Fish Tale (Cliffhanger Book 2)

by T. J. Middleton

  ‘I owe you Al,’ Mrs Blackstock said. ‘We all do. We got you wrong. Meeting you was the least I could do. And my name’s Alice, not Mrs Blackstock.’ She drummed her hands against the wheel like it was a bongo. ‘Come on, hop in. Gotta leave this town.’

  I did as I was told. Alice was sitting on two cushions and a telephone directory. She could hardly see over the dashboard.

  ‘Makes a change this,’ I said settling in, ‘me the passenger, you behind the wheel. I didn’t know you could drive.’

  ‘Neither did I. Here.’ She reached across. ‘This’ll calm your nerves.’

  I lit up, took a deep suck and felt my head slowly roll off my shoulders and bounce along the back seat. The Citroën lurched forward. First gear, second. I waited.

  After ten minutes the engine was starting to sound like a donkey pleasuring himself.

  ‘Have you considered,’ I said, ‘the possibility of changing gear?’ Alice put her head to one side.

  ‘Do you think I should?’

  ‘It might be an idea.’

  She considered it for a moment.

  ‘And which gear would you recommend?’ she said. I took another hit, held up three fingers.

  Once out of London we cruised the motorway at forty-two miles an hour. It seemed quite fast under the circumstances. The telephone directory kept slipping from out under her. That was all right. There was nothing in front of her anyway. A police car rolled up beside her once, and I thought, Jesus, one hour out and I’m going to get done for aiding and abetting, but she just adjusted her hat, gave them a wink and wriggled her fingers at them as they sped off.

  ‘Policemen like me,’ she said. ‘I could get away with murder if I wanted to.’

  It was an interesting concept.

  ‘And who would you murder if you wanted to?’ She gripped the wheel tighter, put her foot down. The needle bounced around the fifty-three mark.

  ‘Your new tenants for a start. Three months and they think they own the place. I liked them at first, very nature orientated, but then they started complaining about the music. It’s how I start the day now, a bit of blast.’

  I patted her hand.

  Don’t you worry about the neighbours Alice. Now, why don’t you let me drive the rest of way. Roll another joint. Tell me what’s been going on.’

  ‘Am I that bad? She tried not to show it but she was hurt. I gave her a kiss. Her skin was all light and feathery.

  ‘Mrs B. You have just driven the best drive I’ve had in my entire fucking life, pardon my French. Now pull over. Let Prisoner 89576846 have a go.’

  She swerved onto the hard shoulder. I got out. She slid over. I got back in, adjusted the seat, snapped on the safety belt. In the mirror I could see a sixteen wheel pantechnicon barrelling down the inside lane, not half a mile away. Foreign by the look of the plates. That’s what our roads are full of these days, foreign lorries. That’s why you can’t find a decent cafe on our roads any more with a frying pan full of smoking fat at the ready. Their drivers are too busy eating pickled herrings and bratwurst and that horrible Swiss chocolate. Their lorries are bigger than ours too, longer, heavier. The M20 up for repairs again? Another two hours on your journey? That’s the continental landmass for you, pal. It wouldn’t be so bad if you could lean across and give them the finger when you’re overtaking, but they can’t see you. They’re sitting on the wrong side of the cab. Anyway, I waited for a second, rocking the engine on the brakes, making sure she had it in her, then stood on the accelerator, burning into the lane like I was blasting off from Cape Canaveral. Chummy slammed on his brakes, shaking his fist at me as I shot away. Magic. Pure spunk-filled magic.

  ‘Where’d you get this motor anyway?’ I said. Poke Nose unlocked her fingers from her seat.

  ‘It was Duncan’s pride and joy,’ she said. ‘I never had the heart to get rid of it. It’s been mouldering in a lock up ever since he died. When I heard you were coming out I thought, Al will need something. I always liked the way it rears up when you switch on the ignition, like it was having a little erection.’ I gulped. I’d forgotten how her mind worked sometimes. It’s not easy on a man hearing an old woman knocking on seventy talk like that. It gives a lie to what you think they are, what they must have always been.

  ‘Been locked up too long,’ I said. ‘Just like me. Let’s see what the two of us can do shall we?’

