by DH Smith
He took out the plastic bag containing the keys. He removed them and contemplated the ground.
‘Here, I think.’
It was maybe ten feet from the phone. He pressed the bunch into the earth with just a tip of key showing.
‘They don’t need to be obvious,’ he said. ‘They’ll dig the whole area over. The phone will do her, the keys him.’
‘And when they come to the house,’ she said, ‘I’ll give them the dress.’
‘Yeh.’ He smiled at her. That’s what they’d worked out.
‘Say I found it in the shed.’
He blew her a kiss. ‘Nearly done, love.’
Out of his bag he drew a phone, a cheap one he’d bought this morning. He only intended making one call on it and then he’d chuck it in the canal. And then he took out his GPS tracker.
‘All we need do now, to get this on the move,’ he said, ‘is phone the cops. Tell them there’s been a murder, give them the co-ordinates of the grave and we skedaddle. You said that you’d talk to them? You got a better voice than me.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m happy to. To get those bastards.’
He stretched out to her with the new phone. She came over to get it from him. Took it and came into his arms which folded around her and they kissed, long lasting, under the rain, over the grave, cold and warmth mingling, a shared vengeance…
And the knife slid into his kidneys. Slid out, and came in again.
Anne backed away as Bert collapsed with a gasp, sinking to his knees, for an instant pointing at her, and then falling face first into the wet ground. Over him was David, holding a bloody kitchen knife. Maggie ran in from behind a tree, swiftly gathering up the smart phone and the keys.
Over the next hour, they opened Frank’s grave. The earth was relatively soft, the digging not difficult in the loosened ground. David did most of it, Anne took over in his breaks. Maggie had a large thermos of coffee and chocolate biscuits that she shared around.
The soil off, there lay the bag, the corpse inside liquid and bloated. They spent little time looking but dragged Bert in. David trod him down further, laying an arm over Frank.
And earth was thrown over the pair.
Chapter 59
Brighton had evaded the rain, as if the West Sussex border was the precipitation limit. On the train down they remarked on the sunshine after their wet start. It was warm enough for Jack and Mia to be sitting on the stony beach, jackets still on but unzipped. The tide was coming in, the sea about ten metres away. Mesmerised, they watched the waves rear up, hit the shore and slide back.
‘You could always have another go, Dad.’
‘No. Firstly, she’s interested in someone else. Secondly,’ he hesitated and gave a short laugh, ‘she’s too much trouble.’
‘You mean expensive?’ said Mia.
‘Sort of,’ he said.
‘You could tell her she’s got to pay for herself.’
‘I could. But I’m not going to.’
Mia threw a pebble. It landed close to the sea. She stood up and had another go. This time her stone landed in the rearing surf.
‘Got there!’ she said triumphantly and sat down again. ‘I thought the beach would be sandy. How did all these pebbles get here?’
Jack contemplated. He hadn’t really thought about it, though it was odd, a beach full of pebbles, when you came to think about it. As if they’d been tipped here by a giant lorry.
‘I suppose they were rock once,’ he said, ‘and the sea pounded at it year after year…until it was broken up into pebbles.’
‘But why no sand?’
This was pushing him to his knowledge limit.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘sand is small enough to get washed away. Leaving the pebbles.’
This seemed to satisfy her, and just as well, because he was wondering why sand got washed away in some places but not others.
He said, ‘We should get a book on it. Find out how the sea makes beaches.’
He knew it was all about time, that much anyway. The constant washing of the sea, the tides created by the gravity pull of the moon. Endless. And so rock becomes pebbles. He was a little surprised he could work it out. The universal forces, so obvious here. He was looking out to the far horizon, where the sky seemed to curve down like a rooftop to meet the sea.
‘I’d like to live here,’ he said.
‘Why don’t you?’
He shrugged. ‘Money and work.’
She said, ‘You couldn’t really set up a telescope on this beach.’
‘You probably could,’ he said. ‘You’d have to make it level. And stop it shifting on you.’
She screwed her nose up. ‘A lot of trouble each time,’ she said. Then added, ‘If we get a garden…’
‘South facing,’ he interrupted, ‘so you see the sun, moon and planets. And no tall trees blocking them out.’
‘But she’s talking about getting a flat,’ sighed Mia.
‘Then a south facing balcony,’ he said. ‘That’d be fine.’
‘Yeh, a balcony,’ she said, enthused. ‘Could even leave the telescope out.’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
‘Maybe not. But I’d only have to carry it a short way…’
‘You’ll have to go house hunting with her. Make sure.’
‘I will,’ insisted Mia. ‘Or she’ll get something all wrong.’
There came a call from behind them.
‘Jack! Mia!’
They turned to see Alison and Bessie coming down the slope of pebbles with plastic cups and a bag of something. But Bessie was the sight. He hardly recognised her in blue jeans and a yellow top showing through a green jacket.
‘Smart!’ exclaimed Mia, standing up to greet her.
‘Do you like my new clothes, Jack?’
‘They do wonders for you,’ he said. ‘You look a different person.’
‘I’m so happy,’ she said and she spun round.
