‘Was Barney the dog or the owner, Shelagh?’
Shelagh looks slightly amazed by the question. ‘The dog,’ she says.
It’s a coincidence, of course. Joyriders must hit dogs all the time. I have visions of the Watts Estate filled with flying four-legged bodies. But still, I have to ask the question.
‘Do a lot of dogs get caught up in hit and runs around here?’
‘No, thank goodness! It’s the only case I’ve known in fifteen years on this desk.’
I need to keep this conversation going because suddenly I have to know how it ends. ‘Dogs have better senses than humans,’ I say.
‘They do,’ Shelagh agrees warmly.
‘Shame about the guy,’ I prompt.
‘What guy?’
I really hope I get a receptionist like this the day I get knocked over by speeding teenagers. So interested in the human element of a tragedy. ‘The guy with the DOG,’ I say.
‘Oh, a broken leg won’t kill you,’ Shelagh says. She frowns again. ‘Unless you’re a racehorse.’
She returns to her paperwork, completely unaware that she’s just made a seismic shift in my world. The only case in fifteen years? Both man and dog survived? This is colossal. This . . .
I sit down to stare at the handwashing poster again. More sirens. Another ambulance. Moaning, crying, puking.
‘Apparently it’s all kicking off back at the Gaslight,’ says Jem, returning. ‘They clawed the show back from the brink, but it’s touch and go they’ll make it to the end. Val has Oz and Kev on the bar as back-up, but she really needs one of us back for the interval or the whole place will implode.’ He looks at me properly. ‘You look like someone just hit you round the head with a mallet. Are you OK? Has Fatima—’
A bemused-looking doctor with a wispy beard approaches us. ‘You came in with Fatima Ammour? She’s awake and chatting up my gastroenterologist. You can see her if you like.’
It’s like resurrection day around here, I think a little hysterically. Now Fatima isn’t dead I can kill her myself, at my leisure. As we follow the doctor up the corridor, my hand creeps up Jem’s arm and grips him tightly at the elbow.
‘Are you sure he died?’ I blurt.
His face tightens. ‘What?’
‘The guy Studs hit.’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘You saw him lying there? Him and his dog?’
‘Why are we talking about this now?’
‘Did you see him?’ I insist.
‘We left,’ he says shortly. ‘I got the details from Studs later. What—’
‘The receptionist remembered the dog,’ I say. ‘They didn’t die, Jem. Neither of them died. You didn’t
kill anyone.’
Fatima is sitting up.
‘My stomach feel like an elephant is jumping on me,’ she croaks crossly, trying to smooth the hospital gown over her belly. Her voice sounds rough.
‘They pumped you out,’ I say. ‘Does it hurt?’
Fatima flops her head back on the pillow. ‘I cannot even fart, it hurt so much. Imagine this. English drugs don’t agree so much with me as French drugs. When I see that skinny weasel man again I will kill him.’
Jem is standing by the window, staring out into the night. He hasn’t said much since the man-and-dog bombshell. Nothing at all, in fact.
‘When did you meet Studs anyway?’ I ask, squeezing Fatima’s hand to reassure myself that she really is talking
to me.
‘He offer me something outside Ella’s place but I don’t want it. Then he is at the Gaslight tonight. I want to relax, enjoy the party, you know?’
‘But you were working,’ I say.
Fatima looks surprised. ‘Why does this matter?’ She nods at Jem a little woozily. ‘You see his tall girlfriend yet? Do I miss the fight?’
I shush her, alarmed.
‘Whose girlfriend?’ Jem says, turning round.
‘Tall. With the curves like a violin.’
Fatima motions with her hands. She is still pretty out of it. Jem looks at me like I’m the one who owes him an explanation.
‘Cats never stay in bags, Jem,’ I say, deciding to have it out right here and now. ‘I mean, why would they? They’re cats. You can’t even keep potatoes in bags. They go green and sprout. Imagine the state of a blinking cat.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You tell me,’ I challenge.
‘I can’t tell you what day of the week it is right now. My head is spinning like a wheel. I can’t take any more surprises.’
‘Fatima saw her in the kitchen at the Gaslight,’ I say. I wish I could sound more triumphant about this. ‘Talk your way out of that.’
