by M J Johnson
"I bet you were."
"Since then it's happened twice more."
"Did he attempt to talk to you or anything?"
"No. I think he just wanted to unnerve me. He can be a vindictive sod! He's been ringing me too from time to time, at least I'm certain it was him, he never spoke."
"What, heavy breathing or something?"
"Just nothing. I'd pick up, and silence, as though he wanted to make sure I was at home. He's an incredibly jealous man."
"Did you try to trace the calls?"
"Public telephones."
"And tonight?"
"Tonight he spoke. He rang me on his mobile. He was very drunk. He said he wanted to come over and put things right between us. I told him that if he came anywhere near me I'd call the police. Then he got abusive, called me an effing whore, said I was still engaged to him and that he knew I was seeing someone." Sally paused before adding, "Presumably that meant you, because I haven't been seeing anyone else. More than likely it's all in his head; he used to suspect me of seeing other men if I spoke to the paper boy."
"But you were afraid he might come over so you got in the car?"
"Yes, and for a while I thought he was following me, but I think it was just that I was so worked up by then. He was very drunk on the phone. I drove around for well over an hour, through villages I'd never been to before. Eventually I found myself in Sevenoaks."
"You did the right thing. I'm glad you decided to come here."
4
The next morning, Gil woke just after nine. Sally had left a note on the kitchen table which read:
Thanks for being there last night. If you're still interested in seeing me again, I should be back on Tuesday.
Say hi to Spike.
Sally x
Gil smiled. Even though the note was concise, he knew from its tone and what it left unstated that she was declaring an interest in him; he was very attracted to her.
"It's mighty strange this romantic business," he told Spike, who was watching his master attend to a pot of simmering porridge. "It's nowhere near as simple for me as it is for you, dog, sniffing around any accommodating backside. We humans have romance, courtship and there's such a thing as subtext to contend with."
Spike responded with a quizzical look, cocking his head to one side.
Gil replied as though a genuine question had been posed, "Subtext ... what isn't said. A bit like when you take to your basket and sulk if I'm late with your walk."
Spike's tail began to wag at mention of the 'w' word; there was nothing more to learn about subtext.
"You are utterly transparent, dog."
The rain had finally stopped during the middle part of the night and had not resumed. After breakfast, he let Spike out into the garden while he sat in the conservatory with coffee and settled down with the novel he was reading. But however much he tried to involve himself in the book Gil found that his thoughts kept returning to Sally's unannounced appearance. They had chatted until just after 2 am. He was glad they had not ended up sleeping together; he suspected it might have happened given different circumstances, but after she'd confided in him about the rape it would have been utterly the wrong moment.
Unable to settle, Gil went upstairs to dress, followed by Spike, who'd grown tired of the garden. After dressing, he went into his office, a large comfortable room purpose-built above the garage. Along the wall beside the door was a nineteenth century draughtsman's desk built out of solid oak. He had bought it at a junk shop in Kilburn out of the first advance he had received as an illustrator. Beneath the window on the opposite wall was another desk with a monitor and keyboard. To one side of this modern desk was a comfy chair draped with an old blanket showing grubby paw marks and liberally covered with white hairs. At the study's farthest end were French windows opening onto a small verandah with cast iron steps leading down to the rear garden.
He sat at the desk and logged on to his computer. The first thing he did was to check his emails, mostly spam and nothing of any importance. Then he typed in the password and opened up his diary. It was good to catch up; the last entry he'd made was on 23 December before leaving for Somerset. For Gil, getting stuff off his chest in this way had always had a cathartic effect; it was probably the reason why he had kept a diary for so long. On this occasion he wrote:
Had the misfortune to meet a complete arsehole on the motorway tonight. Luck of the draw I expect. I was certainly at the wrong place at the wrong time …
After this, he replied to the half dozen or so letters from children waiting in the in-tray to be answered. Although he employed Megan to assist with general paper work, he tried to respond personally to letters from children.
By midday Gil had completed all the correspondence. Spike was getting restless; the dog's body clock never failed. Gil put on his wellies and a coat and allowed Spike to eagerly lead the way from the front door to the car.
The sight that met his eyes caused his jaw to drop.
The car windscreen, side, rear windows and bodywork were streaked white: trails of paint, long dry, had run in all directions; the rain had interfered with the paint's solvents, causing it to dry in ugly pustules like chicken pox. The quality gloss was guaranteed to remain durable for up to five years; at least this is what it proclaimed on the can now sitting on the car roof with several holes punched in its base.
A gasp was all Gil could manage.
5
Within the hour a policeman arrived.
'Blimey, it's true,' Gil thought, observing the bright-eyed constable on his doorstep, 'They do get younger.'
This youthful officer introduced himself as PC Dave Rowe.
"Your Volvo certainly looks unique, Mr Harper," Rowe said with a wry smile.
Gil wasn't ready for humour about his trashed car yet, especially coming from the mouth of a Botticelli cherub. "I'll get my coat," he replied in a rather surly tone.
"Did you make the discovery, sir?" the constable asked as they crunched across the pea shingle.
