by DH Smith
‘Fine, fine,’ she enthused. ‘It will fill the hole.’
Bessie was keeping an eye on the children while they had a coffee in the sitting room. Trying out the sofa.
She doesn’t like it, thought Jack. Bollocks to her then. After all he’d done this morning. Women! Alison had never let him buy any furniture either. He’d once come back with some new curtains, which ended up a week later, not even unpacked, going to Oxfam. Dumb of him. Anne hadn’t asked for it. He’d simply thought, while I’m out, surprise her.
Next time, don’t bother.
She looked fresh and attractive, objectively attractive that was to say, for in his spaced out zone he simply knew it from hearsay. An alien being told him that’s what attractive women on Earth looked like. In this room, he couldn’t see beyond her bloody face and torn dress. And was too whacked out to say anything beyond platitudes. Anything else would come out wrong. There’d be a fight.
He caught himself. What had she just said? He grunted as if he knew. Knew anything about anything. This vomit stew he was swimming in. It was stupid staying here, pretending to be alive.
He rose and said, ‘I’m going home. I’ve got to get some sleep.’
She pecked him on the cheek, he twitched and hoped she hadn’t noticed.
‘Do you want to come back this evening?’ she said as she saw him to the door. Something to say, automatically, expected of her. She was relieved when he cried off, pleading exhaustion. She thought she might like him again tomorrow. The sofa might look better. The day, the future, her life, might all improve. Tomorrow.
When he’d gone, she sat on the sofa for a few minutes to finish her coffee. It was such a strain to talk, to pretend, to act out a way you are expected to feel but don’t. She would crack so easily if she were a spy. A day or two without sleep and she’d be spilling the names of comrades and lovers. How awful she was when it came down to it. Her life was one big lie.
The next she knew, she was waking up. Her thigh was wet and the sofa by her. A coffee cup was smashed on the floor. She’d evidently fallen asleep. Simply switched off. How long? She had no idea.
The children!
She rushed into the nursery. It was an isle of tranquillity. No one dead. The baby was in the playpen drinking juice from a bottle. Bessie was in the story area, the two twins leaning against her as she read them Where The Wild Things Are.
She said, ‘Sorry, Bessie. I fell asleep.’
Bessie looked up from her book and smiled. ‘I’ve read this three times to them.’
‘They do like it,’ said Anne weakly.
Her thigh was sticky. She remembered the broken china in the living room. The two twins were protesting at the grown ups talking. Bessie continued from where she’d left off.
Anne said, ‘I spilt some coffee. I’ve got to clean up. Give me five minutes.’
Bessie nodded without breaking her reading.
Chapter 37
Nancy had got up late. Not that it mattered, she wasn’t going anywhere. Bingo was tomorrow, and just the afternoon. She’d been woken by Tickles mewling. She normally fed him first thing and here he was, hungry. She was so pleased he was healthy and hungry after the horror of last night. And she must give that builder some money for getting that tack out of his throat. It would’ve killed him.
She watched her cat eat. And thought, there’s nothing wrong with you, boy. All that kerfuffle last night. Going out into the garden to finish the spell which she’d never really believed in, but here he was, Bessie’s father, dead. Did that mean Bessie and she had killed him? Or was it just coincidence?
It didn’t matter; either way a mean man had gone out of her life. No more kicks on the stairs for Tickles, and insults and humiliations for her. She’d slept so well, Tickles warm on her bed.
Through her front window she’d seen Bessie and the builder struggling with the sofa. All that trouble getting it on the van, almost like one of those silly films. Picking it up, putting it down. Lucky they got some help from David. She wondered where they were taking it. And then later on they came back with another one. Busy morning.
She half listened to the radio for a bit while she read one of her magazines. She needed to get Bessie to buy her the latest. Watched a little television, Bargain Hunt, that was always good fun. And waited for Bessie to come up. The cat litter was smelling. It did mean Tickles was healthy though. Both ends working, as they say.
Bessie didn’t come up till mid afternoon. And she’d washed her hair and had it cut.
