It’s one of my favourite combinations of colour. I like the contrast. Everything’s so cut and dried these days. I like the blood on the porcelain. It reminds me why hospitals are white.
Reb leaves fingerprints at scenes. It’s really sad. I wipe them away. I follow crime, too. It’s kind of a hobby in town. There’s little else to do when you’re down and out.
It’s a cheap hobby. A far better one than drinking, my erstwhile hobby 'til I left Bournemouth and my old life behind.
I don’t know if it was Reb’s ring. I’m not sure. He’s worn a ring as long as I’ve known him. I’m pretty observant about things like that. I don’t pay any attention to other things going on around me – it’s not unheard of for me to walk into lampposts while I’m daydreaming about some nonsense or other. But then, I don’t often miss the important stuff. Like how Reb has always worn the ring, but keeps his left hand covered, or in his pocket, or puts his right side forward at a slightly, almost imperceptible, unnatural angle. Like he’s ashamed of it. Or stole it. I don’t know why he hasn’t realised how obvious it is. But then no one else has ever mentioned it and it’s not my place to go around blowing people’s secrets out of the water like some exocet spy-thing.
I don’t think Reb knows why he does it. I used to think it was a cry for attention – the way that some of the crazies are serial confessors. I think Reb wanted people to find the print, maybe to make him talk as he’s too shy to confess.
I know he fancies me, too, which is kind of an oddity in and of itself. I know Joe doesn’t like him, but then Joe doesn’t really like anyone….
That’s Reb, anyway. And then there’s Joe.
*
3. The Fisherman Interloper
Joe was waiting on the doorstep when I got back. It was coming up for half past four. Dawn wasn’t far off and the birds were chirping. I could hear seagulls getting their early morning start, and the steady ding of rigging against ship’s masts came from the harbour.
“Hey, that was quick. Did Reb call you about his interesting find, too?” I said, or something like it.
He said something but I wasn’t really listening to his reply at the time, I was still in my reverie from the walk back. I gave myself a mental shake.
“What?” I said.
“Something interesting? What? One of the clubs get closed down or something lame?” he asked. I paid attention this time. I was wondering what he was talking about. Cross-purposes I guess.
“Nope. Better.” I said.
“Well?”
“Guess.”
“Fuck it. Make us a cuppa first, then.” Joe rubbed his gloved hands together and his breath steamed, as if to accentuate the need for tea in the small wee hours of a cold costal morning. I didn’t wonder how he’d gotten here so fast. It slipped my mind.
I pushed the key grating into the rusty Chubb and swung the door in. The heat and the books thrust musty back at me.
I love my house. Every time I open the door it’s like that first time you smell a new girl and that new smell says come inside.
Alright, my taste in girls isn’t as high class yours.
I have books lining every spare space in my house. It’s only a moderately sized Georgian townhouse, but it’s enough for me. The books take up most of my space.
I could never face moving again.
We walked, or climbed I suppose, if you want to be pedantic, up the creaky stairs past the books. None of them were housed in shelving. I don’t believe in shelves. Each stack of books rested on the next, creating a great interdependent wall of knowledge.
I liked books, but I’d noticed Joe never even stooped to read one title. Joe was a man who didn’t believe in the make-believe, or mysteries. Just solid facts for our Joe.
Joe was a fisherman. Was a fisherman.
He looked it, too. Disproportionately large jaw, bristled like a catfish, thick hands, bandy legs and a penchant for crappy jumpers.
His tie is always knotted oddly, slightly askance. Harry seems overly worried about it. Once she said to me, ‘Don’t you think it’s odd? You’d think a fisherman would be really good at ties. But he’s not. Are you sure he was a fisherman?’
I’ll get to Harry later.
I’m sure Joe was a fisherman. I notice things, and that was one of my great deductions. Joe never told me he was a fisherman, but all his old stories involved cod and trawlers. I can tell things about people. It’s a gift.
