Jack of All Trades Box Set: books 1 to 3

by DH Smith

  ‘Money isn’t everything.’

  He couldn’t help a laugh. Wisdom from the ten year old perspective.

  ‘It’s not everything, I admit,’ he said, ‘but a decent, regular income doesn’t half make life easier.’

  There was a ring on the bell.

  ‘Your mum. I’d best let her in.’

  He left the flat, went down the stairs and opened the front door. There was Alison, flustered with speed and worry.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘What have you been saying to her?’

  ‘That Brighton is a nice place and you earn nearly twice what I do.’

  She punched him on the shoulder.

  ‘Thanks, Jack.’

  ‘You are ruining my dinner date,’ he said as she came in and followed him up the stairs.

  ‘Are you on a promise?’ she said.

  ‘Was. Might yet be. If I can get back there.’

  ‘I do appreciate this, Jack. And will do my best to get you back.’

  They went in the flat.

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ said Mia.

  She was seated with the blanket over her knees like a recovered invalid, a book on her lap. Jack noted it was an Enid Blyton. If Alison did, she didn’t say anything.

  ‘I’ll make you some tea, Alison,’ said Jack.

  He went in the kitchen. Let them get talking. He’d said his piece and didn’t want to compete with Alison. And as much as he wanted to get back to Anne, he knew this couldn’t be hurried. In this muddled family were three relationships, each dependent on the others. And for himself, he’d rather Alison didn’t go to Brighton. Or rather he didn’t want Alison and Mia going to Brighton. But how could he complain with his insecure income? She’d been offered a good job, quite a bit more money, and Brighton was an exciting town. Not a bad time for Mia to move either. She’d only have to do two terms in primary before she went to secondary school. Except she wanted to go to Atwoods with her mates.

  He took a tea in to Alison, amid her apology to Mia for her hastiness. And for putting it to her so bluntly, and not explaining herself properly. And then there was out and out bribery. A laptop. Jack gasped at this. Not sure if you should do such things. Didn’t they rebound on you, come to be expected?

  Perhaps every time you moved to Brighton, so maybe not so bad. And then somehow he was roped in. And the three of them arranged to go to Brighton the coming weekend.

  ‘Not in your van,’ said Alison. ‘It’s always full of your stuff and not suitable for a long journey.’

  The alternative was her car, he thought, or…

  ‘Let’s go by train,’ he said. ‘It’s only an hour or so from London Bridge or Victoria.’

  ‘Yes, by train,’ said Mia.

  And that settled it. Train times would be settled on later in the week, but all three would have a day at the seaside on Saturday. Crisis over. A laptop and a day at the seaside. He’d have to be on best behaviour to spend a day with Alison.

  Deal done, Alison got Mia on the move.

  As they were leaving the flat, he heard Mia say:

  ‘Maybe not a laptop. For the same money, I could get a pretty good Dobsonian telescope… And if we get a garden in a darker part of town…’

  He felt quite jealous for an instant, having to drive out of town to set up his telescope. But then thought, Anne has an OK garden, if that relationship goes anywhere, if it should last…

  If it should start.

  He looked out of the window to make sure Mia and Alison were safely away. Then headed off to get his pudding.

  Chapter 26

  Frank was on his way back from the pub, staggering somewhat. It was a chilly night, the sky quite clear with a three-quarter moon rising. His jacket was open, he was not feeling the cold, the alcohol desensitising him in his slow stroll. A bacon roll when he got back, get her lazy self on it.

  He’d met a few regulars in the Goose, had a josh with them over his black eye and loose tooth, and mulled over his own ideas on the walk back. He was strict about drinking and driving. He was a cab man, known for that, and if caught over the limit he’d lose his driving licence and his livelihood. Drink, sure, it was an Englishman’s right, but walk home, though he was sure he could drive, but you can’t argue with a copper holding a breathalyser. A few pints always sharpened his wits, but no way was he going to risk it. Why, a couple of weeks ago, he’d even got a cab home!

