4 Bones Sleeping (Small Town Trilogy)

by Gerald Wixey

  I fanned the ones of Don with Shirley across the worktop. One of them stood by an open kitchen door. His hand disappearing up the hem of her slip again. Mouths locked together, a farewell? A coming together? Either way, I would enjoy telling Don of my latest find.

  Stuart’s more sober assessment brought me crashing down to earth.

  ‘She’s in trouble – I think we have to get her out of her house and somewhere safe.’

  There you are, I could only see the smaller picture. It’s no wonder mind, a woman that I’d known for a lifetime. I knew most of her loves, her weaknesses, her passions. Although that might well be the same thing. I’d imagined every inch of her body pressing against me, imagined her whispering endearments in my ear. Dreamt vigorous couplings and sweet pillow talk. The soft flesh of her thighs pressed against my ears. The feel of her heels in the small of my back.

  ‘Jack… she’s in trouble. So is Don.’

  I blinked, felt my mouth form a circle.

  He placed another photo in front of me. A police car, a young woman and a much older driver.

  Both smiling.

  I groaned.

  ‘We have to get her somewhere safe.’ Stuart gripped my wrist.

  I nodded, of course he was right.

  But I just wanted to stare at the photographs. I scanned the thousands, until I notice a handwritten letter. Not one, but dozens. Photocopies of the same letter. Someone didn’t want to lose it.

  My dear, darling Teddy …

  ‘Jack. C’mon.’

  I felt a hand on my shoulder, turned and looked into Stuart’s eyes. Waved the letter at him.

  ‘What’s that?’

  I shrugged, ‘Shirley’s death warrant I think.’

  Teddy - 1980

  Someone with devotion finds nothing but hope, despondency comes to the faithless. Remorse or relief. Maybe neither, just the grim pleasure that comes to those with a taste for disappointment. He used to pull at his father’s cuff, then his customary question. His old man looked around and down with the look of wariness and weariness he shouted. ‘Why don’t you just fuck off?’

  Disappointment.

  Disappointment, more than that. Disenchantment, disaffection, displeasure, despondency, distress, depression, dishearten.

  Don’t mention that word.

  Depression.

  Depression.

  Madness.

  Hang on a minute. That didn’t begin with the letter d.

  He went through his list again, what about disaster? That’s a good one.

  Why?

  What was going on?

  Concentrate!

  Where was his camera?

  He looked at his empty left hand. Then over to the right, clasped tightly around a large carving knife.

  How did that get there?

  He liked lists and went through another in his fevered brain. His cheating first wife, his cheating second wife, Daphne, the policeman, Shirley, his daughter – say her name. But he couldn’t.

  Say.

  Her.

  Fucking.

  Name.

  But he couldn’t.

  Concentrate, what could he do?

  Run.

  He knew enough people in Spain, he liked the climate, he knew the language. Sixty four years old, with a flaky erection. What was the point? It worked well enough on Daphne and Shirley. But not his wife, or his daughter.

  No – no more running. End it now, tie up all of the loose ends and end things once and for all.

  He felt for the letter in his pocket. He hadn’t got to see his son either, another loose end. Or had Shirley had lied to him again?

  Why did he believe everything she tossed his way?

  She said nothing about the policeman all the time they were together in that hotel.

  Not a word, except for. ‘There’s no one in my life at the moment.’

  That was all she said.

  His mind spun away as he thought back. Thirty five years ago, she used to leave the door ajar for him. Now she’d done the self-same thing.

  He crept in the kitchen door.

  Silence.

  What did he expect? The two of them writhing around on the kitchen floor. He mind zigzagged back to her little flat in London. Kitchen diner, bathroom, bedroom. She would be laid across the bed, legs crossed at the ankles. The way the dress clung to her, she might as well have been naked. Buttoned at the front, the top three left strategically undone. The rise of her full breasts always beguiled him. His eyes wouldn’t, couldn’t fix on anything else. And all the time her eyes drilled into his soul.

  He shuddered and crept towards the stairs.

  Concentrate.

