A Trick I Learned From Dead Men

by Kitty Aldridge

  There is no answer to that. Irene is right. In spite of this or maybe because of it, me, Derek and Howard categorically deny it there and then: We’re not all alike you know. Tarred with the same brush. One bad apple doesn’t spoil the whole bunch.

  Irene is silenced. No one said life was fair, only short.

  Derek has gone all out on Mrs Delaney, the mother. I took a peek on my return from a two o’clocker. Smart. All in black, hands clasped, rosary draped. Derek has covered his tracks. Plenty of stuffing at the elbows and her hands have come together, natural as. A bit of smoke and mirrors. No other way, dead hands don’t clasp.

  A picture, I say to Derek.

  I thang you.

  Busy with the cheek pads? I say.

  He puts his hands on his hips, turns in his knee, like he might dance.

  Anything else? he asks.

  I take a look. Colour in her cheeks. Sheen on her hair. Lipstick: Blushing Bride I’d hazard. Skin tone. Eye sockets. We step back for a moment to take her all in. There’s trickery here, but nothing unusual leaps out. Whatever he’s done he’s done well.

  What, no telling? I say.

  Nothing to tell, he says. If you can’t see it it ain’t there. He winks. Know what I mean, Lee?

  Mrs Angelou will dip her head and thank Derek in her softly softly voice and Derek will dip his head in return and take her hand and look in her eyes, but his lips will remain sealed.

  I write down the personal effects in the big book: Leather Bible, St Joseph Daily Prayer Book, an image of the Holy Virgin, three photographic portraits and a Motorola V6. Charged.

  I’ve got a Samsung, but not the Galaxy S. Without Ned I’d have an iPhone by now. No point craving what you haven’t got.

  When Mrs Delaney is finally laid to rest, there will doubtless be a chirrup below ground to wake her. The electronic words will lie with Mrs Delaney until the end of time. Or at least till the battery goes. God keep you. We love you. We are with you, now and always.

  I’m no philosopher but. Some things show their colours no matter what. I stand on the landing, taking in the moonlight on the field: clouds parted, crop shining – like Jesus might stroll on and speak – tell me what to do, like he does in his films.

  Jesus, how long till (a) I get a table for two at Il Terrazzo? (b) A position at Greenacre? (c) A life without my brother? He wouldn’t answer of course. More important things than.

  In my game you wonder what will it say on your stone when you cop it. Whether you will get flowers, what they will say. I hope I get Lorelle’s writing on the card: You crack me up, Lee. He he. Gotta rush. R.I.P. I don’t stand there dwelling long.

  I missed her yesterday, we were at a burial up the B2036. Second time this week I missed her. I find my phone.

  Hav u hurd we r 4 the chop? c’est la vie. how r u? Lee.

  I press send.

  *

  NOT THAT I’M religious but, if I was going to pray, I’d pray for Howard’s job. Reckon I’d be handy. Watch and learn, that’s me. When Lorelle is Mrs Hart we will run it together, two Harts are better than one. That’s my trajectory, career-wise. I’ve got nothing against Howard, obviously, but it’s dog eat dog in this world.

  23

  Some low cloud and mistiness, turning foggy later with drizzle possible

  NED IS WATCHING Dancing on Ice: The Dance Off. He is chewing monkey nuts and dropping the shells where they fall. His foot is on the coffee table, inserted inside a bag of frozen sweetcorn. The night before last I returned from the pub to discover, in my absence, he had conducted an impromptu experiment that involved seeing how close his ski socks could get to the fire before they caught alight. Now he knows. Cheers, Ned. Home insurance policy anyone? Only one sock caught before the experiment was declared officially over.

  You knob. I sign.

  Knobs is us, he signs.

  Mess, I sign him. Look.

  Fuck you, thank you. He signs back, smiling.

  Mess. You make pig. Clean.

  He scoops a handful of shells and flings them in my direction. They roll and scatter; one bounces off my shoe.

  Very good, Gog. Hoover Hoover.

  Don’t get me wrong, I have a sense of humour same as the next man, but. He pushes his. He push push fucking pushes.

  I thump him hard on the side of the head. He yells, thrashes.

  Shells, nuts, ice, sweetcorn. Arrivederci todos. He’s on his feet. He throws his fists, one after the other, while I jag to the side. He misses, misses, misses.

