by DH Smith
‘Isn’t he a wonderful manager?’ exclaimed Maggie.
Chapter 14
Jack and Mia were on the top of the hill. The area virtually part of Epping Forest. Jack had searched for a place, not too far away, with clear, fairly unlit space around. And this was the best he could come up with. He could get here from Forest Gate in twenty five minutes if the traffic wasn’t bad. There was a golf course to the south, farm land and forest in the other directions. It was roads and habitations you had to get away from if you wanted unpolluted skies. And this was half decent without heading out to the wilds of Dartmoor.
The sky had become clearer and a moon, just beyond half, was rising in the darkening twilight. Below, there was mostly fields and forest with the odd sprinkle of lights picking out roads and houses. Sparse. This was well-off Chingford, and if the houses were large, then so were their grounds. Jack and Mia were seated on a bench, the Newtonian telescope set up a couple of metres away, eating pizza and drinking tea from the thermos. They wore their observing gear: woolly hats and scarves, their fingerless gloves temporarily in the pockets of their jackets while they ate.
When they’d finished the pizza, they wiped their hands on a towel Jack had brought and put on their fingerless gloves. The rubbish went in the litter bin by the bench.
‘Let’s see what you can find on the moon,’ said Jack as they went to the telescope. ‘Keep close to the terminator for best viewing. How about Copernicus?’
‘That’s too easy, Dad.’
It pleased him that she liked his hobby. It wasn’t everyone you could take up on a hill on a chilly night. Sometimes the seeing was awful, but tonight’s was reasonable. And the moon was always a gift, best at less than full, where the terminator, the division between light and dark, threw shadows in the craters nearby.
‘Start with Copernicus then,’ he conceded. ‘And then follow through to…’ He looked at his map of the moon brightened by his red light torch. ‘To Plato.’
Mia went to the eyepiece on the side of the scope. It was about her height; she barely had to bend.
‘Oh there it is, Copernicus, almost in the middle, the terminator just touching the west of it. I wish we had a bigger scope…’
‘Wouldn’t be able to carry it,’ he said.
‘And then to the north east of it, at the tip of the Apennine mountains, there’s that long one I can never remember the name of…’
Neither could Jack who looked at his map. ‘Eratosthenes.’
‘Why do they have to give craters such strange names?’
‘Don’t know. Call it Mia.’
‘Yes!’ She clapped her hands together. ‘There’s crater Mia at the tip of the Apennines, named after the famous girl astronomer, then following the ridge as it curves round – and there we have crater Jack…’ She took a sly look at her dad. ‘Also known as Archimedes. Which has two little ones just to the north of it, and I don’t know the names of them…’
‘Alison and …’
‘Jack?’ she suggested.
‘We’ve already had Jack,’ he said. ‘And anyway, they wouldn’t be together.’
She came off the scope.
‘I don’t want to go to Brighton,’ she said.
‘It’s got the sea and cliffs and lots of life.’
She shook her head. ‘It hasn’t got my friends. It hasn’t got you.’
‘You can still stay with me alternate weekends.’
‘But not odd days like this.’
‘No,’ he had to admit. That would be impossible. Picking her up at 3.30, taking her back to his place 70 miles away, then getting her to school in the morning, wasn’t on. It’d be all driving, with an afternoon’s work thrown away and the next morning’s too.
‘Can I come and live with you?’ she said.
‘Your mum is prime carer,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t agree.’ And he wasn’t sure he wanted it, but didn’t say. Though Alison was working full time and managed. Managed because she could call on him when she was going out on a date. But that wouldn’t happen in Brighton.
‘She hasn’t got the job yet,’ he added. ‘So it could all come to nothing.’
‘I hope so.’
He looked at his watch. ‘We can only stay another 15 minutes. Find the Sea of Tranquillity.’
‘Stop asking me all the easy ones.’ She turned to him. ‘You know my teacher, Miss Brown? She didn’t know what the terminator was.’
