Lock Nut

by JL Merrow

  For another thing, and here was where it got hard to admit it . . . Phil was better than me. A lot. We’d only been going a couple of months, and already the established club members were looking at his retrieved targets with approval and mentioning competitions. Mine, they grimaced at and gave helpful advice over. The same advice. Every bloody week, because my shooting wasn’t getting any sharper. No matter which gun I tried or how much I worked to make my grip more relaxed and stop jerking the trigger, the results were the same—a pretty splatter pattern of widely spaced holes in the target, as opposed to the neat, tight grouping exhibited by my beloved.

  It was embarrassing. Okay, I’d always known I’d never be able to beat him in a fist fight, not that I ever intended to find out for certain. But for Christ’s sake, here we were competing on a level playing field for once, and I was still failing to make the cut.

  So, yeah, not that bothered about missing a week, as it happened. Not that I was planning on telling Phil that. “I’m fine,” I said shortly. “We can talk about this evening later, okay? Don’t want to be late for my first job.”

  The first job was an emergency kitchen sink. If the customer—“It’s Miss M., not Mrs., but call me Joy,” a lovely lady in her thirties who had a generous hand with the choccy biccies—had called me in to start with, it wouldn’t have been an emergency, but apparently the new boyfriend had offered to change the tap himself, presumably to impress her with his handyman skills.

  I was definitely impressed. “Got to say, I don’t often see a sink so bloody knackered.” It was one of the old Victorian-style ceramic ones, and it was literally in pieces. “I mean, when you consider how most of those sinks have survived through two world wars . . .”

  Joy sipped sadly on her mug of tea. “That’s the last time I listen when a man says he can do something. No offence.”

  “None taken.” It’s a sad fact that most of the DIY bodge jobs I’ve been called upon to fix in my career have had the whiff of testosterone about them, although the bloke himself is rarely in evidence when I show up. Funny, that. “Just lock up your tool kit next time he comes round.”

  She snorted into her mug, and I had a feeling the relationship might be showing a few cracks and all. I snagged another biccie and got down to work. It was a fiddly job, with the new sink I’d managed to find her not quite the same size as the old one, so I had to play about with the worktop to get it to fit. Looked a treat when it was done, though.

  Joy did a much better job of living up to her name when she saw the finished article, and paid up without a whimper. “I’d offer you another biscuit for the road, but I get the impression you’ve had a couple too many already,” she said as she handed me the cheque.

  I gave her a sidelong look. “Oi, I’ll have you know I’m still wearing the same size jeans as when I was twenty.”

  She cracked up. “Oh, God, sorry. I wasn’t calling you fat. I just meant, you keep rubbing your tummy. And you winced when you had to get under the sink.”

  Oh. I had? I’d caught myself once or twice, but hadn’t realised it’d become a habit. “Yeah, I, uh, walked into something yesterday. Got a bit of a bruise.”

  “Ooh, poor you. Let’s see.” She gave me a flirty smile. Apparently the possibly-now-ex boyfriend had been right about household maintenance being the way to get into her good books. And other things.

  “Sorry, love. My fiancé doesn’t like me getting my kit off for anyone else.” I smiled to show no hard feelings. And took a step back to show I meant it.

  She sighed and took another choccy biccie. “The best ones are always taken. Hope you have a lovely wedding.”

  After that, it was getting on for lunchtime and I wasn’t far from Brock’s Hollow, so I gave Gary a bell. “Pub lunch?” I suggested.

  “Ooh, why not? If only to celebrate you still being at liberty. Four Candles?”

  “Sounds good.” I’d be happier, though, when the Devil’s Dyke was back up and running. The Four Candles is all right, but it hasn’t got a lot of character. Personally I prefer the Duck and Grouse further up the high street, but Gary’s not a fan, probably because they have Sky Sports and he almost choked on the olive in his martini one time when England scored a goal and the place erupted into cheers.

  I keep telling him, it’s not like there’s much danger of it being repeated, but he never seems all that convinced.

