by W W Walker
The day his father left had seemed like a dream, which was what he always thought it was…a dream.
Drake had gone into the kitchen one morning and found father with his toolbox out. “What are you doing, then?” he asked.
In those days he used to have a sulky adolescent voice that was deep and croaky. He had hairs sprouting from his chin and over his top lip, but he cared nothing about learning to shave. His hair was always lank and greasy, but it served to hide most of his face and the acne covering his skin. His eyes were blue, but dull, with his lids always looking like they were half-closed. Girls never gave him the time of day and he always put it down to how he looked. His reckoning was that he couldn’t help it much since it was the face he’d been born with, after he was conceived on that riverbank. In fact, he always put it down to the fault of his parents who should have known better than to name their son after a dumb duck.
In the kitchen, father had chuckled when he asked him what he was doing. He had a screw between his teeth. “Getting ready for tonight,” he said with a wink. “Here, give us a hand.”
He made Drake hold a big frameless mirror, which he was screwing to the wall next to the table. “Why are you putting a mirror up here then?” he asked. It seemed strange to him. The mirror was too low to look in, and why would they want to see themselves when they were eating their tea?
As he held up the mirror, father took the screw from his mouth and bored it into the wall. “It’s a surprise for your mother,” he said, winking again.
“Why?”
“God, you’re a big oaf, boy. Listen, you’re almost a man now and you should be thinking manly things. You’ll want to do this sort of mucky stuff I should imagine…when you’re older that is.” He laughed when he looked at his son’s face. Drake almost knew what he was suggesting, but he didn’t want to admit he knew. It didn’t seem right, somehow.
“Christ, you’re clueless,” father said.
Drake felt put down by that comment, but his father always did know how to crush his mood.
“See this,” he said holding up a silver screw. “I’ll be doing this to your mother later, after tea, and she can see herself getting well and truly screwed. You know what I mean?” When he laughed that stupid laugh of his, that red appeared before Drake’s eyes like it often did when he thought about his father. Suddenly, he felt like he should be slapping his face, three times on the left and twice on the right.
The blood from his father’s jugular had sprayed everywhere because of that drill I put in his neck. It was his own fault. He shouldn’t have left it plugged in with a child around. Funny how most of the blood went over the mirror he’d been hanging. Ironic.
It was handy that they weren’t far from the lean-to, because inside there was a door leading to an old cellar they never used because the steps were dangerous. Still, it didn’t matter about the steps because Drake didn’t need to go down there himself. He didn’t even have to fetch the torch. His father’s body just rolled and bumped down those steps into the darkness below. Drake heard a splash when it landed at the bottom, so it sounded like the cellar was flooded. The mirror smashed on its way down too, which was exactly where that mirror should be.
When mother got back, carrying her co-op bags down the hall from the front door into the kitchen, Drake watched her face when she saw him standing there with his clothes stained red. She looked to the surrounding area and saw the splashes of blood that had so far evaded Drake’s cleaning sponge, but he guessed he could leave that to her now that she was home. She was the one who did the cleaning. Not the men!
Drake held up the key to the cellar. “See this,” he said. “No one gets to keep this key except me. Do you hear me, mother? This is my key. I’m the man of the house now.”
“Oh, Drake,” she said with a horrified whisper. “What have you done?”
Chapter Eighteen
Kiki watched the bus leave Seaview loaded with everyone’s husband. The men of Seaview had gone and that included Tyrone.
He’d stayed until four am.
After making love, twice, they’d fallen asleep. Ty wasn’t like the others she’d slept with. He understood the stigma attached to single women sleeping around. It was 1981, but still, people frowned upon the idea of an unmarried woman allowing a man to go to their house during the early hours.
Last night, Ty had arrived around just after eleven-thirty, and when she awoke around five, she saw him pulling on his trousers at the side of the bed.
“What time is it?” she croaked.
He turned his head to look at her, naked, with the sheet covering only her lower half. Her breasts were unleashed, and she was stroking her hair enticingly. She knew she looked desirable and she knew that he’d find it hard to leave.
But leave he must, she thought, covering herself up.
“Why do you always push me away, Kiki?” he said.
“Hmm? What?”
“I always feel like when you’re openly affectionate, you then close down and shut me out.”
“That’s an awful lot of clichés you’ve thrown at me,” she said laughing.
He shook his head and buttoned up his shirt.
“What’s wrong. We had a good time last night, didn’t we?”
“Yeah.”
“So, what is it.”
He sighed and glanced over his shoulder. “I just told you.” He stood up and grabbed his shoes. Now he was sitting on the chair across the room tying his laces.
Through the net curtains, a faint glow of light had filtered into the room, illuminating his face. He’d looked ethereal.
The house she’d grown up in with her alcoholic father, was a three-bed semi on a council housing estate. They had been built after the war when more public housing was needed, especially in the south of England. By the time she’d left home when she was eighteen, the estate was a place where everyone knew everyone, and she hated it for that.
