He, however, did not die: much to his amazement, he had lived to have sex again; to love. He had lived and he had loved. It was at once the most pointless and the most important thing in the whole world.
He snorted with derision at the psychoneurotic cycle he was concocting, like some blasted Freudian; but even so, he was unable to prevent his thoughts coalescing around the memory of Marjorie. It had ended badly, but while it lasted there had been such happiness, he was sure of that. How he despised this sort of introspection. He should never have gone to the restaurant: something had been stirred; and now he was missing her scent, her voice, her warmth, her being. He was missing the person he had been when he was with her. When, he wondered, had he become so dull, so sagging, so tired, so hungry? Were all men like him when they reached their forties? Were they all tired and hungry and more than a little scared?
Marjorie had left him on the day that war broke out: such a small thing in the greater scheme, but not to him. To him it was the biggest thing in the whole world. An atom bomb of the heart. And now here he was and nobody would ever want him again. Well, he supposed, at least he had been spared any more misery; and when he came to think about it, this was probably what he had hankered after all along. A strong desire to avoid the misery of human entanglements was what had led him to choose Marjorie: a woman he knew he could never have had all to himself. His best pal’s girl. Never again. He was done with all of that. From now on Mrs Oscar was the only woman he wanted in his life; the thought of his redoubtable charlady restoring to him a degree of mental equilibrium.
Descending into the dust-laden heat of the underground, he chided himself for such maudlin thinking and put it down to the quest he was now engaged in. A sex murder is bound to bring down your spirits. A warm breeze coming from the tunnel riffled through his untidy hair, and as he reached up a hand to smooth it he told himself, for the second time that day, that he really must get a haircut, and realised, with a start, that for the past few moments he had been thinking not of Marjorie, but of Policewoman Tring. Damn the girl, he thought. Damn her freckles and her legs; damn her kindness; damn her seriousness; damn her smile. And why must she be so damned attractive? His thoughts swung between the A4 Branch girl and the murdered woman as he rattled his way back to north London on the Tube. Legs, breasts, waved hair and painted nails: it all swirled before him in his tired imagination. He pondered the paradox of the good-quality man’s mackintosh, spread out upon the ground as if by a latter-day Walter Raleigh, and the man who had done that, and whether he was thinking all the while as he did so that he would soon be choking the life out of the woman he was about to seduce. He had seen plenty of times before the proof that desire all too often turns to murder but how this came to be still puzzled him. He wondered about the woman who had neatly stepped out of her drawers. He wondered whether there was terror in her eyes when she did that and whether this had appealed to the killer; whether terror in a woman’s eyes could ever appeal to him; whether it secretly appealed to all men. He wondered and he wondered, until he was quite sure that none of it made any sense to him. Then he yawned and closed his eyes for the last two stops, disembarking at Caledonian Road and making his perplexed, weary way to the station, where he spent several hours going through the missing persons lists again and again until Lucas told him, firmly, finally, that he had better face it: nobody was missing her. Nobody. By the time, around about two o’clock in the morning, that Lucas called it a day and despatched everyone homewards, he was feeling about as useful as a bottle of Scotch at a teetotallers’ convention. He walked back to Stoke Newington, through dark streets heavy with loneliness, shadowy with the ruins of lives and homes and businesses, past a huge hoarding hanging from the exposed end of a bombed terrace urging him to “Save for Reconstruction”.
Back home he drank a glass of Scotch and fiddled with the wireless for several minutes before remembering that the accumulator had run down; then he went and sat in the armchair, put his feet up on the bookshelves, smoked a pipe and listened to a gramophone record of Fischer’s performance of Schubert’s Impromptus. He was slipping in and out of drowsiness, wondering whether Schubert had known he had only a few months to live, before he died of VD. He listened for intimations of mortality in the rise and fall of the melody, in the silences between each cadence; he pictured the hand hovering above the keys in the delayed moment. At some point in the night he awoke suddenly to the certainty that he was still in the foxhole, up to his balls in freezing shit and mud, with his hands clamped over his head, waiting, praying, praying, waiting for the final chord: for darkness. He was surrounded by the spectres of men struggling for breath in the suffocating swamp, their livid hands clawing against the sky. It took him a few moments to remember that he had crawled out of the foxhole, his heart pounding, his breath coming in short steamy bursts; he had run across the wasteland, with bullets whistling past his ears, explosions shattering the ground. He was not a ghost: he was one of the legions of the undead, dying their slow, silent deaths. He hated it when he thought like this, but sometimes one is just too tired. He let himself slip away, succumbing to the thick impenetrable mud, to the sense of impending doom that had accompanied the moments before sleep every night for the past thirty years.
