Sweetpea

by C. J. Skuse

  I saw Terry, Julia’s husband, on my way into town at lunch. He was coming out of Greggs with a bag of heart disease. His van was parked illegally on the kerb so he was in a rush.

  ‘Oh, hi… Mr Kidner?’

  He looked back at me and squinted non-committally, before he recognised me as the nice little editorial assistant who’d written up his article a few weeks before. ‘Oh, all right?’

  ‘Any news about your wife? I wondered if my article had done anything?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, nothing yet.’

  ‘The kids still at your mother’s?’

  ‘Yeah. I see them every day but they don’t want to be at home without their mum there.’

  ‘Understandable.’

  ‘The longer it goes on, the more I think she won’t be coming back. Police won’t help. They say it’s a domestic matter, not a job for them sort of thing.’

  ‘Well, maybe she’ll come to her senses soon.’

  ‘Yeah, hope so. Anyway, got to…’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. Hope everything turns out for the best,’ I called across the road.

  He put his hand up to me and smiled; a smile of genuine gratitude and warmth. He was giving up on her. They all were.

  Perfect.

  A new kitchen shop has just opened down by the riverside, in lieu of the overpriced women’s shoe shop. Top of the range kitchenware: Le Creuset, Cornish Blue, Sabatier. Didn’t have time to look in today but I’ve got my eye on a five-piece set of knives in the window. It’s pricey but I’m worth it.

  Another story which piqued my interest today was that of two reported assaults in as many weeks on women driving home alone on country roads in the area. The women – one A-level student and one 25-year-old trainee solicitor – have told police that a ‘glossy black Transit van’ had followed them for miles before flashing its lights. One of the men had an accent and a bald head; the other was black and wore a wedding ring. The DNA they got from the victims can’t be traced on the police’s database so they’re not known criminals. They could be any two guys in the street. It’s a massive story. Claudia is working on it with Daisy Chan – it’s going to be her baptism of fire. I’ve been thinking about the two men all day. Two at once. That’s the stuff of fantasy. They’re going on my ‘Ones to Watch’ list.

  Took some Chinese round to Julia after work… crispy wontons, spare ribs and rice, but she refused to write another letter to her husband. Such a bitch. Says if I’m going to kill her, I should just get on with it. I suppose it’s fair enough. She’s given up a lot sooner than I thought she would.

  ‘Come along, eat your din-dins.’

  ‘Fuck you.’ She threw her spring roll at my head. It missed, luckily.

  ‘I saw Terry today,’ I told her as I ate my chow mein.

  She looked across at me, injecting hate into every second of eye contact.

  ‘I wrote an article a few weeks ago, about how much he misses you. Kids miss you too.’

  She started to cry, weakly, so softly so I couldn’t hear it. She banged her head against the wall.

  ‘He thinks you’re in London. Living it up. Reinventing yourself. Thinks you don’t want to come home.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘You took money out of my account while you were in London, didn’t you?’

  ‘Several times,’ I said. ‘Posted your last letter from there too.’

  She shook her head. ‘Why don’t you just do it? Just fucking DO IT! Put me out of my misery!’

  ‘Why should I?’ I said to her, slurping up my noodles. ‘You didn’t put me out of mine.’

  Monday, 19 February

  Dad was on my mind all morning. I was starting to forget the sound of his voice. I had to close my eyes and remind myself of its timbre, the sweet way he spoke only to me because I was his favourite and he could trust me with anything. My default memory of him was always in the hospital during that final week. Fading and drying out like an old leaf.

  Life is so beautiful, Rhiannon. I think it’s only when you’re dying that you really get to see that.

  Promise me when it gets worse, you’ll be there. You’ll do it for me.

  You’re the only one I can trust, Rhiannon.

  Good news! The police officially have ‘no concrete leads in the murder of Dan, Dan the Dickless Man and are continuing to appeal for witnesses, meaning I’m all but in the clear! There’s talk of a public appeal by his mum but I don’t know when that will happen. He’s become a bit of a local joke. They ‘brought in two men for questioning’ one of whom was the guy that punched him outside The Reef nightclub on New Year’s Eve but both were later ‘released on police bail, pending further inquiries’. They’ve got nothing.