  Ha! Arsehole! Come on! Here we are at last, communicating. Come on! I sign. Come on! He comes. Lunging, flailing. I duck away, stamping shells, nuts, sweetcorn. I am quick as. I run rings round him. Where’d I go?

  Missed!

  I attack from behind. Wallop. Buenos dias!

  He’s angry now. Gets me back with a chop to my arm. For fucks.

  I grab his shirt, drag him across the room. We stagger, thumping, blocking, swinging. I land another: a mighty smack on the gob, a wild one. Knuckles on teeth. Crack. He goes down.

  The pain hammers me into the floor. I double up. One knobhead, two knobhead, three. I reckon I might kick him as he lies there. I do. Free kick from the corner. Whap. He is silent, aka a foul. Penalty kick from the box. Don’t mind if I do. I swing a belter into his thigh.

  There it is. Thin at first. Boo-hoo. A little girl’s noise. Little Bo Baa has lost her sheep. Sniff sniff. Same old. Same old. I slam the back door.

  He is not of this world, never was. Touched by genius, she said. Trouble is some div’s got to clean up after. Same old div, as per. I am at the mast in seconds. I don’t stop. Glad there is a wind to walk against, it takes my breath away. Gracias. Walking walking. Where to? Nowhere, that’s where. Around in circles. Day after day after.

  It was Ned who sprayed Lee Hart is a knobhead on the inside of the bus shelter. Cheers. He still thinks I don’t know. I didn’t at first. Never thought he had the initiative. Not just the bus shelter: a parking bay at the library, the wall by the Coinwash and a skip opposite the Somerfield car park. He carried on till he’d used up a whole can of blue paint.

  Not everyone could handle it. Lucky I am the sort of person who can turn the other cheek.

  When he tips backwards through his bedroom window, he’s only thinking of the buzz, like a kid. Not to begrudge him, I’m just saying. The trampoline always catches him, but one day. And whose fault will that be? Everything changes in the spring. It always does.

  There is a note on the draining board.

  Gog. How goes? Potatoes in the oven. Yum. Cheers! Ned.

  I turn slowly, half expecting to find him on the ceiling. What’s he up to? What the. All the dishes are put away. The floor is clean. I move quickly through and find the lounge is tidy, spotless, Hoovered.

  Ned?

  I run upstairs. What the hell is going. The bedrooms are empty. I try the bathroom. He is lying in a full bath, no bubbles, one sponge.

  Ned?

  I wait. For whatever. Blood, electricity, monkey nuts. His hands come up talking from under the water.

  Gog! How goes? Hungry? One minute. OK?

  Drip drip drip.

  I wait nervously downstairs. I try to think who he might have insulted, bothered, murdered. Whether the police have been round. What is missing, stolen, sold? Think. A clink of ice. I turn. Ned offers a tumbler of Lester’s old Jameson’s with ice. Service with a smile.

  I take it.

  Ta, his hand reminds me.

  Ta, I sign. Cheers, mate.

  Cheers! he signs. He breathes through his mouth, strolls across the rug, hands on his hips. I scan for more clues. His hair is combed into straight wet sections, his ears poke out. His skin, teeth, appear to be clean. Unusual. He looks carefully at me, winks, nods. What the. Drink drink, he signs. I wonder if it’s poisoned.

  Good days, he signs.

  Good days. Yeah.

  Hungry?

  He sprints for the kitchen. Something is seriously.
r />   He lunges back in.

  Welcome! Food is ready, he signs.

  We eat together at the table. Nothing is wrong that I can tell, not yet, maybe not at all. He slurps, smacks, burps, as per. Grins at me. He touches my arm.

  Why can’t it always be like this? he signs.

  After dinner we watch the ten o’clock news. He is watching it for my sake. He’d rather watch Britain’s Next Top Model or Tool Academy, something with pretty girls.

  Nighty night night, he signs at the end and disappears to bed.

  Something is seriously up. I take the cushion, throw it in front of him. He turns.

  What’s all this? I sign.

  What?

  You dinner cook, tidy, clean, weird.

  So? What?

  Why?

  Never mind what what what. Say thank you, Ned. Ta. He drops his hands.

  Ta, Ned, I sign. Very nice.

  Very welcome, Gog. Night night.