14
She had been in the café before – before the war – when it had been a cosy little place, with pretty floral prints on the wall and clean gingham tablecloths. The pictures were still there, but now they were barely discernible beneath a sticky coating of dust and a thick haze of cigarette smoke that made her eyes water. One bare light bulb hung from the centre of the ceiling alongside a strip of fly paper, and the whole place was suffused with post-war staleness: rot, accumulated grime, softened by intermittent bursts of steam emitting from a vast urn that was set upon the counter. The urn was tended by a large unshaven man who was wearing a striped butcher’s apron over a singlet, his thick arms covered in tattoos. He was reading the Sporting Life and every so often he licked his thumb and forefinger to turn the pages. He was concentrating hard and did not look up when they walked in; the waitress, who was leaning on the front of the counter, audibly sighed when she saw them.
She wanted to leave, but Evelyn had crossed to a table and was already asking for two cups of tea and two buttered teacakes. This was typical of Evelyn, who always did just as she pleased; she had a nerve, ordering tea and buns when she didn’t have a penny on her. She went and sat down: at least their table was near to the open door, through which a forgiving breeze cut across the thick moist air.
At the next table a blowsy woman with heavy features was drinking a cup of tea and smiling at them. The woman was thickly powdered and rouged and her eyebrows had been plucked to obscurity and then retraced with heavy black mascara. She was dressed in a short-sleeved brown pin-dot dress from which obtruded plump arms ending in grubby white gloves; a fox-fur collar was draped across her shoulders. She had on a reblocked man’s hat that had been dyed mauve and adorned with a little spotted veil that fell shy of one eye. There could be no doubt what sort of woman she was.
“Ooooh, hot, isn’t it?” she was saying to Evelyn, plucking at the front of her dress. “I’m in a bath of perspiration, I am.”
“They say it’s got something to do with the Atom Bomb,” Evvie said. “They” was Walter, reacting to something he had heard on the wireless the other day.
“Oooer,” said the stout woman. She had a piece of fruit cake, which she held as delicately as she was able in her fat gloved fingers, before pushing it into her mouth. “I was going to the coast this weekend,” she said, brushing the crumbs from her hands, “to get away from the heat. I can’t abide the heat. I was going with my friend.” There was something about the way the stout woman said the word “friend” that made her stomach turn. “But he’s had to go back to barracks.” The stout woman leaned conspiratorially towards them, and they were assaulted by a cheap pungency that struggled to overcome the smell of stale perspiration: like Flit sprinkled on a bug-ri
dden mattress. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a threepenny bit, have you, love?” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Only my suspender’s gone, isn’t it.” The stout woman pulled up the hem of her dress to reveal a fat thigh bulging over the straining top of her stocking.
“I don’t have any money on me, but my friend does,” Evelyn said, turning to her, “don’t you, Lil?”
Glaring at the kid, she rummaged in her pigskin handbag for her purse while the stout woman watched closely. She was careful not to bring the purse out, but clicked it open from the depth of her bag, stealthily retrieving a coin and slipping it towards the stout woman, who pushed it underneath the top of the stocking and then stretched the rubber of the suspender over the bulge of her thigh until the two met.
“Much obliged to you, I’m sure,” she said, reaching out her hand. “Nesta Jones. Pleased to meet you.”
She overcame her revulsion sufficiently to lightly touch the soiled glove that was being held out towards her, suppressing an uneasy feeling that she would live to regret this small gesture of civility.
