“God morgen.”
It was the young man from Reception the night before. “Morning,” he added in English in case his meaning hadn’t been clear. He was beaming at her and there was more than a hint of mischief in his eyes. Cassidy’s blushes grew darker. She scowled at him. What right had he to be so cheerful in the morning?
“Hey, sit down, why don’t you?” she snarled. “Join me.”
“I don’t mind if I do,” he laughed, but of course he already had. He put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his fists, clearly amused by her bad temper.
“You can’t be British,” she accused him. “You’re too rude.”
“I’m from Norway,” he laughed. “And you’re American.”
“Guilty as -” Cassidy cut short her customary response and amended it to, “Look, just piss off!”
She lifted the newspaper again as a barrier against his scrutiny and to hide him from her sight. Why were the cute ones always annoying fucks? Perhaps he’d understand the international language of the cold shoulder and obey her wishes and piss off.
Nothing further, no more smart-ass remarks, came from the other side of the table so she risked a peek over the top of the page.
The young man from Norway had gone but Mrs Box was standing at her elbow with a plate of scorched bread in one hand and a lidless jar of red jelly with a butter knife in it in the other.
“Your toast. And jam.” Mrs Box put these offerings on the table before Cassidy as though she was delivering gifts to the Christ child in a nativity play.
Cassidy regained the breath that had been knocked out of her by the sudden reappearance of the landlady. “Oh - oh, shoot - I’m sorry. I was talking to -“
She shot a glance around the room. The young man hadn’t just left her table; he’d vacated the entire room.
“Oh, but he was right h -” She gave up. Cute or not, he wasn’t worth thinking about.
“They’re all still in bed, I expect,” Mrs Box raised her eyes to the ceiling and the guest rooms above. “Nursing bad heads. There’s a beer festival on, you know.”
“Yes, yes,” Cassidy nodded, somewhat impatiently. “You mentioned it.”
“They’ll all be wanting fry-ups,” Mrs Box continued, adding emphasis as a dig at the American and her peculiar American ways. “They’ll be lucky.”
“Don’t tell me: the kitchen is closed.” Cassidy took the knife and stoked a layer of thin strawberry jam across a triangle of bread that was half black and half brown.
Mrs Box observed, tight-lipped. Perhaps the girl wasn’t as thick as she looked. She made a reappraisal and decided the girl was not too bad - if a little on the skinny side.
“You could do with something more substantial inside you, dear,” she said as Cassidy took a bite from the toast. Black dust and a dollop of runaway jam dropped to her sweater. “Brain food’s what you want. Bacon, eggs, mushrooms, beans, tomatoes, black pudding.”
“Pudding?” Cassidy managed to ask. She put the remainder of the toast back on the plate and took a swig of cold coffee to rid her of the taste of charcoal.
“Ooh, you haven’t lived, dear!” Mrs Box laughed and patted the girl on her American arm. “My dear old dad used to make his own, you know. His own recipe. Pigs’ blood and oatmeal. It’s a dying art.”
“That’s...a...” Cassidy sought hard for the word, “...shame.”
Mrs Box had become wistful. She changed the subject - evidently the topic of her late father and his revolting homemade pudding was too much for her.
“Sleep all right, did you? In your lovely room?” Mrs Box asked, with an overly pleasant flutter of her eyelashes, hoping to elicit a compliment or two.
“Yes, yes,” Cassidy was growing impatient and wished the woman would stop hovering.
“And... nobody disturbed you?” Mrs Box bit her lip and froze, dreading the response to this one.
“No.” The American girl sounded casual. But then, they usually do, don’t they? Americans. Always casual. Only the other night their President had been on telly not wearing a tie.
“Not at all?”
“No.”
Mrs Box exhaled with relief but something was still troubling her. She played with her fingertips. “Only...” she began, and then took a deep breath, “the thing is... perhaps I should have said something. That used to be our room, you see. And sometimes my Bertie can be a bit of a sleepwalker. Oh, not very often; I don’t want to alarm you but I thought, what with him coming home late from the beer festival, and having had a few jars I shouldn’t wonder, he might have gone up and tried the knob.”
This was rather disturbing to the American. A giant lumbering around in the middle of the night! But she was keen to get on with her day - her thesis! - and so she tried to reassure the landlady that all was well.
“I was dead to the world, so...” She even smiled.
Mrs Box nodded and curled her lips upwards, grateful the girl was being so reasonable. “Well, if there’s anything I can get you,” she announced, already moving towards the exit. “There’s the day’s papers over there.” Her face fell when she saw Cassidy already had one. Mrs Box slammed the door behind her.
“Say,” Cassidy called after her, “do you know -”
She gave up. That the landlady was as crazy as a sack of frogs on a hotplate was clear enough.
***
Detective Inspector David Brough was out for a run. He was glad to get out of the empty flat and of the chance to explore the vicinity. Beyond the industrial estate was a park where, he was pleased to see, the blades of grass outnumbered the dog turds. It wasn’t that bad a part of town, he reflected.
That said, and added to the fact that he hadn’t actually started actual work yet actually, he was still firm in his resolve to apply for a transfer back down South as soon as bloody well possible.
