Mr Todd's Reckoning

by Iain Maitland

…25.

  26…

  …27.

  Now the child is singing again. I do not recognise the tune. It is a not a nursery rhyme I had sung to me by mother when I was a little boy. It will be a song by some crass American pop star or other. It sets my nerves on edge. Then Josie starts singing, a sweet melody I do not know either but it is gentle and haunting and sounds to me like an Irish ballad. I suspect she might have made it up, and is musical. It seems to soothe the child, who falls quiet. And it eases my nerves too.

  Another sudden noise, a bang as if the child has run against the living room door.

  The door is pulled open, a sense of urgency. I sit up.

  The child runs along the hallway. I do not know what’s next. I am on edge again.

  I can hear the child in the bathroom. She has not shut the door. I hear the toilet seat crash down. A silence. I then hear the child urinating, a strong and steady flow splashing into the water. She has not even shut the door. I sit here tense and waiting for what will inevitably come next. This is not right and proper. I should not have to listen to this.

  I hear Josie in the hallway, saying something, closing the door, showing decorum. Some respect for me.

  I do not know how long I can put up with this nonsense.

  This utterly ghastly child.

  Now they are back in the living room and there is quiet for a while. At least there are no sudden shouts and bangs and noises from the child. Just the gentle murmur of Josie speaking softly and slowly in careful, measured tones. As though she is telling a story. I listen, the words little more than a soothing sound, so soft I think I could fall asleep. But then, as I listen on, starting to relax slowly, there are sudden, ever-rising querulous noises from the child, asking questions about Josie’s story, wanting this to happen, and that, something else, a different ending. The child is never happy, never satisfied.

  I look out of the window, distracted.

  The rain has finally stopped. A watery sun is breaking through.

  It is time to go to the shops. I will be pleased to get some peace.

  And then it hits me. My trip to the shops. I usually go alone, of course, but today is different. As I think it will always be, one way or the other, from now on. Josie cannot come with me, to choose whatever she wants for lunch, in case this Leon is out there somewhere. He would attack her, me, and the police would be called by a passer-by. That would bring the police back to my door.

  But the child could come, a little later when her clothes are dry. I could say to Josie it would be an opportunity for her to stretch her legs, let off steam, tire herself out. Of course, we would have to be careful not to be seen but we could cut along the railway line and out the back way and I could tell her to wait quietly in the copse of trees while I went into the Co-op for the shopping.

  That would also give me the chance to talk to her on her own. To sort her out. To tell her a few home truths. To ask her nicely to behave. Tell her what’s what, what’s right and what’s wrong. She would look up at me, remorseful and grateful, and say she was sorry and that she would behave better from now on. Then, when we got back home, with armfuls of goodies, Mr Kipling’s cakes and more, and the child having chosen a few penny chews and what have you, we would have a nice, peaceful lunch.

  Without any stupid behaviour or noise from the child. Nonsense that I would have to deal with.

  As I say, it is easy to stop a child’s noise for good by pinching their nose and holding their mouth shut.

  I know how to do it. I’ve done it before. More than once, actually. But I don’t want to do it again. Not unless I have to. Unless I am forced to do it for Josie and me.

  SATURDAY 29 JULY, 11.42AM

  I have been to the shops alone and have come back and am now sitting waiting patiently, reading today’s Daily Mail, in the living room on my own while Josie makes lunch ‘helped’ by the child. As if. Making a bloody nuisance of herself, more like. I asked Josie if the child would like to come with me to the shops to “get some sweeties” and even stood up and held out my hand. The child backed off – she actually moved away from me – and stood behind Josie.

  I thought the child was very rude but said nothing.

  Josie seemed embarrassed, even ashamed of the child.

  She gave me a rueful smile and mouthed, “sorry”.

