Jess Castle and the Eyeballs of Death

by M B Vincent

  He was grateful. He told her he’d pay her back. She said a kiss on her cheek would settle the debt. His lips were soft.

  As Danny waited for the extravaganza to be wrapped, Jess’s phone pinged.

  Dinner Wednesday?

  She waved to Danny.

  Why not. I’ll book somewhere. Pick me up at 8.

  Rupert’s reply appeared immediately.

  Yessir!

  Obeying the 20 mph limit along Fore Street, Jess saw a figure enter Dickinson’s Books. She counted to ten to overcome the temptation to stop the car.

  She stopped the car.

  ‘Not you again,’ said Graham. ‘Buying something this time, one hopes.’

  ‘Just browsing.’ Jess gave the counter a wide berth; Shakespeare had another one of his intermittent gum infections.

  There were books on the floor. Books on chairs. Books in boxes. Towards the back of the shop, in the Fine Art section, was her quarry. He wore long shorts and flip-flops. Jess did not look at his feet. Men’s feet in flip-flops were one of her most cherished pet hates.

  ‘Oh hey,’ she said.

  Luis Unthank was wary. ‘Sorry. Do we . . .?’

  ‘I saw you at the gig. That gig. I’m an old friend of Gavin’s.’

  ‘Right. Heavy shit, yeah?’ Unthank went back to browsing.

  ‘You’re Luis, right?’

  ‘Lu.’ He sounded aggrieved. As if everybody in the world knew he was Lu. As if Luis was an insult.

  ‘Didn’t you create their logo?’

  ‘You a reporter or something?’

  ‘No. But I’m into design. I love the Baldur artwork.’

  He warmed up. Slightly. Took her in properly. ‘It was a sweet little project.’ He took down an immense book on Weimar culture. As he turned the pages, he said, ‘I do a lot of branding. Hotel chains. Banks. So poor old Gavin’s little band was a doddle.’

  ‘It’s an interesting symbol.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He accepted the compliment as his due.

  ‘Did you research Baldur?’

  Unthank looked at her sharply. ‘What did you say your name was? You didn’t, did you?’ He took the book to the cash register. ‘Can you do me a deal, mate?’ he said to Graham, who was nobody’s mate. ‘It’s a bit battered.’

  ‘The price,’ said Graham, ‘is the price.’

  As Unthank waited for his change, he set down a pile of business cards on the counter. ‘In case a customer needs some branding or marketing help. Give ’em my card. We’re all indies now. We can help each other out.’

  Graham brought the card right up to his eyes. ‘What’s an imageer?’

  ‘I’m a wizard of the narrative. A reputation saver.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘See you, mate. And sort your cat out.’

  When Jess pocketed a card and followed him out onto the cobbles, Unthank slowed down. ‘This book is worth twice what that idiot asked for it.’

  ‘Well done you,’ said Jess. Silently, she added, you utter plank. ‘Are you working on something now?’

  ‘Branding for a car. It’s German, so I’m digging into Bauhaus, expressionism. Nobody will appreciate it.’

  Jess had read somewhere that psychopaths were bitter. Or at least she thought she had. She scurried after Unthank, in the opposite direction to her car. He walked inhospitably fast and it crossed her mind that he might think she fancied him. ‘It’s so cool,’ she said, ‘to talk to somebody who comprehends the importance of symbols.’

  ‘They’re everywhere, aren’t they?’ Unthank lit a cigarette. Didn’t ask Jess if she wanted one.

  ‘You utilise them, I guess, to sell.’

  ‘To sell, yeah. Seduce. Persuade.’ He took a long drag. ‘Bully if necessary.’

  ‘They have power,’ said Jess. ‘I respect symbols.’

  ‘Funny way of putting it. Why respect them? Why not just interpret and use them to get what you want?’

  ‘Because they border on the magical. Symbols speak subliminally to people. The swastika didn’t just happen.’

  ‘Woah.’ Unthank ridiculed her with his feigned surprise. ‘How’d we get to Hitler so quickly? Not all symbols are heavy. The sign outside my window at the EasySleep Inn is a classic of its sort and hasn’t changed for twenty years. Nobody started a world war over it.’

  She’d met his like before. Mocking. Sneery. Jess pretended to like him. ‘How long are you around for?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just thought, um . . .’ Jess pushed herself to say it. ‘You might fancy a drink.’ She went red. Red didn’t suit her.

