“On Prince’s Street?” She sounded impressed. “That’s massive. Have you bought it?”
“I wish,” he said with a smile. “I’m just the middleman between the vendor and the buyers. Venture capitalists from the Middle East. Still, I get my commission as a result.”
She placed two glasses on the bar and he nodded at them. “Will you be mum?”
She poured them both a drink and handed a glass to him. “Well, here’s to your deal.”
“Thanks.”
They clinked glasses and he took a large sip, briefly savouring the sensation of bubbles popping against the roof of his mouth before swallowing it down. “Delicious,” he sighed, offering her a cigarette out of the new pack.
“So where are you from?” she asked, taking one and leaning against the bar.
He reached for the cheap disposable lighter in his pocket, but changed his mind. “Have you any matches?”
She flicked him a book and he lit their cigarettes. “Wherever business takes me,” he replied. “I’ll be in town for a while yet, tying up loose ends of this deal, sorting out planning permission for the shops.”
“It’s going to be a shopping centre, then?”
“That’s the intention. My clients want retail units put in, then they’ll offer out the space to the usual suspects. Boots, Topshop, WH Smith, and the like.”
He took another sip, aware of her eyes assessing him, and he realised she’d have heard countless tales of bullshit across the bar.
“So how long have you been in the pub game?” he asked casually.
“Donkey’s years.” She laughed. “It’s all I know.”
“You run a nice place here,” he said, glancing round.
She gave a small smile. “It’s not bad. Business-wise, I mean. The big pubs they’ve opened in the centre have taken away a few customers, but mainly the younger ones. I prefer a quieter crowd.”
He refilled their glasses. “Absolutely. Not enough places like this left.”
She moved away to serve another customer and he almost drained his glass, wondering how quickly she’d come back to him. To his satisfaction, it was almost straightaway.
The allure of strangers. Deciding not to push things too early, he finished his drink and patted the tops of his thighs. “Well, I’d better be off. My clients are taking me to dinner at seven o’clock.”
Her eyes went to the unfinished bottle. “What about your champagne?”
“If it would keep, I’d say put it behind the bar for tomorrow,” he replied, hinting at his return. “You have it. My treat.”
“Well ... thanks,” she answered uncertainly, wrong-footed by his sudden departure.
“See you again,” he smiled, heading for the door.
* * * *
He returned to the cemetery exactly a week after he first saw her. Earlier in the morning he’d picked up a drab suit in a charity shop, pairing it with his oldest shirt and tie. Finally he’d put on a pair of battered leather shoes, pleased with the look of someone down on his luck but determined to keep up appearances nonetheless.
She appeared at eleven o’clock, making her way straight to the grave, another large bouquet in her arms. He made a rip in the paper that wrapped his bunch of cheap chrysanthemums, watching as she plucked a couple of weeds from the bed of marble chippings in front of the headstone before exchanging fresh flowers for the wilted. After standing in sad contemplation for a good five minutes, she started to turn around.
He stood up, walking over a couple of graves to make the path that would intersect their routes. Two lost souls, drifting alone in the world. As he walked with head bowed, he tried to drag up any memories that might bring tears to his eyes. God knew he’d been witness to enough pain. But the anguished weeping of so many women had all been his doing, and the images of their distraught faces did nothing to stir his heart.
Now she was less than twenty feet from his side. He caught his foot in a nonexistent crack and stumbled forward, flowers cascading to the ground as the wrapping tore completely. Regaining his balance, he stooped forward as if to start picking them up. But then he placed his hands on his knees and let out an anguished sob. He heard her footsteps stop beside him and, knowing that it would clinch his act, the tears he’d been failing to summon suddenly appeared.
A hand was placed on his shoulder and he looked up at her face as it wavered and shifted through the liquid filling his eyes.
“There, there,” she murmured, pressing his head to her bosom.
* * * *
Within four days he had packed his few possessions, moved out of the hostel, and was sleeping in her spare room. She’d lapped up his story of a childhood spent in care homes, adult years wasted in a directionless drift, not anchored by family to any area. Then his long search for his real mother—a search that had finally ended in the town’s cemetery, at a grave that had only been dug the year before.
She brought her blubbering under control by clucking and fussing around him. Bustling around in the kitchen, carrying through dinner on a tray as he sat dejected on her sofa, his eyes furtively searching the room while she’d cooked his food.
Every night she’d conclude her nursing routine by bringing him a mug of Ovaltine. Creamy, smooth, and comforting, it was a taste he quickly came to look forward to. “That’s because I make it with milk, the proper way,” she’d say and smile, her look of pleasure increasing with his every sip.
But the need to get to a pub and enjoy a cigarette in a comfortable seat rather than standing out on her bloody patio was steadily growing. So he began to recover from his feigned despondency, apparently revived by the succession of meals she so lovingly prepared. One day he announced that it was time he sorted himself out. Found a job and place of his own.
