Local Poet

by Paul Trembling

  It took a while to reach her destination: number 15, halfway down on the right, blue door, brass door furniture. The final line explained everything.

  I put a finger on the doorbell

  Hesitated, feeling the action misplaced.

  Then, smiling to myself, I put out a hand

  And touched smooth brass that welcomed my fingers.

  I turned the door knob, pushed,

  And went home.

  That was it. Her joy, her new sense of belonging, her dancing with the wind, came down to this: she had come home. I sat for a while, not so much thinking about that as absorbing the emotion of it.

  A knock on the door dragged me rudely back from Laney’s world to my own. It was Colin, dropping off my car keys.

  “It’s parked in the next street,” he said. “I would have left it outside, but I think you’ve got reporters.”

  “What? Outside?”

  “Across the street in a car. There was someone pointing a camera at the front door when I drove past, so I kept going. Doesn’t matter if they see me – they already know who I am – but I thought you might not want them to know your car.”

  I nodded. “Good thinking. Thanks, Colin.”

  “Especially considering what they’ve already been saying about you.”

  “They’ve… what? What have they said?”

  Colin pulled a folded newspaper out of his pocket and handed it over with a sad shake of his head. “This morning’s edition of the local rag.”

  I unfolded it warily. The front page was dominated by a picture of the accident scene, with a huge mound of flowers half covering the pavement. A fuzzy black and white picture of me was inset. But it was the headline that caught my attention and kicked me in the guts. Harsh black capitals shouting at me: “KILLER DRIVER FEELS NO GUILT”.

  “But that’s not true!” I protested. “That’s not what I said. Not what I meant.”

  Colin shrugged. “Of course not. I didn’t believe it. But newspapers will say anything to sell a few copies. This one will, at any rate.”

  I quickly scanned through the rest of the article. I could barely recognize the bare bones of the telephone interview under the pile of speculation, insinuation, and character assassination that made up most of the piece.

  “How the hell can they get away with it?” I sat down, feeling slightly sick. “Can’t I sue them or something?”

  Colin shrugged. “It depends. Have they printed anything which is factually untrue? Or quoted you inaccurately?”

  I shook my head. “It’s more about how they interpreted it.”

  “Then I doubt you’ve got a case. And even if you did, it’d be long, expensive, and the best result you could get would be a short apology buried in the back pages. In the meantime, they’d love the extra publicity.”

  “What am I supposed to do then? Anyone who reads this will think I’m an insensitive scumbag who can run someone down and walk away laughing about it.”

  Colin came and sat down next to me. “Nobody who knows you will think that. And this time next week nobody’s going to remember it anyway.” He forced a laugh. “Who the heck reads local newspapers anyway? Trust me, Rob – keep your head down, stay off their radar, and this whole thing will soon blow over.” He gave me what was presumably meant to be a reassuring, bloke-to-bloke punch on the shoulder. Coming from Colin, it was awkward and a bit scary. But I understood the intention.

  “Thanks. I hope you’re right.”

  “I am.” He stood up to leave. “Might be an idea to go away for a few days. Change of scenery, take your mind off it.”

  “Might be a good idea. I’ll think about it.”

  “You do that. Keep in touch, though.” He stepped out of the door, then glanced back in. “Oh, by the way, you’ve got a brake light out.” He gave a little half-wave and shut the door behind him.

  Brake light. Great. Just what I needed to hear before I went to meet a copper.

  My flat didn’t have any windows overlooking the street, but there was one at the end of the communal landing. Peering out from behind the grimy net curtain, I saw a sporty red Corsa parked opposite. I’d no idea what reporters normally drove, but I was pretty sure that I hadn’t seen it on the street before. From this angle, I couldn’t see if anyone was in it or not, but I was happy to take Colin’s word for that. And I fully agreed with him that I didn’t want them knowing my car. And suppose they followed me; saw me meeting with June Henshaw? I shuddered to think what headlines they might make out of that. But how was I going to get out without being seen? The front door was the only exit.