  I have been sitting with her while the sun goes down on the field. I cannot tell if she is here. You are supposed to tell, I think, if they are around. I can’t. I wait. I close my eyes. Nothing. I don’t say her name, no point.

  I walk back. The air is purple, a spot of pink over the flyover. I check my latest text.

  v sorry 2 hear ur news re work. c u l8er. L.

  I stroll, thinking on. About Lorelle, about the timing of my next move. She seems genuinely concerned. A chill in the ground, in the air. The birds have roosted.

  A clack. I stop. Another. Clack. Something hits the fence post. Dack. A stone. Like a stone. Now I know what it is. I know exactly. Might’ve known. Should’ve seen it coming. I run towards the house. The light is gone but I know my way.

  Clack. Something hits the ground beside me. I zag to the side.

  I see him now. He is aiming through my bedroom window. He must’ve clocked me there a hundred times. The landing light is on, so he’s backlit. Stupid arse. I see the .22 on his shoulder, his cheek on the stock, like he’s falling asleep. I run for the back door.

  We sit at the kitchen table waiting for the kettle to boil. The .22 on the table. I’m not in the mood for a fight.

  I slapped him and then I thought, that’s it. I’m too tired.

  Apologise you. Yes? Hello?

  Very sorry, Gog. His hands drop, fold. The end.

  I look at our reflection in the dark kitchen window. I see myself slumped. I see my head turn away, turn back to him.

  You any thing say me? I sign.

  Teach you me shoot?

  The barrel of his finger points. His eyebrows are high. He looks hopeful. For fucks.

  I get up to do the teas.

  I don’t think he meant to hurt me. Scare me, yes, show me he could. Nick me in the leg, maybe. He wanted to impress. I could be wrong, it has been known. I should be angrier, but.

  24

  Dry and sunny, light north-westerly winds mid-morning onwards, cloudier later

  A CLEAR, STILL day, greenery bursting, sunlight opening the early buds. The ground damp from the night’s rain, a smell of fungus, woodsmoke. Quiet as. Just the clock going tick tock.

  She doesn’t die in my arms, as I’d imagined. She is restless for a while, then goes still. This is new. The lady who comes from the cancer charity has a word for it: Acceptance. She has a word for everything, or a pamphlet, or a list. We don’t argue with her, we nod. We speak fluent pamphlet and leaflet. We take them politely, as if it will help. We listen, nod, agree, accept. We plod on, reading leaflets, boiling the kettle, waiting.

  There are words and phrases that go with dying of cancer. According to the cancer charity lady there are five processes to complete during your dying: Forgiveness, Heartfelt Thanks, Sentiments of Love, Goodbye. None of us point out that’s only four, because our mother doesn’t bother with any of it, she hasn’t read this pamphlet. Cancer charity lady encourages us to prompt Mum, but none of us can find the right cancer charity words. When her breathing gets loud, when I reach for her hand and she pulls away, cancer charity lady is on hand to explain that there is a word for this too: Separation. When her head tips back and she opens her mouth wide, I lean in because maybe she wants to speak. She doesn’t. She wants to scream but has no sound. She screams anyway, soundless, a silent movie. Only Ned hears it. The last thing to go is hearing, we are told. She can hear you right up to the end. Is it the end? We don’t know. Is she dying? Cancer charity lady says she is. There is a word for it: Departure.

  Ned kneels at her side like a person from a long time ago. I wonder if he can hear other things I cannot hear, silent things, just for him. She breathes in, stops. I breathe the out breath for her. Pick up where she left off. End of. Ned waits but I knew she was gone.

  25

  Mainly dry and sunny. Some mist and fog patches will form in places, especially in the south-west

  GOOD EVETIDES! I slap Rave’s shoulder.

  Sirrah! He slaps me back.

  Best?

  Please, mate.

  He orders at the bar. Busy tonight. The paint-spattered decorators are on their stools. Still not quite dark outside but here, with all the lamps glowing, might as well be Christmas. The main crowd are not yet partying. Getting them in early we are, a nose in front. Plus we want to bags our usual table – best vantage point, see them coming all directions.

  I check my hair in one of the pub brasses. I look like the minging Cheshire cat. I’m wearing my D&G shirt, my new jeans; feeling sharp. We’re going on of course, after this. Not decided where, as yet. Probably Liaisons.

  Lethal!

  Raven has streaming pints at the ready.