  I had asked Josie if she wanted to come too, regretting the words as they left my lips. She shook her head and mouthed “Leon” and then shrugged. She suggested what I should buy and then added that they would “get the kitchen ready” to do lunch. I took this to mean she would clean it – that it needed cleaning, that she had seen it was dirty – and I felt humiliated and almost changed my mind and stayed. But we needed something to eat and it would seem strange if I would not leave the bungalow. And it had started raining again, a little more than spitting, just as I was leaving, so I was sure they would not go into the garden or anywhere near the air-raid shelter.

  Even so, I went there and back as quickly as I could, hoping that Josie would focus on cleaning the kitchen and not go elsewhere, digging about. My bedroom, I think, would be sacrosanct, but I could imagine her doing the bathroom, ignoring Adrian’s antiseptic bedroom and heading into the living room. Dusting. Spraying and wiping. Fiddling about, poking her nose in where it was not wanted. Looking in drawers and the sideboard, seeing things, flicking through old local newspapers, wondering why I had kept them. Turning the pages for mentions of myself, or Adrian or her.

  Sitting there, trying to make a connection.

  To see the thread linking five, six, seven random newspapers.

  And asking me about them, curious, pressing – what would I say?

  But, quick as I was, Josie had kept herself to the kitchen and I could see and smell the difference when I came in. All of the surfaces looked clean. There was a pile of items stacked in one corner for me to approve for throwing out; mostly out-of-date tins and packets. A lemon scent in the air. She smiled – beamed – at me as I walked in with my carrier bags of shopping, waiting for my enthusiastic thanks. I thanked her as warmly as I could.

  She then said she still had the cupboards to do properly and gave me a list of what she called “staples”, suggesting I get them next time I went to the local shop or big supermarket, which “would be a lot cheaper”. Some were cleaning items, sprays and cloths and so on. Gorilla tape, strong black tape to stick something or other back into place under the sink. I told her we had some rolls of it in the garage somewhere. Sweeteners, flour, eggs, sugar and so on – for “delicious home-made cakes”, as she put it. I laughed happily at this and said I’d go and get everything she wanted – anything! – that afternoon.

  I saw, in that instant, that wonderful, beautiful moment, how life could be. For years, I had kept my head down as best I could, plodding on in a drab and lifeless marriage with a useless waster of a son. My home, dusty and dirty, slowly falling into disrepair while she laughed and flirted and cuckolded me behind my back, probably many times. And me with little more than half a dozen transgressions over that period. Just to satisfy my natural masculine urges. Now, with Josie, I had a chance to make myself a happy life, one that I should have always had. There is an age gap between us, yes, but these things don’t matter when you are in love.

  I could so easily fall in love with Josie.

  I think I am a little already. Her kindness. Her thoughtfulness. Her beauty.

  I wonder if she might be falling for me too. She smiles and laughs and flicks her hair back. As lovers do.

  I wander back into the kitchen to ask if I can be of any help, but really to sit at the table opposite the child, who is scribbling, and to watch Josie as she makes our lunch. She is still in Adrian’s black T-shirt. Back and forth. Bending over. Showing me little glimpses. Stopping my breath. Standing up. Moving about. She is lithe and athletic, a fine sheen of perspiration on her arms. Despite the rain, now little more than a sprinkle, it is still warm. No longer a heatwave. But enough to make you sweat
after just a little activity.

  A quiche. Some salad, lettuce, tomatoes, a mix of peppers that Josie asked for. She asked me to buy some fruits and I gaze across as she makes a salad with them. Chopping and peeling and dicing and goodness knows what this lovely young lady can turn her hand to. I ignore the child, who is still in her dirty pants and seems to be drawing castles and princesses and dragons again. I just let my mind drift away with thoughts of Josie. Happiness is so close, I can almost touch it.

  I can imagine how it will be so easily. We live together, on our own, in this bungalow, but it is newly decorated, clean and tidy, with all mod cons. I do not work, I do not need to, and fill my days with writing – something witty and amusing, a novel perhaps, something like Billy Liar, which I read at school many moons ago. I’ve always thought I could write something like that, but better.

