by DH Smith
‘Coffee’d be great,’ he said.
She went back to the kitchen. And he went to the summerhouse and began pulling his tools together. He’d brought quite a few with him, as this was to be a job over a few weeks. The plan had been to keep them in the summerhouse overnight. Some plan! It had seemed so rosy, clearing his overdraft, giving him cash in the bank.
He put his shirt on, weary as if he’d just done a cross country run. He picked up the jug of ginger beer and drank it straight from the jug. Then put his hand in for the remnant of ice cubes, and wiped them over his forehead, eye and cheek.
Donna came with his coffee.
They crossed to the man lying on the lawn. He was moaning and semi conscious. Donna adjusted the throw and the pillow under his head.
‘I must get back in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘I’ve things in the oven.’ She held his arm. ‘I’m sorry he’s sacked you.’
‘What else could I have done?’
‘You did the right thing,’ she said. ‘Insist he pays you off.’
He nodded.
A bell rang from the house.
‘The door!’ Donna rushed into the house.
It was the paramedics.
Jack left them to it. And began packing his tools. One of the crew went off to get a stretcher but it wasn’t needed. The man was groggy but conscious, and able to walk with them through the house to the waiting ambulance.
Jack had two boxes of tools. One lot he loaded in his van, going out the side gate, as the paramedics on the lawn were doing their first aid. He’d just come back to the summerhouse for the other when Donna approached.
‘Mr Ward wants to see you,’ she said. ‘Oh, your poor eye!’ She touched it gingerly with her fingers. ‘It’s half shut. All swollen and going yellow.’
‘It hurts like hell,’ he said. ‘What’s he want me for?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘He just said for you to come up.’
‘Pay me off maybe,’ said Jack. ‘And I can certainly do with the money.’
‘Sorry, Jack.’
‘I thought I had a month’s work here. Sod it. Anyway, I’ll get what I can out of him.’
She led him into the house through the large kitchen, out into the hall and up the wide main staircase. A tradesman going up the front way. He felt intimidated, seeing the large painting on the stairs as they curved up and round to the landing. She led him along the wide passage, and left him outside a door. He knocked.
‘Come in.’
He entered a large room. Across a long area of carpet, under a high window, Mr Ward was seated at a desk. Around the room were shelves. There was a sofa and an armchair. More of a sitting room than an office. Ward had tidied himself up and had a plaster on his chin.
Jack approached the desk.
‘Sit down,’ said Ward indicating a chair.
Jack did so.
‘How’s the prick?’
For a second Jack was unsure what he meant, then realised.
‘He was able to walk to the ambulance,’ he said.
Ward sniffed. ‘I see I gave you quite a shiner.’ He fingered his own plaster as if comparing war wounds.
‘You did,’ said Jack, but he wasn’t here to talk about his black eye. ‘I had to give up a job in East Ham to do this one,’ he lied. ‘So I am entitled to a pay off.’
‘I would have killed him, you know,’ mused Ward, ‘if you hadn’t intervened.’
‘You were at him like a pack of hounds on a fox.’
‘I caught him fucking my wife in the shower.’
‘I understand your temper,’ said Jack, ‘but there are limits.’
‘Under my own roof, can you believe that? Under my own roof!’
Jack said nothing. Who was doing what to whom was not his affair. His money was.
‘Five hundred pounds,’ he tried on, ‘for loss of work and in lieu of notice. Or I see my solicitor.’
He hadn’t got a solicitor. And the paperwork for this job was somewhat rough. Bob had it, and how much could he rely on Bob when it came to it? But worth a try.
Ward shook his head. ‘I want you back on the job.’
This threw Jack.
‘What?’
‘I’d have killed him,’ said Ward. ‘In front of witnesses. And got ten years. As it is, he’ll recover. Won’t he?’
‘I think so. Badly bruised. Maybe the odd bone broken. But he’s alive.’
‘And he won’t press charges,’ said Ward.
‘Can’t see that,’ said Jack.
‘So I want to thank you for stopping me.’ He opened a drawer and brought out two packs of banknotes, each bound with an elastic band. ‘Here’s two hundred to show my appreciation.’
