‘I’m in trouble?’ I muttered.
‘Looks that way,’ said Briggs.
‘I didn’t mean for… I’m sorry.’
‘Someone’s always sorry.’
I peered up at Briggs, his moustache in spite of his downturned mouth and curling upward like a hairy smile. The perception was transient and probably arising by me being slumped beside him – still living. I took a deep breath, exhaling so much stress and tension, my body feeling like jelly. ‘What’ll happen?’ I said.
‘You come with us. We’ll get you cleaned up.’
‘Right.’
Briggs’s tone dropped. ‘Then we’ll have a chat.’
PART SIX
Thirty minutes later
Thirty-Six
There’s no greater sin
than the mess I’m in.
‘Charles Holder is dead,’ said Briggs.
‘What?’ I said.
‘’bout an hour ago.’
The police had been firm, but not unkind, as they had moved me from the hospital roof to an interview room. It had been a bit of a whirlwind, with no time to think – I didn’t want to think.
‘Cardiac arrest,’ said Briggs, standing, hands tucked into his trouser pockets.
I sat opposed, staring down at the table between us. A cassette recorder made sporadic squeaks, documenting the conversation for posterity. ‘But he was alive when…’
‘That’s right, was.’
‘I hit his shoulder.’
‘Stressful business getting shot.’
‘He can’t be dead.’
‘Dead as a dodo.’
My eyes darted around, in every direction but that of Briggs. Across the table, Johnson had kept quiet but for his name and rank, beside me, an empty seat had been reserved for legal advice.
‘Thinking twice about a shyster?’ said Briggs, catching my glance.
I shook my head – I may have been outnumbered, but my encounter with John Edmund had entrenched a feeling that all solicitors were cunts. As such, I had refused the duty ‘shyster’.
Briggs pulled out his chair, relieving his legs from the physical statement of a terrible diet. He leaned towards me and gave an exaggerated exhalation. ‘Manslaughter at best.’
I stared at the table.
‘You know that means jail?’
‘It was an accident,’ I mumbled, though realised it wasn’t quite the same as spilling sauce on my favourite shirt.
‘I’m not convinced you’d hack it inside.’
‘One accident…’
Briggs was quiet for a moment. ‘And Sydney Clough?’
I closed my eyes so very tightly.
‘Two accidents? I reckon you’re a proper Mr Clumsy.’
For a while, the low hum and random squeaks of the tape machine became the loudest sounds in the ongoing demise of Ginger Jones.
‘Listen, sunbeam,’ said Briggs, taking a breath. ‘The best thing you can do is let me help you. There’s nowhere to go from here, right?’ He leaned in, holding me with unblinking eyes. ‘No running, no hiding – and there’s no-one to be scared of. He’s dead.’
‘But…’
‘Come on sunbeam. Show some sense. Tell me what happened.’
So what’s left for me? A prison cell? Yet more loneliness? The guilt of knowing… ‘Fine,’ I said flatly.
Briggs nodded, his pupils expanding into the brown of his eyes and suggesting he was rather more excited over the mess inside my head than procedural composure would allow. ‘Good lad,’ he said.
Good? Hardly. Maybe once. But not now. Not after…
I felt my eyes glaze, Briggs’s face blurring as his moustache curled into a half smile.
‘All right?’ said Briggs. ‘Take a deep breath.’
I did, and then another. It helped.
Briggs let me be for a few moments, though his foot tapping beneath the table betrayed a certain eagerness. Before long, and after further perfunctory enquiries concerning my well-being, a clear-plastic evidence bag was placed before me. ‘We’ll start with this,’ he said.
Inside was a red velvet box – I knew inside that box was a ring.
‘No rush,’ said Briggs. ‘All in your own time.’
So, I took another deep breath.
And I told the truth.
Thirty-Seven
I shouldn’t waste my time.
I shouldn’t waste my breath.
A long thirty seconds passed before my call was answered.
‘Mum?’
The line crackled a little, though was otherwise quiet.
‘Mum? It’s me.’
I heard a breath, short, slightly clogged – it seemed almost a gasp.
‘What you want?’ said Mum.
‘I’m with the police.’
‘Right.’
Again, it was quiet but for her heavy breathing.
‘I just want… to say…’ The power of articulating my thoughts was seemingly lost. ‘I mean…’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I blurted.
‘I can’t…’
‘Mum?’
‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’
‘Whatever happens…’
‘I’ll put Dad on.’
‘Mum. Wait.’
She didn’t and the line fell silent.
A few moments later, Dad said: ‘What you want?’
Again, I was flummoxed. ‘I… I dunno…’
‘So why you callin’?’
‘I just…’
‘You’ve upset Mum. All this bloody carry on. What you playing at?’
‘It’s not…’
‘Not what?’
‘What it seems.’
Dad delayed his reply, though soon proved his moment to think had been misspent: ‘Seems like you’re up shit street,’ he said.
Like I expected anything different from you. Fuck what did I expect? Why am I even talking to you?
‘You still there?’ said Dad.
‘Yeh.’