Her eyes had widened in alarm at his mention of moving out. “Stay as long as you like. The house is too big for just me. I like you being here. Please.” The desperation in her voice surprised him. It was going to be so easy cleaning her out of everything.
He pondered her words, thinking of the three bedrooms upstairs. The spare room he slept in, her pink nightmare, and the locked door with the nursery placard on it. He’d peeped through the keyhole at the first opportunity and was just able to make out babyish wallpaper and some cuddly toys on a chest of drawers. Three bedrooms and a decent garden. Worth what? Two hundred grand at least.
“What happened to your family, Marjorie? What happened to your babies?” he whispered, curious that, apart from her creepy shrine, all traces of them had been removed from the house.
The question obviously distressed her and she waved it away with an agitated flutter of her hands. “I really can’t speak about it. Not yet. I’m sorry, it’s still all too ... raw,” she said, fingers grasping at the crucifix around her neck.
He nodded. “I understand, Marjorie, I understand. But I must repay your kindness somehow. Let me pay you some rent at least.”
She shook her head. “Really, I don’t need it.”
He paused, always amazed at his ability to bring out the maternal instincts of women. “Think of it for me. For my self-respect if nothing else. There’s a job I spotted when I first arrived here. A salesman for those industrial vacuums they use in pubs and restaurants. It’s something I’ve done before. They’d take me on, I just need to brush up a bit...” His words died away and his eyes dropped to his scuffed old shoes.
She sprang to her feet. “You need proper work clothes.” She crossed to the dresser in the corner, took out a file from the top drawer, and extracted several twenty-pound notes from inside. “Here, take this. Buy yourself a nice new suit.”
“No, Marjorie, I couldn’t,” he protested, holding up his hands while making a mental note of the file’s whereabouts.
“Then take it as a loan,” she insisted.
“Okay,” he agreed reluctantly. “And I’m paying you back every penny, understand?” he added, knowing she’d never ask for it back.
* * * *
He
scoured the shops for a sale. After finding one and then mercilessly bargaining down the young assistant, he picked up a suit, three shirts, and a pair of shoes for a steal. The deal left him with over eighty pounds in change. He headed straight for the nearest pub with a copy of the Racing Post, where he picked his runners over a couple of pints and several cigarettes.
When he set off back to Marjorie’s at five o’clock that afternoon he was fifty quid and several more pints up. As he ambled happily along he wondered how to explain the state he was in. She opened the door to find him swaying on her doorstep, shopping bag hanging from one arm.
“I rang them. I’ve got an interview tomorrow,” he sighed.
“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” she said, confused by the look of sadness on his face.
“But then I went back to my mother’s grave. Oh, Marjorie, if I hadn’t dithered for so long before tracing her, I might have spoken to her before she died. I’m afraid I’ve had a few drinks.”
“Come here,” she said, arms outstretched.
He slipped inside and endured a crushing hug.
“You mustn’t punish yourself. Now take that jacket off and sit down.” She led him to the sofa in the immaculate front room. “I’m making tea. Is beef casserole all right?”
“Great, thanks,” he replied with a weak smile.
She sniffed at his jacket. “This reeks of cigarettes. You really shouldn’t smoke.”
“I know. It’s only when I’m stressed.”
She nodded. “Well, I’ll give it a good airing on the washing line.”
“Thank you,” he said, reaching for the TV’s remote control as soon as she was out of the room.
* * * *
He woke with a sore throat and cursed himself for smoking so heavily the day before. She’d washed and ironed his shirts the previous evening and he walked down the stairs straightening his tie.
“Oh, Daniel. You look the perfect gentleman.” She moved across the kitchen, encroaching on his personal space. “Stand still, you’ve got a stray strand of hair.”
He fought the urge to slap her hand away, instead gratefully smiling as she smoothed it into place.
“Perfect,” she said, standing back. “I’ve ordered you a cab. We don’t want you going by bus and getting there late.”
He sat down and waited for her to cook him breakfast.
* * * *
“Just here’s fine, mate.” He leaned over from the rear of the cab.
“The betting office?” the driver replied, confused after hearing the pudgy woman wish the passenger good luck in his job interview.
“Yeah, here will do.”
“That’s four eighty then, please.”
He counted out the exact money, then climbed out, the cabbie not bothering to thank him as he drove off. A bout of coughing caught him by surprise as he walked towards the bookie’s and he lit a cigarette to quell the itch in his throat.
The morning was spent working out his bets. He rang Marjorie at midday. “I’ve got the job. Can you believe it?!”
“Daniel, that’s brilliant. I’ll cook something special for tea.”
“They want me to start straightaway. I’ve got a sales patch right in the centre of town. Mainly pubs, so I’ll probably end up smelling of cigarettes each day.”
“Never mind. Did they say what they’ll pay you?”