  Unthank stopped. Held up his left hand. ‘Married, love. New baby.’ He looked as if he pitied her, and Jess wanted to take his oversized art book and shove it, with gusto, up his fundament.

  They were by the market cross. Unthank leant against it. ‘Now, here’s a symbol and a half.’ He seemed ready to talk now he had humiliated her. ‘You see one of these crosses in every village square. But what are people actually seeing?’

  Jess saw a tall, sturdy cross of mellow stone. It was pitted and warm, and every November it sprouted wreaths. ‘They’re seeing a reminder of the men who gave their lives for the rest of us. It says “remember me”.’

  ‘ “Gave their lives” is a sugar-coated way of saying they died a miserable death in battle. The cross has something real to say, but it uses the voice we all have deep inside us. The non-verbal one. The primeval one. Yet everybody passes it while they do their shopping and walk their doggies, ignoring the fact that this cross evokes blood and bullets and death. Anyway. Nice talking to you.’ Unthank saluted her facetiously. ‘Might see you at the funeral.’ He looked down his nose. ‘You’ll be there, of course. You being such a good friend of Gavin’s.’

  Jess let him disappear from view before she turned to hurry back to her car. Unthank had left her feeling an inch high.

  By way of an antidote, Tallulah bounced across the square. Flowers in her arms, the sun in her hair, she was as high as a girl in a 1980s tampon advert.

  Hoping the spring in her step was contagious, Jess hailed Tallulah. Asked about the flowers.

  ‘From my fiancé.’ Tallulah held them out for Jess to sniff. ‘He’s the nicest person I know and we’re going to have three kids. Maybe a chihuahua. Not sure about the chihuahua.’

  ‘His mum doesn’t approve, yeah?’

  ‘How do you know?’ Tallulah’s face was an illustration of surprise.

  ‘If you want my advice, keep going. When you find a nice person, hang on to them. In the end, nobody can argue with love.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Tallulah turned away.

  A voice behind Jess said, ‘You shouldn’t poke your nose in. Could be dangerous to encourage them.’

  ‘Hi Karen.’ Jess turned. ‘I’m not poking anything in. I’m interested. There are rules to this kind of thing.’ Jess made up these rules on the spot. ‘If you interfere in the right spirit, if you do it with love, it’s allowed.’

  Karen wasn’t listening. Her rabbity nose twitched. ‘There he goes!’ She darted past Jess. There was a scuffle between her pristine jacket and a scabby raincoat. ‘Gotcha!’

  Squeezers’ hands were behind his back as Karen frogmarched him across the square.

  ‘Explain this, Karen!’ Jess scuttled along behind them.

  ‘His alibi collapsed.’ Karen bent Squeezers into a waiting car, blue and yellow chequered. Through the window, she told him, ‘There was a lock-in at the Druid’s Head the night Keith Dike died, but nobody remembers seeing you there.’

  The car drove away. Jess hit the side of it with the palm of her hand as it passed her. From inside, she heard Squeezers shout, ‘I’ll plead the fifth!’

  Chapter 14

  IT BEGINS AT HOME

  Still Tuesday 24 May

  The market square was quiet again after the clamour of Squeezers’ arrest.

  At a loss without Mary, Jess was tempted to chase off to Margaret Thatcher Way and wangle her way in
to the interview room with Squeezers. She set her shoulders against that idea. Better to wait for the call to come.

  Jess turned in a circle. An axe had fallen on her routines.

  No lectures to prepare. No student emails to answer about forgotten deadlines or lost work.

  No need to visit the library and lose herself in research.

  No despairing over her inability to compete with the lure of the mobile phones in her students’ bags.

  No elation when they laugh at her jokes, when they concentrate so hard that it’s like an engine running.

  No moment of pure connection.

  A visit to Lynne’s Minimart was in order.

  Crunchies. Quavers. Soleros. Lynne’s was a treasure trove for the greedy. Jess bit into her Curly Wurly, enjoying the way it resisted her, as she meandered along Fore Street.

  The window of the charity shop was eclectic. The same battered mannequin that had stood there since biblical times wore a Primark kaftan. A beret sat on a disembodied polystyrene head, its expression felt-tipped in. A filthy soft toy with no eyes added a topical touch.

  A selection of handwritten notes were sellotaped to the door.

  DO NOT ASK FOR CHANGE FOR THE CAR PARK.

