Angela's Dead

by Lou Peters

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Rachel called to her. ‘I’ll let you know if there are any developments.’

  ‘Promise,’ Jackie had yelled back, and Rachel had.

  During her stay Jack had let it be known she’d had a problem with her home phone. Apparently, she’d fallen out with her provider over a recent bill. Discovering she’d been overcharged for international calls she knew she hadn’t made.

  ‘They can go and get stuffed, if they think I’m paying. I don’t even know anybody abroad.’ had been Jackie’s angry retort as she’d relayed the story. ‘Listen Rache you’d be better ringing my mobile, if you need to contact me. It looks like I’m about to have my home number disconnected for non-payment. How pathetic. I wished I’d stayed with BT now,’ she’d fumed. ‘Listen,’ Jack had continued. ‘It’s probably better if I phone you. It’s less expensive than you calling a mobile, that’s for sure. Only ring me, if it’s an emergency.’

  So the two had left it like that. Jackie would give her a ring every evening when she’d arrived back home from work and Rachel would call her, only when it was absolutely necessary. It made perfect sense. Already feeling isolated, Rachel wondered how many emergencies she could expect to encounter. The thought hadn’t pleased her.

  In the distance the church clock finished tolling the hour as Rachel waved Jackie off just after midday. Standing pressed against the gate, she felt the iron dig into her body, acknowledging sometimes pain was good. It let you know you were still alive, physical pain that was. The torturous, emotional pain she was feeling inside, she could very well do without. Quickly losing sight of the car she hurried out into the lane. Rachel held her arm high in the air until it ached with the effort. She watched, waving crazily until Jack’s silver Corsa, with a last toot of the horn, was no longer visible and she’d gone, leaving Rachel feeling flat and miserable.

  The house was quiet and felt empty after Jackie’s departure. Rachel walked into the sitting room that had now become cheerless. The blazing fire had long ago been extinguished. A grate of grey ash the only remnants. She grabbed an armful of duvet and pillows and carried them awkwardly up the stairs, like a blind person. Not quite being able to see over the top of the pile. Dumping the no longer required bedding unceremoniously onto the bottom of the airing cupboard floor, the one slightly tepid place upstairs, she suddenly remembered it would soon be Christmas. Christmas without Richard... Tears pricked her eyes. She rushed into the bedroom and flung herself on top of the unmade bed sobbing uncontrollably. ‘Please come back to me Richard,’ she wailed.

  Feeling wretched Rachel returned to the kitchen. At a loose end she looked around for something to occupy her. Collecting the few pieces of crockery and cutlery scattered about the table, she threw the knives and forks with a clatter into the plastic washing up bowl. Turning on the tap, the hot water created clouds of steam in the cold kitchen. Adjusting the water temperature, she quickly cleaned the items before placing them onto the drainer. Gazing out into the garden she left her hands immersed in the pleasant warmth of the detergent’s bubbles. Rachel could see through a clear pane, where the condensation hadn’t fully covered the window, the rain which had been spasmodic while she’d been waving Jackie off, had finally ceased. The grass was green and vibrant. In comparison, the trees and shrubs, their dripping branches stripped of leaves, appeared lifeless and dead. There was such a lot needing to be done, to the garden, as well as to the inside of the cottage. It was overwhelming. Yet Richard had relished the task. Rachel bit into her lip until it hurt. What was she going to do if he didn’t come back?

  The sparse amount of washing up done and put away, she picked up a book. Her reddened hands flipped to the page bookmarked, but somehow she couldn’t seem to get past the first paragraph. She must have read the same sentence at least six times. With a huge sigh, Rachel replaced the book onto the table, only grabbing it in an act of desperation for something else to focus on, instead of her bleak thoughts. It was at this point Rachel decided that the prospect of getting out of the place and going for a walk, was preferable to remaining cooped up inside. She went in search of a torch. Once found, slipped it inside her waxed jacket pocket. She’d every intention of returning before dusk fell but felt happier feeling the reassuring, solid bulge at her side.