Harry is Joe’s girlfriend. I skip about a bit but bear with me. That’s the thing about first drafts. They lack coherence. Life's a first draft, I've found. As much as I'd like to edit it, it's done and gone.
They have a strange relationship. I’ve known Joe longer than Harry, and for some reason this longevity of friendship seems to confuse her. I met him three years ago in a pub, and I met Harry through Joe a year after that. They’re good friends. She’s permanently suspicious, him, permanently surly. Sometimes it seems he really hates her. I don’t know if that’s the case or not.
What Harry doesn’t realise is that no one knows Joe. I’m not sure Joe knows Joe.
I think perhaps he resents life of on land. He left his boat for good when he suffered a psychotic episode on a fishing boat and tried to add the ship’s cook to a hook as bait as he though she looked tasty. She was a fifteen stone Norwegian lady with a mole the size of a porn star’s nipple by the side of her mouth.
Joe never remembers the useful details for a story. He told me the story once. I made up the part about the mole. I thought the Norwegian lady needed some defining characteristic for the story to be defining.
He suffers from bouts of psychosis. He’s normal most of the time, then he’ll go off into a rant about someone or other being out to get him. He often thinks it’s big organisations, the government, or MI5, or the NHS. It was the police last time. Although he wouldn’t say why he thought the police were after him.
I don’t know why he feels he’s persecuted. I think it's because Joe's a fucking nutjob.
He was a fisherman though. I saw him leave on a boat once. I’m fairly sure of it, anyway.
*
Insomnia robs you of your waking memories. I think sleep lets you store things and my storeroom is broken.
And then, there’s the odd titbit that gets leftover. I remember, for example, that Ghenkis Khan died of a nosebleed. I remember that, but then my brain tries to confuse me. Now I’m thinking maybe it was Attila the Hun.
Now doubt’s set in. I always do that. Someone asks a random question, I blurt an answer, and then change my mind and get it wrong. I don’t think I’ll ever be in a position for people to rely on me (for some reason they always try to – they must think I’m trustworthy. I always manage to get out of it though).
It’s funny how the occasional sleepless night plays havoc with the brain.
*
I was telling you about Joe, though.
I don’t think anyone really trusts Joe. He looks like a friendly fisherman but there’s something not quite right in there. Soon after Joe came back off the boat he went for an interview. Something duff, I think (I’ve long since stopped asking – Joe volunteers little information and I fill in the gaps myself). He came back and told me he thought interviews were for wankers. The guy asked him why he’d come back off the boat. Joe lied. Then the guy had asked why Joe wanted the job, the straw that broke the camel’s back, as it turned out. He told the guy ‘I’ve had more interesting conversations in five minutes with morphine than I’ve had with you’.
I would have said ‘for the money’. I don’t think either of us would have got the job. My interview technique could probably do with brushing up, too.
Joe hasn’t been for an interview since. I don’t know where his money comes from and I’ve never asked. He’s never asked me. I don’t know if he’s got a family. Every time I ask him something remotely personal (asking what Joe had for breakfast was personal) he calls me a girl.
We went straight into kitchen to get cup of tea. We both stoo
d. My kitchen doesn’t have luxuries like a toaster. Or a breakfast bar, which would probably have been more relevant under the circumstances.
After an indeterminate period of time waiting for the kettle to boil we sat down, Joe and I talked about it. The girl I found.
“Where was she?” he asked, after I’d told him about finding the girl. He didn’t seem to think it was odd that I’d found her. We’d followed murders before, but most of them were pretty dull and it was a rarity for us to get on the scene before the police. You might think it’s ghoulish, following crime. But you try being on the social for a couple of years. You’ll try anything to stave off the tedium in the end.
“On Carter Street, behind the mall.”
“Under the multi-story?”
“Yep.”
“You think she was pushed or jumped?”
“Couldn’t really tell, but her head was all caved in. It was at a funny angle too. I reckon her neck was broken.”