  PUSHCHAIRS ARE DISCOURAGED

  FOR OBVIOUS REASONS.

  NO DOGS ALLOWED NOT EVEN GUIDE DOGS

  WHO ARE STILL DOGS AFTER ALL.

  A new one had been added, not yet faded by the sun.

  DON’T ASK WE DON’T KNOW ANYTHING

  ABOUT THE MURDERS.

  The bell above the door jangled.

  Volunteering her time would be a spring clean for Jess’s soul. As the Judge liked to point out, the Castles had a long history of public service; he meant brigadiers and MPs, but they who only stand and wait in Owl Sanctuary charity shops also serve.

  Richard came out from the back room on oiled slipons. ‘Oh,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ said Doug, appearing behind him.

  Of un-guessable age, they had run the shop and shared the flat above it for ever.

  ‘Hello chaps.’ Jess loved them. Jess was terrified of them. ‘I’m here to volunteer.’

  Doug was tall. Gothically white and thin. Held his nose very high.

  Richard had to look up at Jess. His bog-brush hair had been apricot when Jess was at school, but now it was silver. He wore a neckerchief at all times. ‘Hang on,’ he said, gesturing at her with the arm of his television-set-sized reading glasses. ‘You Harriet’s girl?’

  ‘Yes.’ It made a change to be Harriet’s and not the Judge’s. Harriet had left a light footprint in comparison to her husband. Except, it would seem, in the charity shop.

  Richard and Doug exchanged awestruck looks.

  ‘Harriet was a goddess,’ whispered Richard.

  ‘A marvel. She could actually work the till.’ Doug laid his pale hand on his pale brow. ‘We shall not see her like again.’

  ‘Castle Kidbury isn’t the same without her.’

  Jess couldn’t agree more. But that was not a conversation she wanted to have there and then. ‘Could you do with a hand?’ She looked around. The shop had deteriorated since Harriet Castle had brought her Mary Poppins touch to bear on it.

  From her mother’s tales, Jess knew that keeping the shop clean, rotating the stock and selling the stock weren’t the men’s strong points. They were better at scandal and tea drinking and bitterly debating the relative merits of Sondheim and Lloyd Webber. Their true calling was their dictatorship of the Castle Kidbury Am Dram Society.

  ‘We’ll consider a trial period.’ There was fake tan on Richard’s paisley shirt collar. ‘When can you start?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘She’s easy, Richard,’ said Doug.

  ‘She is, Doug,’ said Richard. ‘Jess, if you’re half the woman your mother was you’ll do just fine.’

  ‘She’s not though,’ said Doug. ‘I can tell.’ He showed Jess the limited ropes. ‘Till. Stockroom.’ He pointed out landmarks with a plastic Star Wars lightsaber. ‘Powder room. Kettle. Record player.’ He sniffed. ‘Not that we’ll put you in charge of that until you’ve proved yourself worthy.’

  ‘Is that Evita?’ The record was scratchy.

  ‘It is.’ Richard beamed. ‘I won the toss this morning. It’s Aspects of Love next.’

  ‘What would you like me to do?’ Jess looked around her at the chaos of homewares and toys and books.

  Doug put his hands to his head. ‘Here’s me forgetting we have a customer in the changing room! Go round and collect all the black stuff you can find. Gents or ladies, doesn’t matter. Bring it over and hand it through the curtain.’

  The rails were disorganised. There was no rail just for black clothes; the very rail Jess would gravitate to. She whisked through garments hanging limply on hangers of all sorts. Some needed a wash. Others needed a decent burial. The latent Harriet inside Jess arose: she would knock this place into shape.

  Under her hand a yellow swimsuit.

  Jess drew back as if it burnt her hand.

  She didn’t like the colour yellow. She couldn’t countenance a daffodil. A yellow swimsuit was tailor-made to disturb her.

  It wasn’t just yellow swimsuits. It was swimming pools. It was women named Becky. Standing by the circular rail, Jess was back in her dream.

  The lifeguard, so much taller than her little self, had evaporated. One minute there, the next gone.

  The lady’s movements were too broad. Her laughter too ready. Eyes rimmed with sparkling green, like mineral deposits around the bloodshot whites, came close to Jess’s.

  An atmosphere. Like ants all over her.

  ‘Chop chop!’ shouted Doug. ‘The customer’s waiting.’

  Hurriedly, Jess thought black, black, black.

