by Nigel Bird
Instead of cleaning, I leave the room. Close the door behind me and pretend it’s nothing to do with me.
In the bedroom I put on some music. Sinatra. He bleeds into the speakers and tells me that he understands.
I take off my shoes, fluff up the pillows and lie down.
Waking up, the doorbell’s ringing non-stop like it’s stuck. Sinatra’s sticking too. “For the road, for the road, for the road,” he drones until I remove the stylus.
“I’m coming,” I shout, even though there’s no way I’ll be heard.
Course I know who it is. Who else would need to press a bell like that?
His silhouette is at the glass. I think of turning away, but decide opening the door will be better than paying for a new one later.
Fingers on the catch, I push it down and pull.
“Hi, Roger...”
There’s no time to finish.
His shoulder pushes at the frame. Swings the door open. I step back to avoid a crack in the face.
He grabs my top, fumbles and grabs again. His forearm jabs my middle. The short-arse pushes me back against the wall, freshly painted white. I hope to God he’s not making marks.
He pushes again. There’s a wall in the way. My head meets it. Meets it again. And again.
Now his forearms at my throat. Pressing. Hurting. Stopping the air getting in.
His face is close.
The stubble, that cool unshaven look of his, looks like a scorched field. His cheeks are flushed. His hair needs a wash – I’d tell him if I could get my breath out of my lungs.
Gritted teeth now.
For the husband of a dental-nurse, they sure look bad. Brown stains and chips at the top of the front ones. The only good thing in there is his gold cap.
“Leave her alone.” It’s quieter than I expected. “Leave my family alone.” He shoves at my throat like it’s a new kind of punctuation. “You see her again and I’ll kill you.”
There’s nothing I can say or do. Mainly I’m hoping none of my neighbours come home right now.
“See her again, I’ll destroy you piece by piece.” Somehow it’s worse that he’s not swearing, like he’s in control. I should be thinking of how to get out of this, a knee in the balls or a plain old butt to the face. I imagine it playing it out. But there’s no fight left inside. I relax for the first time in an age. Feel good about things.
“Got it?”
My head nods. He relaxes at my throat and I finally get to take a breath.
It’s deeper than I expected. Makes a lot of noise.
“I love her,” I try to say, but the voice is gone and the door has closed behind him.
strong medicine
Wolf’s back. Throws his leather jacket over towards the hooks and it falls to the floor.
“Looks like you’ve seen a ghost, man,” he says, reaches forward and puts his huge hands on my shoulders. Rubs them hard. Hurts like hell and feels great.
“It’s black, Man. Everything’s black.”
We laugh like a couple of school-kids.
At the table, Wolf pours the drinks. The whisky/cough medicine remedy to solve it all. Rolls a spliff and gives me the honour of lighting it.
We raise our glasses.
“To the dark,” he says.
“To the dark.” Like Echo, I feel I’ve faded out to nothing.
heebie geebies
It’s pitch black when I wake, the darkness like a canvas onto which I project images and ideas.
I see Don out there alone, wandering the streets with his big eyes wide and his skeletal frame hardly able to keep him straight.
There’s his dad walking blindly, arms out as he feels his way. Around his head, a bandage, spotted with blood like a soldier in a war.
Sheena and Vince hold hands. Roger’s standing over them, his fists clenched and ready to take on all-comers.
Emma just struts through it all, a naked ballerina on the Finchley Road.
I think about Roger. Put my hand to my throat and feel the bruise. I like it that it’s there. It talks about a man fighting for his life and for the life of his kids. Was the right thing for him to do. For the first time, I respect him. Feel sorry for the things I’m putting him through.
If I’m playing God, I’m a vindictive sod who’s got it in for everyone.
Don’s dad’s already been taken out. Do I really want to remove another from the picture?
I pick up the phone to tell Emma we’re over.
The receiver blurs in my hand and my fingers change shape and swell.