She said, ‘I did it at Anne’s, in her bathroom. She gave me a shampoo. She showed me how to use a hair dryer. And then she cut it for me. In between looking after the children. Oh, that Dominic, he wanted to do it. ‘Scissors, scissors, gimme scissors…’ he kept saying. But then she got them painting, and was able to finish me off.’ She turned about. ‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s much better, dear. The brown shows up nicely, and she’s cut it well.’
‘Dad used to do it,’ said Bessie. ‘Always him. We never had shampoo after Mum went, just soap. I do like the hairdryer, it’s so warm on the head and face. Do you think men will stare at me, Nancy?’
‘With a new dress, and maybe a visit to the dentist…’
‘Anne phoned the dentist for me. Got me an appointment for next week. I’m frightened. Last time I went Mum took me,’ she said. ‘I was just a kid then. I remember all that drilling and poking about in my mouth…’ She stopped. ‘Now I’ve got to be quick with you, because Anne wants me to help out.’
‘Oh, it’s Anne this, Anne that. Has she got you now?’
‘I’ll come back this evening, promise. We can watch TV together. Now Dad won’t be back.’
This satisfied Nancy. An evening visitor would be a very nice thing.
Bessie emptied the cat litter and put in the new. And then went out to buy a magazine for Nancy who told her to buy something nice to snack on for their evening viewing.
Chapter 38
It happened on the way home. Traffic was sluggish, stop start, on Upton Lane, and he nodded off for a couple of seconds. Just long enough to cross a red light and hit a car going across. Fortunately he wasn’t going fast, but Jack dented the door of the car he hit, broke one of his car headlights and buckled a wing.
Jack apologised to the woman, without admitting he’d fallen asleep at the wheel. That would be criminal and he wasn’t setting himself up for that. She was middle-aged, a white collar professional judging by her suit, and very angry.
‘Right through a red light,’ she harangued. ‘Were you on the phone?’
At least he could give a negative to that accusation.
‘Are you registered blind? Red, clear red, it was!’
He had no arguments, and admitted his guilt. There was no way out of it, hitting her on the side – plus she had a couple of witnesses. He gave his insurance details, his name and address, showed her his licence. There was no point being difficult. He was exhausted, shouldn’t be on the road, and was lucky it wasn’t a major accident.
Just a damned nuisance.
Up would go his insurance. He’d have to pay the first £200 of the damages. Bollocks. And his own repair would mean he’d be without his van for however long it took. It was drivable still, but not at night.
The shock had woken him completely. Just a few blinks of unseeing – and smash. What if he had been going faster, what if Mia were with him?
He should have walked home. It was only fifteen minutes away from where he was working. Common sense said leave the van and foot it. You get used to driving everywhere. Get in the van when you have to go up the road to get a sandwich. Always in a rush. Habit. Shagged out, he was a menace on the road.
All that money down the drain.
At least no one was hurt. And no witnesses to his nodding off. So with relief, he considered, it was just money. Just! But he’d not argue about paying it. He knew drivers who would self righteously lie their way out of any accident, no matter how culp
able. But this was clean and clear. It was his fault; he should’ve walked, tired as he was. Plain and clear, he should not have been driving.
It was only money. No blood this time round. Be grateful.
Two hundred quid – and so preventable.
He got home without further incident. And reported the accident at once to his insurance. Otherwise, the state he was in, he knew he’d forget. And simply slumped, fully clothed, on the bed.
And couldn’t sleep, irony of ironies. He could at the wheel, but not on the mattress. His mind was too active, flying everywhere, going over and over the events of the night. Bagging the body, the meeting in the nursery – almost comical in its bravado. Carrying the body to the car, the close shave with the cop, humping the corpse through the midnight forest and digging the grave until near dawn.
Like a film plot he’d been watching at the cinema, and then been pushed into the screen and forced to play it out.
The dinner with Anne, another century, another continent. But Anne’s bloody face and ripped dress when she opened the door to him, that image repeated, like a loop in spacetime, the beautiful woman at the dinner table, over and over, to the butcher at the door.