Jack took them, surprised at the turn of events. And pocketed them quickly.
‘And you’ll go back to work?’ said Ward.
‘I want the rest of the day off.’ He was feeling confident. ‘My head’s throbbing like a washing machine.’
‘Of course,’ said Ward. ‘I’m sorry about that. But I was so incensed. In my own house. I might very well have killed him but for you. So go home, rest up. I’m grateful. Killing that bastard would have sent me down for a long stretch. Quite stupid, the cunt’s not worth it. And if there’s anything I can do for you…’ He stopped and snapped his fingers, ‘There is something. I’ve got a party tomorrow night. You’re invited.’
‘I might be a bit out of my depth,’ said Jack, ‘among your friends.’
Ward tapped the side of his nose. ‘Business,’ he said, ‘is all about contacts. There’ll be over a billion pounds in that room. And if we show them over the summerhouse, with you, the builder, present… Got a decent suit?’
‘One,’ he said.
‘That’s all you need. Pity about the eye…’
‘I’ll say a bit of four by four came off a lorry.’
Ward laughed. ‘Good for you, young man. No hard feelings?’
‘None.’
Ward put his hand out over the desk. Jack took it. They shook.
‘Then there’s something you can do for me,’ said Ward. ‘My wife. She has what one might call a roving eye. She likes to play away from time to time.’
‘And at home,’ added Jack.
He could see Ward didn’t appreciate the joke. Understandable, all considered.
‘I want you to keep an eye on her,’ said Ward, his tongue lolling in his cheek. ‘Not follow her, you understand. No, no. You’re not a private eye. Just here all day. See who she has in. That sort of thing.’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ said Jack. He was thinking of the battering the poor man had taken, and didn’t want to be a party to that.
‘I’ll pay you for it.’ He took another couple of bundles out of the drawer and passed them over. ‘Two hundred a week. In cash. On top of the work, of course. Strictly between ourselves. You’re here for a month. Nothing may happen. If so, all well and good, but on the other hand…’
Jack thought for a few seconds. Then pocketed the cash.
Chapter 7
He drove straight home, down the Chigwell Road and through Wanstead. It was early afternoon, fairly busy. The only trouble he had was at the South Woodford roundabout, where the North Circular meets the M11 and the Chigwell Road, a tangled sprawl, with traffic flying in from all sides. A mess of concrete and selfish driving, yet so close to the millionaire residences of Chigwell. He was cut up by an articulated lorry, the driver giving him two fingers, or maybe it was Jack chancing it, scuttling back to his squalor in Forest Gate.
He went straight into his bathroom and bathed his eye. It was a sight. Yellow and black, tender to his touch. And he knew there was not much you could do. It would fade away over a week or so.
In his kitchen, he made himself a mug of tea and took a couple of paracetamol for his throbbing head. He probably could have worked the afternoon, but Ward owed him this at least. In fact he’d done quite well. Four hundred pounds in his pocket. That’d clear the overdraf
t and leave him with a few hundred odd. He needed to make an invoice out to Ward for the first payment. Do that this evening, after Alcohol Halt.
He could pay his rent. Even get ahead. It was so important keeping a roof over his head. Just the other day as he’d been leaving in the morning, he’d seen a gang of bailiffs carting furniture out of a house, a Sikh man and his wife forlornly watching them park it on the pavement. This street, Earlham Grove, was such a mixture. Well-off owner occupiers, just a couple with a child, and beside them flats, some of them so overcrowded to cover the inflated price of rent these days. There were even large sheds in back gardens he could see from his bedroom, that he suspected were occupied.
So hard to get by, so much competition everywhere. But today he was alright. Money in his pocket. He was ahead of the game. It would be good to go out with his telescope tonight. But the instrument was such a humping weight, and he had to drive twenty miles out to Epping Forest to get away from light pollution. And with this head and eye, he reflected.
At least he’d made some money. Damages.