I look back at my screen, watch the scenes play out over and over again, a silent movie of life and death, a train on the rails of pain and suffering.
Don
First thing Don does when he walks in through the door is to hug me. Puts his arms round my waist and holds on tight.
After an age, he finally lets go and looks up. His enormous lashes stayed open as he cranes his neck.
“I made this for you, Joe.” He slips the bag from his shoulder and opens the zip.
The adults with him stand back. Watch on as he roots inside.
He pulls out a mass of tissue paper on the end of a long stick.
“It’s a flower Joe,” he says, “And it won’t ever die because it’s not alive.”
I put it to my nose. Take a big sniff.
“Silly Joe. It doesn’t smell.”
Don takes off his waterproof jacket, hangs the hood on his peg and leaves his bag on the floor like he’s never been away.
The rest of the class come in, hang their coats, take out reading folders and put their snacks in their trays.
The man who’s with Don steps over. Offers his hand and I shake.
He’s an older gentleman. A suit and tie that look neither cheap nor expensive, his jacket a little short in the arm.
“I’m Steve. This is Joanne,” he says. I shake her hand, too.
She’s under an umbrella and she sniffs to remove a drip from the end of her nose.
“Joe,” I say. Not wanting to prolong the moment, I gesture at the activity around me. Smile at Zlatan and Max who are pulling Don into the room.
“He’s doing well,” Steve says, “Given the circumstances.” I’d say so, too. He’s never looked so alert before.
“Great. Pick up’s ten to three,” I tell them and disappear to my comfy chair on which I left the register.
I call their names and they answer. Ten different languages they use to say ‘Good morning.’ Keeps me on my toes. When Don answers ‘bonjour’ just like he’s always done I feel good inside. Know I did the right thing in killing his dad. Know I should stick while the going’s good, that Emma has to go.
Kisses
I get off at Camden tube. Take a wander round the stalls and buy myself another ring, silver with a Celtic swirl.
The whole of the way home I talk to myself. Repeat over and over the words I’ll need to use. “It’s over, Emma. It’s over.”
I step under the fig tree and the security light comes on. Freaks me out when I see a shadow behind the glass, then I see it’s only Karl from the top floor sorting through his mail.
I delay my entry. Don’t feel like a chat.
Soon as he’s gone, I go in. There’s no post left so I go into my flat.
Emma’s scent fills the place, that perfume from the bottle of the naked woman in a tin. It gets stronger as I go over to my bedroom. Gets so it makes me sneeze.
“Emma,” I call.
No response.
“You here?” Don’t need a bloodhound to tell me she’s been around.
I look everywhere. Practise my lines.
Even check the wardrobes.
Not a thing.
On the record player there’s a post-it. Tells me to ‘switch on at the socket,’ and there’s an ‘x’ for good measure.
I flick it on and the turntable starts to move. In slow motion I hear violins. Soon as it hits 33rpm in comes Joey with the lyrics. “Have I ever told you, h
ow good it feels to hold you, it isn’t easy to explain...” I picture him in his shades, legs spread, jeans ripped at the knees and shades so thick they’d stop a bullet. “Baby I love you,” he sings, “Baby I need you, Come on Baby, I love only you...”
Have to hand it to her, it’s about the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.
I check myself out in the mirror. Sing along for a verse and chorus. I’ve got nothing on Joey.
Falling on the bed, I realise where the smell’s from.
Peeling back the duvet, I half expect to see a horse’s head, or worse, Emma’s.
Instead the heads are of roses, perfect red buds scattered over the sheet. In the spaces there are kisses, lipstick o’s everywhere.
The sight of them and the smells turn me on. I lie back and laugh. The world’s a wonderful place.
I bury my head into the pillow. Breathe deep and deep again. And sneeze.
Something crackles underneath.
My hand reaches in, pulls out a note.
“I have a surprise for you. Freemason’s for lunch tomorrow. See you there.”
Whatever her surprise is, I think, I’ll bet mine’s going to be bigger.