  Tonight was a moderate night drinkwise. Frank’d had a few, say three or four, five at the very outside. Who was counting? Bert wasn’t there. Pity, as he liked to swap sentiments with him; they agreed on the state of the nation, about the role of women and what they were good for. Always great for a laugh and a challenge was Bert. Coming over tomorrow anyway, bringing a couple of steaks. He salivated at the thought of a rare steak, the blood coming through the flesh. He’d get Bessie on that. And she’d better get it right or he’d teach her. Then while the men ate, send her out, and the two of ‘em could plan what to do with the mongrel couple.

  He had some thoughts of his own. For instance, Bert had a white van, used for his family butcher’s shop. But good for other things. All they had to do was get the lady in, somehow, and it was all up for grabs.

  Bert’s place, up Epping, might figure in the scenario. A quaint workingman’s cottage, all on its own, surrounded by forest. But it had to be a clean pick up, no one seeing them. Or rule it out. And assuming that, then he’d give her one, show her what a white man could do, for comparison’s sake. They had balaclavas, which meant she’d have no idea who they were, and once done with her, could pitch her out in the forest somewhere. Naked. That appealed. Likely Bert would have some suggestions of his own.

  A rare steak with onions, spuds and mushrooms, a few beers – and they could plan a creative bit of villainy.

  Their light was on at the top of the house, he noted. Was the darkie banging her one right now? Never stop, these niggers. She had his brown bun in the oven already. And still he’d be on top of her. He’d listened in the night to their bed springs. Sickening. He spat on to the pavement, a hand on the outside wall to steady himself.

  Nancy was in too, but his own flat light was off. Bessie must be with that silly old cow. Time he put a stop to that. It’d just give her cat fleas. That was, if the cat survived its picky meal.

  Smart idea, mince and tacks. The stupid moggie would choke like it had a steel fishbone stuck in its gullet. Or so went the theory. If it worked, all to the good, if not modify. He was quite scientific in his plans.

  She was in too, her downstairs. Lot of rounded flesh there, in all the right places. He rubbed his groin. Lived by herself, not seen any other guys coming and going. Must be dying for it. Time he paid her a visit, being neighbours. Things to discuss, points to be made before someone else made them.

  Frank’s fingers fumbled to get the key in the lock. Wrong bloody key, they all looked the same in this light. He tried again and opened the front door. Why not a visit? She was up, probably just watching TV. He’d be busy tomorrow night. Seize the day, as they say.

  He walked up the hallway to Anne’s door. Straightened himself up, be confident and forceful, that was the way. He rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles like he knew he’d be welcome. And why shouldn’t he be? Inside, music was playing. Jazz or something. He could turn that up a bit as things got moving.

  The door opened.

  ‘You’re back quick… Oh, it’s you.’

  Before she could react further, he pushed past her into the flat.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about the lease, Anne.’

  Chapter 27

  Bessie and Nancy were at the end of the flowerbed, almost in darkness, well back from the house where the hall light was on. Tickles was wandering about somewhere, and Nancy, sitting in an aluminium folding chair, was watching, the rusty biscuit box in her lap.

  Bessie was digging a hole with her trowel. The ground was soft after the rain. She had chosen a bit
of her flowerbed, not the wall side, well, where the wall had been. It was all gone now, awaiting the fence. There was a bright moon, not full but going that way. Full would have been better, but tonight he was out at the pub and she had to make the best of the chance. She had her coat on, buttoned up, to keep out the chill.

  ‘It’s cold,’ shivered Nancy. ‘I want to get back to my bed.’

  ‘Won’t be long,’ said Bessie. ‘The box was under his bed all last night, absorbing the essence of him. It’s packed full of his aura.’ She continued digging, a mound of soil building up beside her. ‘We’re nearly finished. We must call on the spirits who fly by moonlight. And then bury the box in the earth.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like this sort of thing,’ said Nancy, bending and unbending her arthritic fingers. They were stiffening in the chill. ‘Where’s Tickles?’ She looked about her in the shadowy darkness.

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t leave him out,’ said Bessie.

