had been Pete Brown in the churchyard, why was he there and so keen to get away? These thoughts so pre-occupied her, that when Mr Reynolds mentioned the Peugeot's excellent service history and how she could call round any time to test drive it, she barely heard him.

  31

  351b, Mullion Rd, Downside, Coventry

  14th December 2013.

  Dear Graham,

  I realise we agreed for everyone's sake never to make contact after our divorce, but I don't know who else to turn to. Some days I think I can't go on; however there’s Louis to support and despite the problems he presents (often through no fault of his own,) he’s why I keep going. Dave's promise of school fees was a lie, and after the sale of the Meadow Hill house and my car, I got nothing. Not even the sun loungers I bought for his last birthday.

  I’m not sure of his whereabouts, or if he'll deign to contact us, but his infatuation with one of his female students and those porn magazines which I later found in his bedroom would make any reconciliation very difficult. As you can see from our address, we're in the worst street on the worst estate in this city.

  Every day’s a struggle. We’re cut to the bone, what with the bedroom tax which has reduced my housing benefit by 14% and my Working Tax Credits still owing. Even with the Family Allowance which won’t last forever, there’s nothing over for Louis' clothes or school books. The only work locally is in the chicken processing factory. You can imagine how upsetting this is. I earn well below the minimum wage, thanks to the Poles who love their jobs there.

  You may well ask why Louis too, isn't working even at weekends, but the fact is, he's never interviewed well and has like me, been sleeping badly. Selling his violin would be a last resort and I took a loan to pay for a new computer to help with his IT and German studies. (He's set on joining the Metropolitan Police once he's done his A Levels, and there's a local army cadet force which he also seems keen on.) My late mother left me nothing, so please, if you have a shred of sympathy, send me something for Christmas. I’m forced to use the local food bank every week, and I've chased the CSA about Dave, but they don’t hold out much hope of finding him. However, they did hope your conscience as Louis’ real father, might prevail.

  Jacquie

  PS. Dave left a note for him saying you were now in London. Otherwise I'd never have known.

  PPS. Both Louis and I are using my maiden name. He's happier with that, and these days, it's anything to make him happy...

  *

>   “Fuckit,” muttered Graham Lodge to himself. It was too early for this. Besides, he'd spent yet another bad night reminiscing on why he'd been so dumb as to let Tina Crabtree slip through his fingers, and, to cap it all, there'd been a terrorist bomb scare near the London Wall, meaning an extra mile's hike to his office.

  The Senior IT consultant with MTEC Global's Holborn branch, tore the thing up with its envelope and second class stamp into neat little squares and fed them into his shredder.

  His ex-wife's controlled writing belied her disturbed outpouring. Maybe it was catching. The same reason Tina handed her calm-eyed kid over once it had been born. The cord business. Anyone with half a brain cell would have left well alone, but not Jacquie. Oh no. She always had to redeem something, didn't she? Bad move though. He could have told her that. In fact he did. Several times, but she'd got Dave, and Mr Bloody Perfect had seemed on a mission as well...

  "We can't guarantee there'll be no further epileptic fits, no fainting or even a severe adolescent personality change," the first consultant had opined. "It's all in the lap of the Gods, I'm afraid," he'd added, washing his surgical gloves free of blood then peeling them off.

  So yes, Graham mused, as he pretty well did every waking moment - he'd been well rid. They both had, and now their instincts were being proved right. Jacquie should have followed hers, instead of throwing every last penny after some stupid idea. And that prick of a pianist had been foolish enough to go along with it.

  He pulled open the topmost of his crammed desk drawers, his attention momentarily diverted by a seagull which had landed on the sill outside. Its dark green deposit scrolled down the window. He banged his fist against the glass. It hurt, and the creature merely stared at him before letting out some more.

  "Jesus Christ, man," he remonstrated with himself. "It's just a bird you saddo." He then found what he was looking for and stared at the colour photo now in his hand. Tina still looked terrific, even after three kids. Enormous brown eyes provocatively fixed on his camera. The Algarve beach glowing all around her. Breasts enhanced by her underwired bikini top, her thighs firm and tanned as she knelt on a pink TINA-labelled towel. He remembered with a jolt what her kneeling over him had felt like. Four months ago, but still unforgettable. For that brief holiday, she’d fabricated a business trip to her husband, and himself a bout of ‘flu to his boss.

  He felt the familiar lurch of resentment that she and Ronan Crabtree still played happy families with their two boys, in an architect-designed house complete with three garages and a hardwood conservatory. He also realised it was too long since his last letter begging her to see him again had gone unanswered. So, there was nothing for it, but to make a clean break with her and think seriously about MTEC Global's recent offer of a consultancy in Toronto. He checked his Filofax. He had a free Saturday on January 18th and while her husband was usually away on business after each New Year, Little Bidding would be his priority.

  Suddenly his phone's green light flashed an incoming call via switchboard. Being so early in the day, any number of possibilities tore through his mind. Could it be her after all, taking advantage of a quiet office? Feeling psychic, maybe? Coming to London for lunch and an hotel room?

  "Mr Lodge, sir?" the operator interrupted his thoughts. "You have a call. Will you take or shall I cancel?"

  "Who is it, Vera?"

  "A Roger Harris. Says you used to work together at Global in Swindon."