  I take a morning and an afternoon stroll, to keep healthy, sometimes Josie comes with me, and I also continue with my civic duties, informing the authorities of local wrong-doing, undeclared businesses and the like. Josie stays at home most of the time and busies herself with cleaning and cooking and all sorts of things that the ladies like to do. I would drive her to the hairdressers now and then. She could have her nails done too, as a special treat.

  The child is not in my thoughts. She is not part of our future.

  I am not sure how this will come to pass. But it will.

  I will have to work out what to do. It needs careful consideration.

  I imagine Josie stretched out in the garden, on her back on a sunbed. She is half-naked. It is quiet and peaceful, there is no noise from the road or railway, nor from either side. It is as if we are on our own. I come out of the bungalow, with two carefully prepared drinks. Vermouth and lemonade, with a slice of lemon in each. She sits up, her bare breasts hanging down and a line of hair curling out from the top of her bikini bottoms.

  I sit there watching as she sips at her drink. She looks at me and smiles, warm and inviting. I do not move, although the sight of her excites me more than I can say. She finishes her drink, placing it carefully on the ground and stands up. I look up at her breasts, the tautness of her stomach and her long tanned legs. She beckons to me to follow her and, not ashamed of my visible arousal, I follow her back into the bungalow and to the bedroom where she lies back on the bed.

  There is a sharp knocking at the door.

  Inexplicably, the child jumps down from the table and dashes by me, too fast for me in my breaking reverie. I do not know who she thinks will be there.

  She opens the door, I hear voices. I step into the hallway. It is the police.

  SATURDAY 29 JULY, 11.59AM

  We are sat in the living room, Josie, the child and I, on the sofa. Josie in the middle, the T-shirt riding up so that you can almost see her black lacy underwear. The child on her right in just her pants, her arms clasped across her scrawny chest as if preserving her modesty. I, on Josie’s left, am fully dressed and am now hot and sweating because I know how this must all look and that I am close to being undone at any moment.

  It is all I can do to sit still.

  Seem normal.

  I can hear my heart beating, fast and loud.

  The two policemen, in their early 20s I would guess, one bearded, one ginger, have acted perfectly normally. Stamping the wet off their boots, shaking themselves down in the porch. Asking politely if they can come in “to have a word”.

  Sitting in the two chairs opposite. Making eye contact with Josie, studiously avoiding looking downwards. Noting our particulars, our names and all of that. Checking. Cross-referencing later, no doubt.

  Expressing no surprise as Josie burbles stuff and nonsense, “Adrian… my boyfriend…” and “We’ve been changing” and referring to me, with a tinkling laugh, as “Dad-… in-law”. I do not see myself as a father to her but, embarrassed, I say nothing. I have more troubling matters to think about right now.

  “So,” says the policeman with the beard, opening his notebook, and looking up at me, “we’re just following up on a routine interview between yourself and Special Constable O’Hanlon… about Mr Philip Rennie, who has been reported missing by his wife.”

  (Yes, I said nothing untoward in that conversation.)

  I nod, not sure how to respond, waiting for him to go on. The options available to me whizzing round my mind, not giving me enough time to think, to ponder, to decide. I am mindful that the other one, the ginger policeman, is watching me.

  “We’ve established that… (he pauses)… from conversations with witnesses… that a relationship exists between Mr Rennie and Mrs Dawn Todd… your wife.”

  (Present tense, ‘exists’, so they assume both are missing, probably together, but are still living.)

  “They work together as teaching assistants at the school, yes,” I answer breezily, with a steady gaze.

  The policeman with the beard says quietly, “We’ve established they were more than that.”

  (I don’t know what to say, really I don’t.)

  There is a long-ish silence as they wait for my reply. I think fast, deciding whether I should admit it, deny it or feign surprise. All I want is to avoid being forced into giving them a non-existent address or phone number for her. An address or phone number that will, within the day, hours or even minutes, bring them back to my door, asking more questions. I just want them to go away and leave me alone with Josie. My love.

  I drop my head into my hands, pretend to be struggling with my emotions. Josie reaches out and puts her hand on my back.

