Love, Honour & O'Brien

by Jennifer Rowe

  ‘Disease?’ Mrs Moss’s fingers strayed to her lips.

  ‘We’ll ring the police from your place, Enid,’ said Abigail. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Mrs Moss. ‘I was just thinking of going back. I don’t feel terribly well, as a matter of fact.’

  She edged out of the room and began hurrying across the landing to the stairs.

  ‘My name’s Holly Love, by the way,’ said Holly to Abigail. ‘Just so you know.’

  Abigail nodded absently. She was looking down at the body of O’Brien. ‘It seems awful to leave him here alone,’ she said.

  ‘It won’t be for long,’ said Holly. ‘And he’s got his parrot with him.’

  The cockatoo watched them beadily, crooning to itself.

  ‘It’s in mourning, poor thing,’ sighed Abigail.

  But Holly was fairly sure it just wanted another chocolate chip cookie.

  The police came quite quickly. When they arrived, Holly and Abigail were drinking tea in Mrs Moss’s blue and beige sitting room, every horizontal surface of which was crowded with china ornaments. The ginger cat, which Abigail had addressed as ‘Rufus’, was on guard by the security screen. Mrs Moss was still in the bathroom, swilling, hawking and spitting her way through the bottle of mouthwash she was trusting to kill whatever deadly germs she might have picked up during her attempted resuscitation of O’Brien.

  The representatives of the law were a square-jawed young woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to Arnold Schwarzenegger and announced her name as Constable Chloe Gruff with the air of daring them to laugh, and a rather weedy-looking young officer whose head seemed too small for his cap, and whose name no one ever caught at all.

  ‘Where’s the deceased?’ asked Constable Gruff.

  Holly and Abigail pointed wordlessly across the stairwell.

  ‘Is the premises locked?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Abigail, raising her eyebrows as if the constable should have known. ‘That flat doesn’t lock. The lock’s been broken for years.’

  She, Holly and Rufus watched through the security screen as the two uniformed figures clumped up to the yellow stepping stones and disappeared behind the red heart door.

  ‘Howdy-doody!’ cackled a tinny voice from within. There was a sharp exclamation and a dull thud. Holly reflected that she should have mentioned the parrot.

  After a while the police emerged once more, closing the red door carefully behind them. The young man looked rather shaken. Constable Gruff ’s jaw might have been carved in granite. They tramped back to Mrs Moss’s flat and this time came inside, just as Mrs Moss emerged from her hygienic exertions, flushed and reeking of peppermint.

  ‘There’s a bird in the flat,’ Constable Gruff said disapprovingly.

  ‘It’s not ours!’ gasped Mrs Moss, in a gale of mint. ‘It’s Mr O’Brien’s. Who had croaked before we got there. Long before. On the square!’

  Constable Gruff regarded her impassively.

  ‘Enid watches a lot of late-night TV,’ Abigail explained.

  The weedy officer took out his notebook.

  The questioning was brief and to the point. Holly gave a confused account of herself and the reasons for her visit, drawing a veil over the full extent of her financial embarrassment. She saw the weedy officer write ‘Unemployed’ under her name in his notebook, and felt disreputable. To her own ears, her story sounded highly unlikely, but Constable Gruff made no comment on it.

  Abigail gave her profession as ‘Psychic Counsellor’, and described greeting Holly on her arrival, then rushing up the stairs on hearing screams. Mrs Moss gave her profession as ‘Widow’, admitted to touching O’Brien’s body for the purposes of artificial respiration, and defiantly explained that she had done A Course. The weedy officer paused in his note-taking to stare at her.

  ‘You said Deceased only moved in yesterday. Any idea where he was living before?’ Constable Gruff asked, with the air of one who had learned to hope for little.

  Abigail hesitated, glancing at Mrs Moss. ‘In a brown Torana,’ she said finally. ‘It’s usually parked in the lane beside the butcher’s. In a No Standing zone.’

  Mrs Moss murmured agreement and bent to stroke Rufus, a faint blush staining her cheeks, as though O’Brien’s fecklessness tainted her by association.

  Glazed, Holly watched the weedy policeman write ‘Brown Torana’ in his notebook. She struggled to face the fact that she had hired a private detective who lived in his car in a No Standing zone. A failed detective who had spent all her money on Scotch and fish and chips, then died.