Jem raises his hands. ‘I’ve said sorry for not believing you about the swipe machine. You just dropped the nuclear news that I have never killed anyone and now you’re talking about potatoes and cats. Have we slid into another dimension? Fatima, I’m really glad you’re OK, but right now I have to leave before my imminent alien abduction. I’m going back to help Val at the bar.’
He leaves, hands in pockets, head down and shoulders up.
As the door closes I burst into tears. Emotional intelligence is so exhausting. I long to be fourteen again, getting with Ali Frampton while simultaneously eyeing James Collins at the fruities.
‘You have him very bad,’ Fatima observes as I weep all over the hospital blanket.
‘I’ve only been in love twice,’ I choke. Bogies are going everywhere. ‘And both times they’ve had girlfriends and lied about it. What are the chances?’
Fatima strokes my hair.
‘It’s because I annoyed Aphrodite,’ I gulp. ‘I tried to interfere in her plan for the universe. And now it’s all pinged back and walloped me in the face. I don’t think the gods like it when you interfere.’
She makes a tutting noise. ‘This is Laurent, yes?’
‘What’s Laurent?’ I wail.
‘Aphrodite.’ Fatima looks at me indulgently. ‘I have the kiss of Aphrodite, mwah mwah. You kiss him in Argole and you catch fire in your pants and you think this is the power of Aphrodite because he tell it to you. He tell it to all the girls. He tell it to me one time, even. But the truth is more simple. French boys kiss like movie stars.’ She looks a little smug.
Oh. Right.
Yes.
What?
‘I never really believed him,’ I mumble. My face feels scarlet. ‘Not really. Not a hundred per cent. I’m a scientist. I mean, it’s a great line and everything, but . . . Tab believed it but I didn’t. Kind of didn’t. I’m a total pillock.’
‘It is because you are human and stupid,’ says Fatima. ‘You want to believe that someone in the universe know what they are doing because for sure you don’t. Maybe Aphrodite, maybe God. This explain a lot of religion.’
I rub at my tears. I am a truly ridiculous example of an idiotic human.
‘You need to rest,’ I say, and wave at the door. ‘I should go.’
‘Don’t go home and cry on your pillow.’ Fatima’s head sinks back. ‘Go and see Tabby’s show, if there is still some show to see. She will want you to be there. Love will come when it is ready, chérie. Not when Aphrodite is horny.’
The lobby and bar are half full, but the main action is coming from the auditorium where I can hear whoops and whistles and the jolly thrum of band music. No Jem. Nowhere I can see, at least.
‘I hear Fatima’s going to be OK,’ says Kev on the auditorium doors. He clasps my arm in comradeship. ‘There’s some bad gear about at the moment. She was lucky. How about you?’
‘I’m not the one who’s had a load of fertilizer rinsed out of my guts,’ I say, touched by his concern. ‘I’ll live. How long until the interval?’
&n
bsp; ‘Ten minutes. Five, maybe. Wanna go in?’
The auditorium is packed. Plastic glasses of beer line the steps, and devil horns flash, and the crinkle of crisp packets cheerfully battles with the band as the chorus thumps through that old Shakespeare hit, ‘Sigh No More, Ladies’, with Tabby’s signature twist.
‘Die no more, ladies, die no more,’ carols Gladys.
‘Zombies deceive us ever,’ Dorcas carols back.
‘Whoever savaged that granny did a sweet job,’ says a transfixed Grim Reaper perched near the doors.
The cast are dancing around Warren, Rich and Henry on stage. Sam and Maria are nowhere to be seen. Lurking in the background, Patricia and Eunice seem to be on red alert.
I check my ticket. Someone is sitting in my seat. As I dither over what to do next, Oz grabs me and pulls me on to the armrest at the end of the nearest row.
‘What have I missed?’ I whisper. ‘Any assassination attempts?’
There is a sudden commotion in the wings. The audience sits up with interest as Studs ploughs through a gaggle of green-tinged chorus members and pegs it across the stage, ducking the scenery, his skinny legs and white trainers a blur.
