Best British Crime 6 - [Anthology]
Page 47
“Now just you stop it! You wicked, selfish boy! You’re never satisfied—you always want more more more! Stop it. Stop it RIGHT NOW!”
But he screams even louder.
“I’ve had ENOUGH!”
* * * *
Mummy’s still asleep when I go back to my room.
“Look, Mummy, I brought you a surprise.” She stretches and sighs but she doesn’t open her eyes. Joseph looks lovely in his clean rompers and bootees. He seems heavier than before. Maybe I’ll just put him next to Mummy so she can see him when she wakes up properly. He’s nice and quiet now. And with all that crying, he could do with the rest.
<
* * * *
CALL ME, I’M DYING
Allan Guthrie
7:15 p.m.
Every year on the fifth of June we pretend we’re married. This year is no different.
I look across at him, try to mould my face into the right expression.
“I’ll get the soup,” he says, getting to his feet.
Same menu as last year, I expect. And the year before.
I don’t know, I’m guessing. I don’t cook. I don’t want to cook. I’m not paid to cook.
James likes to cook but he likes to play safe, too. Goes with the tried and tested.
Doesn’t bother me.
I’m easy, so they say.
The food is a bonus.
Makes the sex easier.
* * * *
7:16 p.m.
“You need a hand?” I ask him, knowing how he’ll reply.
I’m dandy.
Sure enough. From the kitchen: “I’m dandy.”
He’s not that.
Supposed to be our tenth wedding anniversary and he’s wearing a tatty checked shirt and jeans.
Could have made an effort.
We’ll shower later.
I always insist on that.
* * * *
7:17 p.m.
He carries the soup pan through. If it was me, I’d ladle it out in the kitchen.
It’s not me.
If it was me, I’d have passed on the appetizer, gone straight for the main course. Takeaway pizza. Pepperoni and pineapple.
Each to his own, okay?
He places the pot on the table, takes off the oven gloves, removes the lid with a dramatic gesture and says, “Voila! French onion.”
Now there’s a surprise.
“Smells good,” I say. And I shouldn’t be harsh on him. It does smell good.
* * * *
7:18 p.m.
“There we are,” he says. “Shall we say Grace?”
I nod.
Then he hits me with this you or me thing, where he’s just being polite ‘cause we both know it’s not going to be me. I grew up with it, and look how I’ve turned out.
“On you go,” I say.
He nods, clears his throat, closes his eyes, adopts a tone somewhere between respectful and agonized. “For what we are about to receive,” he says, “may the Lord make us truly thankful.”
That’s it. Good.
I blink. Pretending I’ve had my eyes closed too.
He’s not fooled, but he joins in the game anyway.
It’s all a game.
I always win.
I don’t think he understands the rules. I’d ask him but I can’t be bothered. I just want to get this over with.
I have things I’d rather be doing.
I’m liable to yawn and I don’t want to upset him.
* * * *
7:19 p.m.
“Nice?” he asks.
I pause, spoon halfway to my mouth. “Lovely.”
“The key is to use plenty of butter.”
That’s it.
I lower the spoon, let it rest in the bowl. I’m not taking another sip. Butter. Plenty of it.
Is he trying to kill me?
I smile.
He smiles back. His hand edges across towards me
“You don’t mind?” he says.
Intimacy. Yes, I do mind. But I let him hold my hand anyway.
* * * *
7:20 p.m.
“Your soup’s getting cold,” he says.
Fine by me.
“Not having any more?”
“Saving myself for the main course,” I tell him.
“Oh,” he says, disappointed but understanding.
Makes me want to smack a frying pan off his jaw.
At least he’s let go of my hand.
I get a flash of him panting. In my ear. Sticky breath, getting faster and faster. I’m moaning, telling him he’s the best, oh, yeah, the fucking best.
He likes it when I swear.
He comes and then he cries.
Wets my hair.
Every time.
Every year.
After dessert.
* * * *
7:21 p.m.
He’s talking. He’s bought a boat. Not a fancy yacht, oh no. He laughs. Tells me about his boat.
I nod and smile, tuned out, wondering what I’m missing on TV.
White noise, his voice.
I smile from the heart, ‘cause that rhymes.
Get a smile back, bless him.
I wonder if he’ll be hard or if I’m going to have to play with him first.
* * * *
7:22 p.m.
So excited babbling about his new boat, he spills soup on himself.
I grab a napkin, dab at his chin.
He likes that.
I wonder what precedent I’ve just set.
He excuses himself, says he has to change his shirt.
At least he doesn’t ask me to do it for him.
I offer to clear the plates away.
He won’t let me.
Always the gentleman.
* * * *
7:25 p.m.
Back again wearing an almost identical shirt.
Took him long enough.
I heard the toilet flush, though. All that soup. Runs right through you.
Voila!
Must be the onions.
“You had enough?” he asks.
“Plenty,” I say, only just managing to keep my hand from patting my stomach. A false gesture if ever there was one and I’m a better actress than that.
“Sure you don’t want a hand?” I ask as he starts clearing away the plates.
“Just stay where you are,” he says. “Keep looking beautiful.”
* * * *
7:27 p.m.
Still smarting from that comment.
Beautiful.
Bastard.
* * * *
7:28 p.m.
The casserole dish is on the table, steaming.
Beef stew. Yep, same as last year.
Predictable, is our James the Sarcastic.
Smells good, though. I’m going to have to eat.
I don’t want to. I want to punish him.
He might like that.
“Shall I be mother?” he says.
We know he’s going to be mother. I don’t know why he asks. “Yeah,” I say. It’s a role that suits him.
He slops some of the stew onto my plate. “More?” he says.
I nod. I hate myself.