  Constable Gruff sighed. ‘How long had this been going on?’ she asked tiredly.

  ‘Well, we don’t know, do we, in total?’ said Abigail. ‘But he was in the lane about two weeks. He managed it quite neatly, really. He slept in the back seat, and shaved and ate in the front. Sometimes he drove away . . .’

  ‘There’s a public convenience in the park near the marshes,’ Mrs Moss added primly. ‘I suppose he—’

  ‘Was the parrot in the car too?’ the weedy officer broke in, speaking for the first time.

  Mrs Moss shrugged. ‘I really couldn’t tell you,’ she said. ‘I tried not to look too closely, when I went past. Not wanting to attract attention. I mean, we didn’t know who he was. He could have been anybody. Of course, yesterday, when –Deirdre and Skye moved out and he moved in, we realised . . .’

  ‘Looks like he was waiting for the flat to become vacant,’ said Constable Gruff. ‘Blew all his cash when he signed the lease. Probably had nowhere else to go. Happens all the time.’

  Indeed, thought Holly drearily.

  There was the sound of voices below, and feet began to climb the stairs.

  Constable Gruff looked alert. The weedy officer put away his notebook.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ said Constable Gruff, and her mouth twitched as though she’d sworn never to use those words again.

  Holly, Abigail and Mrs Moss watched as a sharp-faced woman in a leather jacket and a man wearing a turban and carrying a doctor’s bag reached the landing. Constable Gruff and the weedy officer went out to join them, and the whole party moved towards the red-heart door.

  ‘Do you think they believe us?’ whispered Mrs Moss.

  ‘Why shouldn’t they?’ Holly snapped. She was thinking of her hundred dollars, and Andrew, and the fact that she was homeless. She was very angry with O’Brien for being dead. She found herself wishing that she’d thought to steal what was left of her money out of his wallet before the police arrived. She wondered if she was going mad.

  A mobile phone chimed in the kitchen. Mrs Moss glanced at her watch and clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘Of all the times!’ she sighed. ‘Let’s hope it’s Winston. He never takes long, poor fellow.’ She bustled out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  Holly and Abigail sat down again. Holly felt the need to release some of her aggression.

  ‘You said you could feel O’Brien’s life force,’ she said to Abigail. ‘And all the time he was dead.’

  ‘I could feel a life force,’ said Abigail. ‘I didn’t know he had a parrot, did I? I didn’t see him bring it in.’

  ‘Surely you can tell the difference between a bird’s life force and a man’s life force?’ Holly sneered.

  ‘We’re all living creatures, Holly,’ said Abigail gently. ‘We all have needs, and longings and joys.’

  Holly snorted. In her head she heard her Auntie Meg saying, ‘Claptrap!’ She saw Auntie Meg’s little black eyes squinting in the sun as she hung out floppy washing, two blue plastic pegs clamped firmly between her lips.

  Abigail jerked slightly in her chair. ‘Blue teeth?’ she murmured.

  Holly jerked in turn. The woman had read her mind!

  ‘It’s my aunt, in Perth,’ she said.

  Abigail looked at her with respect. ‘Unusual,’ she said politely.

  There was quite a bit of coming and going after that, and hours drifted by. By the time O’Brien was
taken away in a body bag, everything had become a bit of a blur to Holly. This could have been the result of exhaustion, hunger and shock, or because Mrs Moss had early on taken away the tea things and brought out a bottle of brandy.

  ‘Sorry to have kept you so long,’ someone said. Holly looked up and saw a very familiar face looming over her. She blinked, struggling to remember whose face it was. There was a strange, whirring sound in the room. For a moment she thought it was a washing machine. Then she realised it was Abigail Honour snoring. Mrs Moss and Rufus had disappeared, and the kitchen door was closed. Another phone call, thought Holly vaguely.

  ‘We’re all finished now,’ said the face. A name floated into Holly’s mind and she grabbed at it. Constable Gruff. She really did look amazingly like Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  ‘Was it murder?’ Holly heard a voice ask. It was a moment before she realised that the voice was her own.

  ‘No suspicious circumstances,’ said Constable Gruff.

  She sounded regretful.

