One Of Our Jeans Is Missing

by Paul Charles

  ‘That’s all very well for you and Jean but what would John have said if he’d found out that you were dry humping his wife-to-be? How would you feel if I was messing about with someone else?’

  ‘That’s different, Mary,’ I complained. I could see where this was going and whereas I had escaped one trap, I’d walked straight into another.

  ‘Oh yes? And how so, David?’

  ‘Okay. Number one, we’re in love. Number two, we’re not in a part-time, two-nights-a-week relationship. Number three, we’re totally involved in each other’s lives. Number four, we care about each other. Number five, we’re not saving for John Harrison’s future. Number six, you’re not saving yourself for when we get married. Number seven, I’m not trying to avoid at all costs having a child. Number eight, you don’t have a mad friend called Jean Kerr. Number nine, we have a full physical relationship and number ten, and this one’s worth repeating, because it’s the most important, I’m in love with you. I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life.’

  Mary Skeffington softened a bit at that, though I decided not to bask in my newfound glory and pushed on. For some reason unknown to me, I found myself rubbing my neck with the fingers of my right hand. ‘It’s because of that and how I feel about us, that I wanted to tell you everything. When John rang about Jean, there was a split second when I had this terrible flash that something awful had happened to her. Hopefully it hasn’t. Hopefully she’s fine and she’s just been off having fun with someone else. But I thought that if something bad had happened to her, then all of her past was going to be examined carefully and then I’d be questioned, and in the middle of it all, the details of our relationship, if you could call it that, would come out. Now, although all this happened before you and I came together, I felt it appropriate that I tell you everything.’

  ‘David, would you have ever told me if Jean hadn’t gone missing?’

  ‘Yes, I can honestly say that most likely I would have. There was no reason not to, really. I suppose because of all the things that happened between you and John, and John and Jean, that although there was no reason not to tell you, equally, there really was no reason to tell you if all it was going to do was hurt you. I saw this situation developing in my mind’s eye where I kept delaying telling you, waiting for the right moment, and the right moment never came along, and now Jean’s disappeared and it would’ve been too late to tell you because it all would have blown up in my face.’

  ‘In our faces, David, in our faces. I’m glad you told me,’ she said, as she came over and kissed me and ruffled my hair playfully like she does when she’s happy with me. She stopped mid-ruffle. ‘Goodness David, I’ve just thought. Do you think it’s possible that John found out that you and Jean were messing about and he… killed her? No, no, of course not, that’s just too silly. I know him. Augh,’ she shrugged and shivered violently at the thought, ‘that’s just too weird. I’ve slept with him. Augh, I can’t even think about that!’

  Chapter Thirty.

  And there we dropped the conversation. It was an interesting thought though, wasn’t it? Let’s take a murderer, any murderer. For the sake of this discussion, let’s assume our murderer is male. Now there are people in our murderer’s life, who will have had a normal relationship with him – friends, lovers, wives, girlfriends, parents, brothers, sisters, will all have had a normal relationship with our murderer. Just because he’s murdered once, doesn’t necessarily mean that he’ll murder again or that all of the people in this list are in mortal danger.

  But Jean hadn’t been murdered, had she? She’d just found someone else to enjoy encounters with. Good luck to her. Good luck to him. They were probably off somewhere, each busy dreaming up games for the following day’s entertainment. What about the other twenty-one hours in the day? If Jean Simpson sat around in her honest-to-goodness underwear all day, day after day, it would surely cease to be a turn-on; because surely the reason it’s a turn-on in the first place is that you’re stealing glimpses of something you’re not really supposed to see. By doing what we’d done, she had actually gone as far as physically joining me in my fantasy of her; she had encouraged me to live out my fantasy of her with her.

  And that was fine to a point, but surely it would have worn a bit thin when we started to repeat ourselves? There needs to be something other than mere lust to maintain human attraction. Boredom will most definitely set in with any routine.