Tomorrow’s party. ‘Risk assess,’ said Alcohol Halt. If he’d judged Ward right the place would be sloshing in booze. It was only when you’d tried giving it up, you realised how much there is about. Everyone has got the stuff, every little corner shop. Any social occasion has to be floated on alcohol. Weddings, funerals, christenings – all danger zones. The state sanctified drug pressed into trembling hands.
He didn’t have to go. Ward had only invited him as an afterthought. He didn’t even know the occasion of the party. He’d ask Donna tomorrow.
He came out of the bathroom. He’d have quite liked a lay down. But he had to pick up Mia in an hour. Oh, why not? He set his phone alarm for an hour, took his shoes off and laid out on the sofa.
Jack didn’t sleep, but kept thinking of the fight out of nowhere. Hardly a fight, attempted murder more like. A couple of minutes, no more, and a man was unconscious and he’d been sacked. Fifteen minutes later, he’s reinstated, got four hundred pounds in his pocket, and is invited to a millionaire’s soiree.
And that woman had been watching him. She’s trouble alright. He hadn’t seen her while her boyfriend was getting smashed to bits. Keep well away. Two hundred pounds to watch her, but that was it. Watch only. Mr Ward had too much of a temper for him to mess with his missus.
The alarm went off but he was wide awake. And he drove off to Mia’s school in Homerton.
There was a crowd of mostly mothers outside the school gates. A few dads, grandparents, carers. A mixture of languages. A woman in a burqa, deep black down to her feet. He avoided catching her eye, the signal too clear. A grubby child in a double pushchair started wailing, starting the other one off. The mother was ignoring them, chatting to her mates. Waiting here embarrassed Jack, though he knew it shouldn’t. Women’s work. Men killed bears.
Already he was having to joke about his eye. Getting in first, before they did. It was going to get very boring. Another reason for not going to the party tomorrow evening. Builders touting for work amongst millionaires shouldn’t have black eyes.
And then came the first trickle of children, a few more. And then Mia. Like all the others she had a red jumper. The colour almost hurt, like a blaze of the redcoats running into American muskets. She’d gone for black trousers rather than a skirt. More sensible, her mother said. Her long brown hair was tousled and rested on her shoulders as if tired after a day at school. She carried a pink lunchbox and had a blue backpack.
‘What d’you do to your eye, Dad?’
She was looking at it quizzically, as if it were a specimen in a lab.
He didn’t want to lie to her, so said, ‘I got into a fight. A man was getting beaten up and I went in to try to stop it.’
‘And did you?’
‘I did. But I got this.’
She sucked her cheek thoughtfully. ‘Why was the man getting beaten up?’
Oh dear, he thought. A lie might have been easier.
‘He stole something belonging to the other man.’
‘What?’
‘His wallet.’
That seemed to satisfy her. They were making their way to the van.
Then she said, ‘He deserved to get beaten up. You shouldn’t have interfered.’
That made him laugh.
‘I shouldn’t have done,’ he said, ‘but I thought the other guy was overdoing it, so I went in to try to stop the fight – and…’ He pointed out his shiner.
‘Serves you right.’
‘Serves me right.’
Agreeing with her seemed to have stopped the questioning. Somewhat like her mother. They were now in the van.
‘I’m supposed to take you to Moira’s. But we can have a little time, if I give her a buzz. Anything you’d like to do?’
‘I’d like to feed the ducks.’
‘Aren’t you a bit old for feeding ducks?’
‘No.’
‘I suppose there isn’t an age limit. But we haven’t got any bread.’
‘I have.’
And she shook her lunch box. He knew this was the cue to tell her off for not eating all her lunch. But she looked fine – and he’d get her something now.
They drove to Victoria Park and he bought her an ice cream from the van outside St Mark’s gate. And then they went to the pond.
Chapter 8
Donna was chopping vegetables. Some were for tonight, most for tomorrow’s party. She was in full operation, hacking tops and chopping with a long sharp knife on one of her wooden vegetable boards. And thinking mid onion tears of Eric, even onion tears could bring on the feeling of loss, except he wasn’t lost. He hated her and didn’t want to have any contact. If only she could see him and explain, if she could be sure where he was, if his social worker… Tears, real or otherwise, flowed as the acrid juice reddened her hands.