Wound up tight, I unzip my fly to relieve a little of the tension.
break
“Have a good one,” I call back to Sal as I leave the smoking room. It’s a relief to get out of there. The pre-concert nerves are building around the place, not that I give a damn. My class are too young to be in it and the only thing I’ll need to do will be to take the video. And I’ve got enough on my plate already to feed a couple of giants.
As I put my foot up onto the step, the door opens at the top.
Law of this jungle is that coming down moves first.
Mildred starts her descent.
Her legs look cleanly shaven, pasty and white as marble. Her skirt swishes around them as she moves, like a red rag in the bullring.
Of course she has her best shoes on, the three inch heels and triple straps. Even on her they look a pretty hot – maybe that’s because I can’t see her face on account of the box of folded music stands she’s carrying.
My eyes are fixed on those shoes. The right one twists to the side, her ankle follows. The stands fall down the steps with Mildred following, banging her head on the edge of the red-painted concrete edge.
Sal’s over to her first. “Bloody hell,” she says, and with a cigarette in her mouth, picks up the box and the stands which cover Mildred.
I still don’t react. For some reason I just keep watching.
Des is next. “You’re all right,” he says, even before he’s had time to assess the damage. “Everything’s fine.”
Doesn’t look fine to me. There’s a jagged bone poking into the flesh above her ankle that looks like it’s about to poke out at any moment. The rest of her foot points in an angle a yoga-teacher couldn’t manage.
“She’s white as a snow,” Sal says, her head tilted back so that the smoke doesn’t go into her eyes.
“Shock.” Des pushes me back. “Give me some room. Make yourself useful and call an ambulance.”
It’s a relief to be sent away.
I take the long way round and raise the alarm.
substitute
With Mildred off to hospital and Lorraine there to hold her hand, Alistair doesn’t have much choice.
He’s kept me from going along to music lessons ever since Carpenter assaulted Zlatan. Speaks to me in the most earnest voice he can muster. “And no fireworks,” he says as I sit in his car with a boot full of cellos and trombones. It’s nothing like my Micra used to be. Twice as long and clean enough inside to pick up the Queen. “What should I do with your class?”
“Tally cvc words, reading and Jack and The Beanstalk pictures.” I make that last bit up knowing that the story is on my desk. “After break, Sue comes through for baking, then it’s gym.”
I close the door and wind up my window to prevent any more questions.
Alistair opens the gate and I start off.
First time I stall. Alistair looks anxious. I give a little wave to reassure.
Second time I’m off, over the speed-bump down the drive with a tank of kangaroo petrol. In the rear-view I see Alistair walk in my direction. I put my foot down, the car gives me another couple of hops and I pull out on the road in the direction of the chapel.
rehearsal
Once I’ve put all the instruments into place, my job is to keep the kids quiet when they’re not doing anything.
Just now everyone’s busy. Four classes in four rows, tallest at the back on the benches.
I walk up the stairs on to the balcony and set up the tripod for the video camera.
You can tell it’s a chapel, even though there are very few of the usual trimmings. The space is big and cold. The chill makes me feel like there’s a spirit to the place, as if the walls and floor are breathing. Creeps me out.
Fiddling with the screws, I curse my chunky fingers. It’s the same every time I do it. Pride stops me asking for help - it’ll be my pride that trips me in the end, I’m sure of it.
At last I feel the screw go in and hold my breath until it’s tight.
A gush of relief releases itself from somewhere inside. I clench my fists and punch the air. I’m pathetic.
When the camera’s in place, I take a look through the viewer. Press record to do a little test.
Carpenter’s pacing and pulling at his hair. He throws his hands up then bashes at the keyboard. He must play the note ten times. “Flat.” He screams. “B flat.” He sings the line to make the point.
“It’s this one here,” Carol says, pointing at Sheena. She looks over to me, her eyes pointing like weapons fixing on their target. “One more step out of line and you’ll be staying at home tonight, young lady.”