  That’s why one of the things I loved about Mary Skeffington was that she kept our physical relationship fresh by avoiding routine. When we went to bed at night, I didn’t know whether we were going to make love or not. In other words, just because we were in bed, didn’t mean we were going to make love. It was never guaranteed. You see, certain things have to be correct; a relationship is not a prison sentence, where one partner has to submit to the other’s whims. When you’re not in a relationship, it has to be special before the love-making situation arises, so why should it be any different when you are in a relationship? If anything, I would’ve thought it’s more important to make it even more special in that case. And so it was with Mary and me. She kept the mystery, the intrigue, as it were, alive, so that when we made love it wasn’t a mere physical function in reply to our animal urges. Because if you want to think about it, it’s a pretty basic act really, isn’t it? Yes, and it will continue to be so unless you put a bit of romance and a lot of love into it.

  Jean Simpson was going down that road very quickly. Our encounters really finished at the perfect time. We hadn’t been doing it long enough to repeat ourselves and it was still a buzz every time. And that is why I can report to you – and this is no disrespect to Jean – that it wasn’t difficult to stop the relationship with her. I can honestly say I didn’t have one pang of regret, not even the slightest. Well apart, that is, from the guilt of making her feel so bad. On the other hand, as you know, if anything should have happened to Mary Skeffington and I, well I’d have been devastated, truly I would.

  I held on to that heart-warming thought. In fact, all my thoughts turned to Mary and I forgot all about Jean for a time.

  A week later, we hadn’t heard anything else on the Jean matter so, prompted by Mary, I called John.

  Still no word from Jean Simpson.

  And John definitely seemed more concerned than the previous time we’d spoken. So you’d think he’d have reported the matter to the police by now? Well, you’d think wrong – he still hadn’t.

  ‘What? Isn’t Jean’s mother beside herself with worry?’ Mary asked me when I came off the phone.

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose when people first leave home to begin their lives, it’s very hard for the parents. They’re probably desperate to find out how their kids are doing every hour, on the hour, but they bite their lip and stay in the background so that they don’t appear to be fussing, for fear that the child will react further by cutting them out of their lives entirely.’

  Mary thought for a few moments, then said, ‘I spoke to my mother yesterday. When did you last speak to yours?’

  ‘Over the weekend.’

  ‘How long has Jean been missing now?’

  ‘Must be coming up to two weeks,’ I estimated.

  ‘I think you should ring her mum. I think you should ring Jean Kerr. I think you should check this out and if you can’t find out where Jean is, then either you or one of them should inform the police.’

  ‘Isn’t that overreacting?’

  ‘Perhaps. But it’s better to overreact than not to react at all. I can’t believe that John Harrison is not out searching the streets at this moment!’

  So I did as I was bid. Well you do, don’t you, particularly when you know it’s the right thing to do.

  Jean Kerr banged the phone down on me just after she spat out the words, ‘How could you fockin’ take up with that Mary Skef-fockin’-ton?’

  It took me a while to get hold of Mrs Simpson. She didn’t have a phone in the house so I had to ring a phone box in her street a
nd wait until someone answered the phone in hopes that they would go and get her. In the meantime, I was standing in the hallway of the house that contained Mary’s flat, feeding pennies into the communal phone box. Jean’s mum gave me more time than Jean Kerr did, yet she grew concerned only because of my concern.

  ‘Well, it’s coming up for two weeks now since she was last in touch. She usually writes to us every other week. I dropped her a letter in the post yesterday evening. Is she not in her flat?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ I replied, hopping from one foot to the other to try to keep the blood circulating. ‘It’s probably nothing; I’ll check with John Harrison again.’

  ‘I’m so glad our Jean’s got friends in London who would go to this much trouble to look out for her,’ Mrs Simpson offered, before disconnecting.

  ‘Now what?’ I asked Mary, after I’d relayed the details of my conversation with Jean’s mum.

  ‘Okay, simple,’ Mary said, ‘let’s go round to her flat.’