Jack caught Alison’s eye and they smiled at each other. And he wondered how much she’d paid. Though Alison was a canny buyer, and it was probably less than he thought.
Alison and Jack settled down for their coffees and the bag which contained donuts. Mia and Bessie left their coffees to cool and took their donuts to the sea edge, where they first threw stones and then took their shoes off to paddle.
‘What are you going to do with her, Jack?’
‘Take her back on Monday… And I’m not sure after that.’
‘This man Bert…’ she said.
‘He’s a monster,’ he said. ‘He’s going to move into her flat if he’s not stopped.’
‘You need to take out an injunction on him,’ said Alison.
‘How do I do that?’
‘Go and see a solicitor. I know a good one. I’ll give you the contact details later.’
They were both watching Bessie and Mia who with rolled up jeans were in the surf, squealing at the cold.
He said, ‘I’ve just enough work for the morning on Monday. So with luck I can see the solicitor in the afternoon.’
‘Her dad’s disappeared?’ said Alison.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And good riddance.’
‘Might he come back?’
‘I’ve a feeling not,’ he said and changed the subject. ‘She looks so much better in those clothes. What did you do with her dress?’
‘Threw it away. And her underwear.’ She stopped and looked at him. ‘You’re a nice guy sometimes, Jack.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But she can’t stay with you.’
‘No. That won’t work. I’ll have a chat with Maggie and David, Sunday night. See what they say. They’re the couple up top I was telling you about. And go to the solicitor Monday afternoon, and hope we can sort something out.’
The waves beat on the beach, the sun shone. The two girls jumped and giggled in the surf, watched by two more reserved adults, drinking coffee and licking the sugar from the donuts off their fingers.
JACK O’ LANTERN
A Jack of All Trades novel
DH Smith
Part One:
The Cast & Setting
Chapter 1
Jack put on goggles and leather gloves. The bottom half of the sash window was broken. Obviously where they’d climbed in. And once inside the classroom, they’d broken the door to get out and into the corridor. Then across the corridor where they’d smashed the door of the computer room… A trail spoored in breakings.
He spread masking tape over the large section of glass still remaining in the frame. Then struck it in a couple of places with a hammer. And took the broken pieces out. And then another hit, and another, removing pieces until most of the glass was gone. He bashed around at the bits left, now confined to the edges, breaking them as close to the putty as he could.
He swept the glass into a heap and put it in the metal bin temporarily. Later he’d bag it up with the rest of his debris and take it down to the dump. But the bin would do for the time being. He wondered who this class belonged to. The displays had been taken down, leaving a metre high area of bare cork on two walls, those without windows or the computer-board.
Jack was wearing a grubby T shirt and jeans stained with paint, realising they could do with a wash as he’d put them on first thing. How many of his building jobs could be traced in their archaeology? So, he’d make them dirtier. His boots were new, hard black. The last lot had cracked and leaked while he was making a cement path. That job done, he’d thrown them out and bought a new pair. Look after your hands and feet; the old mantra, you never knew what shards or grit were lying about in the building game.
A car drew into the car park, making it three vehicles apart from his van. A young woman got out of the car, taking with her a laptop and briefcase. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail; she was slim and dark haired, and could have been anything from twenty-five to thirty-five. She was wearing a brown T-shirt and a green skirt that came below her knees. No paint stains. A teacher, he thought. She locked the car and went into the school.
A light breeze blew through the window. A half and half summer’s day, cloud and sunshine. The school quite ghostly, out there just a tractor droning far off on the playing fields. Across the car park a copse of trees to the left, and through them Jack could just make out the glint of a lake. What sort of school has a lake? His was 1960s box-ugly, inner city, with bitumen playgrounds and the playing fields the local park.
Did they row on the lake? Coxed fours or whatever they called it. Did the kids wear boaters and striped jackets?
However did he end up here? Better keep to himself his views on such privilege. They were paying him, and wouldn’t feel flattered by the views of a kid from a bog standard comp.
Be a good place for a telescope. All this space. Not that he’d be here when it was dark, past nine o’clock these evenings. But he was always on the lookout where he might take his scope. Areas away from lights and with a wide vista. Out there, maybe on the playing fields, perhaps by the lake. There might be an island in it. Mia, his daughter, would love that. Rowing out as the twilight leaked away to leave dark skies.
He had chipped out the last bit of putty when she came in. The woman who’d got out of the car. She put her laptop and briefcase on the desk by the door. Jack was unsure what to make of her expression. Haughtiness or unhappiness? Either, a builder has to cope with. Understandable, you are trespassing in their space. A pity, though, if his work was to begin with a list of don’ts.
‘Hello,’ he said cautiously.
‘Hello.’ She gave him a half smile. It seemed as much as she could manage.
She came over. ‘So that’s where they got in?’
‘I’m putting toughened glass in,’ said Jack. ‘But…’ he added hesitantly, ‘to really be effective, all these windows need it.’ He indicated the two other sash windows.
‘Tell me about it,’ she said, throwing up her hands. ‘And that’s just this classroom. This is a lovely old building but… it eats money.’