“How can you tell? It’s not like you’re an expert.”
Joe sipped tea. He was wearing a cable knit sweater and small beads of sweat were forming on his brow. It was far too hot in my apartment and the sweater looked like it would be ideal for a fishing trip. It was a bit excessive for the mainland. I was wearing a tee-shirt though, so I didn’t turn down the heating. He could take his sweater off if he wanted to.
“It just looked funny, is all. And she looked like a pub goer. Probably just got drunk and fell off the multi-story.”
“You think?”
“No, not really. Someone would’ve seen her if she’d fallen after pubs kicked out. The police would’ve been there already.”
“You think we’ve got a genuine murder then?”
“First impressions? Yeah. That’s what I think.”
“You’d better call the others, then. We should go take a look around. See what we can see.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
I picked up the phone.
*
Time passed while we waited for the others to show up. It wasn’t particularly interesting.
*
Then things got a little more interesting. The doorbell rang and I went to get it. Harry walked in.
Harry looks exactly like you’d want P.J. Harvey to look.
It's difficult to explain, how I feel when I see her. It's like wanting everything to die on an emotional level, like the butterfly-in-your-stomach feeling, but in your head and not butterflies but cockroaches and Cerebus slavering at the base of your skull waiting to get in and take over. Actually, that's a pretty good explanation.
That's was the point of the butterflies analogy – it's the closest (and only thing I could think of) to explain a physical response to emotional (well, glandular) feeling. There's nothing wrong with butterflies, ordinarily, it's just when they're in your head, not your belly, and they're not cute but have teeth and little spiny arms and legs and shit in your head and make your brain turn to jelly and then run off with your wife, sexually abuse the dog and hog the remote control.
That’s what I feel like when I see Harry. I think it’s love but I’m not too sure. It doesn’t feel right being in love with somebody else’s girl. It’s sordid. The stuff of stories. This is real life.
I digress, though.
Her face was pale from the cold but there was a flush to her cheeks. Her lips stood out, cherubic on her drawn face. She looked as beautiful as I’d ever seen her looking. But then I think that every time I see her.
I’ve spent many a sleepless night thinking about Harry. I think about her long and hard when I’m all alone at night. It doesn’t help with my insomnia.
*
If you have insomnia, I suggest you try something different. Try changing your day around, so you begin to think of two in the morning as two in the afternoon. When you’re at work you’ll begin to think your working through the night. When you look out your curtains at night, you begin to see daylight. Swap it around, that’s all you have to do. It’s easier that way. You do get fucked up after a while, though.
*
“What happened then?” asked Harry as we walked up the stairs. She walked a little way behind me, as there wasn’t room for two abreast on my stairs. The books hemmed us in.
“I found a body.” I corrected myself. “Reb found a corpse. I went to see it. A young girl. Looks like she fell from the multi-story behind the mall. On Carter Street. The police haven’t got there yet. I figured maybe we should all go down and have a sniff around before the circus shows up.”
“Sure,” she said. “But I’d love a cup of tea first.”
I stopped in the kitchen on the way to the front room before going in.
Harry sat down as we all retired to the living room. I call it the smoking room. The ceiling has a permanent yellow glow. I’d just lit a cigarette, joining Joe who smoked JPS, when the doorbell rang again.
That was Joe and Harry. Pill came next.
Pill and I came back up the stairs together. Joe and Harry were sitting apart. Not talking. Like a couple of lovers who’d had a tiff. But then I’ve been around the two of them for nearly two years now and the only time they ever talk to each other is to argue.
“Turn that frown upside down,” Pill said to a miserable looking Joe as he came in.
“Fuck off, squirrel.” Joe replied.
A man of few words, our fisherman.
*
4. Douche
Pill is almost Joe’s total opposite. I think he might be generally termed as sane. Too many pills have rotted his brain, but contrary (like himself) to nature’s laws, instead of becoming a slightly punch-drunk div with a tendency to get into pointless fights and forget things, he was in fact straight most of the time.