  I went back to my flat and stared down at the walled-in patch of rough grass and mud that was loosely termed “the back garden”. Open for the use of all residents – though the only use anyone made of it was to dump rubbish. I could see a broken TV, two washing machines, and a rotting mattress, plus various smaller items. The walls were six foot high and solid. There was no way out there.

  At least, not officially.

  On the other side of the wall was a slightly better-kept garden, with less mud, more grass, and no rubbish. It belonged to a terraced house nearly identical to the one my flat was in. Shortly after I’d moved in, it had been broken into – through the back door. The police had concluded that the burglar had made his way there by climbing over the walls. Or running along the tops of them. A dangerous route, especially at night, but it seemed he’d been pretty confident – he’d tried several houses before finding one left conveniently unlocked.

  Where someone could get in, I could get out.

  I checked my watch. It was nearly half past four. At this time of year it would be getting dark by six thirty. To make my appointment (not a date) with June in good time I’d need to leave by seven.

  I opened the window and leaned out. The dividing wall continued all the way to the end of the row, where it met the cross street on which Colin had left my car. It looked the same all the way: flat-topped brick, about six inches wide. No obvious changes in height, no visible obstacles. It looked easy enough. Anyone could walk a straight six-inch line, couldn’t they? Well, anyone sober, and I wasn’t planning to start drinking.

  I glanced up at the sky. The spell of warm, dry weather that we’d had since the accident was breaking, and the sky was sullen with low grey clouds. Showers were forecast. Rain might make the brick slippery. Falling off a wall that high could break something. Possibly my neck.

  Still thinking it over, I showered and tried to find something appropriate to wear for a non-date with a police officer. My cleaning frenzy revealed that I owned a lot of T-shirts and several pairs of jeans (mostly worn, torn, or just grubby), but not much in the category of “smart”, or even “smart very casual”. Eventually I unearthed a reasonable shirt, a tie that almost matched, and a crumpled pair of cords. With my black leather jacket and a cleaned-up pair of trainers, I was fit for decent society. Or at least for The Stag.

  Time wore on. The clouds hung ever lower, and began a steady drizzle. It was going to get dark early. I went back out to the landing and checked on the Corsa. Still there. Surely it wouldn’t stay all night? But if I was going to try the wall, it would be better done while there was some light.

  I’d found a torch earlier. I flicked the button and got a dim glow. A further search produced some batteries, but they were completely dead.

  The clock crept past six. The Corsa remained in place, the rain continued, the light faded further.

  I went down to the back garden, and dragged one of the dead washing machines across to the far corner. Climbing up would be easy, and it was only five houses along to the end.

  I stood on the washing machine, which creaked and wobbled but held my weight.

  I scrambled up on the wall, and stood carefully. It was remarkable how narrow six inches looked when that was all there was to stand on. There wasn’t much light left to see where I was putting my feet. On the other hand, there was quite enough light for anyone looking out to see me. And how
was I going to explain that? “Oh, good evening; just out for a stroll.”

  Why would anyone look out? I asked myself. It’s not like there’s a view.

  I started walking. The top of the wall had been finished off with a thin skim of cement. It was slick and slippery in the rain. In some places it was crumbling away. I walked as quickly as I dared, arms outstretched for balance.

  Two houses along. I was starting to gain some confidence, moving a little faster, with the far end of the wall in sight.

  “Eeeeeee! HAROLD! HAROLD!”

  The shriek came from my left, and I jumped. Literally. My tense nerves sent wild panic signals to my muscles, and I leaped a foot into the air. Not a good thing to do when you’re standing on top of a wall – and a wet, crumbly wall at that. I didn’t help things by simultaneously trying to turn to see where the scream had come from.