  "Rog? Good God, yes." He snapped out of his reverie. "OK, thanks."

  "Hi there, mate." Harris sounded upbeat, different.

  "Hi you too. How's it going?"

  "Pretty damned good on the whole, mind you, there's always too much in the old in-tray. Always someone on your bloody back..."

  "Nothing's changed then." Graham pressed the receiver closer to his ear. Something about his friend's tone, his expressions weren't quite right. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  "Hell, no. Old Liversedge was still wielding the big stick, beefing on about the Euro till he sodded off a month ago. Now it's a new broom."

  "Who's replaced him?" Graham Lodge surprised he'd not heard that one on the MTEC grapevine.

  "Oh, some guy called Dennis. Queer as a coot actually. Can't stand that sort myself."

  Graham stalled, his frown deepening. Roger Harris was himself gay. Not exactly in your face but not ashamed of it either, and a cameraman with Channel 4, had been his partner for years.

  "Who is this?" he demanded.

  "Who d'you think?"

  Then the dialling tone filled his ear followed by nothing.

  Graham Lodge stabbed the O button.

  "Vera Southgate here,” came the operator’s practised response. “How may I help?"

  "What was my caller's number?" Graham asked her. No niceties, just a growing anxiety.

  "Withheld."

  "Look, if this Roger Harris phones again, ask him his date of birth, name of partner etcetera, OK?"

  "Are you alright, Mr Lodge?"

  "Yes and no."

  He swivelled round to the view of cranes pecking at the unfinished shell of some new apartment complex. All glass and single breezeblock walls. His office now felt just as flimsy - its defences breached. But by whom, and for God's sake, why?

  Five minutes later he told Vera to ring MTEC Global in Swindon and, as he waited for their switchboard to reach Personnel, his fingers drummed out a tense rhythm on his desk.

  "Hey, Marj?” He began. “Graham Lodge here."

  Marj Powell had never approved of him dumping his childless wife, but her professionalism had always overcome her personal judgements. He guessed she must be in her late forties by now.

  "Good to hear you, Graham,” she said. “How's London treating you?"

  "Could be worse. Just two questions if you've a mo... "

  "Fire away."

  "Is P L still cock of the heap with Global?"

  The woman chuckled. Here was some common ground at least.

  "'Fraid so. Hiring and firing for Britain. Plus ça change..."

  "So no-one by the name of Dennis has stepped in?"

  Pause.

  "Sorry, don't know what you mean. Like I said, it's more of the same here."

  "And Roger? Roger Harris, Sales. He OK?"

  A pause, in which he could hear other voices in Personnel's open-plan suite. Staff moving to their desks and switching on their computers.

  "Haven't you heard?" Marj quizzed gently.

  "No. What d'you mean? I took a call from him just now."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Sort of sure. Why I'm phoning you."

  "Oh Lord, this isn't making any sense at all... Something happened to Roger a fortnight ago."

  "Go on," Graham urged. His pulse changing pace.

  "He was knocked off his motorbike on the M4 and is still in the General, in a coma."

  "No."

  "Funny thing though," Marj went on." About three weeks ago, someone called Chris Cookson phoned in to ask similar questions. Said he'd worked for Global in 03 and was just catching up on news. Naturally I ran a check and there's been no-one of that name in any department since 1989. He left no number so I couldn't get back to him, but he was very convincing I must say."

  Graham Lodge paused, then pulled himself together.

  "Thanks for your help. I'll speak to the hospital straight away. Meanwhile, if you hear from Roger’s partner first, please give him my sympathy..."

  "I will."

  He hung up, watching the nearest crane on the site dipping and rising like some huge, grey
heron, and, although it was barely 8.30 a.m. he left his office and took the lift downstairs. Five minutes later, having knocked up The Sailor's Arms’ landlord to open half an hour early, he was downing a double malt.

  32

  A week to go until Christmas, and by the following evening, Rita would have enough money for the Peugeot. Its road tax and comprehensive insurance were already paid for and, as part of the deal, Mr. Reynolds had arranged a full service and professional valeting.

  However, desperation wasn’t far away. Her visit to Jez's grave straight after her driving test, had yielded nothing save a small bunch of white roses from ‘your ever-loving Dad,’ while at the police station, although PC Jane Truelove had been her usual concerned self, she'd admitted the case was closed.

  Rita had been even more tempted to write to Tim Fraser, but the risk of him thinking she was paranoid about Pete Brown, decided against it. However, she did make extra trips to that graveyard to check nothing had been disturbed there, and was on full alert every time she left the flat. Both kids too, had been told till she was blue in the face, never to speak to strangers. Especially tall, young men with light brown hair and strange, brown eyes.

  *

  Drizzle again, and the kind of morning that made going to Best Press a pleasure. At least there she had company, and was beginning to get the interior smartened up. She stood in the bus queue along with other city centre workers complaining about the weather and the cost of tickets to see Derren Brown, when her new mobile began to ring.

  "Rita? That you? It's Frank."

  "Get lost."

  "Please."

  "Just get a life. Like I've had to do."

  "I can't. That's the bloody trouble."

  Silence. His breathing sounded bad, as if he was right next to her. But for Rita, pity wouldn't come.

  "Where are you phoning from?" she asked without interest.