  Cheers, Ravester.

  I carry them to our table. A song comes on and I have to break my stride so I don’t look like I’m walking to the beat. One of them girl singers. No one to ask which song it is, just Ned at the table.

  Cheers, I sign.

  Cheers, Gog. Ta, he signs.

  Raven joins.

  Cheers. We raise.

  Good evetides.

  We raise to the grizzly.

  All who sail.

  The ale sinks, hits the spot. We relax, partake of. Raven’s hairsprayed cones bob as he moves to the music. I check my hair. RokHard has done the job but my fringe has a habit of going curly when my back is turned. Ned doesn’t have this problem, his hair shafts straight down either side of his brain, not a kink to be seen. He glances back at me. He looks normal in that shirt, another D&G, you’d never know he was such a div.

  I thumb him. He thumbs-up back. Good boy.

  Rave’s got some coins. Quick gamble on the fruits, don’t mind if I do. We leave Ned to guard the table.

  Around about the time the big ladies arrive with their mini husbands, we’re ready to roll on out of this joint.

  Adios, amigos. Hasta luego. We return our glasses to the bar.

  Cheers then, Keith.

  Mind how you go.

  We walk to the Rowntree Road. Chilly eve but dry. There are stars.

  Look! I point them out. Millions looks like.

  We stop by the playing fields to see if we can identify a constellation or two. Harder than you think. Constellations look easy on tea towels and mouse mats but they’re complicated in the actual sky.

  Shine down on me, cries Rave, spreading his arms. Ned spreads his arms too, walks in a circle. He laughs up at the sky, some kind of private joke between him and the universe.

  I jump up, grab hold of the football goal; I try to swing, recapture my youth, perchance. I hang there under a million stars.

  Could be the Big Dipper, says Rave, pointing up.

  Then again, I say. Rave knows less than zero about constellations. You can’t just make them up. My arms are killing. I drop to the ground. Nothing else here. We move on.

  Ned won’t let the stars drop. He trips over every kerbstone, gazing up, pointing, head in the clouds.

  Come on! I have to wave to sign him.

  Bit of a trek to Duke’s Hill Road, longer in the da
rk.

  Have we gone the wrong way, fellow Saracens? Rave wants to know. He lifts a cone of hair, looks around. We wait while Ned takes a wazz behind a Vauxhall Viva.

  Finally. The bright lights. Buonasera. We cross at the Belisha beacon. Busy, even at this time. I bet my hair’s gone curly. We stare at the neon sign. Rave says they’ve spelt Liaisons wrong. Too many i’s? We can’t decide. We careth not.

  A rugby scrum at the bar. Rave is tallest because of his hair, but it’s me who gets served in the end. Ned is enjoying himself. He can feel the beat through his bones, makes him grin. The lights are blue. They shine through glass pillars, even the bar is glass, like we’ve arrived at the North Pole.

  No tables available. We line up against the wall with our drinks and take in the scenery. Too loud to talk. I notice Rave’s drink has got leaves in it, mint I think. I ordered a cocktail too, apple martini. Ned’s got a rum and Coke. Always gives him bad dreams, but you only live once.

  I notice all three of us head-bobbing so I stop, three battery hens, for fucks. No one seems to have noticed. I scan for girls. A few in groups, some with boyfriends. They all look nice. A big cheer goes up in the corner and we turn. Everyone seems to know each other.

  Imbibements? Rave shouts.

  Why not? The eve is young.

  Rave collects. Ned necks his rum and Coke, hands over his empty. Rave sets off into the crowd. We watch his uppermost hair cone travel like a fin through the sea of heads.

  Ned burps.

  Gog! How goes? he signs. He grins. A good situation, he signs. I thumbs-up. I nod. I feel like a knob to tell the truth. Don’t know why. Too old for this place.

  A white laser panics over our heads, looping the room and back again. Ned jumps up, applauds, points it out, tries to catch it.

  We’re at a table. We now have a camp, a base. We guard it. The music is louder but we don’t bob. We sit heavy as rocks. We must concentrate, follow the laser, wait for it to illuminate a pretty girl. Maybe she will come to our base, sit with us. The laser is zagging about now. Too fast. No sooner do you see a pretty face before the thing skids off, lighting up bald patches, back of someone’s throat, some bloke’s arse. I stop watching it. I stare at the opposite wall instead.