  I’d dreamt about being with a woman again, I’d dreamt about feeling Torvill and Dean sliding through my fingers, but it was nothing to sitting behind that wheel, slipping through the gears, hearing the engine first tighten then open up as we carved up the opposition. It might not have been the Vanden Plas, I might not have been wearing my pig skin driving gloves, I might not have a twenty-two year old barmaid taking off her tank-top sitting by my side, but by the time we arrived back home, I felt like Flipper on Benzedrine, as strong as the ocean, ready to fuck with anything in sight.

  I parked the car, walked down to where I’d once lived happily ever after, expecting the worst. I couldn’t believe it. There it was, my mum’s old bungalow, where I’d spent all our summer holidays, where Audrey and I had set up home, just like it used to be, almost. Audrey had had the front rebuilt after the explosion, that was all. It looked the same and yet it looked all different. There was a blankness to it all, a sort of emptiness, as if it had been drained of life too. Such a lot gone on in such a small space; love, hate, all the stuff in between. Alice had come up beside me.

  ‘You know it’s yours,’ Alice said, her voice all quiet. It had been quite a drive.

  ‘Audrey doesn’t seem to think so.’

  ‘Not the bungalow Al, the car. It’s yours if you want it. Until you find something better.’

  ‘Mrs B…’

  ‘I’ve got Duncan’s room ready for you too.’ She came up beside me, trying to gauge my reaction. ‘You remember it?’

  I remembered it. Four poster bed, feather pillows. I’d be comfy there. I looked back at the bungalow, and the little line of bungalows beyond, all the lives that had been lived while I’d been inside.

  ‘What about the Stokies?’ I said, pointing to the house down from mine. She’d shaken her head.

  ‘They’re gone,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a new owner that side.’

  ‘Nice is he? Compatible with the area?’

  ‘Never see him. It’s a cottage-to-let place now, empty half the year.’

  I didn’t like the sound of that. Holidaymakers, that’s what that meant. Screaming kids, shit-depositing pets, uncalled for bon-hommie over the fence with him and her. Still, first things first.

  ‘I’ll pay you for the car,’ I said. ‘But as for the room, I don’t think I’ll be needing it.’

  I stood on the porch, rang the bell. Ding, dong. The new door was made out of frosted glass. The blinds in the drawing room window were down, so you couldn’t see in. That’s no way to live in a bungalow with views like mine. The door opened. A tall bloke about thirty, wavy hair, checked shirt, one hand tucked into his jeans’ front pocket like he was Paul Newman. A row of walking boots were ranged in size up against one wall. They should be keeping those in a closet, surely.

  ‘Mr Bowles? Thought I’d introduce myself. I’m Al Greenwood, Audrey’s husband, you know your landlady, the one who’s just been sent down for twenty-two years for murdering my illegitimate daughter. I’ll be collecting the rent from now on, cash if you don’t mind. Mind if I come in?’

  ‘No.’ He looked a little nervous. Quite right too.

  I stepped into the hall. I could smell scented candles.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘An ugly business. Is your wife about?’

  ‘In the conservatory I think. Darling,’ he called out. ‘We have a visitor. Mr Greenwood. Mrs Greenwood’s…er…’

  ‘You can call me Al,’ I said. I always liked saying that.

  The wife came down the corridor, pulling on one of those baggy sweatshirts over her head. I tried not to look, but it seemed to be horribly obvious t
hat she’d been communicating with nature, least the top half of her had been. Thirty, thirty-five, she looked, big. Not fat big, bone big. She had fair hair, tied back; fair hair and freckles and one of those easy smiles that make you wonder why their life should be so lucky and not yours. I was jealous already.

  ‘This is my wife Gretchen. Darling, this is…’

  I shook her hands. I love shaking hands. One shake and you’ve got the character. One pull and you’ve got the body. This hand was full of strength, not gym strength, but natural, strong and quick like a deer running through a forest. It was a shame, what I had to do.

  ‘Come in please,’ she said. ‘We love it here.’

  Not for long you won’t.

  ‘Pleased to meet you. Audrey never gave you any trouble did she, threatened you or anything?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Well, it was usually the younger, good looking ones that set her off. Shall we?’