“I’m Evelyn,” said the wretched girl, “and this is my friend Lil –.”
“Mrs Frobisher.”
Nesta was eyeing up the string bag of groceries that was lying on the table in a way that made her feel uncomfortable. She held her handbag tight on her knee.
“Did you manage to get any bread?” Nesta was asking. “Only I must have been up and down the Holloway Road half a dozen times and there’s not a crust to be had anywhere.”
“I had to queue for most of the morning,” she said.
A sly smile.
“I know where you can get tinned peas,” Nesta said, “seeing as how you’ve done me a good turn, like. I can let you have some for one and threepence.”
“You can get them for tenpence at the Co-op.”
“If they have any in,” said Nesta.
“And you need points as well,” chimed in Evelyn. She could have strangled the stupid kid.
Nesta’s tongue darted out and licked her lips.
“That’s right,” she said. “Three points! I ask you! Three points for a tin of peas!” Nesta took a slurp of coffee. “What about tinned soup? Two bob to you.”
Evelyn nudged her.
“I’m afraid my husband doesn’t really approve of those sort of dealings,” she said. In truth, Walter was happy enough to eat a bit of BM ham if it came his way; he just didn’t approve of what he called the “slimy types” who supplied it.
“Husbands!” exclaimed Nesta. “Mine was a right bugger. Meaner than ten thousand Scotch Jews rolled together. It was a blessing to me when he died. Take it from me, love,” she said to Evelyn, “you’re better off without them.”
Evelyn laughed.
“Oh, I’m in no hurry,” she said. “I’m out to have a good time, me.”
“Well, why not?” said Nesta. “You’re only young once.”
She could feel one of her heads coming on. She groped in her handbag for the packet of phenacetin she knew was in there somewhere. The waitress brought their order of two cups of tea and two teacakes, slapping them down on the table. The kid had a nice figure, but it was a shame about the squint. A squint is such a misfortune to a girl. She swallowed the headache tablet with a mouthful of tea.
“Miss,” she called across to the retreating girl, “I wonder, might I have some sugar, please?”
“Sugar’s here,” said the waitress. She jerked a thumb at a bowl that was sitting on the counter. It was armed with a single spoon that was attached to the tea urn by a grimy piece of string.
“Evelyn,” she said, “be a dear and get me some sugar, will you?”
She hadn’t noticed the young man sitting in the corner nearest to the counter, but he had noticed her.
“How many d’you want, blondie?”
He was stirring a cup of coffee; his upper lip, wrapped around an unlit cigarette, was turned up in a sort of sneer, but he was not sneering at her: he was sneering at the world, and the thought of such dangerous contempt gave her a queer sort of thrill. He was rather a good-looking fellow, very smartly dressed in a green tweed jacket, nylon shirt and fancy tie. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a man so well dressed; certainly not since the war, and probably never in Holloway.
“Oh, thank you,” she said, with a faint smile that was calculated to encourage while not appearing to do so. “That’s very kind, I’m sure. Two please.”
Evelyn kicked her under the table.
“Here,” she whispered. “I reckon he likes you.”
The young man came across to collect her cup and saucer, and she assumed an air of indifference as she finished off the half of buttered teacake, dabbing genteely at the corners of her mouth with her little finger. She did not want to look like a possible, but at the same time she was flattered. He crossed to the counter and she noticed that his jacket was the swingback sort and beautifully cut. It was like one she had seen Leslie Howard wearing in some picture before the war. She didn’t know you could buy jackets like that any more. Tweed was so scarce. She wondered how many coupons you’d need.
“I reckon he’s a spiv,” whispered Evelyn. “Here, Lil, you’ll be alright there.”
“Ssshh, Evvie. They’ll hear you.”
She glanced at Nesta, who was leaning over the back of her chair.
“Here, Dennis,” she called across to the young man, “Paddy’s been called back to barracks.”
He shrugged and heaped two spoonfuls of sugar into her cup. He stood at the counter with his back to them, stirring methodically.