  Coming down again, one foot missed the wall entirely. The other came down half on the brickwork. Something crumbled under the impact, and I was falling backwards. There were no lights on this side of the wall, and I fell into thick shadow. I could have landed on hard concrete or worse. Instead, I crashed into thick bushes, which only knocked the wind out of me.

  I lay gasping for breath as quietly as I could while the conversation continued on the other side of the wall.

  “There was a man, Harold. Walking along the wall like he was strolling down the pavement!”

  “Well, there’s nothing there now.” A man’s voice, sounding irritated. “Probably a cat.”

  “I know a cat when I see one, Harold, and cats don’t walk along walls on their hind legs!”

  They don’t fall off and nearly break their back, either, I thought to myself.

  “I think you should call the police,” the woman continued, and I nearly shouted “No, don’t!” in panic. It was, in a way, fortunate that I was still trying to get my breath back and could only manage a faint croak.

  “Call the police?” Harold was saying. “And what am I supposed to tell them? My wife’s seen a cat walking on its hind legs? Get them out searching for Puss-in-Boots?”

  “They’ll be out searching for a missing husband if you don’t watch yourself!” A window slammed shut, leaving me alone in my bush.

  When I was breathing again, I began the slow process of freeing myself without scratching my eyes out on the way. It helped when I was able to get my phone out of my pocket. It wasn’t sophisticated enough to have a torch, but the light of the screen was enough to show me that I hadn’t fallen into a hawthorn hedge as I’d feared, but a scraggly bit of privet. A few minutes of careful moving and quiet swearing and I was standing on the green, green grass of someone’s back garden.

  The house was in darkness. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. If the place was locked up and empty, I’d be spared having to explain my presence. On the other hand, I might be trapped here. Even if I wanted to risk the wall again, I wasn’t sure if I could get back onto it. There were no dead washing machines here to give me a helpful step up.

  I approached the door and gave it a hesitant knock, mentally rehearsing what I could say. Sorry to bother you, but I was just out for a stroll and I happened to fall into your back garden. Somehow, I couldn’t make it sound convincing. It was almost a relief when no one answered.

  I knocked again, a little louder. Still no response.

  Taking a deep breath, I tried the door handle. It turned. Stiffly, but it turned, and when I pushed on the door it creaked open.

  I was staring into a dark room. A kitchen. My phone showed a sink, full of dirty plates, a gas cooker, cupboards – a doorway. I could hear voices beyond, too faint to make out the words, but a man and a woman were talking.

  I wet my lips and prepared to announce myself, but the conversation was interrupted by a sudden burst of machine-gun fire.

  The TV was on, I realized, as I picked myself up from the floor where my overstretched nerves had sent me. Dramatic background music was the clue.

  I crept closer to the door, which was just ajar, and eased it open. Beyond was a dimly lit hallway, with doors on the right and at the far end. The end door had a letterbox in it.

  Opening the kitchen door a bit more, I stepped into the hallway. The creak of a floorboard underfoot was mostly drowned out by a well-timed explosion, and I made my way towards the front door to the sounds of battle and tension-inducing music. I was glad of the noise to cover the sound of creaking floorboards, but I didn’t need any more tension. Knowing that the door could open at any moment – and that there wasn’t the slightest hope of coming up with an excuse for my presence – was giving me plenty of that.

  I crept past the side doors. The front door was just a few steps away. I could now see that the poor security at the back of the house was more than compensated for at the front. There were two bolts, a chain, and a Yale. Plus a good old-fashioned mortise lock, with no sign of a key.

  As I reached the door, peace inconveniently broke out on the TV, with a consequent drop in the noise level. I was suddenly very aware of my heart, thumping like a piledriver on speed. I stood absolutely still, not daring to move for fear of the noise being heard.

  There was music again. Closing credits, perhaps. And what happens when the film finishes? Go to the kitchen and make a cup of tea maybe?