  Although the rain had stopped, it had left large puddles in the pot holed riddled surface of the lane. With hands thrust deep into her pockets and wearing her green rubber boots, Rachel set off. It wasn’t long before she met her first challenge. A dip in the route had filled with run-off water from the sodden fields, extending the complete width of the pathway. Not to be put off, with a long running stride, she managed to reach across the murky surface. Particles of grit fell off her wellingtons and splashed into the pools depths. The damp air clung to her hair, whipped into lank strands by the wind it painfully lashed against her face. However, Rachel didn’t care. She was relieved to be away from the creeping silence of the cottage, soaking her in sadness. Walking at a brisk pace, invigorated by the fresh, rain cleansed air; she’d reached the crossroads before she knew it. The decision as to which direction she should take was simple, and she continued walking, following the zigzag of the windy lane, encountering not a single vehicle en route. Passing leafless Hawthorne hedges and empty fields, fifteen minutes later, she’d reached Rasburgh village.

  Entering the village the ancient grey stone Norman church was hard to miss. It stood erect and noble, across the far side of the green. The impressive castellated bell tower reached skywards. The square projectile contained the round faced clock, whose chimes kept Rachel company on the recent nights when she’d been unable to sleep. Pigeons roosted in the tower’s heights, cascades of white droppings visible on the grey slate roof of the low rectangular body of the church, a testimony to their presence. From the lych-gate a winding pathway extended to the porch. Grave stones stood at odd angles, appearing to rise up from out of the ground. Their tributes and sentiments long ago erased by wind and rain.

  Rachel walked past the post office and its near neighbour, the general store. Both premises had closed at midday. Identical black wrought iron security shutters, had been pulled down, locked and bolted over the doors and windows of the premises. The public house further along the road however, was open. Through the mullioned bay windows Rachel could see softly glowing lights and movement from inside. Above the door, white on black, she read “Martin and Roberta Blackwood licensed to sell by retail all intoxicating liquor for consumption either on, or off the premises.” A holly wreath alive with blood red berries and golden bows decorated the door. Fairy lights mingled with the dead wood of the now dormant climbing roses attached to the arched trellis at the entrance. At this time of the year the plants nothing more than sticks of dried twigs, awaiting the warmth of the lengthening spring days, to effect their resurrection. Cigarette ends had been carelessly stubbed out into the soil of the half barrel containing the roots, as if it was an oversized ashtray.

  For no sensible reason Rachel could think of, other than the place looked appealing from the outside. She lifted the latch on the black painted wooden door and stepped inside. The noise and smell of hot prepared food wafting in the air, hit her as soon as she walked through the door. The place was alive with people. Chatting, eating and slurping back pints of golden liquid. Some imbibers with coloured paper crowns, the booty from pulled Christmas crackers, askew on their heads. Female staff bustled about with plates of steaming food balanced on their palms, shouted out table numbers in an effort to be heard above the mêlée. A couple of kids ran amok in the limited space, getting under the waitresses’ feet. Their mother appeared oblivious. She sat flirting with the man sitting close beside her. From the attention she was lavishing on him it made it obvious he wasn’t the children’s father.

  The curved bar was situated directly in front of Rachel as she entered. A slim, middle aged woman with a mop of dark curls was busy pulling pints. Twisting her body, she reached the numerous optics suspended behind her, be
fore punching numbers into the electronic till. No time to think, she allowed the machine to compute the total for her. Almost snatching the note out of the man’s extended hand, a brief smile flickered across her face as she handed him his change, before quickly turning to serve the next expectant customer. Further along the same stretch of bar, a balding man of a similar age to the woman, was repeating the moves and the smiles, as if he was an automat. The din was almost unbearable but Rachel continued jostling her way towards the counter to await her turn. Squeezing into a recently vacated space at one corner, a jar of pickled eggs stood at her elbow. She wondered how long the items had remained sitting in the cloudy solution. Looking more like specimens, than something you would want to eat. Rachel supposed they were fit for human consumption, although she wouldn’t like to put that to the test. Requesting a lime and soda, her words misheard in the surrounding cacophony, she was presented with a large white wine and soda. The last thing she needed to quench her thirst. Fumbling in her purse for the extra coinage, she felt the impatience of the man behind the bar and had been relieved when the money had finally exchanged hands. Getting the beverage was the easy part. Finding somewhere to actually drink it was going to prove more difficult. Rachel didn’t want the wine, not after all she’d supped the previous evening. However, not wanting to appear foolish, now she’d bought the drink she took a small sip, immediately regretting her decision.