She had a very BBC accent, straight out of a costume drama. It almost made him laugh, as if she were putting on a posh accent for his benefit. But that was no way to get on with people, taking the mickey out of their accent. What did she think of his, for that matter? Keep it chatty. So far, she’d been pleasant enough. And not unattractive.
‘What happened with the burglar alarm?’ he said.
‘Well you may ask,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t on. My father… He’s the Head.’
‘Mr DeNeuve.’
‘Ah, you’ve met him.’
‘I wouldn’t say I’ve met him,’ said Jack. ‘I’ve been ignored by him.’
‘Yes, that’s my father. It’s beneath his dignity to talk to tradespeople… If you don’t mind the description.’
‘I’ve been called worse.’
‘I’m Ellie, short for Eleanor, but only my parents ever call me that. Be warned,’ she said with a challenging smile.
Which she mitigated by holding out her hand. He shook it, wondering if she did so to spite her father or whether it was genuine.
‘I’m Jack Bell.’
‘Jack of All Trades,’ she said with a laugh.
She’d obviously seen his van. He waited for the comment. Best get it out of the way. Not many he hadn’t heard.
‘And master of none,’ she said. The predictable.
‘It’s my humility,’ he said.
‘But not the best of marketing.’
‘You won’t forget me,’ he said.
She looked at him fiercely. She was most definitely sizing him up. Looking for quite what in that quick up and down? Surely not, someone so posh.
‘I won’t,’ she said at last. ‘Sorry for the poor joke.’
‘Everyone does it,’ he said dismissively. ‘You were telling me about your father and the burglar alarm…’
She flapped an exasperated hand. ‘He often works late here. And forgets to turn the alarm on when he leaves.’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘Ten thousand quid’s worth of computers gone. I doubt the insurance will pay up. And it’s not that he has to work here at night. My parents have a house in the grounds, you’ve probably seen it.’
‘The old one, set back as you come in?’
‘That’s it. I’m sure he comes here just to get away from Mummy. I know he doesn’t do much here. Drinks, and I don’t know what else.’
‘Do you live at the house?’
‘Good Lord, no. It’s bad enough being here all day, let alone having him all night.’
‘Sounds like you don’t get on.’
‘We have a business relationship.’ She stressed business, giving it a cold meaning. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.’
‘To annoy your old man.’
She laughed. ‘You’re quite sharp. It does infuriate him that I talk to everyone. I began doing it to put his back up. And then got used to it. But hell, it’s the 21st century.’
‘With all this…’ he gestured around, ‘I can’t believe many of your friends are, what was the expression? Tradespeople.’
‘Hardly any,’ she said. ‘But I’m not averse. At Oxford one of my friends was the son of a coalminer.’
‘But not a coalminer,’ he said.
‘Well, I did meet him once,’ she said. ‘A Yorkshire man. Very funny. Witty I mean. I wasn’t laughing at him.’
‘And what did your posh friends think of him?’
She hesitated for a few seconds, then said, ‘They weren’t nice. Called the father a chav. And his son too.’ She contemplated what she’d just said. ‘Stupid really. Territorial. We regard Oxford as ours.’
‘And resent the oiks getting in.’
‘You wouldn’t believe it in this day and age, would you? But the parents of a school like this make great efforts to maintain the class divide…’
‘It’s in their interest,’ he said.
‘Precisely.’ She laughed. ‘Not that I’m a great rebel. It’s just I can always see both sides.’
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And know where your bread is buttered, he thought, but didn’t say.
She glanced up at the wall clock.
‘Family meeting,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Oh dear. I’m not looking forward to this at all. I’d much prefer to stay here and talk to you. But must go.’ She went to the desk and picked up her briefcase and laptop. ‘Nice meeting you, Jack.’
And she left him to his window.
Chapter 2
Vicky was at her computer, in her small bursar’s office, too close to that of her husband, the Head. She would hear him shouting on the phone, all too frequently. If it got bad, she’d put in earplugs which weren’t that effective. She’d thought of buying noise-cancelling headphones, but hesitated when she imagined what Graham would say about a woman her age wearing such things. Was his sneering worse than the noise? Though she smiled to herself at the image of him shouting at her while she was wearing them. Stomping and raging while she heard only the Pastoral.
She would get them. Have her own peace. He’d rage whatever she did.
Graham would be in any minute wanting the school budget for the coming year. She’d done it, that wasn’t the problem. The important figure was too low. That was the problem.
She was a small, dumpy woman. Too much sitting about in this office fretting and eating cakes. Teachers buy them for too many birthdays, and now she bought them herself for un-birthdays. For the minute or so of relief in cream and jam in the flaky pastry, which only made you yearn for more. She wore no make up, her greying hair tied in a tight bun. She had tried dyeing it, but in the end wondered what for. He didn’t care. She didn’t care. Sex was dead in their marriage.
She was grey. Let it be so.
Oh, these figures! How to make them dance to his tune. There was really only one source of income, fees from students. They had 124 starting in September, but that wasn’t enough. With all the other costs, it left a deficit at the end of the year. Which had to be added to the carried-forward deficits from previous years. It was so depressing. These figures. They gave her a constant headache, they took over her dreams.