‘I bet your mum doesn’t either. And she’s a teacher too.’
‘Yes she does. I told her. And also, you know what my teacher said?’
‘Tell me.’
‘This is dead dumb. She said there was no gravity on the moon.’
Jack laughed, imagining what his daughter would say to that.
‘And what did you say?’
‘I put my hand up and said – yes, there is. It’s a sixth of Earth’s.’
‘What did she say to that, clever sticks?’
Attempting an imitation of her teacher, she said, ‘There’s no gravity on the moon, Mia. And I’ll talk to you at playtime.’ In her own voice she added, ‘And she did. I almost got a telling off, till we checked it on Wikipedia. And I was right. And she said – oh I meant atmosphere.’
‘Don’t get too smart. You won’t be popular.’
‘But she was wrong.’
‘Don’t tell her in front of the whole class. Tell her on her own. Anyway, back to the Sea of Tranquillity. Take us south to Clavius.’
‘I can’t do that, there’s millions of craters in that direction, Dad.’
‘Find one you like amongst them.’
‘I know, I know one,’ she said eagerly, looking through the scope. ‘There. Alphonsus. It’s got a little house in the middle.’
‘I don’t think it’s a house.’
‘Yes, the man in the moon lives there. And the cow comes to visit. Oh look there, she’s coming now. Wow!’ She came off the scope. ‘That was a shooting star.’
‘It’ll bring you luck.’
‘Then I won’t be going to Brighton!’
She did a spin and a high five with Jack.
Chapter 15
Frank was in The Goose in Stratford Broadway with Bert. The light was dim with small, fake coach lights along the side walls. The pub was their chosen watering hole, better than the poncy Goldengrove up the road, which was too full of social workers and liberal wankers.
He couldn’t stop waggling his tooth with his tongue. It was going to come out pretty soon, hanging by a string of flesh. And maybe he’d live with the gap, instead of dental work. He hated dentists, being helpless in that chair. His eye stung. It’d probably be black in the morning. The nose bleed he was able to staunch at home, and felt as if he’d done fifteen rounds and been KO’d at the bell.
Bert handed him his second pint.
‘He can’t get away with it,’ said Bert, obviously thinking while at the bar.
Frank took a sip, and grimaced. It went right in the tooth. He tried a sip on the other side and that was better.
‘He can’t, he bloody well can’t,’ exclaimed Frank. ‘They have to learn whose country this is.’
Bert was tall and thin with a generous bubbling of ginger hair. His skin was whitish pink, as if he’d been laying out on his father’s refrigerated butcher’s slab in Manor Park. He worked in his father’s shop along with a sister. All three stalwarts of the local chapter of England First.
‘Petrol through the letterbox, followed by a match?’ suggested Bert. ‘Quick and low risk.’
‘If you don’t bloody well live in the house. I’m on the second floor, Bert, and they’re up above on the third, so I’d go first.’ He waved away the idea. ‘No fire, mate. Let’s get more creative.’
Frank wondered about Bert. You could always get him on side for a good kicking but he was inclined to be impulsive, and didn’t always think. You had the goal, sure, but a big part of it was not getting caught. He’d have to be the brains in this.
‘Pity,’ said Bert. ‘I do like a bit of fire. I mean even if they know it’s arson, how can they pin it on you unless they’ve seen you pouring in the petrol. But I take the point, you don’t want to destroy your own house, so dump that. Are you thinking both of ‘em or just the one?’
The music had struck up loud, some fierce drumming and guitar riffs. Frank for a few seconds was irritated, but then realised it was no bad thing, as who could overhear them through this racket. He pulled his chair closer to Bert’s.
‘I was considering that when you were getting the pint,’ he said almost in his ear. ‘My first thought was go for the nigger. But then I thought there’s millions of them. What’s the point? But his bitch is pregnant with his kid…’
‘We should discourage fraternisation,’ added Bert helpfully.