  The Bluebell Hotel was larger than the impression given from the outside. The uneven whitewashed walls were a direct contrast to the almost black wooden furniture, placed around the room. Prints of hunting scenes adorned the walls. Rachel hurriedly averted her gaze from a depiction of a sad eyed deer, an arrow protruding from its chest, crimson blood dripping from the wound to stain the surrounding snow. The jolly tacky tinsel draped over the frame doing nothing to distract from the abysmal subject matter. Everywhere she looked, it appeared, was filled with happy imbibers, already overflowing with Christmas bon homie. From out of the corner of her eye, Rachel spied an empty armchair positioned in front of a fire smouldering in an oversized grate. She hastened over to the chair before someone else beat her to it. She could guess at the reason the comfortable looking seat had been overlooked. Too big to be dragged anywhere without effort or blocking the route to the loos, it had the disadvantage of not having an accompanying table. Rachel didn’t mind holding on to her drink. She found once she was seated in the chair, she could hide behind its broad back. Conversations assailed her ears in a wave of sound. After awhile however, she found she was able to tune into the loud murmurings like a buzz of angry bees all around her. Rather like turning the dial on a radio, to locate your favourite station. A couple of women, sitting directly behind her on a bench seat, were discussing some other poor unfortunate woman, whose husband was clearly having an affair. It was apparent from the snatches of conversation Rachel could overhear; the unsuspecting wife hadn’t a clue of the philandering ways of her husband.

  ‘Well, if she will let herself go,’ one of the women uncharitably stated, ‘what can she expect.’

  ‘I know, she dropped the last one four months ago and she still looks preggers, now. No wonder Baz has wandering eyes.’

  ‘Not to say, wandering hands.’ The two women laughed spitefully.

  ‘I wouldn’t have minded a bit of that myself.’

  ‘What, you and Barry Edwards? Wouldn’t you be afraid of where it’s been?’

  ‘He’d have had to wear a condom, obviously.’

  ‘Ooh, I hate them things, don’t you?’ The unknown woman elucidated, ‘they never go on right and the man always wants you to help lend a hand with the damn thing. That’s hardly my idea of foreplay. By the time he’s ready like a pre-packed piece of meat, you’ve gone off the idea.’ The women laughed again loudly.

  ‘Yeah, perhaps I’d be better sticking with my hubby. At least I know no bugger else would have had him.’ More laughter ensued.

  Having heard enough of that particular conversation, Rachel turned her head away. From the age difference and the same shade of sandy hair, she presumed a father and son were propping up the bar a little further from where she sat. Rachel had to raise herself forward a fraction, to be able to catch a glimpse of them past the arm of the chair. The younger of the two, his back slouched against the wood of the bar, was in animated conversation with the other. Using his arms as demonstration tools he was debating on the merits of a four-four-two formation as opposed to a three-four-three, or even a five-three-two. Were they discussing some form of dancing, possibly country or line? Rachel took another sip of her drink. It didn’t taste that bad this time and she wondered if she was on her way to becoming an alcoholic. The way she was feeling at the moment she didn’t much care, if it helped to take away the pain, why not? By the passion the men displayed on their chosen topic it soon became clear to her they must be talking football. The mention of midfielders and forwards was the clincher. Not being able to get his point across, angrily the son slammed his pint down onto the bar’s surface and stormed past the chair where Rachel was seated on his way to the gents. She could tell by the way the man lurched in an unsteady line, he’d already had one too many. The older guy remaining standing at the bar shook his head sadly.

  ‘Don’t worry Arthur...’ the barman consoled, busy wiping spills from the wooden surface with a dampened cloth. ‘You can’t tell these youngsters anything these days. It’s the same with our Tom. They think they know it all.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there Martin, that’s for sure. I can’t ever imagine speaking to my dad the way my son has just spoken to me.’

  ‘Here, give us your glass over, let me fill it up before he gets back… on the house.’