Everyone knew about her father, especially the kids who rode their bikes along the road or kicked balls into makeshift goals. They’d taunted Kiki and her brothers, calling their dad an ‘Alkie’. Fist fights were common in those days and Kiki’s brothers were often kicked and beaten. Their father never did anything about it, telling them to fight their own battles, regardless of the fact it was because of him they’d fought in the first place.
Ty had pulled on his shoes. “Will you ring me?” she’d asked seductively.
He’d shrugged and grinned. “Maybe.”
She leaned back against the pillows. “Would you like me to make you a coffee for the road?”
“No, stay in bed.”
“You can remember the number of the gate.”
“Yes.”
He went around the bed and kissed her. It was a warm kiss, a satisfying kiss, one that made her want him all over again.
He pulled away and tugged the blanket up over the sheet. The eiderdown had been left on the floor.
“See ya,” he said, and then he’d left.
Now, as Kim watched the bus go through the gates, she thought about Ty and how he’d made love to her last night…It was only their second time, but it had been wonderful. She was suddenly feeling something for him, but she forced herself to try her hardest to avoid that. She wasn’t ready for a permanent relationship and certainly not marriage.
When Marigold had waited for Wilbur to load his bags, she’d stood outside their house at No.2 with her arms crossed over her body. She wondered where Eddie was. She glanced over to their house at No.7 and noticed that the curtains were closed. Strange! She should to go over and give them a knock. Maybe they hadn’t realised the time.
Then Wilbur was at her side. “I’m just going to pop over to see if Constance is ok,” she’d said
“Don’t bother. Eddie’s not coming.”
“Why not?”
Wilbur had shrugged. “Roger said he’d changed his mind and that he was still out swimming in the bay.”
“That’s odd,” Marigold s
aid.
“What is?”
She looked at her watch. A gift from Wilbur for their anniversary last year. “The tide is in. Bit dangerous to be out there.”
“Roger said he hopes he drowns.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“He feels let down.”
“Still no reason to wish a man dead.” Just at that moment, she’d looked across the road to No.7. The curtain had moved as Constance peeped out. When she saw Marigold looking, she dropped the curtain. Strange!
“By the way, will you look in on Mrs Butler later?” Wilbur said. “I went over and cleaned up that broken flowerpot, but I couldn’t get an answer when I knocked. They might still be in bed.”
“Okay, I will.”
“I’ll get aboard then,” Wilbur had said.
They’d kissed. “Have fun and stay safe,” she’d said.
He got on the bus and she’d waved them off. Then she’d strolled over the road, towards Constance’s house.
Chapter Nineteen
Constance watched the bus leave before she leaned against the wall at the side of the window with a deep, rueful sigh. They were gone. Thank god. That was one less matter to deal with. Roger seemed to have believed her story about Eddie no longer wanting to go with them on their golfing trip. He’d said, ‘nothing surprises me with Eddie’. She knew exactly what he was referring to.
For a short time, Eddie and Roger had been pals.
It was the opening of Seaview when two families moved in on the same day. The timing of the other neighbour’s arrival had been staggered, agreed by the developers that the weight of eight removal vans arriving at the same time, would put too much pressure on the new road. Only two new residents were given access that first day. it was Constance and Eddie, along with Roger and Eva Lang.
Given that they were the first, they’d naturally introduced themselves. Roger had invited them over for drinks and sandwiches at teatime.
It was a fine summers day when Eddie and Constance had knocked on the door of No.5. When they got no reply, they’d gone tentatively inside, working their way around boxes and eventually finding the couple and their two children out on the terrace. The view from the back of the house was spectacular since No.5 was on the tip of the headland and took in a panoramic view of the Atlantic.
Eva greeted them with open arms, which seemed a bit over the top for Constance. The two men shook hands and the kids, teenagers, simply nodded, before taking off to their room with plates laden with open sandwiches. The sandwiches seemed odd to Constance. Who didn’t put two pieces of bread on a sandwich? It made the concept of the word ‘sandwich’ meaningless somehow. But she didn’t say anything. Eva said they were Danish. Fancy!
They sat down under a yellow garden parasol and talked about their moving-in experiences.
“The gate will take some getting used to,” Eva said, and Constance agreed.
“The ground rent is a bit much, don’t you think?” Eddie said while Roger agreed.
“I love being so close to the sea,” Constance said.
“I hope the other neighbours are acceptable,” Eva said to Constance. “I wouldn’t want young children living here making a noise, would you?”
Constance had shrugged at that one. Children was a sore subject. She’d always wanted a baby, but she took precautions never to get pregnant, not while she had a husband like Eddie.
Constance thought Eva seemed okay, but Roger was a bit big for his boots. He’d told them he worked at Phillips Electronics. Higher management!