"Yes, just before I rang the station, about ten past twelve."
Constable Rowe went to his own car first. He put on a pair of latex gloves and took a plastic bag from a roll. After this Gil followed the younger man as he returned to the Volvo. Rowe removed the paint can, placing it carefully into the plastic bag which he secured along its sealing-strip.
"Pretty much dry," said Rowe testing a finger to the atoll of white paint that had surrounded the can. "You heard nothing?"
"Nothing at all, but my bedroom is at the back." Gil thought a moment, "A friend stayed over and slept in that room." He pointed up to a window left of the garage, "She couldn't have heard anything either."
"Surprising," Rowe replied, "Pea shingle makes quite a racket when it's walked on."
"Perhaps she's a heavy sleeper, or maybe it happened before we went upstairs?"
"Is your friend still asleep?" asked Rowe.
The question seemed stupid at first, before Gil realised that the bedroom curtains were still drawn. "No, she set off early, before dawn," he explained.
"Were you in the house all evening together?"
"No, my friend turned up late … around midnight."
If Rowe was surprised by the late visiting hours of Gil's female friends he didn't show it, "Did she come by car?"
"Yes."
"Where did she park?"
"Here on the drive I'd imagine."
"Then she'd surely have seen the damage to your car. Once she'd started the engine, put on her lights, it would stick out like a sore thumb, don't you think?"
"Maybe she parked on the road. I didn't see her arrive or leave." Gil suddenly felt defensive; the way innocent people often can when questioned by the police.
"Being Christmas, I expect you'd been at home until your friend arrived?"
"No. I only arrived back last night too. I'd been staying with my in-laws, in Somerset."
"You and your wife," Constable Rowe corrected.
"Alone.
My wife is dead."
Rowe looked uncomfortable, "I'm very sorry to hear that sir," he said.
The young man's awkwardness made Gil feel instantly sympathetic towards him, "There's nothing more to see here. Shall we go in?"
"Good idea," said Rowe.
Gil went in and put the kettle on. The constable packed the tin of paint away in his car boot before joining Gil in the kitchen. The atmosphere became quite relaxed as they sat and drank mugs of tea. PC Rowe checked and noted down Gil's car registration documents and took some notes.
"I expect the journey home from Somerset was pretty grim."
"Visibility was awful. There was a lot of water on the road. I didn't get above fifty for most of the journey." Gil hesitated before adding, "Then, as if things weren't bad enough, I had a run-in with a nutcase on the M25 who kept cutting in and out. He tried to goad me into racing him."
"Did you get the registration?"
"Sorry."
"Make, model?"
"Dunno. My late wife used to claim I was 'vehicularly challenged'. I'm afraid I know nothing whatsoever about cars."
Rowe smiled.
A terrible idea then occurred to Gil which he couldn't help voicing, "You don't think he could have followed me home and done the paint job?"
Rowe perked up, "Did the car follow you off the motorway?"
"No. I lost him at Clacket Lane services. He stayed on the road."
"Not likely then, is it," said Rowe a little disappointedly.
Gil agreed; the hairs on the back of his neck were able to stand at ease again.
The conversation moved on to the time after Gil arrived home.
"Miss Curtis was anxious you say?"
"She thought she was being stalked by an old boyfriend."
"Did she see him last night?"
"No, but he rang her. She said he sounded extremely drunk. He wanted to visit her. He's been violent in the past. She was scared."
"Understandably," said Rowe.
"She drove around for an hour, thinking he was following her, before landing up here."
Rowe seemed unconvinced, "Bit unlikely wouldn't you say? That he managed to pursue her for an hour if he was extremely drunk?"
It did sound implausible.
"Sally said she panicked after he rang. She acknowledged it was probably just in her imagination that he'd come after her."
Despite this, Rowe still seemed to consider it a worthwhile line of investigation, "Even if he wasn't following, he may already have known where you lived." Biro poised, he asked, "What's the boyfriend's name?"
"Ex-boyfriend," corrected Gil. "I only know his first name - Michael."
"Where can I reach Miss Curtis?"
"She's away for a few days, but I can give you her mobile number."
"Fine," said Rowe.
Once everything had been covered Gil led Rowe to the front door.
"I'll contact Miss Curtis and have a word with this other gentleman."
Rowe bent down and patted Spike's head, "You can get your walk now, boy."
Spike's tail got busy at mention of the 'w' word.
6
Gil was not expecting to hear from Sally until Tuesday; he planned to ring on the evening of her anticipated return. Having been devoid of any romantic feelings for so long, he thought it surprising how much he longed to see her.
It was about four hours after Rowe's departure. By this time, Gil had walked the dog, read a few pages of his novel, taken a catnap and was in the process of peeling the plastic film off a microwave dinner when the telephone rang.
"Hallo," he cheerily responded.
"Gil?"
He recognised her voice immediately.
"Hi Sally. How's Birmingham?
His question was met at first by silence. After a moment, she said, "I was contacted by the police."
"I gave your number to them. I've had some trouble. I'm sorry, I should've let you know they'd be ringing you ..."