* * * *
7:29 p.m.
The beefs tender, melting into soft strings in my mouth. The sauce is sharp, peppery.
I swallow. Lick my teeth.
“Good, darling?”
Darling.
Have to play along. “Yes,dear,” I say.
He puts his hand on mine again.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” he says.
“Lovely,” I tell him. Fuckwit.
* * * *
7:30 p.m.
The phone rings. It’s persistent.
He doesn’t move.
“Answer it,” I say.
“Not tonight,” he says. “This is a special night. We don’t want any interruptions.”
So maybe you should have turned off the ringer.
“
It’s annoying,” I say. And it is. Least he could have done was set up his answer machine to take it. At home, four rings is all you get. If I don’t pick up by then, you’re on to the machine.
Still ringing.
“You don’t have an answerphone?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“So how come it hasn’t kicked in?”
“Dunno,” he says. “Takes a while.”
I lay down my knife and fork. “Go sort it,” I say. “Turn it off.”
He looks sheepish as he gets out of his seat. “May as well answer it, then,” he says.
Course, by the time he gets there, it’ll have stopped. I’d bet on it.
The phone’s at the other end of the room. Amazingly it’s still ringing when he picks it up.
“Hello,” he says. Then gives his number.
Doesn’t say anything else.
Just listens.
Then puts the phone down gently, like it’s hurting.
* * * *
7:31 p.m.
“Wrong number?” I ask.
He shakes his head, still standing there, hand on the receiver, receiver in its cradle.
“Not much of a conversationalist, then?” I say. “What did they say?”
He makes his way back to the table, silent.
“Well?” I say.
“You won’t believe me,” he says. He looks bemused, like a stranger just hit him with a fish.
“You’d be surprised,” I tell him.
“It was a man,” he says. “I didn’t recognize his voice.”
He stops. Bites his bottom lip.
“I don’t have all night,” I say. More to the point, he doesn’t have all night. He isn’t paying for that. Just till midnight.
“He said my name.” He looks at me. Looks away.
“And?” I make a circular motion with my fingers to try to speed him up.
“He told me I had thirty minutes to live.”
* * * *
7:32 p.m.
That’s weird, I have to admit.
“Why would anyone say that to you?” I ask him.
He doesn’t answer, just sits at the table staring into his plate. He picks up his fork, holds it for a second, drops it. It clatters against the plate.
“Maybe it was a wrong number,” I say.
He says, “He said my name.”
“Maybe it was another James Twist,” I say.
He doesn’t bother to answer. We both know that’s unlikely.
“It’s a joke, then,” I say.
That piques his interest. “You think?”
“Sure,” I say. “A friend, a colleague.”
“I don’t think so,” he says.
I spread my fingers, palms up.Why?
“I don’t have any friends,” he says. “And I haven’t worked in ten years.”
* * * *
7:33 p.m.
Well, well.
“You’re not an architect?” I ask him.
He shakes his head.
“Were you ever an architect?”
He shakes his head again.
“What did you do? What was your last job?”
“Postman,” he says.
I can’t believe I’m angry at him, but I am.
“You’ve been lying to me for years,” I say.
“Sorry,” he tells me.
“How can you afford to buy a new boat?”
He doesn’t answer.
“That was a lie too?”
“Yes,” he says.
“What about this place?”
“My mum pays for it.”
“Oh,” I say. “She didn’t die when you were four?”
* * * *
7:34 p.m.
It can’t be helped, I suppose. The guy I didn’t like wasn’t the guy I thought he was.
Interesting.
“If it’s not a friend or colleague,” I say, “then maybe it’s a member of your family.”
“Just me and Mum,” he says.
“And it wasn’t her?”
“It was a man,” he says.
“What happened to your dad?”
He pulls a face.
For a second, I don’t know what he’s doing, or why. Then I realize it’s involuntary. A spasm. I’ve never seen him do that before.
He does it again, his eyes screwing up tight, lips curling.
Like he just sucked a grapefruit.
And then it’s gone.
“Your dad?” I remind him.
“He’s dead,” he says. Looks at me. “Honest.”
“I’m sorry.” I reach over and place my hand on his.
* * * *
7:35 p.m.
He moves his hand so it’s on top of mine. He squeezes.
We stare at our hands, don’t look at each other.
Time drags past.
He strokes my hand. Over and over and over again.
I’m intrigued by the phone call. And by what I’m finding out about James.
“Your mum have a boyfriend, maybe?” I say, at last.
He tears his hand away from mine, swipes his plate onto the floor.
Don’t fucking hit me. Don’t you fucking dare.
He doesn’t, although he looks at me like he wants to.
* * * *
7:38 p.m.
He picks up shards of broken plate, lays the pieces on the table.
“I don’t know why—” he says.
“I should leave.”
“Please don’t,” he says. He sits, wipes his fingers on his napkin. “That call, it’s thrown me.”
I shrug. “Not surprising,” I say.
“I’d like you to stay,” he says. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“All right,” I tell him. “But don’t get violent.”
“I won’t.”
“If you do,” I say, “I’ll kick the shit out of you.”
He grins. Doesn’t believe me.
He’s never been aggressive before. I try to avoid men who are. But I’ve learned to deal with them just in case.
I can look after myself.
I teach self-defense classes when I’m not working.
I’m not scared of James.
* * * *
7:39 p.m.
“We should clear up that mess,” I say. “The carpet’s a state.”
“Just leave it,” he says.
“It’ll stink.”
“That’s okay.”
“It’ll stain.”
He’s quiet.
“You don’t care if it stains?”
He shakes his head.
“Your Mum’s carpet anyway,” I say. “Her problem. That what you’re thinking?”