  ‘What killed him then?’

  ‘Doc’s seen him before, a few times. Says he had a Heart,’ said Constable Gruff. ‘Could have gone anytime. He had a Liver too, but it was the Heart that got him. Stairs, packet of fags, grog, big meal, bingo!’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Natural causes. Mind you, some people mightn’t think drinking two bottles of Scotch at a sitting was natural.’ Her eyes slid sideways to the brandy bottle, slid away again. ‘But then, some would, I s’pose. It’s a funny old world. Anyhow . . .’

  She thrust a card into Holly’s hand. ‘Tell her to give us a ring if anyone who knows him turns up, will you?’ she said, jerking her head at the unconscious Abigail. ‘And maybe the old lady could feed the bird for a couple of days? Just till we find the next of kin? We haven’t got the facilities.’

  Holly gaped and wet her lips. ‘It’s okay to go in?’

  ‘Sure. There’s nothing worth stealing,’ said Constable Gruff, innocently offensive.

  ‘No problem,’ Holly mumbled. She stared blearily at the card. By the time she noticed that Chloe Gruff spelt her name ‘Graff ’, the constable had gone.

  Not long afterwards, Mrs Moss emerged from the kitchen with a platter of corned beef and tomato sandwiches, three flowered plates that matched the teacups, and three flowered paper napkins. The sandwiches, dainty triangles with the crusts cut off, were sprinkled with finely shredded lettuce. Holly hadn’t seen sandwiches like that since her grandmother broke her hip and gave up entertaining.

  ‘I thought we could all do with some food,’ said Mrs Moss, ‘so I threw these together while I was talking to poor Nigel. Do you have time to stay, Holly?’

  Holly nodded, her eyes on the platter. All the time in the world, she thought. No one to see. No place to go.

  Mrs Moss handed her a plate and a napkin and gestured hospitably at the platter. Holly reached for a sandwich, forcing herself not to snatch. She found she was dribbling.

  Abigail woke up with a little snort. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked. ‘Have they gone?’

  She caught Holly’s eye. ‘Alcohol affects my sensitivity,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t touch it during the day.’

  ‘You can’t give up all the worldly pleasures, Abby,’ said Mrs Moss comfortably. ‘You don’t have to be on the air all the time, do you?’

  Holly was already onto her third sandwich.

  ‘You were hungry, dear,’ said Mrs Moss.

  ‘Oh, I’m just being greedy! Delicious!’ Holly simpered, filled with shame. She jumped up, glancing sightlessly at her watch.

  ‘Thanks so much for everything,’ she gushed. ‘I’d better be going. They asked if you could feed the cockatoo, Mrs Moss. Just for a couple of days.’

  Mrs Moss looked doubtful. ‘Do you think it bites?’ she asked. ‘It’s not in its cage or anything.’

  ‘It looks pretty tame,’ said Holly untruthfully, edging towards the door.

  ‘You know, O’Brien didn’t seem the sort of man to keep a parrot,’ said Abigail.

  She was right, Holly thought resentfully. It would have been easier to imagine O’Brien with a ferret. Or a rat.

  ‘He never even unpacked,’ said Mrs Moss sentimentally.

  ‘Sad, isn’t it? He was so keen to move in, too. I mean, Skye and Deirdre had barely walked out the door with the last of their things when he was walking in. He just couldn’t wait.’

  Couldn’t wait to get down to some serious drinking, Holly thought spitefully. With my money.

  ‘You don’t like to think about money at a time like this,’ said Abigail, shaking her head. ‘But what a waste. A month’s rent in advance . . .’

  At that moment it was as if something tapped Holly on the shoulder and whispered in her ear. The ghost of O’Brien? That part of herself which had separated from the mainframe when she found O’Brien’s body and had been hovering, watching from a distance, ever since? Whichever, what it whispered made sense.

  ‘I’ll pop over and fill the parrot’s dishes, or whatever, before I go,’ she said smoothly. ‘That’ll fix it for today, anyway. I might even stay a while, keep it company. Even overnight. Poor thing.’

  Her heart beat fast as she waited for them to object, but Mrs Moss simply looked relieved. ‘That’s very kind of you, dear,’ she said warmly. ‘Are you sure you won’t be nervous?’