  I followed them in. It hadn’t changed much, most of our old furniture, though the photo of Torvill and Dean was no longer up over the mantelpiece. But something wasn’t right. It was my living room, but like in a bad dream, when you know that something’s wrong, but can’t quite put your finger on it. Then I saw one. And suddenly it was like my eyes had opened and I saw them all, everywhere, manky lumps of driftwood stuck all over the place, on the glass table top, on the mantelpiece, even on top of the telly. The biggest was this bit of bent tree trunk they’d stuck in the corner. It looked like an old aged pensioner trying to take a shit. If I’d been a dog I’d have joined in.

  ‘Very nice,’ I said. ‘You’d made it all very nice. Those pine cones on the picture rails for instance, the way you’ve painted them, why they’re almost like little stunted people standing in a dole queue or something. Very artistic. Says a lot about you doesn’t it?’

  ‘It reminds us of our treks in the forest,’ Gretchen said. ‘We’re outdoor people.’ Her tongue got in the way of her speech. I found it quite attractive.

  ‘And the driftwood. So unusual, finding wood on a beach.’ I put my hand out, patted the old man’s head.

  ‘The sand and the sea throw up such special smooth shapes,’ she said. I nodded.

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself. Elemental, that’s what they are. Though I must say that bit on the mantelpiece is a bit near the bone isn’t it? I wouldn’t want to be caught stroking that too often.’ I nudged her in the arm. ‘I got out of prison just a couple of hours ago. Did you know?’ They glanced at each other. Feet were shifting.

  ‘We knew it was happening sometime,’ he said. Gretchen edged away.

  ‘Yes, I’m moving in with old Mrs Blackstock next door, to keep a friendly eye on the place, though…’ I looked around. ‘I haven’t been in this room for four years, not since…ooh. It’s all a bit…’ I took a couple of gulps of air, banged my heart. ‘Do you mind if I sit down? I feel all funny of a sudden.’

  I flopped down by the fire, panted a bit more.

  ‘You wouldn’t have a cup of something handy would you, to calm my nerves? Brandy, whiskey? A vodka and tonic would be nice. No ice.’

  ‘We don’t drink,’ he said. ‘There’s some homemade elderflower cordial.’

  ‘Just the ticket.’

  She hurried into the kitchen. I could hear the cupboard door open, a glass being taken out. I knew exactly where she was, where she was standing, how her arm was stretching out. Mr Bowles tried not to look at the mantelpiece. She came back, handed me the glass. I’ve seen healthier looking specimens handed over the counter in Dorchester’s clap clinic. I took a sip.

  ‘Delish, though maybe we should move into the conservatory. Sitting here brings back dreadful memories.’ I stretched out my foot. ‘That’s where she made love to me that very night, did you know that, right there on that rug, her hands still warm from Miranda’s blood. Hard to credit isn’t it, one moment she was bashing her brains out with a rock, the next she was on all fours, stark naked, ripping the clothes off me. I mean it looks so peaceful now? I expect you’ve done the same. On the rug I mean. Not killed someone.’ I laughed. Quite a high laugh actually. ‘Mind if I fetched myself another glass? Kitchen in the usual place I take it?’

  I tottered through. You couldn’t move for fishing nets and boat hooks and tar-ridden cork. The two of them stood in the doorway, afraid to come in. I drank another sample, let it run down my shirt a bit.

  ‘Would you mind if I changed the linoleum in here. That rusty mark over there? That’s where she murdered my fish. Prize specimens they were. Stabbed them to death with one of Miranda’s best shoes.’ I pointed out the window. ‘See that nymph with the bandy leg? That’s where their pond was. I tried to drown Audrey in it when I found out what she’d done, would have done too, if the police hadn’t hauled me off. Yes, quite a history has this bungalow. And of course, at the front, that’s where PC Stone got blown up just as I was being arrested. I’d watch out when mowing the front lawn. Must be bits of his bones all over the place. He was only twenty-nine. All those years we kept that ornament and we didn’t know it was a live shell from the war. So, outdoor people you say. You do a lot of walking then?

  ‘Walking, hiking, camping in general.’ He was getting quite defensive now.