  But he couldn’t, remembering when he took her to Brighton Races one summer’s afternoon. Just before he went into prison. Just after the racecourse stopped being an internment camp. He knew all of the bookies. He knew which horse was trying and which one was going to be pulled. He gave her the winnings, hundreds of crumpled notes. Then she fucked him silly in the back seat of the car. In the middle of the car park on the Sussex downs.

  Foreplay?

  She only needed a bunch of bank notes mate.

  He stopped halfway up the stairs, listened, listened, listened. He crept slowly upwards. One step, listen. One step, listen.

  Shirley came to his trial. Sat throughout it all dressed like a model and looking like Carol Lombard. His wife stared at her, she stared back. His wife’s scar running down one cheek. Standing out like a worm on a white dinner plate. Nobody saw the razor attack, no one fingered him for that. He got six months for punching her in the mouth in Lyon’s Tea Rooms in Piccadilly. No that wasn’t true, three months for the punch and three months for absconding after being called up.

  Two women crying after the judge sentenced him. One crying because of the six months. The other because it was only six months.

  Last step, listen.

  Voices.

  From the bath room.

  The door half open.

  ‘What a mess – Don, I’m so sorry. Have you seen her?’

  A man’s voice. ‘I’ve seen her parents and the kids. Carol won’t see me.’

  Silence.

  A man’s voice. ‘Can we go back to bed?’

  Silence.

  ‘God, you’re such a sexy man. Careful, I’m a bit sore; you’ll have to go easy.’

  They both laughed.

  Then door opened and the policeman came out. He stopped. He was holding a towel around his waist. His eyes bulged open.

  The knife slipped into his stomach. Easier than a spoon going into a soft blancmange. The blood ran over the white towel.

  ‘What have you done? No, no.’

  The eyes, bulging. The mouth hanging open. The hands trying to pull the stomach together.

  ‘What’s up?’ A voice from the bathroom. ‘Don, what’s happened?’

  29

  Jack -1946

  We all recognised that tranquillity is not a good indicator of a long and prison free life. Eyeless lay face down in the snow, blood scattered around the snow like someone had dipped his six inch paint brush into a full pot of paint, dragged it slowly out and flicked it hard. The red spots went away in decreasing size. Largest closest and gradually reducing.

  What do we do?

  Harry darted into the garage, returned seconds later with a spade.

  I said, ‘You’re not burying him are you?’

  Harry started shovelling snow, throwing it over the gurgling body. Frantically like a lunatic stoker hysterically shovelling coal to regain some boiler pressure. Shovel after shovel after frenzied shovel. Quickly covering the dead man. We watched in open mouthed, wide eyed disbelief.

  Harry stared from one to the other, ‘What?’ Pointed the shovel Wyn’s way. ‘Breathing space that’s all, what should I fucking well do? Lay him out in the fucking living room?’

  ‘The lights have come back on.’ A voice from the door, Daphne staring at the pantomime scene, ‘What are you doi
ng out here in this?’

  ‘Clearing the fucking drive.’

  ‘Make a pot of coffee Daphne – we won’t be long.’

  ‘Who broke the window then?’

  We said nothing and a few seconds later her shadow moved away and we stood in silence.

  ‘She never saw anything – did she?’

  Wyn glanced at his brother, shrugged. ‘Don’t think so. Is he dead?’

  ‘Yes.’ Harry’s turn to shrug, ‘If he isn’t, we won’t be able to revive him anyway. The knife went all the way through. Sticking out the back of his fucking neck.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ A voice from the end of the drive. ‘What’s going on?’

  The snow covered policeman’s helmet, thirty yards away and coming steadily towards us.

  Wyn whispered to me, ‘Get out of those clothes and scrub yourself – quickly.’

  I rushed up the stairs two, three at a time. Daphne called from the bottom of the stairs, ‘You ok Jack love, I’ve got a pot of coffee on.’ Sounds of people gathering by the door, then Daphne saying, ‘Oh hello officer, have you come about the broken window?’

  I threw my clothes into the bath and turned the tap on. Filled the sink and scrubbed away at myself. Hands, wrists, face, neck. The red water swirled and gurgled away down the plughole. I couldn’t see why Lady Macbeth had so much trouble, I scrubbed up pretty well. I needed the nail brush, apart from that, nothing.