‘I’ve killed him, Jack.’
He didn’t give a damn for Frank, not as a person, a living, breathing human being, but for his part in the killing. The blood on his hands, the weight of the corpse, the burial in the forest. Time knew, time saw. Time had it in splatters.
After an hour of lying there, eyes closed in his cinema of guilt, Jack rose and showered. He went back to bed naked, and under the duvet pulled himself to the foetal position. He so wanted to sleep, but was too tired, his mind too speedy, too full.
A drink would work, fill himself with oblivion, drug himself away. Drink and drink, out and away. Until there was nothingness. No tumbling images of her living room and the dark forest. Nothing. Every sensation drowned.
And he remembered, like a straw pulled from a stack, what he’d been told in one of his counselling sessions; don’t lie in a helpless position when you feel bad. You will only feel worse. And then you’ll get drunk.
And then you’ll be on the skids again.
He threw off the duvet, rose and got dressed. He did not want to go out, too many pubs and booze shops. Tried some television but couldn’t take its trivia. Had a go at an astronomy magazine, but could do little beyond looking at the pictures. Tried music, loud with headphones; there was too much inside to pay attention to the outside.
He phoned Anne.
‘Can I come over? I can’t do anything here.’
‘Please do,’ she said. ‘I’m in need of company.’
He walked over. The light was too bright, there was too much space. The world had too much in it. He must escape.
Part Three:
The Best Laid Plans
Chapter 39
Bert was opposite the house in his car and somewhat frustrated. He had two prime steaks on the seat beside him, and had phoned Frank repeatedly that day – and got no reply. The berk must’ve lost his phone or his battery was down.
It was annoying. He didn’t want to be here on a wild goose chase. All he’d wanted to do was remind Frank about their dinner get-together, and now he was here, outside his house, and couldn’t see his car. Still out and about on his taxi run.
He’d wait a while longer. Bound to be back soon. Better be. He’d said half five and it was already a quarter to. Bert hated waiting. If you say a time – be there. That was his mantra. Life’s too short for hanging around.
He let his window down. The motor could do with a clean out. He had a tendency to throw things on the back seat or the floor. Take-outs, coffee, any old papers. Smelling a bit, except he’d got used to it. There was a blonde woman he had his eye on at England First. A real blonde, nothing bottled, a native northern European, total Aryan. Yes. He would get Frank’s daughter on the clean up of the car, and then a hoover. Give her a couple of quid. While the men talked business.
There was a builder’s skip outside the house and a woman looking in it. Quite a nice looking bit of work, hefty undercarriage. Oh, pregnant. Don’t touch. You don’t know who’s been in there first. What was she looking at? Something worth having? No, she seemed to be pushing something further in.
He watched her leave the skip, change her mind and come back to it, then with a piece of wood push whatever it was down further. Must be pretty smelly, he thought. Maybe a dead cat. Then she left the skip and went through the gate of the house, along the path and up the steps. And let herself in.
Then it clicked. Must be that woman who lives over Frank, pregnant with a half-caste baby. The one Frank had plans about. Her husband, or partner or whatever, had given him that shiner. As well to know what she looked like.
He glanced at his watch. He’d give him twenty minutes. You know, if you make a date with a mate, then it’s up to you to be there, he’d lay it on the line. He was bringing the steaks for heaven’s sake. Prime sirloin. And Bert was getting hungry.
A black man in a suit had gone up the steps and was at the door of the house. Look at him. Just out of the trees and dares to have a leather briefcase. No doubt full of bananas. That would be her husband, betcha. Couldn’t she do better than that?
What is it with these white women?
The man was going through his pockets. Keys obviously. Every pocket: back, front, inside. Now his briefcase. Papers, how disappointing. Pockets again. No luck. He was ringing the bell. And someone was letting him in.
Not exactly high excitement.