‘Right.’
My words rode upon a long exhalation. ‘Don’t think I care anyway.’
‘What you mean?’
‘Dunno – thinking out loud .’
‘Well… whatever’s happening, needn’t drag us into it, eh?’
‘Guess not.’
‘Let us know how you get on.’
‘Fine.’
‘See you then.’
‘Yeh.’
Dad hung up.
Thirty-Eight
Can’t think what I’ve done,
don’t know what I think.
A night in the cells is not actually unpleasant – at least not in the simplest context. Contrary to popular opinion, the food is average, the spaces are warm and the beds are not entirely uncomfortable – even the sporadic company of an officer checking to see that I wasn’t dead had mitigated my sense of isolation somewhat.
I was, however, the master of my own torment. My mind worked through a cycle of apology, sorrow and denial, though whenever I tried to release, it appeared my thoughts were as equally incarcerated, bouncing around the cell and returning to my head with a stronger poison. It was futile.
‘All right sunbeam?’ said Briggs.
The inspector’s voice was a rescue from my musing, yet as I lowered my arms and averted my gaze from the inside of my hands, I saw him filling the doorway like some kind of rotund bottle-stop – and my torment did not feel mitigated.
Briggs winked. ‘Nice morning eh?’
I’m living in a fucking cell.
‘Right then, I’ll get to the point – we’re giving you bail.’
Sorry, for a moment there I thought you said… ‘What?’
&n
bsp; ‘You can leave this morning.’
This elicited several palpitations. ‘But…’
‘You’re not off the hook like – there’ll be conditions, and we’ll need you for a second interview.’
‘But you said, before…’
‘I know what I said sunbeam.’
‘People are dead.’
‘You making a case for the CPS?’
‘How am I supposed to… I mean, after all this.’
Briggs moved in, the mattress collapsing like a sinkhole as he parked himself upon the bed beside me. ‘Listen,’ he said, breath confirming the recent consumption of an onion based snack. ‘Holder was overweight and he lived a stressful life. He was never more than a packet of crisps ahead of a heart attack.’
‘But I shot him.’
‘It’s a plausible self-defence.’
My hands clutched at the mattress, the walls seeming to close in and clamp my head like a vice. ‘I can’t live knowing… I can’t be out on the streets. It’s not allowed. Not after…’
‘Yeh, well. I should tell you something about that, sunbeam.’
‘What? About what? It’s all a mess. What more to say? Eh? Syd is dead. Chas is dead.’
Briggs shrugged. ‘Not exactly.’
‘What?’
‘Holder’s not…’
‘Not?’
‘Well…’
‘What you saying?’
‘We needed the truth.’
I caught a gist, and that gist made me nauseous. ‘You mean?’
Briggs glanced away.
‘He’s not dead?’
He inhaled through his teeth, creating the soundtrack of a tuneless whistle which elicited the memory of a long ago TV theme tune and the capers of a skinny, beret-wearing buffoon. Briggs then looked back towards me with a straight face that was in no way apologetic and more suited to a maverick American cop show. ‘Let’s just say Holder’s not well,’ he said.
‘I fucking shot him.’
He took a lazy breath. ‘Holder did take a turn. The cardiac arrest is bona fide, he’s just not dead. We economised the truth ’cos we needed the truth.’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ I mumbled.
‘Eh?’
‘He’ll still kill me!’
Briggs’s reply was almost nonchalant. ‘Doubt it sunbeam.’
‘You can’t stop him.’
He sniffed. ‘A middle-aged overweight wannabe gangster?’
‘Then how did I get here?’
‘Like you gave us a chance.’
‘But—’
‘Think we could have done anything knowing scraps of a bloody story, eh? Mixed in with a few fibs?’
Reasonable thought had vacated the premises, I just stared at Briggs.
‘We know the truth right?’ he said.
I nodded
‘Then you’ll be fine.’ He made to stand, grinning, his moustache tickling his top teeth. ‘Anyway, he’s not exactly gonna be leaping from his ITU bed.’
‘Really?’
‘Course he aint.’
I huddled into myself. ‘Can you promise that? In blood?’
As Briggs stood, so he released the mattress from its constriction and I imagined the bed gasping for air. ‘No need sunbeam.’
I remained unconvinced.
‘Now,’ he said, his tone altogether more cheerful. ‘PC Smith here’ll take you to see the custody sergeant – to cross your “I”s and dot your whatnots.’
I glanced across the cell to see a uniformed officer by the door – I was oblivious as to how long he had been there. I felt oblivious to everything.
‘Just one more thing, sunbeam,’ said Briggs, Columbo style. ‘Any idea what Big Tits did with the cash? Lot of money to stick in a suitcase.’
‘Er…’ Well Inspector, a chunk of it’s still hidden in my— ‘No,’ I said.
He paused for a moment, before the bush covering his top lip curled into a grin and he appeared satisfied. ‘Right. Stay out of trouble then, eh?’
I nodded.
Briggs then left.
And, apparently, I was free to go.