“It’s commission only, but the vacuum is a great product. I’m sure I’ll sell loads. I’ve got to demo it to prospective customers. They’re dropping me off and have given me a special trolley to wheel it around on.”
“They’re making you carry one around town?”
“Yes. And I have to drop it back off at the factory at the end of each day.”
“That’s ridiculous. You need a car.”
He smiled to himself. “I’ll manage somehow. Now I’ve got to go. See you later.”
He hung up and then walked over to the Tap and Spile. “Hello there,” he said, taking the same stool at the bar, straightening a pristine shirt cuff.
She looked up, a tea towel in her hand, eyes passing briefly over his suit. “Hello again. Thanks for the champagne the other night.”
“My pleasure,” he replied.
“How’s business going?”
“Okay,” he said. “There’s a few question marks over the rates the council wants to charge. I’m arguing it’s a multi-let property, so not subject to the standard commercial tariffs they’d levy if...” He paused. “Sorry, that’s probably more of an answer than you were expecting. How about you?”
She looked round the deserted pub. “Lunches tend to be quiet. But I’m not giving up the bar meals. Every decent pub should offer them.”
He picked up a menu. “What do you recommend, then?”
“I don’t know,” she said, polishing another glass. “The chicken pie is good.”
“Homemade, too, I see.”
“Of course.”
“Is it breast or leg?” he asked provocatively.
“You’ll have to see,” she replied, one eyebrow arching upwards.
“Fine with me. I love both,” he said, placing an elbow on the bar.
He walked back to the bookie’s a couple of hours later, stopping at a newsagent’s to buy some Rennie for the burning ache at the back of his throat. Things were looking good. Marjorie was proving as easy as he knew she would be and it was going better than he dared hope with Jan. So good, in fact, he’d asked her out to dinner on Sunday night. He pictured her face, her cleavage, and realised she was really growing on him. If his plans for Marjorie worked out, he and Jan could look forward to some fun times together.
* * * *
The next morning he woke with a headache and a metallic taste in his mouth. He struggled out of bed, a bout of coughs wracking his chest. God, he felt awful. He counted back the number of drinks he’d got through in the pub. Not enough to warrant a hangover like this. He’d have to have a word with Jan about how often she cleaned the pipes in her pub.
In the bathroom he stared in the mirror. His skin looked grey and a latticework of tiny veins marred the whites of his eyes.
“‘Morning,” he said dully, shuffling into the kitchen in a bath-robe and slippers.
“Daniel, are you all right?” Marjorie said, lines of concern across her forehead.
“Not so good, actually. I’m glad it’s Saturday. I don’t think I could have faced working today. Have you got any aspirin?”
“Yes,” she said, immediately opening a cupboard and reaching up to the top shelf. He watched the flesh wobbling under her thick upper arms with disgust.
“Here we are. Now you go and sit on the sofa. Can you manage some tea and toast? I’ll bring everything through.”
She bustled in with a blanket shortly after, tucking it around him before carrying through a tray piled with toast, a pot of tea, a glass of milk, and two aspirin in a little pot.
“Thanks, could you pass me the remote?”
She appeared again a couple of hours later, hovering by the sofa and aggravating him with her presence. “I’m going to the cemetery today. I always take flowers for my babies on a Saturday. Do you feel up to coming? We could take some for your mother, too.”
Her and those bloody babies, he thought, dragging his eyes from the TV screen. Normally a lie would appear instantly on his lips, but his mind seemed to be working sluggishly. “Erm, no. No, thanks.”
“No to coming with me?”
“Yes, I still feel terrible.”
“How about I take some flowers for your mother? You’ll need to tell me exactly where her grave is.”
He raised his fingers to his temples and shut his eyes. “No, don’t worry. I’d feel guilty if you took flowers for me. It’s something I’d prefer to do myself.”
“Okay, then. Would you like more tea? Or an Ovaltine, perhaps?”
He looked at the huge pot, still half full. “Yes, an Ovaltine sounds good. And a couple more aspirin, please.”
On
ce she’d gone he sat sipping his drink, swallowing down the aspirin with the last gulp. Then he kicked off the blanket, walked over to the front window, lifted the net curtain, and peered down the street. No sign of her. His temples were thudding and he realised his heart was racing uncomfortably fast as he turned to the top drawer of the dresser and took the file out.
Everything was there. Details of several savings accounts, bank cards, cheque books, even the deeds to the house. He flicked through to the back of the file, grunting incredulously when he found the sheet of paper with all the passwords for her savings accounts neatly written out. Stupid, stupid bitch. He thought forward to his meal with Jan the following evening. If everything went smoothly, he’d start draining Marjorie’s accounts dry the next day. Then he could invite Jan on a luxury cruise and be out of this horrible house within a week.
Best British Crime 6 - [Anthology] Page 51