by Matt Rudd
This, of course, is the wrong thing upon which to focus. They look unimpressed.
I start again, explaining that Bob and Brenda were the ones mounting a campaign of intimidation after she completely overreacted to what was, in effect, an accident in a kick-boxing class. I point out that they banned us from their pub, they threatened us, they abused their positions on the village committee to turn the rest of the village against us and they killed Louise.
‘And who is Louise, sir?’ asks one of the policemen, raising an eyebrow.
‘My chicken. Did Bob not mention that?’
‘No, he didn’t. And how did he kill it?’
‘His cat did.’
‘Cats don’t kill chickens, sir.’ He raises his other eyebrow.
‘He trained his cat specifically to kill my chicken.’
‘Right, sir.’ If he had a third eyebrow, it too would be raised.
‘I also saw him kill his own whippet,’ I continue, because I can see how all this sounds when you say it out loud.
‘Did you, sir?’
‘Yes. With a croquet mallet. I tipped off the local constabulary at the time, but they did nothing to investigate.’
‘That was you, was it, sir?’
‘Yes. I did it anonymously for obvious reasons.’
‘Well, it was in the file, sir, this…anonymous allegation. And we spoke to the constable who investigated. He said it was bunkum. The whippet’s at the pub, healthy as can be.’
‘Well, Bob replaced the whippet. You don’t have to believe me, but he did. I’d be looking at him if I were you.’
‘At this stage, sir, these are just routine enquiries. Someone has lost her life. There appear to be no suspicious circumstances but, as we say in this business, never say never. Where were you between the hours of 3 and 5.46 last Thursday morning, sir?’
Oh God.
‘I was walking home.’
‘Very late to be walking home, isn’t it, sir?’
‘Yes, well, I missed the last fast train from London.’
‘So you walked back from London?’
‘No, I fell asleep on the train. I woke up four stops down the line. Then I fell asleep again. Then I walked home.’
‘Four stops down the line, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘So that would be the station just up the track from where this woman took her life, sir?’
‘Yes, it appears so.’
Thursday 7 November
Alex calls. Geoff is being too clingy and it’s annoying him. Could I have a word with Geoff and give him some of my Ninja Bastard Relationship Advice?
No, I have other things to worry about like being the prime suspect in a suicide AND being the main reason my best friend has cancelled his wedding AND being in a permanent doghouse with my wife. I’m hardly the person to help with relationships.
Please.
No.
Please. You’re so good at it.
Okay.
Friday 8 November
Jacob spent all evening crying.
‘It’s another tooth,’ I say.
‘It’s not. He’s picking up on the tension.’
‘What tension?’
‘The tension caused by you spending this month’s bills money on your stupid triathlon and then snogging Saskia and then being in exactly the wrong place at the wrong time when Brenda jumps in front of a train. How could you be so stupid?’
Right, that tension.
Saturday 9 November
I hate November. Cold, dark, miserable. Long slog into work. Long slog back again. Followed by a weekend of relentless baby duties, all with the background threat of being implicated in the death of a ginger midget. Isabel is being entirely unreasonable. How could I have known that Brenda would be jumping in front of a train at precisely the same time I was unverifiably passed out in a waiting room nearby?
And no one will sponsor me.
‘Sorry, I sponsored George to do the 10K last week.’
‘Sorry, I sponsored Felicity to do the 5K last month.’
‘Sorry, I sponsored Dan to do the 1K last year.’
1K? That’s a thousand metres. I run that far to catch the train in the morning. Jacob could crawl that far. That shouldn’t deserve sponsorship. You wouldn’t ask someone to sponsor you to go to the shops, would you? I’m swimming half that, cycling twenty times that and running ten times that. Surely you can bung me a few quid?
‘No, mate. Sorry. Now, when are we going for a beer? I need to talk to you about how lucky you are not to still be at Life & Times.’
Johnson is such a tight bastard.
Sunday 10 November
And Andy is a miserable one. We were supposed to be attempting a full-distance, we’re-not-having-a-midlife-crisis triathlon today, but he calls first thing to say he can’t face exercise or me or anything. So I go on my own and get halfway through the swim and give up. I have never felt so demotivated.
Instead, I go to town to buy a chicken. There’s nothing like a civilised Sunday lunch with my lovely but slightly peeved family to cheer us all up. But Waitrose has run out of organic chickens. They never used to run out. I know this because we’ve been buying organic chickens for ages because the other ones, as Isabel never fails to point out, don’t taste like chicken; they taste like fish. And then last month, someone did a documentary about how battery chickens have burned elbows from lying in their own poo and suddenly you can’t buy an organic chicken for love nor money.
I buy some organic beef instead. Until someone does a documentary about old battery cows being sanded down to make car-seat covers, you can at least still buy organic beef.
I get home and Isabel has already put the rest of last night’s macaroni cheese in the oven. She says she’s not in the mood for a roast: we can freeze the beef. So depressed.