  I walked back into the living room, hair slicked down, clean trousers and shirt. A macabre scene presented itself, a squeaky clean policeman. Fresh faced and not a day over twenty. Frowning away and furiously scribbling onto the first page of a shiny, new notebook.

  The two older men sat back in arm chairs, talking over the policeman, around him, any which way just to confuse and distract.

  ‘Jack, this is constable Mably.’ Wyn picked a bottle of whiskey up. ‘Why don’t you try some of this? Jack loves this one. It’s good – you can’t buy this around here.’ A bottle of fifteen year old, single malt Jura hovered under the young man’s nose. ‘Go on, it’s cold out there.’

  ‘I don’t drink.’ P.C. Mably’s eyes followed the bottle like it was a hypnotist’s charm. ‘Usually.’

  ‘Mably… an unusual name, you’re not related to the French writer are you?’ I joined in with the game of distraction. ‘He was a Stoic and believed in human equality – a noble quality don’t you think.’

  ‘Shut up Jack, let him drink his whisky.’

  He drank it like a boy drinks beer, too quick. ‘Your neighbour says he heard a fight, screams, gunshots – a right set to.’

  Wyn shut his eyes for a second.

  Give me patience.

  ‘The man’s a drunk – this time of night he’s always raving. You must have noticed?’

  The policeman raised his eyebrows, ‘He had been drinking – but this is a serious charge. We had to follow it up.’

  Daphne came through with another pot of tea. ‘He’s always drunk, got a problem if you ask me.’

  Which we didn’t, although it helped build our character up as raving lunatic, prone to attacks of the D.T’s.

  ‘Why were you clearing the drive, you won’t be going anywhere tonight. It’s a foot deep in places.’

  ‘Supposed to have an early start tomorrow – just trying to clear the decks. I’m going up to London. Buy some new shirts and see a friend.’

  Wyn tapped his nose and winked.

  At that moment, the lights went out again. Plunged into darkness again until a candlelit Daphne came through. She placed a candle on the table for us and said, ‘I’m going up to bed now.’ She threw Wyn the briefest of glances and left us to it.

  Wyn ignored her, ‘One for the road?’

  The red faced policeman shook his head, four large ones was enough for someone that never drank. He wobbled a touch as he stood. Closed his notebook and slipped it inside his breast pocket. ‘I’d better be going – thanks for the drink.’

  Harry walked out with the policeman. I imagined him ushering the young man all the way down the drive, bidding him a goodnight at the gates. Staring after him for a few minutes. Guard dog seeing off a wolf. Job done and he re-joined us. The three of us sat in silence, what do we do now?

  Teddy - 1960

  Widest lens aperture, shortest focal length and stare. Did he catch any regret or satisfaction radiating from his uncle? Everybody likes the return of the prodigal, although he wasn’t his son.

  ‘You still putting the squeeze on that café down the road?’

  Teddy nodded, waiting for the reprimand.

  ‘Be careful boy, Jesus, sometimes I think you just don’t get it.’

  But Uncle Jim turned a blind eye. Over the years he had tried in vain to contact Eyeless. Not a trace, disappeared from the face of the earth.

  They sat on the beach a lot, they both liked the sun. Jim watched Teddy snapping away. A more expensive camera every year.

  ‘Poor old Teddy boy. What are you thinking?’

  His mind drifted back to the pubs, the gossip of criminals, the stares of the policemen and the drunks. Old men sat at Formica coated tables, sucking on their roll ups and drinking warm tea.

  The women cooing away at him. ‘Oh it won’t cost you Teddy boy.’

  The bitter street smells, urine mixed with overripe vegetables.

  He missed all of that, but here he had the sun and he used its therapeutic properties well. Best thing good old Uncle Jim did for him, buying the camera all those years ago. Now he’d got a Russian camera. The Zenit-5 was the first of the motorized SLR cameras. Despite the camera’s bulk, he loved the sound of the motor winding the film on.

  He spent most of his time clicking away down on the beach. Watching couples, intimate couples mainly. Discreet couples that sneaked kisses and touches. Even better when he fitted a zoom lens.