  After 20, maybe 30 seconds, I take a deep breath and sit up. “I think they have run away together. I don’t know where they’ve gone.”

  I can sense Josie and the child looking at me. Not saying anything. The two policemen glance at each other. The one with the beard speaks.

  “Special Constable O’Hanlon noted that you say your wife left to visit her sick father on Sunday 9 July… and that she calls you once a week.”

  “She did… to start with, yes… (I have to take a chance with Josie)… but she has not called for a while.”

  “Mr Rennie left home on 25 July and was reported missing because he… has… had… mental health issues. He drove his car here, parking it over the road. Nothing has been heard of him since. His mobile phone was left in his car. He took the keys with him. He has not contacted anyone. His debit and credit cards have not been used. He has simply vanished.”

  (More than they’d normally say, I think. The comments, heavy with suspicion, are designed to tease me out.)

  I nod, still not sure how to respond. I know the end is near. Perhaps the end is now.

  I want to get up and run, but I would not even get out of the door with these two young, strong policemen here.

  I have to calm my nerves, try to speak steadily with casual confidence.

  “Do you have any information as to the whereabouts of Mr Rennie… and Mrs Todd?” The policeman with the ginger hair asks. I notice he has a tattoo of a small elephant on his wrist.

  (This is the key moment; I have to get this right.)

  I am not sure what to say. I cannot risk giving them a false address or phone number just to get them to go. They might sit there and call the number straightaway in front of me and then I am done for.

  I could say they were in Newcastle or Edinburgh, somewhere a long way away. I don’t have the address, nor a phone number. But that would seem suspicious.

  They might ask questions about her. Where she banked. Whether she had taken cash with her. A phone. All sorts of questions I would not know how to answer. If they contact her bank, they could check no money has been taken out by her, nor credit cards used. And what would they then assume?

  (Everything is closing in on me, every which way I turn. I am done for.)

  Josie sits forward, clearing her throat. I think she is coming to my rescue. She puts her hand on mine as she speaks and it is a comfort and an encouragement to me. I can barely believe what she is saying. She must have
overheard the conversation between the special constable, Adrian and me, and then asked Adrian about it, drawing her own conclusions.

  “He’s heartbroken… he won’t explain it very well. He’s so upset. Mrs Todd…” she turns to me with a sympathetic smile, “… was having a relationship with Mr Rennie and they were going to leave together at the end of the school term.”

  I look at Josie and have no idea where she is going with this. But the look she gives me, of warmth and understanding and love, yes love, reassures me. I do my best to look as sad as I can for the two policemen.

  “Mrs Todd then went early because her father, who she had been estranged from, got in touch to say he had terminal cancer. So she went ahead to spend his last few days with him.”

  I look towards the two policemen and they look at me for confirmation. I nod my agreement. Josie then goes on.

  “She came back here to collect Mr Rennie after her father died and they have gone off together. She would not say where, only that they’d be in touch, to sort out matters, once they had settled in. Malcolm… (she gestures towards me)… is heartbroken.”

  Josie sits back and pulls the child towards her, bending down to kiss her head. My mind buzzes, trying to remember if that all fits in with what was said to the special constable. I cannot be certain but I think that it ties up well. I keep quiet, not sure what to say, but turn my head towards the policemen, waiting for them to speak.

  There is a silence.

  And it strikes me that these policemen, for all their grown-up beards and tattoos, are simply wet-behind-the-ears, beat bobbies or whatever they call them these days. They are not detectives. This is just a routine matter, not an investigation. They are ticking boxes.

  And they are out of their depth.

  It occurs to me that, if I take charge, I might be able to get them up and out of here and away, never to come back. I just have to play it right, think quickly. Say the right things. I pause, as if struggling for words, and then speak.

  “The last time she called… She called me to say her father had died and that she wasn’t coming back… that she was going on holiday with this Philip Rennie… that she’d get back to me in the autumn once they’d returned… She didn’t give me a chance to say anything. She put the phone down… I wanted to call her back. But she had withheld the number. I don’t know where she is… I don’t really know why she left me…”