  There haven’t been any arrests yet in the Gavin White – aka Park Man – murder either but I’m not out of the park yet and I daren’t go fishing again until it leaves the front page. A witness has come forward to say they ‘heard a dog barking in the vicinity’ on the night it happened. Police are appealing for ‘anyone who was in the area that night to come forward’.

  Ummm…no.

  Ooh, yeah, this morning around 11 a.m., two coppers came in and went straight into Ron’s office with Linus. The blind was down so I couldn’t lip-read, but they were in there for about twenty minutes. When they came out, one of them looked directly at me – I was typing up my film review – but then he nodded and I nodded back, and they both left.

  I knocked on Ron’s door to see if he or Linus wanted a coffee or a punch in the face but they both said no. I thought one of them might offer up an explanation for the police visit but no luck. Ron told me to ask Claudia and Mike Heath to come in, so I had to act like the Go-Between and once they were in, the door closed and I couldn’t hear what was being said.

  After work, I drove round to Windwhistle Court. I’ve lost count now how many times I’d been round there now. Still no luck. Chances are, not many people know where he lives. Chances are, the police have given him another identity or he’s changed his appearance. The public all knew him as that scary-eyed, hobbling old man on a stick, with a permanently miserable expression and a bulbous nose – a bit like Robert in the old-style Guess Who. Maybe he’d dyed his hair. Maybe he’d gone grey. I’d know his face though. It’s the kind you can’t disguise.

  I know exactly how I’ll do it this time. I won’t need the scissors or a knife. And if I can find out where he lives then I can take my time with him. I can take my time with him. I want him so badly I ache for it. My skin seems to tingle with it. I throb with it. I wish there was some short cut to finding him but maybe the long wait will make the pudding all that sweeter. I need to find him soon or else I need to find someone.

  Thursday, 22 February

  1.People who don’t indicate at roundabouts

  2.People who Instagram photos of theirValentine’s meal, lovingly prepared in heart-shaped bowls and star-shaped dishes

  3.People who brag endlessly on Facebook about their fantastic lives – e.g. Imelda today: ‘I have the best kiddiewinks, the extension’s almost finished, and the best man in the world. Fifteen years this June! Can’t wait to be married to you, baby.’ [Cue hella-filtered Insta-photo where she’s cropped out their double chins.] #FeelingBlessed

  4.People who publically declare their ‘utter heartbreak’ at some tragic news story and how their ‘thoughts are with the families’ yet, one minute later, re-post an ICYMI tweet about their forthcoming wedding (again, Imelda)

  5.People who kick trees

  They’ve put the Gazette’s two hot-shot reporters – Linus and Paul Spurdog (just back from three-months’ mountain-climbing in Malaysia) – on the Park Man murder. Paul’s grown another eighteen biceps since he left. To look at him, you’d think he was Idris Elba’s understudy – some macho stuntman type. Then you see him hunched over his keyboard typing with two fingers and the illusion is shattered. Paul wants me to help him write up his ‘life-changing’ adventure in Kuala Lumpur where he got to live with tribespeople. Can’t wai
t to hear all about that for hours on end.

  A little laugh for me today. We have this work-experience girl in for a week called Rosie – she’s stuffing envelopes and fielding calls – and she attempted a home dye job on her hair. It’s distinctly more violet than Soft Rosewood and Lynette sang ‘Purple Rain’ at her, causing her to run out in tears.

  ‘Bit of a Special Snowflake is our Rosie,’ said Bollocky Bill, ‘you might want to take it easy on the lass.’ Which we all took as code for Don’t say anything in the least bit offensive against her or we’ll never see her again.

  We’ve had them like Rosie in before and they’ve never lasted long. One was called Debz. She was always bemoaning her ‘lack of value as a member of the team’ and ‘not feeling empowered by our social structure’. Couldn’t handle conflict of any kind. Claudia asked her to tidy her desk one day, and the next she went on sick leave for ‘a stress-related problem’. We didn’t see her for four months. Cost the company a fortune before she finally did decide to leave to breed turtles or something.