I don’t fit in here, he had already decided. And while it was good for a detective inspector to be aloof and apart from his fellow man (leave all the community policing bollocks to the hobby bobbies) poor David was homesick.
That must be it.
He was missing the place. Not anyone in particular. Or even anyone in general.
There was no one to miss.
Not since -
He turned a corner and collided with a pushchair. He somersaulted clumsily over it and landed on the rough red tarmac of a cycle path.
“Fucking -” he winced. Blood was already coursing from his knee, tracking a line through the hairs on his shin and dyeing the bright white of his sport sock.
“You wanna watch where you’m gooin’, mate,” said the owner of the pushchair, waving an admonishing cigarette.
Brough got to his feet. His concern was for the occupant of the pushchair. Which turned out to be a case of whiskey.
“I should be suing you,” the young woman scowled. She too was dressed, if not built, for sporting activity.
“Go ahead,” Brough whipped out the i.d. badge he never left home without. “While we’re in court we can discuss your cute little baby.”
The girl dropped her cigarette and shoved the pushchair through a hedge to put as much distance between her and the copper as fast as she could. Bloody pigs! Running about in the parks now, am they? There’s just no privacy any more.
Brough sighed. The run was ruined - by this encounter, by the injury to his knee. He hobbled back to the flat for a swab of antiseptic and a hot shower.
He was more determined to leave than ever.
***
Cassidy was hard at work in her room. The table and the bed - every surface she could find - were cluttered with books, papers, files and folders. She had brought more paperwork with her than clothing or personal items. She was at the table. Her laptop was open but she was scribbling furiously in a note pad
. She murmured out loud as she wrote.
“...the symbolic power of the anonymous murder within the collective psyche satisfies primal needs to fear the other, the qua bogeyman...”
Loud knocking at the door cut her off at that point. Cassidy froze, pencil in mouth, reluctant to break off from the brink of brilliance. The knocking persisted.
“Hmm - hmmph!” she growled. The HB between her teeth added to her impression of a dangerous dog. The knocking grew louder still. Cassidy removed the pencil. “I said, Piss off!” she yelled, with added clarity.
Louder knocking.
“Oh, for Christ’s -“ Cassidy launched herself from the chair and wrenched the door open, revealing Mrs Box accompanied by a vacuum cleaner and an assortment of cleaning products and utensils.
“Hello, dear,” Mrs Box smiled cheerily. “Doing yours now.”
She stepped towards the threshold but Cassidy was blocking the way.
“Excuse me?”
“The room, dear.” Mrs Box tried to edge her way past the American sideways.
“Now?” Cassidy was astonished. “I’ve been here, what, twelve hours? How dirty do you think it’ll be?”
But Mrs Box was not to be swayed. “Got to stick to the rota,” she said gravely, “or there’ll be chaos.” She took advantage of Cassidy’s confusion to gain entrance and stake her claim in the centre of the room like a polar or lunar explorer.
“But I’m working...” Cassidy held the door open, hoping to shoo the annoying little woman away.
“I’m not doing this for fun myself,” countered Mrs Box.
“But -”
Mrs Box cut her short by pointing a rubber-gloved finger to the list of regulations on the wall behind the door. “Residents are expected to vacate their rooms to allow cleaning staff access.”
“But I’m in the middle of something!”
“You’re in the middle of the carpet what I needs to hoover.”
“Unbelievable!” Cassidy almost tripped over the cylinder of the vacuum on her way back to the table.
“Terms and conditions, dear,” said Mrs Box with a sympathetic shake of her head. “You signed the book.”
“This is unbelievable,” Cassidy reiterated but she was already filling her backpack with books and papers.
“I’ll only be an hour or two,” Mrs Box offered as though this was a special favour.
“What are you cleaning with, a mascara brush?”
Mrs Box pursed her lips. She didn’t like the American’s tone but she was willing to make some concessions for jet lag. “I suggest you go out and get yourself some fresh air, dear. Take a walk around the town. Might put you in a better mood.”
“My mood,” grumbled Cassidy, ramming her arms into her jacket sleeves, “was perfectly fine until -”
“Off you pop!” It was Mrs Box’s turn to hold the door for Cassidy. “Soon as I can get stuck in, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair.”
“This is crazy,” Cassidy observed but she hitched the backpack onto her shoulder. “An hour then.”
“Or two,” the infuriating landlady oscillated her hand. “It’s not an exact science.”
“Two hours tops!” Cassidy shot the woman a warning glance but she had already turned away and was spraying polish on the nightstand.
“We’ll see. Ta-ta.”
With a growl of frustration, Cassidy stormed out of the room. She forgot about the step outside the door and twisted her ankle.
This fucking country!
***
Brough stood in the shower for a long time. This was partially due to washing away the perspiration from his exertions and the dirt from his tumble but also down to the infuriating ineffectiveness of the shower. Something to do with the water pressure or lack thereof, Brough diagnosed. He would mention it to the lettings agent. It was all too tiresome.
He cleaned his cut knee with antiseptic and dressed it with a sticking plaster. It was in just the right position to affect the way he walked.