“Paddy’s my friend,” confided Nesta. “He’s a terribly jealous boy. Isn’t that right, Dennis?” Dennis ignored her. “Oh, terrible jealous, he is. Can’t bear another man looking at me – especially when he’s had a drink. It’s the Irish in him, see. Hot-tempered lot they are. Mind you, gives me a bit of a lift, I can tell you.” Nesta winked at her and began to cackle.
“That’s the Irish for you,” said Evelyn, slurping her tea.
The young man brought her cup back to their table and as he set it down she glanced up, briefly, and smiled at him.
He smirked.
“Shut up, Nesta,” he said. “Blondie here doesn’t want to hear about you and your disgusting habits.”
Nesta flung her head back.
“What’s the matter with you, Dennis?” she screeched. “It’s only natural, isn’t it? I’m not doing any harm. She knows what I mean, don’t you, love?”
She did not respond. She didn’t want to give the young man the wrong impression of herself.
“Here, you alright, love?” Nesta was peering at her. “Only you look a bit peaky.”
“I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”
“It’s the heat,” said Evelyn.
“Dripping, I am,” said Nesta.
The young man had returned to his table and was leaning back on his chair so that the front legs were lifted clear of the floor; he lit a cigarette and aimed a steady stream of silvery smoke at the ceiling.
“Here,” said Evelyn, “have you got a spare cig?”
He shrugged, taking a cigarette from the packet and lighting it for her with the glowing tip of his own.
Evelyn settled back in her chair to smoke, casting her a knowing look.
“I heard they got gin in at the Feathers,” said Nesta.
“Good for them,” said Dennis.
“There hasn’t been any gin in weeks, has there, love?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know,” she said, “I’m not really one for drink.”
“What do you do in the evenings, then?”
“She likes to go to the pictures, don’t you, Lil?” Evelyn said. She stubbed out the last of her cigarette in her saucer. “Or the Empire. Sometimes you go to the Empire on a Saturday night, don’t you, Lil?”
She glared at the stupid kid.
“Are you going there tonight, love?”
“I haven’t really thought about it, to be honest
.”
“Oh, you should,” said Nesta. “You look like you could do with a good night out. Give yourself a break from that husband of yours.” She began to laugh again: a horrible rattle that seemed to come from deep in the back of her throat. “You look all in, if you don’t mind me saying.” Nesta pressed a handkerchief against her mouth as the cackle subsided in a prolonged bout of wheezing and coughing. She dabbed at her eyes, which were watering. “Isn’t that right, Dennis? She looks all in, doesn’t she?”
Dennis shrugged.
“Oh, I dunno,” he said. He stubbed out his cigarette and reached for another from the packet on the table. “She looks alright to me.”
15
He woke to the familiar sound of Mrs Oscar coming in at the front door. It appeared that he had yet again fallen asleep in his armchair; a cold pipe was lying on his chest where it had fallen from his lips and dottlings of grey ash speckled his vest. His char was used to coming across him like that; she made her customary observation that he ought to take care to put his pipe out before nodding off lest he burn down the entire block.
Cooper washed, shaved hurriedly and painfully; dabbed toothpowder on the worst of the scrapings; put on a clean shirt from the pile Mrs Oscar had just delivered; pulled the day before yesterday’s still-knotted tie over his head; grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, patting the pocket for his pipe and tobacco pouch; remembered that he had left them on the arm of his chair; went back to fetch them; grabbed his hat from the stand; thanked Mrs Oscar (who was complaining about the powdered cheese excrescence on the grill pan) and went out of the door.
He spent the entire Tube journey to Caledonian Road strap-hanging and immersed in nostalgia for fried eggs and bacon: real eggs, not American powdered; two of them, with glossy yolks, the colour of daffodils, and perhaps a few mushrooms on the side. He stopped off at a café on his way to the police station and bought a papery bread roll lined with slippery portions of brawn. It was quite disgusting, but he was so hungry he ate it in two bites, arriving at the murder conference with just enough time to wash away the lingering salt and slime with a cup of tea, which a dowdy, plump A4 Branch woman had set down on the table before him.
A Commonplace Killing - Siân Busby Page 9