  I got to the Four Candles to find Gary already perched happily on a barstool, martini in hand, and his great big Saint Bernard, Julian, slobbering all over a petite barmaid who didn’t look old enough to drink. Apparently she’d come out from behind the bar for the express purpose of getting drenched in doggy drool, not that I was complaining. Usually it was me who ended up doing the human-sponge act.

  “Tommy darling!” Gary threw open his arms for the obligatory hug. I was just congratulating myself on getting through it without any more betraying winces when Julian decided to get in on the affection and nuzzled me right in the tender part of my stomach.

  I hissed and backed off before I could stop myself, nearly falling over the barmaid, who giggled and retreated behind the bar. Julian whined and put his head down on his paws.

  “Was that necessary?” Gary pouted, clearly taking my rejection of his canine companion personally. Then his eyes narrowed. “Are you injured? I hope that man of yours hasn’t been getting rough with you. Unless you’ve decided you like that sort of thing, of course?”

  There was a gleam in his eye that said if so, he wanted full details, probably with accompanying diagrams and an invitation to come and film a sex tape next time. I shuddered. “No. And no.”

  “Hmm. I asked you three questions. At least. Which one aren’t you answering, I wonder? Oh, and Tom will have a Diet Coke, please, and another of your excellent martinis for me while we peruse the bar menu,” he added to the barmaid, who’d been hanging around expectantly and meanwhile listening in to every word. “Now, tell me about this war wound of yours.”

  “Ice?” she asked brightly, and for a moment I thought she was talking about my bruised stomach as well.

  “Uh, yeah. Cheers. And it’s just a bruise, all right?” I told Gary. “Not even an impressive one.”

  He sniffed. “I think I should be the judge of that. And how exactly did you acquire said bruise?”

  I dropped my voice. “Walked into a sucker punch. And no, not from anyone you know. Far as I’m aware, anyhow. Jonathan Parrot’s ex-bloke. Seemed to be under the impression I was some kind of hit man.”

  “Ooh, how thrilling. But you, murder for money? You don’t even stretch the truth on your VAT returns. I can’t see you cold-bloodedly setting up a sniper rifle and taking someone out.” Gary smiled at the barmaid, who’d returned with our drinks, and handed over a twenty-pound note. “While we’re on the subject, how’s the shooting going? I was so pleased you took my little suggestion. It’s so important for a couple to have interests in common. Besides dead people, obviously.”

  “Oi, I’m not interested in dead people.” It came out a bit loud, and great, now I sounded like a necrophiliac who was protesting too much.

  “No? You seem to spend an inordinate amount of time around them. Anyway, no changing the subject. What did the nasty man do to you? Show Uncle Gary where it hurts. Go on, shirt up.”

  Bugger. I thought he’d forgotten about that. Why was everyone so keen to see the damage done to yours truly anyway? “What, in the middle of the pub?”

  “Well, I suppose we could repair to the gents.”

  “Yeah, like I’m walking into the gents with you to get my kit off after having a drink together. That’s how rumours get started. Not to mention getting barred from the pub.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps not, then. Although it would spice village life up a little.” Gary looked worryingly like he was considering starting his own rumours for fun. “It must be so much easier being a lesbian, mustn’t it? After all, women are notorious for going to the ladies together.”

  I frowned. “
You think girls get up to stuff in toilets too, then?”

  “Why not?”

  “I dunno. It just seems . . . I thought girls were more into romance and stuff. Not a quickie in the bogs.”

  Gary raised an eyebrow. “You’ve always had some strange misconceptions about women, haven’t you? Which is odd, seeing as you always seem to get on well with them. Or maybe that’s why?” He cocked his head thoughtfully.

  “Yeah, anyway. I wanted to ask, did you ever meet any of Lilah’s family? What with her and Darren being mates.”

  “Darling, I’ve never even met her.” He beamed. “I think Darren’s trying to preserve my essential innocence. He’s such a sweetie.”

  “Gary, you haven’t been innocent since the day you were born.”

  “You wound me. I was an adorable baby. Positively cherubic. No, it’s Darren you need to talk to. He’s Lorelei’s godfather, you know.”

