by DH Smith
She kissed him on the cheek.
‘Thank you, Jack.’
He smiled and she back at him. That was worth more than the twenty quid. Then again, a twenty was a twenty. A kiss wouldn’t put food on the table.
Part Two:
The First Murder
Chapter 14
‘What must that builder think of us?’ said Vicky.
She was seated in an armchair, Cathy had the other. Ellie was seated on one of the dining chairs. Their father lay sprawled out on the sofa on his back, mouth agape, one arm dangling down the side of the sofa. His jacket lay wanly open, as if he’d prepared for his spree like a man out on the town. His watch held in its snug pocket in spite of its owner’s travails.
Cathy flapped a hand. ‘The builder’s of no consequence. But think, if it had been a parent who had found him. Or even a student.’ Her hand slapped her cheek at the disgrace.
‘Horror,’ said Vicky. She had got up and buttoned up her husband’s jacket, straightened the collar, as if a parent were due.
‘Why does Daddy do it?’ said Ellie feebly.
‘Because even he knows what’s happening to this school,’ said Vicky wiping her husband’s face with a tissue, ‘but vainly hopes a fairy godmother will fly in at the last moment. And you can only believe that half cut.’
‘Shall I get him a blanket?’ said Ellie, standing with her mother over her father, his head fallen into his chest as if he couldn’t look at them, his mouth wide open.
‘He’s not cold,’ said Cathy. ‘And sod him if he is.’
‘A rubber sheet might be better, dear,’ said Vicky. She was peering at her husband closely, feeling his cheek and brow. He rolled over and groaned. ‘I think he’s already wet himself,’ she added. ‘Though luckily not here.’
‘I’ll get something,’ said Ellie, and left them.
‘It’s like being at a funeral,’ sighed Cathy. ‘The corpse in a coffin on trestles. The mourners, making small talk.’
Vicky gave a tight smile. ‘Graham always was a scene stealer.’
‘Here lies the Head of a middle ranking independent school,’ said Cathy, behind the sofa looking down on her father. ‘Note the control, the firm hand on the tiller. I’m sure Ellie would find a better metaphor… Here lies the sodden man who hands out the prizes on Speech Day, the cups for athletics and hockey, who leads us in prayer in assembly… The man who has sold us for thirty pieces of silver.’
Ellie returned with a large plastic sheet.
‘This is the best I could find,’ she said.
‘That’ll do,’ said Vicky, taking the sheet from her. ‘Get him off the sofa.’
Ellie and Cathy took an end each and lifted their father to the carpet.
‘Oh he’s shat himself,’ grimaced Cathy, shaking her contaminated hands. ‘It’s dripping down his leg.’
Ellie gave a faint smile, glad she’d taken the other end. Vicky tucked in the plastic sheet all around the seating of the sofa.
‘Put him back,’ she said.
‘I’m not holding him by his legs again,’ said Cathy.
‘Do it while your hands are shitty,’ said Vicky. ‘Then wash them.’
‘Why do I always get the dirty jobs?’
Ellie said nothing. Shit on her sister’s fingers said it for her. They lifted their father back onto the sofa, over the plastic sheet, and laid him down. Immediately done, Cathy rushed out of the room making yucky sounds, hands held out in front of her.
‘He does smell somewhat,’ said Ellie.
‘It’s one thing wiping a baby’s bottom,’ said Vicky wearily, ‘or even a pair of them. You expect that. And everything’s to hand. But it’s not quite the same with a grown man.’
‘At least he doesn’t know anything,’ said Ellie.
‘Doesn’t want to know,’ said Vicky. ‘Isn’t that the trouble? No matter what mess he makes, it’s his womenfolk who will clean up after him.’
Cathy re-entered, still grimacing.
‘That was a disgusting job.’
The three of them sat down. There were things to be said. A future to be sorted out. He was their focus, the silent fourth, a reminder to keep them on track. Every so often he wriggled and thrashed on the plastic which squeaked under him. And settled back to some temporary comfort, before sparking synapses demanded another twist and thrash.
‘He’s in a coma, isn’t he?’ said Cathy. ‘Oblivious to pissing and shitting himself. To his own stink. To the state of Bramley.’