Sheena reddens. Looks like she’s about to cry.
I redden too. Reckon Carol knows something about Sheena’s mum and me. That or she knows Sheena’s one of my faves.
“Again,” Carpenter shouts. “B flat. Sit up straight. Head voice.”
The tune begins and the air fills with some of the most beautiful singing I’ve ever heard.
B flat
Half past eleven and they’re still bashing it out. If we don’t leave soon, life will be on hold again and my much-practised speech for Emma will have to wait.
The swing band play Glenn Miller’s ‘In The Mood’. It might lack some of the smoothness it needs, but it’s amazingly good for a group of kids as young as 8.
I look at Carpenter, one hand on the keys, the other waving musicians in. He’s a wanker, that’s for sure, but he’s a talented wanker.
Something goes badly wrong with the clarinets. They don’t come in, then look at each other trying to pass the blame without using words.
“Sort them out,” Carol, Carpenter says.
She stomps over. I wonder how anyone with an arse that big could even consider putting on a pair of jeans. Maybe it stops the wobbles.
Towering over the wind section, she looks down and scowls.
It’s time for the quiet voice, so I don’t hear what she says. Carol’s quiet voices come as the final chance, puts the fear of God into the hearts of children and adults alike. I don’t hear what she says, but it’s a threat, no doubt about it.
The kids with the clarinets drop their heads. Looks like Adam is fighting back tears as he sucks on the mouthpiece.
Carol nods over to her man and he nods back.
Counts them in and off they go again.
I’d say it’s nigh on perfect.
I feel prickles on my skin as the children pull it off.
The time’s a quarter-to. Still an outside chance I can meet up with Emma. Do the damage.
All eyes are on Carpenter as he sucks in his cheeks, his lips puckering while his thoughts ferment.
He turns round, doesn’t speak to anyone and walks over to Carol. He gets close, puts a hand on his hip and drops his other at the wris
t – it’s the artist in him everyone says. He keeps his voice down and wanders off and leaves through the back door.
It’s how I know we’re done.
Carol gives her speech, the one about saving their voices through the afternoon, goes and puts her arms round her favourites as they group around her and I rush out to Alistair’s car hoping the lunch hour traffic will treat me kindly.
storm
The sky’s black. Black like the canvas of an angry child.
The rumbles of thunder were growling when I left the school. Reckon they all think I’m mad, leaving on a day like this, without so much as an umbrella.
Can’t say I wasn’t warned.
Soon as I get to Downshire Hill, the skies open.
I’ve had drier showers. And warmer ones.
Rain bounces off the pavements and the road. A car heading my way, wipers dancing like crazy, pulls up at the curb.
There’s percussion in the noise the drops make, like a whole class lesson with maracas.
Water pours down my neck and gets through into my boots.
It seeps through my coat, my jumper and shirt and under my skin.
I try to look casual, hands in pockets, ambling as if it’s a summer’s day.
Entering the pub, I stand on the mat, wipe my feet and let the drips fall before going to our table.
“Hello there drowned rat.” It’s a lady’s voice, something familiar about it. Not one I can place, though.
It’s the uniform I see first, PC Thin leaning on the bar. Next to him, Moira Scott, hair flat to her face exaggerating the plumpness of her cheeks.
I manage a smile. Though my heart’s stopped, I manage to respond. “Detective Scott. Fancy seeing you here.” The way the words sound it doesn’t feel right. Like I have something to hide.
“Nice weather for ducks, eh?” Thin says, emptying his pint glass.
Moira notices I’m watching him drink. “Lager shandy, don’t worry yourself.” She holds up her own glass. “And orange juice for the brains of the outfit. Want one?”
I should, I think. Keep things smooth and all that.
Before I have time to answer, the door bursts open. Catches me on the shoulder, hard. I turn round ready to give a mouthful and see Emma. She stretches onto her toes and gives a full-blooded smacker on the lips.