‘It was insurance!’ he squeals over his shoulder. ‘You’d have done the same . . . You know how it is . . . We’re still mates, yeah? We’re still . . .’
Jem powers after him, hurdling over a bench and a tub of paper flowers. ‘I’ll wring your bloody neck! I would’ve stuck by you whatever. And don’t get me started on what you sold Fatima . . .’
The rest is lost in the wings on the far side of the stage. The audience erupts, whooping and drumming their feet on the ground, and the curtain comes crashing down on Act One.
‘Delilah, thank God.’ Val is pulling my arm, heaving me through the auditorium doors on the crest of the flood. ‘Despite promising to help on the bar, Oz has vanished and Kev’s on crowd control and Jem’s somewhere else and I am on my knees and the serious drinking hasn’t even started yet and I’ll pay you six quid an hour— no, seven, plus tips, just do it.’
The bar is already fat with people waving tenners in the air. What else can I do but serve, and serve, and serve again, picking my way through the queue bargers and the big spenders and the banter merchants like I haven’t already had the most frantic evening of my life?
‘It’s a miracle the show’s made it this far,’ says Oz, unaware of the death glares from Val as he squeezes in between two girls at the bar to order beer. ‘The tension on the stage has been sensational. It could have been scripted.’
I wipe my forehead with one hand and siphon soda with the other. ‘You seen Jem anywhere?’
‘Strangling that skinny guy, I imagine. Enjoying the show, ladies?’
‘It’s amazing,’ gushes a girl with Morticia Addams hair on his left.
‘AMAZING,’ agrees the smaller witchy one on Oz’s right.
‘And you lovelies are pretty amazing too,’ Oz beams, putting his arms round them both.
We sell an unbelievable amount of alcohol in twenty minutes flat. And then the bell goes and most of the
hellish Hallowe’en army returns to their evening’s unpredictable entertainment.
‘These kids will be the death of me,’ Val wheezes, banging her chest with a fist as the auditorium doors swing shut. ‘Shortly after they have funded my retirement. Get this lot in the dishwasher, will you?’
I carry armfuls of dead glasses into the kitchen, stack them in the machine and wonder what on earth I’m doing. The money will be handy and everything, but I am supposed to be watching Tab. And yet here I am, in the heart of Jem’s lair. I sneak a glance at his locker. It hangs slightly ajar, his jacket on view. He is still around then, somewhere.
At about ten-fifteen, I wipe a table beneath the elbows of a pair of singing werewolves and throw my cloth on
the counter.
‘Going somewhere?’ Val says beadily.
‘I thought I’d catch the end of the show,’ I say, edging towards the auditorium doors. ‘We’re quieter now, and I thought—’
Val points at a small crowd hanging around the bar who have decided to quit the show in favour of getting extremely drunk. ‘They need serving.’
She dives into the cellar. I serve a few more rounds of drinks, wondering if I’ll get to see any of the show at all.
The door which leads straight to the wings on the right-hand side of the stage suddenly opens into the lobby.
‘I need a drink,’ Maria announces, marching towards the bar.
The singing werewolves point at her, study their crumpled programmes and break into a cheery rendition of ‘How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?’.
‘Is it over?’ I ask. I haven’t heard any final-sounding applause.
‘It’s Patricia and Eunice’s big “comedy” number,’ says Maria with a sniff. ‘Big being the word, where Patricia is concerned. Hasn’t she heard of the Dukan diet? I deserve a nice cold drink for everything I’ve been through tonight. It turns out Sam has been lying to me about agents too. I heard Rich talking to Henry in the wings. The agent Sam said was here is at the show in Woking.’
I can hear Patricia and Eunice’s duet through the open door. They are getting plenty of laughs. But if the leading lady is at the bar on her next cue, the laughing is going to stop pretty fast.
I come out from behind the counter. ‘I’ll bring something backstage if you want,’ I say, flapping my cleaning cloth at her like I’m trying to usher a chicken back into its pen. ‘But I really think you should go back—’
‘Give me something now.’ Maria pulls off her long dark wig and ruffles her blond hair. ‘That lot can wait.’ She gave her make-up guy so much grief that her zombie look is more pale and interesting than outright dead.
‘Aren’t you on next?’ I say helplessly.