  She was a little on edge herself. Her father could come back anytime. He’d beat her if she wasn’t there. She’d have to risk that. In fact, all the more reason to. She was here for all the years of beatings, for every time he’d had her. She looked up at the moon, hoping the spirits were flying tonight. You couldn’t see them, unless you had the eye – and she didn’t.

  She stuck the trowel in the soil and rubbed her hands together to wipe the earth off her fingers. If this didn’t work, then she would have to kill him herself. She’d thought about it many nights, lying there beside him. Him snoring away, she lying so close. All she needed was the kitchen knife.

  But the magic would work. The website said so. Done with care and belief. You had to believe, and not rush the forces. Believing was the impetus.

  ‘And now we call on the spirits,’ said Bessie. ‘Give me the box.’

  Nancy handed her the biscuit box. And Bessie put it in the hole she had dug. It rested three or four inches below ground level. She took a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and gave it to Nancy. ‘You must read the words slowly, I will repeat each line after you, and will throw earth in the hole.’

  Nancy fumbled to put on her glasses, her fingers thick in the cold. The glasses were opaque with condensation. She had to remove them and wipe them on her sleeve. And fumblingly, put them back on again.

  ‘I can’t read it,’ she exclaimed, moving the paper back and forth. ‘It’s too dark.’

  Bessie was prepared for this and took a little torch from her pocket and switched it on. She handed it to Nancy.

  ‘Just point it downwards,’ said Bessie. ‘Coat round, so we can’t be seen from the house. The main light must be from the moon.’

  She looked upwards. The moon was free of cloud, glowing golden with smudges on its surface like dirty fingerprints on a plate.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Nancy as the words came into her vision. She twisted her body round to shield the light, both hands occupied holding the paper and torch. ‘That’s the best I can do.’

  ‘Read,’ said Bessie, trowel in hand. ‘Slowly. Line by line.’

  Nancy began reading, the torch playing over the paper. Bessie repeated each line after her, throwing soil into the hole with her trowel, as if it were a burial.

  I summon up thee, great Beelzebub,

  Enjoin these believers to thy hub.

  I summon up thee, mighty Hecate,

  Thou who knows what this curse may be;

  Let the soul of Frank Brand be revoked.

  Evil ones, thy magic is evoked,

  May he die this night in agony,

  And we will forever worship thee.

  The spell completed, in silence Bessie continued filling the hole.

  Chapter 28

  Jack put on his safety belt and set off for Anne’s, with some relief after all his rushing about. Crisis resolved. He’d sped home to get Mia, placated her, and with Alison got her half agreeing to move to Brighton. With the aid of a big bribe. Still, a move was a cosmic event in a kid’s life, torn away from friends and the future she saw herself in. With no say in the matter.

  But then you can’t negotiate a career move to Brighton with a child. Well you could, but then the child controlled your life. Anyway, child placated, Alison happy, move on – and hope that he had a life beyond fatherhood.

  The traffic was light. The only tricky bit was crossing the Romford Road. He never trusted drivers this time of night. Too many still drank, in spite of the drink driving laws. He’d done so himself, and almost killed himself. There should be a gadget in the car, which if it detected any booze fumes, wouldn’t let the car start.

  He’d have to invent it.

  Anyway, all set for a family visit to Brighton on Saturday. The sea and rock and a kiss-me-quick hat. He always enjoyed the seaside, watching the waves coming in forever. He hoped it would be a good day out. And not all blow up into a family row.

  Though he and Alison had got on OK tonight. Parents United. No recriminations from her, no sarky remarks. Maybe they’d turned a corner. He was no longer her drunken ex. There was obvious sense in being friends; they had part-share in Mia’s upbringing for the next ten years or so. Sparring parents would do her no good at all.

  And now, could he rescue the rest of his evening?

  Back on Ham Park Road, Jack got out of the van and locked up. He was parked just behind the orange Aurora. Frank’s vehicle. Quite a smart little car he had. Though it was his job, so he had to look after it. He was, though, a slimeball. Condemned as a parent and as a neighbour. What had happened in his life to make him so vile?