  ‘You’re a gent Martin, a real gent,’ the older man said, instantly cheered up. He raised his almost empty pot towards the barman’s outstretched hand.

  A shuffling and male cursing again drew Rachel’s attention behind her. From the sounds issuing forth it heralded a change of occupancy of the bench seats to the rear of her armchair.

  ‘You need to go on a diet Nev.’

  ‘Sod off, Donny,’ came the gruff response to that comment. ‘They make these fucking benches for midgets. It doesn’t help that you can’t move the sodding tables.’

  Listening to the uncultured masculine voices, Rachel thought she would’ve preferred the bitchy females to have remained occupying the seats. She cringed. Instinctively she drew in her limbs, trying her utmost to make her presence in the chair less evident.

  Donny would have commented, he’d had no problem sliding in behind the table, but thought better of it. It appeared his mate wasn’t in the best of moods. But then again, Nev was always moaning about one thing or the other.

  ‘Not much on the poxy box last night. I don’t know if your missus is anything like mine, but she loves watching them reality shows. Why, Jesus Christ alone knows. You know what I mean? Morons off the street auditioning, trying to find the next Joseph, or some other silly bugger thinking they’ve got the X factor. It’s a load of old crap; half of them can’t even hold a tune. In the end I couldn’t stand it any longer, came down here with me arrows, had a few games.’

  ‘I wish I’d been able to join you. But seen as I’ve been out most nights this week, I thought I’d better do the decent thing and babysit, while the missus went out with the girls…

  ‘You’re too soft with her. What have I told you before?’

  Donny shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t want to get into that argument again. There had to be some middle ground in a marriage to make it work. And besides that, Liz would probably batter him if he tried to curtail her nights out with her mates. A rapid change of conversation was called for. ‘Hey, what do you reckon to the goings on down the road then, in Brook Crescent? I didn’t really want the better half going out, but she was with a group of girls so I thought she’d be okay.’

  It seemed Donny had hit a nerve. Nev returned his pint onto the table with such force, the contents splashed
over the edge of the glass and onto the wood. ‘Like to get me fucking hands on that bastard. Haven’t they got him yet? What was his name?’

  ‘Johnson,’ his companion replied. ‘And no, he’s still at large.’ Donny used the term he’d read in the local tabloids.

  ‘That’s right, fucking Johnson. What are the police doing about it, besides poncing about on the telly? That’s what I’d like to know. What are we paying our fucking rates for?’

  It was obvious to Rachel’s unbelieving ears, the odious man sitting right behind her, who liked to use the “F” word in every sentence, was talking about Richard. The thought appalled her. She should have left then but something held her back, as though she was tethered to the chair by weighty chains. Transfixed, she continued to eavesdrop.

  ‘What that pervert must have done to the old lady before he’d battered her to death. I’d rip his fucking head off if I was in the same room as him.’

  ‘You and the rest of Rasburgh mate…He wasn’t even from around here, originally. Only come to the area a few weeks ago.’

  ‘He should have stayed where he fucking was then. Where did he live… around here I mean?’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Rachel whispered softly. She held herself rigid against the back of the chair. Ears strained, daring not to release her breath in case she missed a word. Was River Cottage about to be mentioned? And if people knew where Richard had lived, with feelings obviously running so high, how safe was she to remain alone in that isolated spot?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Donny replied. ‘Papers didn’t say.’

  Rachel exhaled quietly.

  ‘But the guy won’t have stayed around here, will he? He’ll have done a runner back to where he came from. Crawl under his stone and die, with any luck.’

  ‘Yer right there, bastard.’ The last word spat out, thick with vehemence and hatred.

  ‘How could people be like that?’ Rachel thought. ‘They didn’t know Richard, or if he was guilty.’ This stranger had made up his mind he’d killed the old lady. For that there was no one else to blame, but the police. If the man ever came across Richard he would do him physical harm. Rachel had no doubts about that, whatsoever. But wouldn’t that make the guy with the foul mouth sitting just behind her, as bad as the killer? Of course it would. Unfortunately Rachel knew there were plenty of people of that persuasion about. She prayed for his sake, if Richard was still alive he would remain lying low, until the real perpetrator had been apprehended.