  I found myself agreeing, betraying the fact that I was more worried than I was letting on even to myself.

  ‘Do you think it’s wise that you come too?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll risk it, David!’ she said, before laughing. ‘I’d be happy to meet Jean, if only because it’ll mean she’s come to no harm.’

  It would have to be a wet dank night, wouldn’t it? It would have to be a night that ninety-nine per cent of the population would have shied away from my chosen task for the alternative of staying put in their cosy houses until first thing in the morning. That ninety-nine per cent of the population didn’t include Mary Skeffington and whatever didn’t include Mark Skeffington, didn’t include me.

  Once we’d gone to the trouble of preparing for the blustery and showery night it was quite invigorating battling the elements in the company of the one I loved. We put our heads down, interlinked our arms, nuzzled up close together and headed off into the sheet rain. It was so dark and we were so physically close that, to any others on the street that evening, we would have looked like a four-legged creature of the night. If this mythical creature was in search of prey then I can tell you that the pickings were very slim that night, very slim indeed. We tried running a few times, but we found it difficult to be so close together and to run at the same time. Instinctively we both seemed to have come to the conclusion that it was more important to be slow and together, than to be fast and apart. So following a few intermittent unsuccessful attempts at running together, like we were in some bizarre three-legged race through a wind- and rain-swept, slippery obstacle course, we settled for the best version of team speed-walking we could muster through Wimbledon’s ghost town-like streets.

  As is frequently the case in life – while trying to avoid things we’d rather put off until tomorrow – it didn’t take us as long as we expected to make the journey from Mary’s flat in Gladstone Road to the Jeans’ flat in Alexandra Road which was, coincidently, just four streets away from my previous accommodation in Rostrevor Road.

  There was no answer to the two Jeans’ doorbell, so we rang the bell of the girls in the upstairs flat.

  They both answered the door.

  Mary spoke first.

  ‘Look, sorry to disturb you at this hour – I’m Mary Skeffington and this is my boyfriend, David Buchanan. The two Jeans are friends of David’s and we’re worried about Jean Simpson; apparently no one has seen or heard from her in nearly two weeks?’

  ‘Augh, sure of course we recognise David – come on in won’t you?’ the taller of the two girls said in a thick Glaswegian accent.

  ‘Sure she’s up in Derby,’ the little one said. She was quite plump and rather jolly.

  ‘No, the other Jean, Jean Kerr – she’s the one who’s up in Derby,’ I explained, ‘but we’ve just spoken to Jean Simpson’s mum and she hasn’t heard from her daughter in two weeks.’

  ‘Well, it has been awfully quiet recently, I would agree,’ the Scottish girl admitted. She then shook her head from side to side several times, before saying ‘But we haven’t a clue, really, do we Doreen?’

  ‘No sorry, I wouldn’t even know where to start – they pretty much keep to themselves. I think we’ve spoken to them maybe twice? We hear their music though; it’s terrific, if a little loud.’

  ‘Am,’ I began, unsure of how my request would go down, ‘I wonder, would you have a key so that we could have a look? You know, to make sure nothing has happened to her?’

  Both the girls looked at each other.

  ‘We don’t have a key,’ they replied in unison.

  ‘We could burst the door down,’ Mary suggested.

  Doreen raised her eyebrows at Mary’s suggestion.

  ‘Oh, I not sure that would be a good idea,’ she said.

  ‘I think we’re going to have to,’ Mary said, forcefully, ‘I also think we should phone for the police.’

  Mary was in effect taking charge of the operation.

  Doreen came with us. Her flatmate returned to their flat to phone the police. I kicked the door in. Mary eyed me with newfound admiration following my feat with my feet – I didn’t admit how easily it had given way.

  We walked around the living room and then the bedroom and then looked in the bathroom. No sign of Jean Simpson. It was a relief for all of us, to be honest; I think we were all expecting the worst. I know I was, but then when you think about it, if Jean had been there she’d have been there for getting on two weeks and, well, the place would have ponged a bit. But in reality the flat was neat and tidy. I returned to the living room to see if I could find something, anything, which would give us a clue as to Jean’s whereabouts.