  I grabbed at the bolts, torn between the opposing needs of silence and speed. The top one slid open easily; the bottom one was stiff, and squeaked as I wrenched it open. The chain came off without trouble, but where was the key for the main lock? Not hanging by the door, as was often the case. Not on top of the cupboard by the door. Perhaps in the cupboard? I tugged at the handle; it stuck, and the entire cupboard rocked forward. Something inside it fell with a thump.

  The music on the TV faded to an announcer. I twisted on the Yale, pushed desperately on the door. Then pulled, and it swung easily open, the mortise lock not even engaged. I fell over backwards, landing hard and painfully on the thin carpet, but adrenaline bounced me back to my feet and shot me out of the door before it had stopped swinging.

  I was nearly at the end of the street before I had the presence of mind to go back and shut the door. There was a lit window next to it. Peering through a gap in the blind, I could see the TV. In front of it an elderly couple sat together on a sofa, hand in hand and both apparently sound asleep.

  I found my car exactly where Colin had said, and (after a brief moment of panic when I couldn’t find my keys) got in and started the engine.

  Then I sat behind the wheel and shook uncontrollably for several minutes. Reaction, of course. That was all. Tightly wound nerves relaxing. Quite natural.

  But another part of myself was stepping back, taking a look, and shaking its head. Wondering what the hell had happened to me. Where was the relaxed, happy, confident Rob – the one with the normal life? Who was this nervous wreck of a bloke, having ridiculous adventures, being pursued by the press like a wayward celebrity, having secret meetings with the police, and reading poetry? What had Laney Grey done to me?

  There was no answer to that question. Not yet, anyway.

  I took a backstreet route, avoiding the front of my house in case my stalker recognized me as I drove by. Also in case he had given up and gone home while I was playing burglar, which I’d rather not know about.

  I’d missed the worst of the rush hour, and made good time to Anniston. Driving was easier now than when I’d made the Fiesta run; I still felt nervous, but without the extreme tension that had nearly paralysed me before. I was in The Stag by quarter past seven, trying to make myself presentable in the gents. The mud and blood mostly wiped off, but I couldn’t do much about the scratches on my face or the massive rip in my trousers. On the positive side, it could have been worse: the left leg was torn right up to the knee, but at least nothing embarrassing was revealed.

  However, the overall effect wasn’t impressive. Just as well it’s not a date, I thought gloomily as I walked to the bar.

  After the day I’d had,
a serious drink would have been welcome. But I was driving, and meeting a copper, so when June walked in I was sipping on a cappuccino.

  It would have been an exaggeration to say I nearly didn’t recognize her, but she did look very different out of uniform. She was wearing jeans and a pink woolly top. Without the bulky stab vest she looked less stocky, and her pale blonde hair was down, giving her face a gentler look.

  “Hi. You’re looking nice,” I said. Speaking without thinking, as usual.

  The smile that she had been forming faded into a frown. “You don’t. You look like you were dragged through a hedge! What happened?”

  I shook my head. “I fell over. Long story.”

  She raised an eyebrow. Just because she was out of uniform, it didn’t mean that her police instincts were suppressed.

  “I had to take an alternative route out. There’s a reporter watching my flat; I didn’t want to be seen leaving.”

  “A reporter?” She seemed sceptical.

  “Yes. I think so. They’ve been after me non-stop since they got hold of my address. That’s why I had to change my number. You should see what they’ve written about me.”

  “I did. You shouldn’t have talked to the press at all. Anything you said was going to get used against you.”

  “But I didn’t know…”

  She waved aside my protest. “I can’t see them sitting around watching the flat. We’re talking about the local rag here, not the international paparazzi. They don’t have that many people to spare. And to be honest, you’re not that important.”

  Her assessment was unnecessarily harsh, I thought. “Well, someone’s been watching my front door all day.”

  “Have you seen them?”

  “Yes! Well, I’ve seen their car, and it doesn’t belong on our street. And Colin – my boss – saw them pointing a camera.”

  “A camera?” June’s eyes narrowed. “OK, that could be suspicious. What sort of car was it?”