‘I don’t know if I can be bothered,’ Maria says with supreme indifference. ‘Anyway, this song takes ages. They’ll probably do an encore too. Fanta, with ice.’
‘Maria, what are you doing?’ hisses Sam in terror, putting his head round the stage door. ‘We’ve got the finale in five minutes.’
‘Don’t you start with me,’ Maria spits.
‘I’m sorry about the agent thing – I’m sorry about a lot of things – but you can’t let us down now!’
Tabby peeps round nervously next to Sam. Maria curls her lip.
‘And as for you,’ she begins malevolently.
The main double doors clang open, bringing with them a gust of cold evening air. Jem’s hair is sticking straight up and his cheeks have a glow that brings me out in a rash of purest longing.
‘Is it over?’ he asks breathlessly, resting his hands on his knees.
‘No,’ say Sam, Tab and me together. Well, I make an odd snorting noise.
Jem looks at Maria. ‘Then what—’
‘I’m having a DRINK,’ Maria says.
‘Where’s Studs?’ I manage to ask.
‘Halfway to Dorking, if he knows what’s good for him,’ Jem says darkly.
A burst of applause rocks the lobby. Patricia shoots through the stage door to join the fun at the bar, along with Rich, Henry, Gladys – pretty much everyone, really.
‘Get back on stage,’ Patricia shouts at Maria. ‘It’s the finale! Hero and Claudio, Beatrice and Benedick –
the wedding!’
‘Encore!’ roars the crowd. ‘Bring back the dead coppers!’
Eunice grabs Patricia’s uniformed arm. ‘We need to go again, Patricia. They’ll have to sort this out themselves.’
‘Thank God for encores,’ says Sam as the orchestra starts Patricia and Eunice’s song again. He looks ill with nerves. ‘Maria, you have to come back.’
‘You have no right to tell me what to do,’ Maria says mulishly. ‘Not af
ter the way you’ve treated me.’
‘Sam,’ says Jem, ‘there’s something I should tell you round about now.’
Maria goes very still as Sam scrubs at his eyes like a tired child.
‘Hit me,’ he says.
Jem looks abashed. ‘Maria and I kind of . . . hooked up a few weeks ago.’
There is an astonished silence, not least from me. The assembled cast goggle at each other.
‘Don’t believe him, Sammy,’ Maria says, in a voice that instantly tells me that every word is true. Not that I need Maria to tell me that, of course. Jem being Jem.
‘You’re kidding me,’ Sam says to Jem.
‘I wish I was, mate. Kissing one of your girlfriends is bad enough, I know. Kissing two is—’
Sam’s fist flashes out – WHAM – and Jem hits the ground, holding his jaw.
‘Punchable,’ he agrees, through a mouthful of blood.
‘It was only once,’ Maria says quickly. ‘And he kissed me, Sammy. I swear.’
I’m trying to keep up, but I’m struggling. So’s the cast. In the background, Patricia and Eunice are on their second verse again.
‘When did you kiss her?’ Sam demands, standing over Jem’s sprawled body on the floor.
‘Night of your first rehearsal,’ Jem confesses. ‘And for the record, she’s lying about who kissed who.’
Sam shakes his fist out and glares down at Jem. Laughs, suddenly. ‘Guess I hit you,’ he says. And laughs again.
The singing werewolves and assorted other drinkers watch, enthralled, as Sam extends a hand to help Jem back on to his feet. They exchange manly nods.
‘Don’t ever bloody kiss Tab again,’ says Sam.
He takes Tabby’s hand and squeezes it. Tabby goes bright pink with excitement.
‘What about me?’ Maria bleats. ‘Don’t you care that he kissed me?’
‘Nope,’ says Sam.
Taking Tabby’s face in both hands, he kisses her gently. The kiss becomes extremely ungentle, extremely fast. Over their heads, the theatre lights sputter and fizz and glow again in a flash of pure comic timing.
Ella rockets through the stage door next, armed with a murderous glare and a fistful of brushes and powder puffs. ‘STOP SNOGGING. You’re wrecking those masterpieces on your faces BEFORE THE SHOW’S EVEN FLAMING FINISHED!’
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