One month later
Thirty-Nine
See you Ginger, now don’t
you leave it too long.
I sat at the back of the chapel, a whole row to myself. I was some way from the other people, wailing and howling as they did – I was avoiding Mary, my sister, in particular. It was all so very black – too bloody black – except for me that is. I wore my one and only work shirt, a pale red derived from white cotton, a vivid sock and a recent ninety degrees cycle wash. I probably looked like I’d just finished a shift at McDonalds, but as I say – I was at the back.
So, to remember a person for whom I had little respect and often hated – Sydney Clough, as the minister called him.
I hadn’t missed Syd at all really, by the simple fact it was too uncomfortable to think he was dead. I kept thinking he’d turn up on my doorstep with a stash of porn at a reasonable price. If I’d really thought him dead I think I might have cried. Maybe.
‘… loved by friends and family,’ said the minister.
I didn’t hate Syd anymore. Like lots of things – it just didn’t matter.
His mum was at the front, wailing in harmony with Mary. Syd had been in and out of foster care as a kid; his mum a wino, and his dad a myth of affluence for whom she’d compromised herself after a David Bowie concert. She was crying – but I couldn’t help think she just liked the attention.
‘We remember with affection, for happy memories live forever in our hearts, they make us smile,’ said the minister. ‘Still, Sydney makes us smile.’
For a time, Syd and I had been one another’s only friend – good friends – and I wouldn’t forget that. But I wanted to scream at the futility of his life. It seemed so sad that we could only honour him in death, because he was dead. I supposed Syd was an inspiration – to do something.
‘We now turn to page fifteen in the blue hymn book – All Things Bright and Beautiful,’ said the minister, ‘one of Sydney’s favourites.’
I smiled to myself. The only music Syd ever liked was about niggers, guns and big assed booty bitches. I doubted he’d ever set foot in a church.
The people stood as an organ began to play, talent-less fingers making it sound like bagpipes – it was horrible, and my moment to leave.
So, I said goodbye to Syd under my breath and slipped away unnoticed.
Forty
What’s your
beef? I’m no thief.
‘Three grand!’ said Dad, huffing and puffing, descending the steps from the Magistrates’ Court rather tentatively. ‘How can that be right?’
‘It’s the law, Morris,’ said Mum, her arm clasped around Dad’s, almost like a care assistant. Both appeared to have made a modicum of effort, Mum in a long floral dress that looked like it had been dug-up from 1973; Dad sporting his wedding and funeral suit, which, since its last outing, appeared half a pork pie short of exploding.
‘The law’s bollocks,’ said Dad.
‘Let’s get fish and chips, celebrate that it’s all done and dusted.’
‘How can it be? I’ve gotta pay back three bloody grand.’
I stood to the side of the steps, a well-placed bush halfway down affording me a stealthy view – Mum and Dad couldn’t see me, and I didn’t want them to.
‘Dance with me, Morris,’ said Mum, halting their descent and grinning.
‘What?’
‘Like the old days.’ She dropped a step, spun rather creakily on her heel and looked up at Dad. ‘Go on,’ she croaked, tickling his belly and seeming to create some kind of tidal shift though his girth.
‘Give over woman.’
Mum held Dad in a bear hug,
emulating the kind of slow, grope-laden dance that happens at the end of a school disco.
‘You on bloody heat or what?’ Dad wriggled about, though his attempts to shake her off were rather feeble.
As Mum pinched his bum, Dad jumped, obesity and gravity working together to pull him from her grapple – he fell the remaining few steps like a keg of beer on a barrel drop.
‘Morris!’ Mum screeched.
Dad was a heap at the foot of the steps. I almost rushed to his aid – but I’d travelled by bus, and it was due in five minutes.
So I left.
Forty-One
The choice is yours. Don’t
let your life go wrong.
The sun shone through the office window, making me squint. Outside it was cold, November, and practising for winter. Inside, double glazing had accentuated the direct sunlight and was making me uncomfortably hot. I undid my top button – I hated the sun for trying to fool me into thinking it was a nice afternoon.
I was back at work.
‘OK chuck?’ said Brian.
I grunted. ‘That Donna on packing row two just pinched my arse.’
‘Really?’
‘Outside the bogs.’
‘Well you are our little hero.’
‘She stinks.’
‘Another broken heart.’ Brian studied his magazine closely. ‘Suzi Star says that Cancerians – you – “must not think that because things have always been a certain way that they have to stay like that forever. Change is possible”. What d’ya think?’
I paused. ‘Only girls and gayboys read that shit.’
Brian peered over his magazine. ‘Meow!’
I flopped into my seat and put my feet up on the desk, on the floor, then back on the desk. Change wasn’t just possible, it had become a necessity.
‘It’s the line dancing final tonight,’ said Brian. ‘You coming to cheer us on?’
I shook my head and fiddled with a fish shaped eraser. ‘So who are these new owners anyway?’
‘Administrators. They’ll just want a quick sale, pay off creditors – won’t give a toss about us.’
Strange Affairs, Ginger Hairs Page 19