He was exactly like a tack – sharp underneath with a brassy hue. Well, alright, that look is traditionally known as yellow or jaundiced, but if I was honest the analogy wouldn’t work. If I’m really honest it didn’t work anyway, but I’ve invested a lot of effort in it now so it stays.
Pill’s chirpy. He gets on well with Reb.
Harry’s arrival had put the whammy on me but my vision finally cleared when Pill came in. Joe called Pill ‘the arseless wonder’.
Joe was looking surly (his best look) and Pill’s feet were tapping like he had St Leviticus' dance going on in his head, which at this time in the morning it probably was. Pill spent most of his time and money clubbing. His job, on a factory line-up, didn’t require any great mental agility. Pill could go to work any amount of hungover. The come down was always the worst, but today it was still in its early stages.
I’d met Pill back in the days when I used to dabble with ecstasy. Those days are long since past. Now I’m just a proud poncing caner. I never buy my own drugs, thanks in the main to Pill’s largess.
Pill’s arrival gave me a decent excuse to look Harry up and down. Pill always acted as a great distraction. Joe spent the next five minutes eyeing Pill with a disapproving eye – nothing but alcohol for our man Joe. They didn’t get on but then Joe didn’t get on with any of my friends. Or his girlfriend for that matter.
I don’t know why I liked Joe. I think it’s just because he’s so solid.
She had curly long auburn hair. Harry, this is. The colour of sunsets through sunglasses and a three-day binger’s eyes. Her figure was what some would call willowy. She was straight up and down, with little in the way of curves. Her mouth had a surety about it, like whatever she said would be gospel, and her cheeks were permanently rosey.
Come to think of it, she doesn’t sound all that, does she?
Different strokes, though. Not everyone goes for voluptuous. I couldn’t understand what Joe saw in her. He had big plates for hands and a strong flat face. She didn’t suit him at all.
Me, on the other hand, I’m all bones. We’d go well together like Mechano. I don’t think they make Mechano anymore, so maybe I should leave that out, but I can’t think of another simile at this precise moment, and like I said, the
re ain’t no going back. I think that’s from The Crow. But then, I get confuddled sometimes.
Looking at Harry does that to me.
Harry left to go to the toilet, sliding herself from the chair. She did it demurely.
I followed her out to make tea, watching her take the stairs, placing her feet sideways as she descended.
I could talk to Joe and Pill from the kitchen.
“So? Do you think she was killed or not?” I asked. Soft footsteps warmed my carpet and nobody was listening to me. People often think I’m quiet. I’m not really, it’s just other sounds tend to obscure my passing. Like the footsteps going down the stairs to the toilet.
“You said her head was caved in. Sounds pretty conclusive to me,” said Joe.
“That could have happened in the fall. I don’t know what happens in a fall but I’m sure a funny-shaped head’s going to be the least of your worries if you take a dive out of a multi-story car park.”
“Are you sure she fell out the car park? You know, she wasn’t bludgeoned or anything?”
“You always go for the most violent option, Pill.”
Pill sniffed. “Like falling from the top of a multi-story isn’t violent.”
“Point taken,” I said. I hung out in the kitchen, shovelling dried beans from a plate while I waited for the kettle to boil. I came back into the room, with a wooden tray sparsely decorated like a Zen garden, the three leftover digestives plopped feng-shuily among the steaming mugs.
I don’t know the difference between feng shui and zen, only the similarities.
Joe stretched out on the sofa. Pill was sitting across from him on the arm of my armchair. I smoked and stood.
“Well, we should go have a look,” said Joe as Harry came back.
Joe sat staring into his tea and ignored her. I said hi again and drank her in out of the corner of my eye.
BLOOD DRUGS TEA (A Dark Comedy Novel) Page 2