  Ye—appropriately—gods. I couldn’t think of anyone less suitable to oversee a nipper’s spiritual growth, although to be fair, she seemed to have turned out all right. “Hands-on sort, is he? Or is it just cards at Christmas?”

  “Did you want to order food?” the barmaid butted in at that point, which was probably all to the good. Any implied criticism of Darren tended to go down like the Titanic as far as Gary was concerned. We ordered—ham ploughman’s for me, and scampi for Gary—and bagged a table over in the corner. I slumped gratefully into the chair.

  “You seem troubled,” Gary said with a pointed look. Julian turned mournful eyes on me in solidarity.

  I took a sip of my Diet Coke and wished I could have asked the barmaid to bung a shot of something in there to keep the bubbles company. But (a) I was driving and (b) I was working this afternoon, and who wants a tradesman who turns up with booze on his breath? “Do you ever feel . . . I dunno.” I grimaced.

  “Come on, you know it’s better out than in. With certain exceptions, obviously. Tell Uncle Gary every sordid detail.”

  Sod it. “Do you ever wish you were, well, more butch?”

  Gary gave me a blank look. “Why on earth would I want to be more butch?” Then his face changed. “Oh. Oh! You mean, you’ve been feeling lacking in the manliness department? Don’t worry.” He patted my knee, prompting Julian to get in on the act and plonk his massive head down on my leg. “If Phil hasn’t noticed by now, it’s highly likely he’s not going to. Love is, as they say, ocularly challenged.”

  “Oi, I’m not worried about what Phil thinks.” At least, I hadn’t thought I was. “It’s just . . . he’s a lot more, well, physical than I am.”

  “Mm. He does tend to give off a rather rugged, Neanderthal vibe. But what’s brought all this on? Has he been casting aspersions on our little Tommy’s masculinity?”

  “Nah . . . the thing is, I can’t compete, you know?”

  “But why would you want to compete with him? True soul mates, like my sweetie pie and me, should complement each other. They’re not supposed to be locking horns at the drop of a hat. Unless that’s what you’re into, obviously. You’re the yin to his yang; the Robin to his Batman; the socket to his plug—”

  “Oi, we switch it about. Sometimes.”

  “I was talking metaphysically. But do tell.”

  The food arrived at that point, which was a good thing too, and I managed to get Gary talking about wedding stuff instead.

  I couldn’t help bringing it up again as we were about to go our separate ways. “So you don’t think it’s an issue if one of us maybe isn’t pulling his weight in certain areas?”

  “Of course not,” Gary said reassuringly. Then he ruined it by adding, “It’s hardly your fault that your weight is so much less than his.”

  The afternoon’s job went like clockwork, for once: all it took was replacing a section of copper pipe and job done. Great for the customer; not so great for yours truly, as it left me with time on my hands, but not enough to make it worth ringing round the customers I had booked in for next week to see if I could pop in early.

  And yeah, I could have knocked off, gone home, and put my feet up—even filled out one of those scrupulously honest VAT returns Gary had been not-quite having a dig about—but, well. None of my paperwork was urgent, and I had an itchy feeling at the back of my brain. I wanted to be doing something.

  So I took a tootle out to Pluck’s End in the van to see if I could catch Oliver Proudfoot in a free moment.

  Look, I know what you’re thinking. Not my area; I ought to leave it to Phil. Shouldn’t take any risks, particularly after what happened with Kelvin sodding Reid. But Phil would be busy with his meeting—probably—and if we left it to the weekend, there was no chance we’d find Oliver without a customer to charm into buying some old tat, sorry, antique-stroke-retro whatsits. And, well, I didn’t need a babysitter, did I? I could take care of myself. So I parked my van in the paddock and strode confidently towards the Old Smithy.

  Okay, so maybe I snuck the odd wary glance behind me as I trod over the gravel Kelvin Reid had flattened me onto yesterday. I was just being cautious, all right? Once bitten, and all that. I was maintaining my whatchamacallit. Situational awareness. That was all.