Frank nodded and rubbed his jaw. ‘This tooth is knackered. I’ll make ‘em sorry they took me on. I’m gonna keep my eye on her for a couple of days. See where she works. Her timings. I know she’s got a motor. I’ve seen her come and go in it. Why don’t you come over for tea, day after tomorrow. Say half five. Bessie’ll cook us up something.’
‘I’ll bring some steak from the shop.’
‘That’ll be great. This tooth’ll be out by then if I have to do it myself with pincers. She can cook it. Onions, mushrooms, chips with your steak. Have a good feed up, I’ll get some beers in. Then I’ll get rid of her. Send her off to the pictures or something, and we can work out what we do with the bitch. You still got that little place up Epping?’
‘Yeh, going there next week to do a bit of fishing.’
‘Might prove useful for a bigger catch, mate.’
Chapter 16
Anne was looking out of her French windows into the dark garden. The light from the room spilled out across the lawn, gradually fading into black. She couldn’t make out the shed or the tree at the back at all. Though sometimes when Clapton United were training at night, the floodlights spilled and she could hear the yelling. The ground was just beyond the back of her garden, its entrance by the Spotted Dog. Such a sad boarded up place. Henry VIII was said to hunt from there. But she’d never known it in use. Locals told her it’d been a lovely pub with a restaurant, Irish music, and then somehow lost it when the manager left.
She liked her French windows, the light they gave her during the day, the easy access to the garden, but once the footballers turned off their floodlights at night, the gloom was frightening. Windows were fragile, the lock not that good. Living on the ground floor had its rewards but also its dangers, especially for a woman on her own.
She drew the long, orange curtains. And shuddered at the thought of the fight. She was seated next to Frank when David threw the punch. And then, in the mêlée, she was avoiding boots and fists and crockery. It was only by luck she wasn’t collateral damage. The speed of it shocked her. Admittedly, Frank was pushing for it, and something had to happen. David could have called the police, should have, you might say, but Frank with his ‘half-caste, abortion’ hectoring, his challenge by sitting it out, hadn’t given David much of a choice.
If only she hadn’t been quite so close to the action.
She seemed to attract violence. There was Malcolm, always Malcolm. She often came back to him, late evenings on her own. Finding him all but dead when she returned from her supposed evening class, blood all over the sitting room where his failing body had crawled. Then the police and the dreadful aftermath.
This was her new life, bought with the insurance. She sat on the little table in the nursery. How long could she keep this up for? The days were long. The baby came at 7.30 in the morning, and wasn’t picked up till 6.30 in the evening. You wondered why the parents had a child at all, but she couldn’t question her paymasters. A servant in effect. And one lot of kids would be replaced by another lot, until the last syllable of recorded time. No, this had to be a temporary halt, say a couple of years, while this time she actually did the evening class.
It had seemed perfect then. She’d enrolled for a modular arts degree, part time at the local college, three evenings a week. Showed Malcolm the receipt and everything. What a wonderful plan! Except it grew more complicated. She had to lie about the course, make up tutors, even buying books to make it look real, while she was romping with Steve in that tiny flat of his.
The lies, the strain of making them up was almost degree level, the desperate sex and the sudden halt with the murder. She’d ended up with no qualifications, other than widow. Fierce and kinky sex, and so what? It was addictive, painful and pointless. She might as well have been sticking needles in her arm. There was little love in it, would you even call it need? Any more than you need whisky or cocaine.
Or anything, if it comes to that.
This was going to be another sleepless night. Dwelling on her Malcolm days, the lies she’d told him while dripping with sex. Think about tomorrow, slam shut the past. The builder, for whom she was going to make dinner. Might there not be a chance there? Some civilised relationship. He seemed a nice, companionable man, a little sad, but she could hardly complain. No booze, no bad thing considering her own problems there.
And they would settle down, have a child or two, buy a house in the suburbs, she’d do an Open University degree in something or other, paint and grow vegetables and keep chickens. There, she’d married him already and not even had the first date.
It was easy to do that with someone you didn’t know. Far easier than with someone you did.