Tuesday 12 November
Another three boxes of aloe vera have been delivered to the office. I phone the area sales rep and ask if I can pay a penalty to cancel the remaining orders because I’m at risk of losing my proper job because my boss’s cat is having flashbacks. He says that’s not the attitude to have if I want to get a Ferrari. I say I don’t want to get a Ferrari and he has the temerity to point out that I’m in the wrong business, then. I point out that he is. Shouldn’t he be selling time share rather than a herbal lotion? I mean, since when do dodgy pyramid-selling and a hippy plant extract go together? And he says my next delivery will arrive in one month – I should change my attitude and get selling. Then he hangs up.
Thursday 14 November
I am in the pub with Geoff on the pretext of getting his advice for a new kitchen. As if we’d ever have the money for a new kitchen. As if I’d ever let Geoff or Alex near any house refurbishment again. After an hour of ridiculous ideas (‘You could have a central pod that comes down from the ceiling like a periscope except it’s a wine rack.’ ‘You could have a glass wall between you and your guests that mists up whenever you’re making a hash of dinner.’ ‘You could have a sink that doubles as a sorbet maker.’) I manage to cut to the chase.
‘Anyway, how are things with Alex?’
‘Yeah, great. I love him so much.’
‘Oh, that’s brilliant. I thought you were having a rocky patch?’
‘Oh no, that’s all water under the bridge. He was a bit overbearing for a while but when I had that crash in Morocco, and he wasn’t there for me, I realised how much I loved him. Now, I can’t bear it if we’re apart for a minute. No offence, darling, but I’d rather be in bed with him right now than in the pub with you. Not that we normally make it to the bed. Look at this carpet burn. Hahahahaha.’
‘Hahahahaha. I’m happy for you. Just make sure you don’t do what I did.’
He stops snorting. ‘What did you do?’
‘I loved Isabel so much, I almost lost her.’
‘When?’
‘Oh, a while ago now. When we first met. I was showering her with gifts, running around after her like a lapdog
, begging her to spend every minute with me. She hated it.’
‘She hated it?’
‘Yes, hated it.’
‘Well, I know what you mean – Alex was like that for a time. But I’m not like that. I’m not like that, am I?’
‘No, of course you’re not. I was just saying. I don’t suppose you’d like to buy some aloe vera, would you? It’s very good for burns.’
Friday 15 November
Text from Alex: ‘Geoff’s been cool and aloof all day. Love it. Thanks. x.’ I am Zen Ninja Jedi of gay relationships.
Text from Andy: ‘Can’t make Sunday’ – our last training day – ‘collecting my things from Saskia’s while she’s out, as per your no-contact rule.’ I am not Zen Ninja Jedi of straight relationships.
Text from Isabel: ‘Please transfer money! Have just got charged for going overdrawn. Grrrr.’ I am not even Zen Ninja Jedi of my own relationship.
Saturday 16 November
‘Can you take Jacob? I need a lie-in.’
‘Yes, but I was going to pop up to the shops.’
‘You can go later. I need sleep.’
‘Okay.’
‘Can you feed Jacob while I do some yoga?’
‘Yes, but I was—’
‘My back’s about to go.’
‘Okay.’
‘Come on, we’re going to be late.’ ‘
For what?’
‘Annabel’s Halloween party.’
‘You didn’t tell me about that.’ ‘
Yes, I did.’
‘But it’s not even Halloween any more.’
‘It doesn’t matter, we’re still going. And I want to get there on time. Can’t bear Teresa giving me another lecture about routine.’
‘We have to leave now, Jacob’s getting grizzly.’
‘But I’ve just got another beer.’
‘He needs his supper. And Strictly’s starting in a minute.’
‘Right.’
Sunday 17 November
Repeat, minus Halloween party.
Monday 18 November
Meet Johnson and Andy in the pub. Johnson is moaning about how we never go to the pub any more. Andy is moaning about how the pursuit of a romantic life is not only pointless, but fraught with misery and, ultimately, loneliness. I’m moaning about everything.
Johnson says Anastasia has gone completely mad and is making everyone blog about everything all of the time.
Andy says that’s because she’s a woman.
I say he should thank his lucky stars he’s not at Cat World with an ever-increasing supply of aloe vera and a cat that can’t stand boxes.
‘Oh yes, how is that whole cat thing going?’ Johnson asks, pleased, presumably, to talk about someone else’s crisis. ‘Has Cat World found out its star journalist is implicated in a spate of cat killings and the suicide of a kick-boxing midget?’
‘It’s not funny, Johnson.’
‘It is funny.’
‘It’s not. The police came round the week before last.’
‘The dodgy bobby?’
‘No, proper police. They were following up on Brenda. Routine, they said, but I’m worried.’
‘Ahh. That sounds bad.’ The look on Johnson’s face is even more pessimistic than usual.
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘Well, are you sure there isn’t more to this than the police are letting on?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, back in the old days when I was on the crime desk of the Manchester Evening News…’
‘Oh, here we go,’ interrupts Andy. ‘Another load of nonsense from Cracker, here.’