Is it better to be the hated or the hater? she thought. Either way it takes you over, controls your thoughts, comes without notice. And what on earth can you do about it? Never mind the truth or falsity, it was belief that was the demon. He believed she had abused him in his childhood. And how could she prove she hadn’t? All she had were words.
And onions.
Joanna entered. Her hair was tied back in a tidy ponytail. She wore a simple blue dress with a pattern of flying birds, and no make up, as if she were doing penance. When Donna had first been interviewed, she’d thought her beautiful. Her blonde hair (dyed), her symmetrical face and skin like a child’s. It hadn’t taken her long to lose thoughts of beauty. In a photo, like a film star publicity shot, yes she was beautiful. Face to face, telling you off for a runny egg – no competition for a cow’s backside.
At the kitchen door was a young woman she hadn’t seen before. From her appearance, lightly made up in a dress suit, professional, sharp, attractive – Joanna wouldn’t have anyone who wasn’t, Donna thought: I bet she’s done it. The next, for however long she can take Joanna’s whims.
‘Ooh, those onions.’ Joanna flapped her hands to dispel the odour.
‘For tonight and tomorrow,’ said Donna. ‘I’ve got to do as much as I can today.’
‘Yes, I appreciate that,’ said Joanna. She turned to the woman at the door. ‘Donna, this is Carol, my new assistant. Temporary – we’ll see how it goes.’
Donna gave Carol a half smile, as much as she could manage. ‘Hello, Carol.’
‘Hello, Donna,’ said Carol. And came over with her hand outstretched.
Donna held her hands up to fend her off. ‘Oh, you don’t want to shake my hand. Not reeking of onion.’
Carol backed off with a light smile. ‘I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.’
Donna wondered about her. She was not good at first impressions, often got them wrong. Here was another assistant to join the list. She might be meek as a spring lamb; if so Joanna would crush her. Or she may have some guts – and so wouldn’t last long.
Which made her wonder why
she herself stayed on. Why they hadn’t sacked her. Habit on her side. She didn’t want to work in a restaurant again. But she had to work. Without it she’d fall to pieces. And the granny flat next door. Tied housing they called it. And it certainly was. What a trauma it would be, getting a new job and finding somewhere to live at the same time.
‘Would you make us a coffee when you’ve time?’ said Joanna. ‘And do you know where the builder is? I want to talk to him about tiles. It’s awfully quiet out there.’
‘He’s gone home,’ said Donna.
‘Gone home!’ said Joanna aghast. ‘At this time?’
She looked out of the window just in case Donna was mistaken.
‘Mr Ward gave him a nasty black eye,’ she said.
Joanna gripped the kitchen table. ‘Gave whom a black eye?’
‘The builder.’
‘Whatever for? And will you please stop chopping those onions. The acid is hurting my eyes.’
Donna put down her knife and wiped her eyes with her apron. She was unsure whether to say any more, and indicated Carol with her eyes.
Joanna gave a short nod to indicate she understood, and turned to Carol. ‘If you’ll go back to my office, Carol. Read the brief for Forest Fairies authors which is on my desk. I’ll be up shortly.’
‘Certainly, Mrs Ward.’ She gave a half wave to Donna and left the room.
‘Seems very nice,’ said Donna for something to say.
‘Very nice,’ said Joanna curtly before getting back to the main business. ‘Why did my husband give the builder a black eye? That’s what you said, isn’t it?’
Donna was unsure how to put this. There were things she wasn’t supposed to know, though how could she not, except there was a game she had to play.
She made an attempt. ‘Your husband was beating…’ she couldn’t think what to call the man. Not lover, friend?
Joanna helped out. ‘My visitor.’
‘Yes, your visitor. Your husband was close to killing him. And Jack…’
‘Who’s Jack?’
‘The builder.’
‘You shouldn’t get friendly with tradesmen, Donna.’
Donna said with an intense effort of self control, ‘Mrs Ward, please, I try to get on with everyone. I don’t use your first name or Mr Ward’s. But a builder who is going to be here for a month…’