Don’t be overeager. That sets them running. Don’t sleep together on the first date. Had she blown that one, asking him to dinner here? But at 35, with the new feminism, can you really hang about waiting to be asked?
Such a bundle of insecurities. She needed to work with someone, instead of on her own. To be able to discuss things, plan things. Instead she was stuck singing songs to toddlers.
But it was a job. These days, no small thing.
Count your blessings: she was her own boss instead of some bastard busybody over her, her own flat, healthy, and a date tomorrow night. Count them and forget Malcolm and the blood trails in the sitting room, and the lies you told him, and the sex games with Steve that simply made you feel worse about your betrayal.
Like Marley’s ghost she’d dragged her chains and cash boxes the 200 miles south to East London.
A cup of tea, some marmite on toast. And see if she can find a late night film worth watching.
Chapter 17
Bessie couldn’t sleep. His snoring made it difficult enough, but it was hard to get comfortable with her bruised shoulder where he’d thumped her when they’d got back after the non-meeting in the upstairs flat. She should have supported him, he’d yelled. But how could she have said anything when she was eating their cake and drinking their tea? They were always nice to her. She didn’t care what colour their baby would be. Besides, it’s hard to speak up with so many people.
Ten years ago, she might have hated David. Not just for being black. She’d done a lot of hating at school. The black boys were rough and they teased her. But so did the white boys. They were a dirty lot too. The black girls were OK, always getting in trouble with their short skirts and cheek. The Asian girls were always talking about weddings. And she never got on with the white girls, they teased her too for her small breasts and bad teeth.
What with the kids and the teachers, she was glad to leave school.
Since then she’d turned about. Hated other people less. It came with her increasing hatred of Frank once her mother had run off. She told everyone she was dead; that stopped them asking about her. But now she was her replacement. His sex and punch bag. Tonight he’d come in drunk, so he was quick. Better that way, then off to sleep and snoring.
She lay on the edge of the bed; he had three quarters of it. In the morning, quite often she could avoid sex if she got up sharpish and made his breakfast. Though sometimes that tactic simply delayed things to post-breakfast.
Tonight the box was under the bed. More
or less where his heart was. There was no way he could have spotted it, coming in so drunk. The ingredients were energised by the spell she and Nancy had pronounced. And now its magic would seep out over the hours of the night, and soak the foul soul of her father.
And so seal his fate.
She had the feeling this one would work. She’d found it online, though she was always getting graphic pop-ups from his porn sites. She’d learnt to ignore them. They were there, like wallpaper. Besides, the more he wanked to screen fantasies, the less he had for her. The site told her the spell was dangerous, said when it had been used before and its effects. She had tried other ones, but they never worked. This one had a history.
It was the darkest of black magic.
Then she would be free. Not his punchbag and post pub comforter. She wondered where her mother was, what she was doing. And resented her for not taking her with, but leaving her to him. So she became his wife and tormented servant, instead of her mum.
Her mum might as well be dead. For all the good she’d done her.
The only thing she owed her was the flowerbed that her mother had kept up and she’d taken over. She’d worried when she saw what the builder was going to do, but her plants were going to be alright. He was doing his best. She’d already put the first ones back, where the builder had taken the broken bit of wall away. Watered them in and they hadn’t wilted. He was nice; he listened to her. She’d like to be his wife. She’d asked him if he was married and he said he wasn’t, though he had a daughter. She didn’t mind that but wished he didn’t talk to Anne so much. Anne had her eye on him, that was obvious.
Could she go in the sitting room and sleep? But then if he woke up he’d simply yell for her and hit her one. Though she could say she’d simply gone to the toilet but he might hit her one anyway. Just in case, he would say.
Thank God he had his taxi. What hell her life would be if he were unemployed. The less she saw of him the better. He had some regular work quite early in the morning, taking a kid to school somewhere in Woodford. She hoped he didn’t lose that. It was her free time. Quite often until lunchtime as he got other fares.