  Holly shook her head. ‘No problem. It’s the least I can do,’ she said. ‘And the body’s gone, isn’t it?’

  It came out more crudely than she’d intended. Mrs Moss looked rather shocked, and Abigail Honour went instantly into professional mode. ‘The physical presence may be gone,’ she intoned. ‘But the spirit? Who can say?’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Holly inanely. ‘We’ll see.’ She nodded brightly and zipped out the door.

  In seconds she was on the other side of the stairwell. Behind the red heart, the parrot was singing dismally.

  Oh, dear, what can the matter be?

  Seven old ladies locked in the lavatory . . .

  Holly opened the door and peered in. The curtains had been pulled back and sunlight glowed through the dusty windows, front and back. A red-painted door glowed dully behind the desk.

  The room looked larger without O’Brien’s body on the floor. The empty whisky bottles and the fish and chips wrappings had been removed. So had the wallet, sunglasses and car keys, and the box of computer equipment. The garbage bags still bulged against the front wall. It seemed the police had searched them because they were sagging open. A few crumpled shirts, two belts, a dingy towel and some doubtful-–looking underpants had spilled out onto the carpet.

  The cockatoo had retired to its cage. It was staring balefully at Holly through the bars.

  ‘You don’t have to look at me like that,’ said Holly. ‘None of this is my fault.’

  She slipped into the room, casually closing the door behind her.

  6

  The parrot poked its head forward. ‘Give us a biscuit!’ it said.

  There was something deceitful about its eyes. It definitely reminded Holly of someone, and suddenly she realised who that someone was.

  O’Brien.

  The physical presence may be gone, Abigail Honour’s voice seemed to whisper in her ear. But the spirit? Who can say?

  Scenes from The Exorcist, quickly followed by the memory of a nightmarish colour plate depicting maddened Gadarene swine, which had been featured in The Young Person’s Illustrated Bible, an icon of her youth, flickered unpleasantly in Holly’s mind. Her skin crawled.

  She moved a little closer to the big white bird.

  ‘Are you in there, O’Brien?’ she asked in a low voice.

  The parrot looked at her coldly.

  You’re losing your mind! a voice snarled in Holly’s head. Suddenly seized with terror that Abigail or Mrs Moss had somehow sneaked into the room behind her and overheard, Holly glanced over her shoulder.

  There was no one there. She was alone—alone with the parrot. Which was just a parrot, and should b
e treated like one. Holly stepped forward and removed the butterfly clip that held the cage door open. The door slid smoothly down. The parrot, secured behind bars, snapped its beak.

  Checking that it had enough water and seed, she noticed for the first time that a limp piece of paper was tied to the ring on the top of the cage with a broken shoelace. The paper was headed ‘O’Brien Investigations’ and appeared to be an invoice. The top half, nearest to the cage, had been severely nibbled, but the words scrawled on the bottom half were still legible.

  Sorry but Uncle Bert dropped dead last Saturday. He

  was never the same after finding out his Russian tart

  was carrying on with that window cleaning bloke. Don’t

  blame yourself you were only doing your job. He showed

  us the photos I’ve never seen anything like it you wouldn’t

  credit what some women will do. About your bill his

  pension stopped on account of him being dead & there’s

  nothing else cashwise because the funeral took it all even

  with plastic handles. He’d have wanted you to have

  something for your trouble & the Parrot is all there is

  plus I can’t take it on account of my asthma.

  All the best, N. Curtis

  ‘Silly old bugger,’ said the parrot.

  Holly turned her back on it. She strode to the overflowing garbage bags and began pushing clothes back inside, holding them by their extreme edges and wishing she had a pair of rubber gloves.

  She picked up a blue shirt and felt queasy when she realised that it was the one O’Brien had been wearing when he met her at the Victory. She remembered O’Brien casually tucking Andrew’s photograph into the top pocket. ‘Couple of days,’ O’Brien had said. ‘No probs.’

  Holly poked at the pocket, felt cardboard inside, and swore. The photograph was still there! She was willing to bet that O’Brien hadn’t touched it in the whole time he’d had it—all the time she’d been waiting in that empty house, eating gherkins and dry breakfast cereal, believing like a fool that he was doing something.