‘We won’t get a better chance,’ said Vicky.
They looked to her, alerted by the tone and train.
‘Bramley doesn’t have long,’ she went on. ‘Weeks. Lady Margaret won’t be able to give us a leaseback once the school is in receivership. We can’t wait.’
‘It would be child’s play to smash his brains in,’ said Cathy, raising a fist as if to do so.
‘And we’d all end up in prison,’ said Ellie. ‘A murdered father, husband, Head of Bramley, with a head smashed in, on our sofa, in our front room. Smart thinking, Cathy.’
‘It has to be an accident,’ said Vicky sucking her lower lip thoughtfully. ‘He’s drunk. So, poor man, he falls into the lake and drowns.’
‘You mean we throw him in,’ exclaimed Ellie.
‘I mean he falls in, a drunken stupor,’ said Vicky, matter of fact. ‘Stumbles about the lake, drinking all day, then a splash. And oops, a complete accident. Found in the morning. Oh dear. Sympathy from the world. Funeral. Everyone in black. Lots of flowers. Tributes. I take over as Head, Lady Margaret completes the formalities of the leaseback. And all’s right with the world.’
‘Except we’d have drowned Daddy,’ said Ellie.
‘Oh dear,’ mocked Cathy, ‘the poor thing has her scruples. She’d prefer to be broke on her way to sainthood.’
‘I am not quite the eager murderess you are, Cathy.’
‘Daddy’s favourite wouldn’t be,’ she laughed, auto-matically straightening her skirt. ‘Protector of the shitty man. The house gone, the school gone, the grounds pulled away… Never mind all the running about and effort we’ve put in as a family… Here come the bailiffs to put us out on the street.’
Ellie was standing over her father, a hand on his shoulder. He flapped an arm as if to brush her away, groaned and rolled onto his face.
‘Daddy, why have you done this to us?’
‘Shit and piss is your answer,’ scorned Cathy. ‘To every sensible question. Faeces and vomit. But his daughter with the First feels pity. Wasted on him. Stupid of her. Don’t you think, Daddy? You preferred classics and literature to the hard things in life. Science and mathematics were always too practical for you.’
‘Which is why she wants to kill you.’
Cathy rose, on the other side of the sofa to Ellie. She looked down at their father.
‘You want to walk hand in hand with him to the poor house, Ellie,’ she said. ‘You’ll be his Little Dorrit, his faithful lapdog. Running errands barefoot, out there with the begging bowl… Oh, I’m weeping already for sweet Ellie.’
Ellie closed her eyes. She could smell alcohol and faeces and pee, as well as her sister’s disdain.
‘He’s still your father, Cathy,’ she said wearily. ‘Whatever else, your father. You have half his genes. There’s some science for you.’
‘And if my genes are to survive,’ said Cathy, twisting her father’s nose, ‘what must I do to his?’
‘You have already decided,’ exclaimed Ellie.
‘I once promised to love, honour and obey,’ said Vicky, shuffling as she looked down on her husband. ‘And I’ve kept my part up to now. More than kept it. But he promised in his turn to keep me, not to sell his birthright for a mess of pottage.’
‘You’re mixing up your Bible stories, Mummy,’ said Ellie.
‘I did my duty, he did not do his,’ she said ignoring her. ‘So I must take over.’ She turned to them both. ‘I am your mother. I have a responsibility for the two of you.
For the family.’
The prone man groaned, thrashed an arm against the sofa back, and pulled himself into a foetal ball.
‘You have both decided,’ declared Ellie. ‘I can see that. And I see the sense of it. But…’
‘But Bramley,’ said her mother, an arm on her shoulder. ‘If we hesitate we’ll go down with his ship.’
Ellie might have objected to her mother’s tumble of metaphors, if this were an essay. But she wasn’t marking, her hand on her father’s shoulder, her mother’s on hers. Her father was too much to bear. Her mother’s demand was impossible. She wanted to be somewhere else. Some other, cleaner, happier world.
‘Think, Ellie. How much longer can he last?’ said Cathy. She had taken a step back from the sofa as if to keep the fumes off her suit. ‘His heart, his drinking… Suppose he dies in six months time. Dissolute. And everything is gone. Oh, the waste of it!’