Marvellous.
His first proper shift at the new station and he’d be stumping around like an am-dram production’s Long John Silver.
He put on his dark brown suit, over a white shirt and narrow, black tie. I look good in suits, he reassured the blurred reflection in the steamed-up bathroom mirror. He tried to ignore the memories of voices from the past, mocking him for his lack of years. The Head Boy at Prizegiving. Bastards. They were just jealous because he was better looking. Because he got results.
He chuckled to himself as he pushed up the knot of his tie. He flicked his fingers across his shoulders. He was ready for the off.
He picked up his briefcase and had already opened the front door before he realised he ought to put shoes and socks on.
Beer
Cassidy strolled along the high street. Her bad mood had lifted; she was indeed glad of getting some fresh air but the dilapidated state of the town was doing nothing to lift her spirits. If you looked above the store fronts, there was a lot to look at. Some of the buildings had a touch of gentility about them; but at street level the shop windows were either garish, yelling at shoppers to come in, or boarded up from lack of business.
How many greetings cards could the people of one town want? Oh, if you wanted to send a greetings card, this was the place to come. Or if you wanted to place a bet. Or buy someone’s old clothes to help any of a wide range of charities.
Rodeo Drive it wasn’t.
The people also looked past their best. They shuffled along like they were auditioning for a George A Romero film. You would think they’d be forever cheering each other up with the continuous exchange of greetings cards that was evidently going on.
She paused by an ornate but disused fountain in the centre of the marketplace. The bulbous heads of stylised dolphins were grey from air pollution and green with moss. The natives seemed to think it was some kind of elaborate litter bin. The basin where water once pooled and spouted was currently piled high with discarded greasy fried chicken boxes.
What a shame, Cassidy reflected. Back home, folk are crying out for a bit of history in their home towns. History gives a sense of permanence, of tradition, of continuance. It legitimises the present - perhaps this stemmed from collective guilt over the treatment of the -what are we calling them these days? - the Amerindians... Cassidy made a mental note. There was a thesis in this somewhere. A book perhaps. A lecture tour...
One work of genius at a time. Better get this murder thing done and dusted first.
And maybe, by this time, crazy Mrs Box will have done dusting my room and I can get back to work...
Cassidy decided to stroll down to the bottom of the road then work her way back up and around to the guest house. She thrust her hand deep into her jacket pockets and turned away from the fountain -
-- and into the patterned sweater of that good-looking guy from the B&B.
“I beg your pardon -” she began but then looked up into his smiling brown eyes. “Oh! Hi!”
“It’s the American!” he gasped, clearly amused by their collision.
“It’s the Swede,” Cassidy muttered. What did he find so funny all the time?
“I’m from Norway,” he corrected.
“I wasn’t talking about your nationality,” Cassidy gave him a sour, sarcastic smile.
“You’re funny,” he said, without actually laughing. “I like that. People should have a sense of humour, shouldn’t they? Life is ridiculous.”
“Yours may be,” Cassidy tried to sidestep around him, “Now if you’ll excuse me...”
He mirrored her manoeuvres so they did a little dance and she couldn’t get away. “Oh, don’t be like that,” he mocked her with a pout. “Let me show you around. Let me show you the town.”
Cassidy grunted. “I
’ve seen it.”
“This dismal street?” He thrust out his arms to take in the market, the boarded-up shop fronts, and the zombies. “This isn’t the best of it.”
“You mean, there’s -” Cassidy gulped down her excitement, “more?” She pretended to stagger from excitement. This elicited a chuckle from the good-looking guy. Damn him, he was even more handsome when he chuckled.
“Come on,” he jerked his head away from the fountain. “Let’s go to the square.”
“Ooh, the square!” Cassidy clapped her hands rapidly. She thought Americans were reputed to have no sense of irony. Clearly Norwegians struggled to recognise it too.
“The festival is on,” the guy grinned. Oh, he knew she was far from thrilled. Her sarcasm was easier to see through than - well, any of the boarded up windows that surrounded them. “You’d like a drink, yes? You look like someone who enjoys a drink.”
Cassidy’s mouth dropped open. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, but his smirk suggested otherwise. “My English can be lacking in nuance.”
“But you know a word like ‘nuance’?”
“Come on; what have you got to lose? That old boot will be cleaning your room for ages yet. Going through all your things.”
Cassidy was horrified. “She wouldn’t!” she took in a wheeze of breath. “Well, she better not.”
“Relax,” the Nordic nut job laughed. “Come on.” He gestured towards the world beyond the high street as though it was his to give. He moved off and Cassidy found herself following.
“I could really do with finding the library,” she said to his shoulder blades. Who wears sweaters like that when it’s not to please an elderly aunt on Christmas Day? “There is a library, isn’t there?”
A chill ran through her. There would be a library, wouldn’t there? Surely even this dreary, backwater place would cater to people who wanted to read more than “Happy Birthday” or “Sorry You Lost Your Job.”
“There sure is!” he cast over his shoulder. “But first: the square!”
Blood & Breakfast, West Midlands Noir Page 3