  And then there was Dresden, the teenage receptionist who took on the role briefly when I was newly promoted. She described herself in her Facebook profile as a ‘trans-ethnic polyamorous demi-romantic genderless asexual’ with ‘changeable pronouns’ and refused to use the staff toilets. Linus said ‘she’ when referring to Dresden once in a meeting and Dresden walked out, never to be seen again.

  AJ hobbled in on crutches at lunchtime – he’s had a skateboarding accident. And even though normally I don’t mind when the kid passes my desk due to the aforementioned peachy behind and our frequent bitching about Linus and Claudia, today he annoyed me. The crutches make the place look untidy, and he was clanking all over the place like a baby giraffe. He hobbled over, clang clang clang, with a Gay Porn Star bumper sticker he’d bought from the joke shop.

  ‘It was either this or one that said, I Really Love Barnyard Animals.’

  ‘No, this is perfect, he’ll hate it.’

  We’ve stuck it on the back of Linus’s Audi.

  Christ, I’m bored. I know all this is just killing time. Killing time before I can kill again. I’m on the treadmill now. I can’t see a way to get off it.

  Tuesday, 27 February

  1.People who text you, and you text back, then you get NOTHING back for days (Craig, my ex-sister Seren, Lucille)

  2.People who email straight back when you’re trying to clear your inbox

  3.People at the Gazette who insist on bringing smelly food back to their desks and eat it of a lunchtime. Today’s example: Edmund’s cheesy nachos

  Daisy Chan tried to have a conversation with me today. I wasn’t having any of it. First, she cornered me at in the staffroom and tried asking me if I’d been to the new coffee bar in town.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ I said, even though I had and their cappuccinos were LUSH.

  Then she tried the old ‘Isn’t it warm today?’ line of questioning, but I roadblocked her with ‘Dunno, I’m pretty cold.’

  And lastly, as I was leaving the room, she called out ‘I might need some copy later on the new traffic calming measures in Maddox Street, if that’s all right?’

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ I called back. I don’t know why she’s being so friendly to me. She must be after something.

  Today’s court cases were all pretty sap-sucking. Three drink-drivers, one drug driver, one crop of cannabis, a drunk and disorderly and two assaults. All my bloody little offerings would go to Crown Court when someone was eventually charged. There hasn’t been anything juicy at the magistrates’ since last summer when that one-legged prostitute got drugged round the back of Boots. That was brilliant.

  Went down to the new kitchen shop on my break. Treated myself to a new tin opener, some cork coasters for the coffee table and the block set of Sabatier knives I’d seen in the window – it’s absolutely stunning. The set comprises a seven-inch Oriental meat knife with air pockets, a ten-inch carving knife, a four-inch paring knife, a five-inch boning knife, and a cleaver. It’s nearly £100’s worth of steel but I ADORE it. The thrill in my arms as I carried it back to the office, oh, it was like carrying a bomb! I’d imagine that’s the same sort of feeling, anyway. Invincibility. Power. A feeling of winning at something for once.

  Daisy saw the box under my desk. ‘Nice knives. You into cooking, are you?’

  ‘Yeah, big time,’ I lied. ‘I’m doing a course in French cookery in a few weeks so I thought I’d get properly prepared.’ Sometimes it amazes me how quickly these lies trickle out of my mouth without any preparation.

  Lana Rowntree sidled up to me at the photocopier, waiting for me to finish so she could use it. She wasn’t wearing a bra today. Wanton snake-face.

  ‘How are you, Rhee?’

  ‘Yeah, fine, thanks.’ I nudged myself to ask: ‘And you?’

  ‘Yeah, good. It’s gone crazy today, hasn’t it? So busy. Which can only be a good thing, I suppose.’ Cue fake laugh, throat clear and hair swish.

  I could smell the perfume on her – the same perfume on our bed sheets that Craig said was ‘new washing powder or summing’.

  ‘Town was busy today, wasn’t it?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. I popped in to look at Dysons. Wish I’d got one in the January sale now.’