  He must remind Anne about doing something about Bessie. Contacting the right people.

  But that was tomorrow. Tonight, what was left of it, had to be put straight. He had his own life. One step at a time. She might just be too tired, gone off the boil, so to speak. Well, see if he was welcomed back. They’d been getting on fine, he and Anne, then the phone call. A missive from another world. And he was transformed, in an instant, from lover to parent. Well, the parent was back in the box, the lid shut down tight.

  The lover pads the street.

  Her light was on. In fact, it was the only one on in the house, apart from the hall light. He searched about in his pocket for the front door key she’d loaned him. Found it and opened the front door. This was déjà vu. He needed the chocolates and pot plant to present to her for the rewind. And felt as nervous as he had at the beginning of the evening. More so.

  He stood at her door. Combed his hair, straightened his collar, might’ve showered and shampooed if they’d been available, brushed his shoes behind his shins, looked at his nails. He knew it made no difference; it was simply prevarication.

  He could just go home, of course. And in the morning make up some excuse, exaggerate the family crisis. But he wasn’t going home, he knew. Unless she slammed the door in his face. He took a step back against the hall wall. Pressed against it with his hands, took a big breath, and stepped forward resolutely and rapped on the door.

  There. Done. All set for his apologies. He could hear footsteps. His hands slipped against his thighs. His fingers crossed and uncrossed – as the door opened.

  Anne was there, her face smeared with blood.

  It took him a few seconds to take her in. She was in her red dress, though it was ripped at the cleavage, and both cheeks and forehead were blood splattered, as was her neck. Hands too.

  Gripping the door as if it were all that held her up, she said, ‘I’ve killed him, Jack.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Frank.’

  He didn’t move. No longer eager to cross the threshold into her arms.

  ‘Do you want to come in?’ she said.

  He thought rapidly. What was she inviting him into? He could just leave, be no part of whatever she’d done. Let her sort it out. Except he was here. Already too late. He was involved. A witness to whatever. There was no simply going away. He was involved the instant the door opened.

  ‘He tried to rape me,’ she said.


  ‘Let’s see what you’ve done,’ he said. An expression of confusion and gathering decision.

  She turned about and went into the flat. He, no longer caring about the condition of his hair or nails, followed her, closing the door behind him, breathing heavily with expectation.

  She led him into the sitting room.

  On the sofa lay Frank. His head was smashed in, blood congealing on his face, one arm hung languidly down the sofa. About him were scattered flowers and blue glass fragments. A large solid fragment, the base of the vase with shards, as if growing from it, lay near his head. His shirt was splashed in blood and water.

  ‘He pushed his way in,’ she said, ‘pretty drunk. I thought it was you when he knocked. Said he wanted to talk about the lease, white people together. Though pretty obviously, he hadn’t much interest in the lease – and came on to me. He got very forceful all at once, was tearing my dress off though I was yelling for him to stop. He slapped me and punched me…’ She stopped, deflated by the memory. After a pause, she swallowed and added, ‘So I grabbed what I could – and smashed him on the head with it.’ She indicated the body and mess on the sofa. ‘With that result. About fifteen minutes ago.’

  He was gazing at the tableau, noting among the glass and blood, Frank’s belt was undone, the top buttons of his fly free.

  ‘What have you been doing since…’ his hand flapped at the sofa, ‘that?’

  ‘Sitting here. Waiting for you.’

  He was bludgeoned. Couldn’t take his eyes off the sofa. A bleeding corpse with flowers and glass. Reason swept away in the tsunami of shock.

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’ she said.

  He numbly nodded.

  She went out and into her kitchen. He followed like an automaton.

  She put the kettle on. He closed the shutters of the hatch. The sitting room no longer existed. He was shivering. Things had to be done. He couldn’t fool himself. The sitting room did exist and there was a body in it. A man who had been murdered, or was it manslaughter or was it some other crime, he couldn’t think what. A man, though, with his head smashed in. And one was supposed to do something, as a respectable citizen.