A few more minutes and he’d had enough. All the fun of the skip and front door wasn’t enough. He needed to find out what Frank was up to. Bert got out, locked his car and crossed the road. Had a glance in the skip where the woman had been poking. Something way down in a carrier bag. Dead baby perhaps?
Wishful thinking.
At the door, he pressed the entry-phone. Waited. Nothing. This was a right palaver. What’s Frank up to? He pressed again, hard and long. And again, keeping his finger on it this time. Long and hard.
Bessie answered, ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Bert, your dad’s mate. Why aren’t you answering the bell?’
‘I was in the toilet.’
‘Yeh, alright,’ not sure whether to believe her. ‘Is your dad there?’
‘No, he’s out.’
‘Well I’ve got some steaks for us. You’d better let me in.’ There was no response. Angrily he said, ‘Did you hear me, gel? You’d better let me in.’
‘He’s not in,’ she said.
‘I know, you told me that already. Let me in. He’s expecting me. I’ll wait up there. Don’t piss me about. Let me in or I’ll give you one you’ll remember.’
The entry-phone buzzed. Bert pushed the door open, and walked in.
Chapter 40
‘So, where is he?’
Bessie shrivelled in her shoes. ‘Don’t know, Bert.’
Bert was striding about the flat as if he owned it, pushing back his red hair, looking out the window every time he came to it.
‘So when did you last see him?’
She was seated on one of the table chairs. He stopped above her. She was afraid he would hit her. And he would do a lot more if he knew.
‘He didn’t come home last night,’ she said.
Bert stared hard at her. She was sure he was going to hit her now. It was somehow the wrong answer.
‘So is he staying with someone?’ he enquired.
‘Don’t know,’ she said helplessly.
He bent down and almost spat in her face. ‘You’re a useless ha'p'orth.’
‘Sorry,’ she said feebly.
‘Don’t sit there like a mutton chop.’ He bit his thumb. ‘Give me the number of his taxi firm.’
She was instantly up and got Bert a card which lay by the phone. He read it thoughtfully then took the house phone and dialled.
‘Angelo Cabs,’ said a female voice.
‘I’m a
bit worried about Frank Brand, one of your drivers, me and his daughter. We can’t contact him and wondered whether he’s out driving.’
‘Frank hasn’t been in today, sir. He should’ve been. But we’ve heard nothing from him.’
‘Do you know since when?’
‘One moment, sir.’ He could just hear her asking others. ‘Not since yesterday, early evening, sir.’
‘Thanks for your help,’ said Bert and put down the phone. He turned to Bessie, a fat lot of good she was, but then there was no one else. ‘He’s bloody well disappeared. Phone dead. Not at work. Something don’t smell right.’
Chapter 41
Maggie was in an armchair, staring at the ceiling, eyes closed, a coffee on the arm.
‘The kids were awful today,’ she said wearily. ‘And I was worse. Snapping and shouting. I never do that. I could see they were frightened stiff of me. All this term I’ve been building up a relationship with my class, trust and fairness… And today, I’m this out of control tyrant.’ She took some coffee and grimaced. ‘God, I’ve drunk so much of this bloody stuff. I must be pickled in it. So what the hell…’ She greedily drank it all. ‘The poor kid in here,’ she rubbed her tummy, ‘is going to spend a lifetime awake. Sorry, so sorry little ‘un. I am utterly and totally spent.’
David was on the sofa flat out, his jacket and tie off, shirt sleeves rolled up. His stockinged feet were on one arm, his head against a cushion on the other, two hands pressed against his brow.
‘I was OK until mid afternoon,’ he said. ‘And then it hit me like a hammer blow. I couldn’t do a thing. I was so spaced out. I just left the shop. Had to. And went over to the park. And sat in the bandstand. Sat there as if I was part of the woodwork. I eventually came back – and I was supposed to have been at a meeting. I got Muriel to phone to say I had toothache. Imagine if I’d been interviewed for the area manager post this afternoon. The day’s been endless…’ He waved a helpless hand. ‘And to top it all, I’ve lost my keys.’