  ‘Only I thought might like to take my little scheme.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, being in prison changed a man, his priorities, his outlook on life. I went inside a selfish, thoughtless man, I can’t deny it. Some might say I was brutal, cruel, unpredictable. I’m probably as much to blame for the terrible things that went on between these four walls as was Audrey. But being in prison make you look at yourself, Mrs Bowles, makes you look at your fellow man, your fellow prisoners, see how vulnerable we all our, how but for the Grace of God,’ I crossed myself, ‘there goes everybody.’

  ‘That’s very true,’ she said.

  ‘So I made a promise to myself that if I ever got out, I’d help those who’d been in prison like me, help them when they most need it, their first few weeks back into the real world. And what could be better than here, my old stamping ground, with all the beaches and the sea and the swimming and the fishing hooks, what better place for them to have time to look at themselves, to connect with the inner convict. Like those bits of driftwood you got in the front room, I want to take the driftwood from Her Majesty’s prisons, friends mostly I’m proud to say, shape them, smooth their rough edges, bring them, I don’t know, serenity. It won’t be easy, there’ll be some false steps along the way but by God it’s worth trying. And if it comes to physical stuff, well believe me, I’m no pushover. Mrs B agrees with everything I stand for. She’s already converted two of her downstairs rooms. We got the first one coming in Sunday, my old chum Victor, persistent recidivist, I won’t tell you what for, I don’t want to alarm you, but believe me he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Been inside twenty-three of his thirty-six years. Can you believe it? No wonder he’s damaged. Now camping, that might just the thing for him, don’t you think? Could I have a look at that bit of driftwood again?’

  They were packed and gone within the hour. I piled all the fir cones and driftwood in the garden outside, chucked on the petrol and tossed in the match. The flames leapt up, lighting up my stone nymph, the flames flickering on her body like she was coming alive, like she could sense that I was coming alive, like she’d been waiting for this moment, like I had. It had been a long time since I’d seen that, flesh shimmering at me in the heat of it. I couldn’t help myself. You might not understand what I did, what I had to do. Someone who’s been banged up inside might, ‘cause that’s what you are, banged up inside and you need to let it out. I looked around, undid my flies, touched myself. It just flew out, all over her.

  ‘Bonsai,’ I said. ‘Fucking Bonsai’

  I did myself up, turned round. Old Poke Nose was leaning over the fence, another joint in her hand.

  ‘It’s good to have you back Al.’ She took a hit, held it out for me. ‘Loneliness is such
a drag.’

  3

  I woke up the next day to a sound I thought I’d never hear again, summer rain on the roof, the noise of it beating down all hollow and hard above my head, like I’d never been away. How many times had I heard that sound before, Audrey lying next to me, in her Maginot-line nightdress, or when I was a kiddie, mum coming in, cup of tea and a biscuit in her hand, eyes raised to the ceiling? There was a song she’d sing, my mum, when we couldn’t go down to the beach for the crap weather. Rain on the roof it was called. ‘You and me and rain on the roof,’ that’s how it began, and she’d give me a big hug while singing it, and after that I didn’t mind what we did, the two of us all snug indoors, me drawing pictures or playing interrogation techniques in the back room, mum making fruit scones or those little cakes made out of cornflakes and a bar of chocolate. And here I was, listening to it again. Same old rain. Same old roof. Only what’s underneath changes.

  I pulled on a pair of socks and took a look around. I’d spent most of yesterday around at Mrs B’s, catching up. She’d got in a load of food, a cold roti chicken, a veal and ham pie, a slab of cheddar, some veggie slop for her, all with a bottle of bubbly up on the table, a little card sticking up against the label. ‘Al Greenwood, Free At Last’ she’d written, played the song too as she popped the cork. Nearly brought tears to me eyes, considering what had gone on between us, back when. I hadn’t the heart to tell her what I really fancied was a lashing from one of Mr Singh’s force-eight curries, washed down by a bucket of lager. Still, she had a stash of that Belvedere vodka on tap, that and her home-grown. By the time I stumbled back I was that whacked I tried to find the stairs to the landing three times, before I remembered where I was. Now, walking through the same rooms, staring at the same furniture, it all felt a bit like the dregs of something, flat and grey with nowhere to go, like the weather outside. Life in the bungalow lane. It was going to take some getting used to.