‘This is awful,’ exclaimed Ellie, her hands to her face. ‘We are ghouls.’
‘Then leave it to me and Mummy,’ said Cathy. ‘You go to the cinema and stay holy.’
Ellie got down on one knee and cupped her father’s cheeks. His face was warm, she could smell the liquor intermingled with the animal odours. She fingered his moustache, something she had liked to do as a child, as if it were a pet.
‘Forgive me,’ she whispered. ‘There is no other way, Daddy.’ And turned to her mother. ‘What have we got to do?’
‘Make sure he stays drunk,’ she said. She turned away from them. ‘One minute.’
Vicky left the room.
‘I knew you’d come round,’ said Cathy gently. ‘A half share of nothing is still nothing.’
‘I’ve not murdered anyone before,’ she said, aware of her breathing in the quiet of the room.
‘You think I have?’
‘You seem more practised.’
Cathy smiled. ‘I’m a practical person, Ellie. Science is experimental. Besides, living to simply exist is amoeboid. We are DeNeuves. All this.’ She gestured around her, at the antique furniture, at the portraits on the walls. ‘What are we without it?’
‘We’re afraid to find out.’
Vicky returned. She was carrying a length of tubing and a funnel.
‘Bring me the whisky,’ she ordered Cathy.
Cathy went to the cabinet and brought over a mostly full bottle. Vicky fitted the funnel into the tubing.
‘Hold him in a seated position,’ she said.
Ellie took one side, Cathy the other. They lifted their father until he was upright against the back of the sofa.
‘Keep a hold on him,’ said Vicky.
She pushed her husband’s head back and opened his mouth as wide as she could. And then began feeding in the tubing, inch by inch down his throat, into his gullet, and further. Choking sounds came from him, but she persevered. They ceased and she continued, until there was only a few inches of tubing outside his mouth, the funnel at its end.
Vicky took the stopper off the bottle and poured the liquid slowly into the funnel. The whisky gurgled out and down the tube. They could hear and feel its hollow journey. When the funnel was empty, she refilled it, her daughters holding their father upright.
‘Not so quickly,’ said Cathy, staying her mother’s arm. ‘Or he might sick it all up. Give him a few minutes before the next wallop.’
They stood, they waited, Vicky holding the half full bottle. No one spoke for half a minute or more. She looked to her daughters as if awaiting a signal, shrugged and poured in more whisky. The liquid burbled and jumped as it struggled to exit via the small orifice of the funnel. Into the tubing, a stream of clear brown poison, twisting down his gullet and into the pool of his stomach.
‘Keep him upright,’ said Cathy, holding his shoulder firmly. ‘Gravity will keep the alcohol down until it’s absorbed.’
‘Science has the answer,’ said Ellie. ‘Would you like to give us a commentary on what is going on in his belly?’
‘I studied maths and physics. Not chemistry.’
‘He is getting pickled,’ said Vicky, slowly pouring the dregs of the bottle. ‘Your father will be preserved for years to come.’
Chapter 15
Jack watched them come through the barrier. Good job he’d had the twenty that he’d almost thrown back at them, as he’d had to get petrol at Romford. That was fifteen gone. And he’d had to park fifteen minutes’ walk away. He’d better get some money on account for this job tomorrow. It was a thirty mile drive out to Billericay every day. And his car drank petrol as if there were a hole in the tank.
Mia had a small suitcase on wheels. He thought how much she looked like her mother, who had no luggage. The same chestnut hair, and Mia, already quite tall for her age, would likely be as tall as her mother in a few years. Alison frowned as she saw him. He knew that face of old. She would have been quite happy for him to drive to Brighton and then back again in an evening. Shamefully, he’d pleaded poverty. Though he might have made it with the £20 tip, but whether he’d have got back home was a moot point.
He crossed the station concourse to meet them.
‘Hello, Alison. Hello, Mia.’
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Hello, Jack.’ She looked at the departure board and pressed her lips. ‘There’s a train leaving in 20 minutes. I’d like to catch it back. Just time for a coffee.’