  I walked over to her stereo unit. The power was still on and the speakers had developed the dreaded hum. I replaced the needle arm in its rest and secured it as I struggled to see the name of the record on her deck. It was a CBS record in fact, Bob Dylan’s Bringing It All Back Home. I couldn’t help smiling. She’d clearly got over her original aversion to Dylan. I looked around for the sleeve to check the song titles on this particular album. I was convinced ‘She Belongs To Me’ was included. I knew for a fact it was included, but for some strange reason I found myself looking for the sleeve to confirm this fact.

  But I couldn’t find it.

  I checked her record shelf; she’d about 100 albums, all filed alphabetically by artist. But the empty Dylan jacket was not in the D section – only The Doors occupied this space, and she’d aped my trick by pulling her Doors album out about half an inch from the rest of the albums to mark the space of the album currently gracing the record deck.

  A bit more of a browse and I eventually found the offending sleeve amongst her Beatles section. The colour sleeve featured Dylan and Sally Grossman – Dylan’s manager’s wife – caught in a fish-eyed lens shot, lounging in a lounge amongst, coincidentally, a pile of records, one of which, Dylan’s first, seemed destined for the fireplace located directly behind Mrs Grossman. Perhaps the vivid red of her dress (or was it a trouser suit? Hard to tell from the photograph) was meant to symbolise the absent flames.

  I was about to pull the sleeve fully out to check the song titles when I suddenly realised that Jean Simpson hadn’t replaced the record sleeve. She would never have left a record out on the deck overnight and she certainly would never have filed an empty sleeve. She’d even gone as far as marking her space, for heaven’s sake, with the trick I taught her. True, if she’d been in a hurry there was a slight possibility that she might have misfiled the record. But I was having a hard time accepting that as a possibility. She would still have taken the time to return the record to its white and cellophane liner, which protected the precious vinyl from getting scratched in the cardboard album sleeve, which itself would be protected, for life, in a clear, polythene, snuggly fitting sheath. And she never would’ve left her record player in such a state; she’d most certainly have turned it off and returned the needle arm to the rest, as I had instinctively done.

  Suddenly it all came together:
someone else had made an attempt to ‘tidy up’ the record area. And whoever this person was, they’d also misfiled her Dylan sleeve.

  And left their fingerprints all over it.

  I felt quite proud of myself. I’d come up with a clue as to the perpetrator’s identity.

  I left the record exactly where it was and then immediately became depressed by my next thought. Let’s take the worst-case scenario, okay? Jean Simpson is dead, right? Someone has done her harm, right? Now let’s fast-forward to a possible list of suspects. Okay? Please bear with me. Any police list, after an initial investigation would, have to read:

  1. John Harrison. Motive: Either Jean was going to leave him or he’d discovered what Jean and I had been doing behind his back.

  2. Jean Kerr. Motive: Jealousy. She’d also found out about Jean and I; she couldn’t abide the fact that Jean was having her cake and eating it and adding insult to injury, unlike herself, was not putting on an ounce of weight in the process.

  3. Mary Skeffington. Motive: She’d found out about me and Jean before I’d told her about me and Jean. Added to the fact that Jean had stolen John Harrison from her, and was now setting about stealing her current boyfriend… well, the whole thing would have been unbearable for her.

  4. David Buchanan. Motive: Jean (I suppose) could have threatened to tell Mary about our illicit encounters, so I had to silence her.

  I know number four is a bit far-fetched – well, totally far-fetched in reality – but I had to think like the police would think, didn’t I? So, apart from that, are you with me so far? Good. Now do me up another list, please, only this time include the names of the suspects whose prints would be most likely to be on the Dylan sleeve. Suspects for whom it would have been normal to be in Jean Simpson’s flat.