‘…back on the crime desk, we always used to have another look if someone was hit by a train. You see, it’s the classic way to get rid of a body. Everyone in the criminal underworld knows that. Was she lying on the tracks or did she jump?’
‘How would I know? I didn’t think to ask.’
‘Well, you should find out. If she was lying down, she was either very, very determined or she was already dead. And don’t forget, you’re up against an ex-copper, here. That publican will know how to dispose of a body just as well as anyone. I need a piss.’
Johnson really can lend an extra level of bad to a bad situation.
Tuesday 19 November
‘How much sponsorship have you raised?’
‘Still only £170.’
‘Well, I’ll sponsor you the rest.’
‘How?’
‘Dad gave me some money for my birthday. I was keeping it for a rainy day.’
‘I don’t want to use that.’
‘Too late. I’ve transferred it to the Animal Samaritans. I know how much this triathlon means to you. And I’m tired of being angry with you. I want you to do this, I want you to feel better about yourself and I want us to get on with our lives.’
It’s so much worse when Isabel is being nice. At least if we’re arguing, I can pretend she’s being unreasonable. But when she’s being nice, then it really is all my fault.
Wednesday 20 November
And the trouble is, the triathlon doesn’t mean anything any more. Not to me. Not to Andy. Jacob’s too young to be impressed. Isabel’s too tired of my multiple life crises to really care, even though she’s pretending she does. My mum has phoned a couple of times to ask, but she’s only being polite. What am I doing it for? What’s the point? It’s a distraction from my real problem – which is money. Money and dead cats. Money and dead cats and aloe vera. And women.
Thursday 21 November
‘We haven’t seen you for ages at LoseEverythingYouHaveInternetGambling.com. Have you found some other miraculous way to repay the enormous debt you racked up the last time you were here? Or have you decided to pay it off the sensible way – through hard work and toil – while still trying to keep it secret from your wife? You have? Oh dear. That’s going to take years – and she’s bound to find out. So why not come back for one last flutter? It could make everything all right again. Here’s a welcome back bet of £100. Haaaaaaaappy gambling.’
No. I won’t.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
Well, maybe.
Friday 22 November
A thousand pounds! I won a thousand pounds! I’ve got the old magic back. That’s the aloe vera paid for. That’s me back to square two. And I’m going to stop. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you have to know when to stop.
Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop. In a bit.
Saturday 23 November
Another thousand. I’ve found the perfect amount. One thousand a night. No more, no less. I’m not even going to try to work off the whole debt. I’m going to do this once more and that will be it. It will help. I can manage the rest myself.
‘What are you doing on the computer? Don’t you need to get an early night? It’s the race tomorrow.’
Scuppered. Which is fine. I am in control. A thousand a night. Doesn’t have to be every night.
Sunday 24 November
I am late due to lack of sleep. Andy is even later because he was talking to Saskia all night. In the last few weeks, she had gone from hysterical to furious to hysterical again, which he could cope with, but last night she had done The Speech. She had told him that she’d loved him and she’d never really loved anyone properly before. That it was a great step for her to trust a man enough to surrender her emotions to him…and that as soon as she’d done that, and committed the rest of her life to him, he’d thrown a strop and called off the wedding.
Now he is thinking of drowning himself halfway through the triathlon. This is not an ideal frame of mind in which to start the race, but the Animal Samaritans are counting on us. As we collect our Dalmatian-spotted swim caps with minutes to spare, he’s still moping and I find myself sounding all American: ‘We can do this. We have to do this. Give me five.’
Then I see the lake we have to swim across.
‘Bloody hell,’ I say because it’s a bigger lake than I was expecting, but Andy only shrugs.
And then I say ‘Bloody hell’ again because four or five rows ahead of me is Bob. And next to him is the village bobby, the village postman and the village shopkeeper.
Andy thinks we should leave, but I know he’s only saying that because he’s lost the will to live. I haven’t lost the will to live, not quite, but the last thing I need is a run-in with a cat-murdering psycho who’s pretending to hold me responsible for his wife’s suicide.
We’re halfway back to Andy’s car, pulling off our caps and wet suits, when I feel a huge pang of guilt. This is Isabel’s birthday money I’m wasting. This is all those weeks of training. And it’s not as if I did the cat murdering or had anything at all to do with the midget jumping in front of a train.
‘Stop,’ I say, all American again. ‘We’re doing this. We’re doing this goddam triathlon. We came here to do it and we’re going to do it.’
Andy is clearly stirred by my stirring speech. Looking at me, then looking at his swim cap, he says, ‘Fine, whatever.’ We will do this triathlon.
It is only after we’ve survived the swim and hit the bikes that we catch up with Bob and the village cabal.
‘Shall we overtake?’ I ask. ‘They might not notice us?’
‘I don’t care,’ replies Andy ambivalently. I really hope he’s not going to be like this for the rest of his life.
‘Let’s get past them. It’s better than being stuck behind them for the rest of the race.’