  The dream was encroaching on her waking hours. She would examine why, how, later. For now, the customer was waiting and Jess was grateful to the customer for giving her purpose, and a reason not to examine the dream.

  She knocked on the plywood side of the jerry-built changing room. In her arms were ruffled blouses, tight slip dresses, trousers, vests, shirts. ‘Hello in there!’

  A pale arm pulled her into the cubicle. Pan was naked from the waist up.

  ‘Hello, sweet thing.’

  He was very close. Jess pressed herself against the wall. She didn’t leave. Later she’d wonder why not.

  ‘Dr Jessica Castle. We haven’t seen each other since you were in my boudoir. I was not decent, as I recall.’

  Jess swallowed. This was exactly what Rupert meant by putting herself at risk. ‘I . . .’

  Pan took the clothes out of her arms. Removed the only barrier between them. ‘Allow me.’ He placed them carefully on a stool. He leant even closer. His breath was warm and musky sweet. ‘D’you like this?’ He fingered a pewter crucifix against his fluorescently pale chest. ‘Just your thing, isn’t it? The meeting of the ancient world with Christianity. Where epochs collide.’

  ‘Nothing about you is my thing,’ said Jess. ‘That’s a piece of tat jewellery. A knock-off, like you.’

  ‘Oh come now,’ Pan’s lips were almost on Jess’s cheek. ‘Aren’t we all God’s creatures?’

  Jess was frozen. A mongoose to Pan’s snake. Time to be bold. ‘Do you always talk such bollocks?’

  Pan let out a sigh of genuine disappointment. ‘Are you always so frigid?’

  ‘Always.’

  He laughed. It sounded almost natural. He inched backwards. An inner switch had been flicked. Pan’s eyes now were just dark; the sexual glitter conserved for other, more responsive mongooses. ‘You like to think you’re special, Jess.’

  ‘Pot. Kettle. Et cetera.’

  ‘I see through you. Like you’re made of crystal.’

  Instinct told her run. Her spirit of adventure told her not to waste this chance. Jess was in the heart of the action. Next to Pan was, for good or ill, an exciting place to be.

  ‘You’re a little girl. You need protecting. Why doesn’t you
r big important daddy look after you?’

  ‘I’m a grown woman.’ Jess felt her heart beating in her throat. ‘My family is none of your business. You know a lot for somebody who never leaves his caravan.’

  ‘You come on so street-smart. But you’re made of the same stuff as your manor-house relatives. Should’ve seen that Josh’s face when I led my little family into the edges of his fiefdom.’

  He knew so much about her. Jess was no believer in mystical powers. The truth was worse; Pan had been snooping. She was out of her depth.

  ‘I shan’t take any of your wares today.’ Pan pulled a tattered velvet jacket over his skinny shoulders. ‘Nice to see you helping out here. Doing your bit for the less fortunate. Which, let’s face it, for a Castle is just about everybody.’

  Pan bent suddenly towards her. His mouth against her ear. ‘You should pay me a little visit.’ He was quieter now. His voice a feather. Stroking. Tickling. ‘We have fun at Pitt’s Field. Show Daddy what for. Stick two pretty fingers up at all those ancestors.’ His eyes travelled around her face. ‘So white. Exquisite, really.’ He described Jess’s cheek with his finger. ‘You and your copper boyfriend aren’t going to find anything on me.’

  Jess was suffocating. As if this was her dream and the claustrophobic changing room had filled up with water. ‘Did you kill Keith Dike?’

  He pressed his finger onto her lips. ‘Yes.’ His eyes bore into hers. ‘Oh, hang on, I meant no.’ When Pan laughed, his eye teeth were pointed. ‘Didn’t kill the singer boy neither.’

  Jess stood her ground. Didn’t lift her hand to push away his. That would be admitting he bothered her.

  Pan regained his full height. ‘I thought maybe I had a little fancy for you. Turns out you’re nothing. Poor little rich girl. Bored of you already, darlin’.’ He pulled a comically sad face. ‘This is you.’ Ground his knuckles into his eyes. ‘Boohoo. It’s all gone wrong for me. Whatever shall I do?’

  Jess breathed in as he pushed past her out into the shop.

  ‘Be seeing you, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Pleasure as always.’

  The scrape of fork on plate. Soft thud of glass on coaster. Jess and her father broke bread together. Jess’s mobile was on her lap. Just in case Eden called. Her father maintained a strict no-phones-at-the-table rule.