They walked en famille to the coffee bar with Mia between her parents. He still had a five pound note, he could offer to pay for himself. But then again, he had to get back to Billericay tomorrow. Hold on to it. He might well need it.
‘What do you want, Jack?’
‘Just a filter coffee,’ he said.
‘Find a table. I’ll get the drinks.’
He did as he was bid. Mia went with her mother to fuss over her choice of drink and what to have with it. The table was full of dirty cups and plates. Jack gathered them together and put them on another table. Then sat down, spacing himself out by putting his bag on one of the seats and Mia’s suitcase by the other.
He’d be glad when Alison was away, so he could have time with Mia without the refrain of a soured history. Sometimes it seemed they were heading for friendship, and then a blow up out of nothing and she’d remind him of past transgressions. It was her revenge. When their relationship was breaking up, when he was drunk more often than not – and she was in effect a single parent, but more than just of Mia. Still, he just had to hold tight for fifteen minutes. Be sociable.
She’d be a murderous teacher, he thought. Any kid sent to her, the deputy head, would know they’d better improve or else they’d be back. But she was going into hospital, he remembered somewhat guiltily. He was curious what for. The fact that she was not saying suggested it could be serious. Some woman’s thing, she’d said. Whatever that meant.
They came over to the table, Alison carrying the tray of drinks. And sat down. Alison handed out the coffees and Mia’s frothy orange drink with a straw.
‘I hope it’s not serious,’ he said carefully. ‘Your hospital thing.’
‘Me too,’ she said, and surreptitiously indicated Mia.
Which he took to mean she might have told him if Mia wasn’t there. And as she was, he would not be told.
‘I’ll be in for a couple of days,’ she said. ‘You can bring Mia back Thursday evening.’
Oh heavens, worse than he thought. He’d hoped it was an overnight stay. How was he going to manage things? He’d take Mia to the school tomorrow, but she’d be bored stiff if she had to stay for more than a day at Bramley. If he worked like hell tomorrow, he might be able to finish the job. Then have a couple of days off. There was a small job he had lined up but he’d have to delay till next week. If he could.
‘Here’s £40,’ she said. And she laid two 20s on the table.
‘I am working,’ he said belittled, ‘it’s just I’m awaiting payment… ‘
‘Just take them,’ she said.
She sounded just like that DeNeuve woman. He’d half
a mind to leave them there. But Mia needed feeding and so forth. And so he took the notes, screwing them up in his pocket.
‘I’ll pay you back,’ he said.
‘Forget it,’ she said.
And he knew it was serious. She could so easily have taken his lack of cash and hit him with it. But she hadn’t.
‘What we doing tomorrow, Dad?’
‘Well, I’m working at this really nice school,’ he said. ‘Big grounds, woodlands, a lake, playing fields, lots of computers, a library full of books and films…’
‘Independent, is it?’ said Alison.
‘Yes,’ he admitted. Alison was political about such things. Felt the private sector robbed the state sector. He would normally have agreed with anyone who intimated such thoughts, but now it was Alison and he needed to justify himself, so he scrambled for reasons.
But Alison left it. And he knew for certain something was really worrying her.
‘Can we go out with the telescope tonight, Dad?’ said Mia.
‘Don’t see why not.’
‘Don’t be up too late,’ said Alison.
‘It’s school holidays, Mum.’
‘Looking forward to your new school?’ he said to Mia.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, screwing up her face. ‘Could be brilliant. Could be horrible.’
‘Probably won’t be brilliant or horrible,’ he said.
‘A couple of friends from school are going too,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘So I’ll have some protection.’
‘What?’ he said, ‘from the Mafia?’
‘You gotta have a gang,’ said Mia, ‘or they’ll pick on you.’
He didn’t know who he was most worried about, his ex or his daughter.
‘How do you know this?’ he said.
‘I’ve heard,’ she said mysteriously.
Alison rolled her eyes. ‘We’ve been through this a dozen times. She thinks the school is all bullies and sadistic teachers.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Now I must go.’ She kissed Mia. ‘Be good. And I’ll see you Thursday. Bye, Jack.’
‘Hope it goes well,’ he called after her.