"That might have been considerate." Her reply was frosty.
"I'm sorry Sally, but I had to call them ... you'd understand if you saw my car."
"Why did you accuse Michael of vandalising it?" Her voice was rising, "You've absolutely no idea what he's like!"
"He's been pestering you again. You thought he'd followed you. Perhaps it's time to get this sorted out."
Sally started to cry. "That is so arrogant of you!" she said, "You discussed with the police what I told you in confidence last night. I am so angry about it! I thought you were different, but you're just the same as all the bloody rest!"
"Sally, you're upset ... if you'll let me explain ..."
"Explain what? That you don't want to take over my life like he did ... like every other man I've ever come across!"
"Sally, I don't want to take control of your life, I would genuinely like to get to know you better, on equal terms. I don't want to own you ..."
"Yeah, like I haven't heard that one before?" She fired the words at him scornfully through her tears, "Sorry Gil, but you're not going to get the chance!"
"Let's meet up when you get home. You're angry at the moment ..."
"Well done, you've managed to comprehend that much at least."
Immediately after this the line went dead.
Gil took the corner of his microwave lasagne and flung it at the bin. He missed.
7
Saturday 27 December
I wonder how you reacted to my little Picasso touch. Strange, isn't it, what some people leave in their car boot when they go away on holiday?
I haven't slept very much for days. All the excitement of the chase I expect. I feel alert, in command. I have such an incredible energy inside. I know I could achieve anything I wanted to.
I daresay there are those who would call me deranged. I can easily imagine their disapproval as they sit watching soaps on TV, living under the delusion of being alive, whilst gorging their bloated bodies and feeble minds on rubbish.
"GIMME MORE!"
It's Christmas! A time for pouring sugar and fat into their putrid carcasses, another piece of cake, a mince pie, another multi-pack of 'cheesy thingys' - and the real world passes right on by beyond their cosy lace curtains.
"I'm feeling a little dissatisfied with my life.
"If only I could lever my lardy fat backside out of this triple-seat sofa, I know what would satisfy me. One of those king-size bars with nuts and marshmallow on a crunchy biscuit base covered in creamy chocolate. I've seen it advertised. Sexy. I got such an erection when I watched the TV commercial for it that I thought I was going to soil my pants.
"OOH! YUCK!
"What's this on my telly screen, pictures of children with bloated stomachs like mine, only the rest of their bodies are skeletons. I can't bear to look! It's ugly!
"Must change channel and cram something into my mouth to take the bad thoughts away!
"That's better!
"Shocking stuff like that shouldn't be allowed! Might put people off their food! Anyway, they aren't the same as us! It would be terrible for a civilised person to be underfed like that! They don't feel things same as us.
"I know what I'm talking about. I read about the world in 'The Daily Scumbag'. It's a challenging blend of sport, leisure, with information about all my favourite soaps and just the right amount of news. It keeps me well informed, with the added bonus of nubile young lovelies exposing their breasts on every other page - slags! I wouldn't let a daughter of mine take her kit off, to be lusted over by perverts!"
8
The sun came out for a few hours on Saturday, but it failed to lift Gil's spirits.
He knew Sally had been unreasonable on the phone, but conceded that he might have checked with her before implicating a man, who, judging from what she had confided in him, she had good reason to be wary of.
"I finally meet someone I like and I wreck it straight off. What an ass! And for what? Rowe implied that the episode was unlikely to conclude with much of a result anyway!"
Sally had told Gil that Michael had been very drunk when he rang. Was it possible that, drunk and incapable, he had managed to follow her for over an hour, then magically produced a tin of white gloss from the boot of his car? The more Gil thought it through, the more unlikely it seemed.
Gil could think of a few people he didn't like much, and where quite possibly his low opinion of them was reciprocated. However he was unable to think of anyone likely to undertake such a rash act, especially as the miscreant must always run the risk of humiliation if caught.
'Perhaps it was just a bunch of kids who'd been out ransacking garden sheds and came by a cache of paint,' he thought.
After some time listening to his head running on like this, he finally reached a point where he stopped trying to figure out what had happened. He rang his insurers; after all, the repair costs wouldn't even cause them to raise a corporate eyelid. As anticipated, they viewed the incident with a dispassionate professionalism. They would arrange for an assessor to visit, and provide a courtesy car.
On Sunday, Gil tried to work at his children's book in the vain hope that it would help take his mind off Sally. For two hours he laboured, only to produce one slim paragraph with the flow and consistency of suet pudding.
"Shit ! Shit! Bugger and bloody shit!" He raged at his computer screen as though he meant to do it grievous bodily harm.
Spike, as usual when there was writing to be done, took it easy on his chair. On this occasion though, he seemed to sense Gil's inner tension and from time to time let out a sigh. Gil believed the dog was voicing his disapproval, and found it extremely distracting.
"Will you stop that!" he lashed back at the dog after hearing what he perceived to be a particularly accusing exhalation of breath. Spike raised his head, his face bore the look of noble suffering.
Gil scowled, highlighted all the text on screen, decided it was irredeemable crap and pressed delete.