“And I was a nurse before we got married,” Eva had said. “At Bristol’s Royal Infirmary.”
“That’s exciting.”
Constance had meant it, but Eddie had chimed in with a remark that made Constance’s cheeks turn red. “Just because you were an actress,” he’d said snidely, “doesn’t mean other professions are less exciting. At least Eva saved lives.”
Constance was indignant since she hadn’t meant anything by the remark, but now Eddie had made it look like she had. She didn’t know what the Lang’s had thought about it, but her embarrassment was made worse after Eva said, “An actress? Wow. What parts have you played?”
Eddie had chuckled condescendingly while shaking his head. “She was just an extra. You wouldn’t even notice her if you saw it on the TV.”
“I was on Coronation Street once.” Constance regretted saying that. She looked as if she was trying to justify her career.
“As an extra,” Eddie had said. “Stop making it out to be more than it was.”
“I wasn’t…” Then Constance had clammed up. She knew if she carried on objecting, she’d pay for it later.
The mood of the rendezvous had changed suddenly. The Lang’s appeared uncomfortable by Eddie’s attitude toward his wife and Constance just wanted to leave to go back to the house she was moving into. She was over visiting people who were watching her being verbally abused by her husband.
Up above, while the windows were opened, music had blasted from the teenager’s rooms. It was annoying, but it didn’t seem to faze Roger and Eva. Roger poured himself another glass of wine. He didn’t offer any more to Constance and Eddie.
A week later, Roger had invited Eddie to his club for a round of golf, perhaps to offer him a second chance at being friends. Eddie had won the game and let everyone know it, which put an end to any kinship the two men might have had.
Now, that morning when Roger said that nothing surprised him about Eddie, Constance knew what he was referring to. It could also have stemmed from that time six months ago when Roger had knocked on the door in the middle of the night. Eddie had been particularly cruel that evening and when she’d fought back, they’d made a lot of noise and she remembered being past caring what the neighbours thought. When the doorbell rang, just as Eddie had pushed her halfway down the stairs and she was lying at the bottom, sobbing, she looked towards the front door. Through the opaque glass, she’d seen Roger standing outside. She’d risen to her feet and opened the door. Roger had seen the state she was in, dishevelled, bruised and her face wet with tears. He looked up the stairs to see Eddie at the top in his pyjama bottoms. “What the hell, man,” Roger had yelled. Eddie looked embarrassed at being caught beating his wife. Roger looked at Constance and said, ‘Come on, you’re coming back with me.” After putting a coat around her shoulders, docile and worn out, she’d let him guide her away.
The following day, when she’d gone back home, Eddie had been in the kitchen demanding breakfast as if nothing had happened at all.
Well, they’ve gone, Constance thought, watching the gates close behind the bus. Now she’ be alone to deal with the matter of her dead husband. Gladys was in the kitchen making a pot of tea. Constance felt like she couldn’t drink another cup. “The bus has gone,” she said.
“Good,” Gladys offered. ‘That’s one problem out of the way.”
Constance went to the window and looked out. It was daylight now. She’d been dreading that most of all, dealing with the issue in the cold light of day. The vision of Eddie’s crushed skull kept repeating through her mind, living the horror of it over and over again.
That morning, in the early hours, they’d devised a plan to explain Eddie’s unfortunate death, but first they had to get rid of the body.
Gladys had taken charge.
Outside on the terrace, while it was still dark, she’d instructed Constance to remove her clothes. Constance had been appalled, but Gladys had simply explained that they couldn’t afford to go carrying any traces of blood into the house. That made sense, so Constance stripped off and left her nightie on the floor of the patio. She concealed her modesty with her arms, and she was freezing cold.
“Wash your feet under the tap,” said Gladys. “Then go inside and fetch something to put on. A robe, or something.”
Constance ran inside leaving wet footprints over the kitchen floor. She went straight upstairs and took her robe from behind the bathroom door. She wanted to shower, but she
couldn’t leave Gladys down there alone. As her mother-in-law had instructed, she went to the airing cupboard to find a specific sheet. ‘One of those fitted ones with the elastic around it,’ she’d said.
Constance’s mind had drifted to her bed. It was unmade, untouched since her husband had raped her only a few hours before. She went quickly into the room and pulled the blankets off. She recoiled when she saw the stain in the middle, representing the remnants of her marriage. With one easy tug, she pulled the pink flannelette sheet from the bed and rolled it into a ball. Then she headed back downstairs.
Outside, Gladys was hosing down Eddie’s naked body. “What are you doing?” Constance whispered loudly.
“Got to get rid of any traces of the terrace. Can’t afford forensic to pick anything up like that.”
“Forensics?”
“I watch all the detective series, Kojak, Streets of San Francisco. Cannon…”
Constance’s mouth was agape. Discussing television was so inappropriate. She wondered if Gladys was completely sane. Then she decided no, she couldn’t be. Who plotted to kill her own son?