  Then he saw her. Connie wasn’t Spanish, despite her dark hair and tanned skin. Her cameraman was a poof as well. Well he wouldn’t be giving her one. That was always reassuring.

  The girls, all five of them were skinny. Beautiful, but skinny. He zoomed in on their chests for confirmation – all five flat as a nun’s chuff.

  The stinking dog that had become his constant companion, sat the other side to Uncle Jim and watched as well. Waiting for a scrap. Dogs didn’t argue, he liked this thing.

  He pointed, ‘Hey perro… vamos… por favor.’

  He liked the dog, but didn’t want to look like some deadbeat with that woman close by. She looked classy as she herded the girls around like a terrier snapping at the heels of a small herd of cattle.

  He liked bossy women.

  Attractive though.

  He stared at her – zooming in and out and his mind was everywhere. How old was he? How long had he been here, fourteen, fifteen years?

  He followed them back to their hotel, the Hospes Amerigo. He sat in the bar drinking a fruit juice – nothing mixed with the tablets he was on. Not Spanish brandy anyway, or cerveza. Certainly not that sangria piss.

  He watched them, she bossed the cameraman around too. Made sure the girls ate nothing but lettuce leaves. He felt inside his pocket – five reels to develop.

  She was suddenly in front of him, pointing. ‘Me estás siguiendo?

  ‘No.’

  ‘Estaba tomando fotos de mis chicas.’

  ‘De ninguna manera! Just fuck off will you, I’m not following you. Anyway it’s my fucking beach.’

  She smiled. ‘You’re English?’

  ‘Yep and my Spanish is ok, yours is shit. And I was taking pictures of you, not those skinny birds you were bullying.’

  She smiled again, ‘I’m Connie. Can you show me the pictures? I need a local man, the ability of these agency guys is so variable.’

  ‘How do you know I’m local?’

  ‘Your tan, your not flabby and pink like most Englishmen out here.’

  She held her hand out, ‘Like I said, I’m Connie.’

  Who was he?

  ‘I
’m Teddy, no, I’m Bernard, call me Berni.’

  ‘Berni, show me the pictures, get them to me tomorrow and I might have some work for you.’

  ‘Tomorrow? What’s your room number?’

  *****

  She was sexy and knew all about him. Didn’t know who he was, but knew that he was a runner. Something odious in his past. Something disgracefully, monstrously illegal. Something violent.

  All of those and more, if only she knew what exactly. But she never asked questions, hinted now and again.

  ‘If you ever went back to England, where would it be?’

  He played the game.

  Laughed when she said, ‘I bet you can’t go back to London?’

  He rented an apartamento. A small flat near the beach. It had a shared garden, a pool and play area. Connie stopped there whenever she came over.

  Teddy had found peace.

  Even when she said, ‘I live in the countryside, it’s not London. Do you think you could live with out in the sticks with the bumpkins?’

  Home, not London, but home. Sonning, near Reading.

  28

  Teddy - 1980

  What to do?

  She looked good, freshly bathed and he guessed, not unreasonably, recently fucked. Why did he like to fuck after someone else had been there?

  She looked good.

  ‘Is he dead?’

  Who?

  Silence.

  Make her wonder.

  Then.

  ‘You lied to me.’

  ‘When?’

  He put the knife down and pulled the letter out. Watching her all the time. He smoothed the letter out and began to read it.

  ‘My dear, darling Teddy’.

  He stared at her, knowing every word, comma and full stop he recited in a monotone. Shirley’s eyes closed and she began to shake her head.

  ‘Please don’t.’

  He carried on.

  ‘My dear, darling Teddy, I love you so much and I always will. I have to go away, I almost miscarried when I heard the result of the fight. They betrayed us, they made a fortune and cut me out completely. I’m in an infirmary and likely to be here for all of my confinement. On my back for months and not to have you close during that time breaks my heart. I’m in the Radcliffe hospital in Oxford and after that I don’t know. I’m alone, everyone’s left me except you. Please come and visit me. I’m sure your baby will be fit and well. Please come and see me soon.