  Once I was safely across the danger zone, I poked my nose into the Old Smithy, hoping I’d find the Young Hobbit before Tallulah found me and ordered me off the premises again. I found Hazel, as it happened, which was the next best thing. I tipped her a wink and jerked my head in the direction of the door. She blushed, but caught on, and after an anxious shufti around followed me out to the courtyard. It was a chilly day, but the buildings sheltered us from the wind.

  Hazel hugged herself as we crept guiltily away from the Smithy’s door. “Have you found something out?” she asked immediately, which caught me on the hop.

  “Uh, it’s early days yet,” I hedged. “Is Oliver in today? I was hoping for a quiet word.”

  Her face fell, and I felt like a git. “Oh. He’s . . . Um. I’ll get him.”

  She scurried back inside before I could ask her how she was doing, what with the dead stepdad and all, which I should have done to start with. It was a good thing Phil wasn’t here. His faith in the so-called Paretski charm would’ve been well and truly shaken.

  On the other hand, I’d got results. Oliver sidled through the door in under five minutes and gave me an assessing look. “All alone today? I’d have thought you’d have that big watchdog of yours firmly at heel, after what happened last time.”

  Great. Someone else who thought I wasn’t safe out on my own. “We’re not joined at the hip,” I said shortly, then remembered I needed to stay on his good side if I wanted to get anything out of him. “Got time for a cuppa?”

  He nodded. “I told Ms. Lovett I was taking my tea break. But you’d better hope she doesn’t come anywhere near the café while you’re around.”

  “If it’s going to cause issues for you, we could go and sit in my van.”

  Oliver smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

  There was something about the way he said it that got my suspicions up. Seemed smug, maybe? As if he knew he wouldn’t be fired whatever. I started wondering what he had on Tallulah.

  Then I started wondering when I’d got so paranoid. “You worked here long?” I asked, keeping it conversational.

  “A couple of years. I like it.”

  “The antiques or the customers?”

  “Both. I worked in a high-street store before, and believe me, we get a much better class of clientele here.”

  I probably should have been offended on behalf of my fellow plebs, but I’d read an online article recently on what retail workers had to put up with, and I could see where he was coming from. I mean, the Old Smithy didn’t even have any changing rooms for people to poop in.

  “And you’ve always got on all right with the people you work with?” I’d timed that question badly—we’d reached the café. I pushed open the door and waved him ahead of me. The place was only half-full, with a few couples on the elderly side sippin
g well-stewed tea and a trio of thin women with designer handbags and matching nails, nursing cappuccinos that were presumably equally skinny.

  The lady behind the counter, a comfortably middle-aged, motherly sort, smiled and asked Oliver if he wanted the usual, which he admitted he did. Then she did a double take at yours truly. “Aren’t you the poor boy who was assaulted?”

  The cappuccino three pricked up their ears. I might have reddened a touch. “Er, yeah.” Boy? Seriously?

  “That was dreadful, that was. I haven’t felt safe since that happened. I had my husband bring me to work this morning, and he’s picking me up tonight. You can’t be too careful, can you? I’m glad to see you up on your feet today. They said it was something to do with poor Jonathan?”

  I was still trying to work out what to say when Oliver butted in. “Now, now, Sarah. You know he can’t talk about an ongoing investigation. Why don’t you make us a couple of fair-trade teas, and we’ll both have a slice of your lovely carrot cake?”

  Great. First Gary and now Oliver. Apparently I couldn’t even be trusted to make my own drinks order anymore. Still, at least he’d got her off the subject of my losing encounter with Kelvin Reid’s fist. “We’ll sit over by the window,” I said to prove I could come to some decisions on my own, and marched off to the table furthest from the counter.

  The weight of the designer trio’s eyes was upon me every step of the way. I made sure to take a seat at an angle where I wouldn’t be facing them, but I wouldn’t have to suffer their gaze boring into the back of my neck either. Yep, here was the paranoia, back in force. Or maybe not, as I realised with a shock that one of them had actually snapped a picture of me with her mobile.

  Bloody hell. I was strongly tempted to walk over and offer her my card—if she was going to be so flippin’ nosy, I might as well get some free advertising out of it—but common sense prevailed. Oliver probably only had a fifteen-minute break, and we’d used up five already.