  ‘Which one are you after?’

  ‘That one they advertise on telly. You know, the cordless one.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ I said. She had two old scars on one of her wrists. Quite deep ones. Old suicide attempts? Particularly vicious cat? No, she didn’t have cats. Allergic. ‘How are things with your Richard’s job now? Did his unfair dismissal claim go through?’

  God, I’m brilliant at small talk when I have to be. Richard is her boyfriend. I’d overheard their shouted phone arguments as much as anyone else in the office so it’s hardly eavesdropping.

  ‘We finished,’ she said, stepping up to the now vacant copier. ‘Just before Christmas. I think I was putting too much pressure on him to name a date for our wedding and he freaked out. So it’s just me and the cats now. Still, onwards and upwards. Plenty more fish.’

  ‘Aww, I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said, holding my pile of warm pages in front of me like a shield. ‘Are you seeing anyone else at the moment then?’

  ‘No,’ she said, without a flicker. ‘I think I’m done with men for the time being. Waste of bloody space the lot of them, aren’t they?’ Cue fake laugh with nose scratch and another hair swish.

  ‘Couldn’t agree more,’ I said, eyeballing her. She just about met my stare, but only for a second, before she became very interested in the rogue paperclip on the photocopier tray. ‘Well, you take care now.’ I rubbed the side of her arm, taking another quick swipe at her scarred wrist.

  ‘I will, cheers, Rhee.’ She even managed one of her sparkly full-teeth smiles. I’d like her to christen my knives. I’d like to dampen every single page out of that machine with her blood.

  I had to give them their due – she and Craig were expert liars. They could give lessons. Not to me though, obviously. I am the queen when it comes to rooting out pies of the porky variety.

  It annoys me because I waited an entire Wimbledon fortnight to get a shag out of Craig (he said he wanted to ‘make sure I was ready’, the wuss) but one whiff of Lana Rowntree’s undercarriage at the finger buffet and he’s off like a cannon at Trafalgar.

  I knew why they were doing it. It was the same reason I flirted with random men in Internet chat rooms. The same reason I walked down dark alleys in the middle of the night with half the knife drawer folded inside my coat. Because it was a thrill. It tasted good. It was the crunchy fat on the bacon. The skin on the chicken. You know it’s so bad but the reward feels so good, even if it’s only for a short while. What’s that meme I saw on Twitter the other day? ‘One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name.’ Yeah, that’s it. Well you have your crowded hour, Lana. And I’ll have mine.

  Friday, 1 March

  1.Derek Scudd

 
; 2.Wesley Parsons

  3.Dillon on the checkout in Lidl, who didn’t ask if I was all right for bags today and, again, squeezed my loaf as he scanned it

  MAN STABBED IN PARK WAS REGISTERED SEX OFFENDER

  Gavin John White, aged 46, a long-distance lorry driver from Leeds, was stabbed to death on the evening of Saturday, January 19th in what’s thought to have been a random attack. The Gazette has learned that White has been on the Sexual Offenders Register for the last four years. He was convicted of two rapes and one indecent assault on women in Hull and Newcastle. Avon and Somerset Police has launched a murder investigation and are appealing for witnesses.

  And so shines a good deed in a weary world. My heart felt better. I should have got that Woman of the Century award just for getting that shit worm off the streets. Such is life.

  So that was what the police were talking to Ron about, I surmised. They’ll be lucky to get any witnesses to help out that pervert. Jeff was walking past my desk to go to fill up his cafetière.

  ‘Jeff? Any idea what this is about?’ I showed him the front page.

  He hobbled over. ‘Random stabbing they reckon. No money taken. Police say his belt was undone so it could have been a sex attack, knowing his previous form.’

  ‘So it could have been a woman who did it?’

  ‘Ooh, no, doubtful.’

  ‘Why doubtful?’

  ‘Well, it was pretty savage by all accounts. They reckon he was stabbed with a thick bar or a bit of railing or something.’

  I did my baby deer eyes. ‘Can’t women be savage though?’

  ‘Nah, more likely one of them gay cruisers or what have you. That happened in that park, do you remember last year?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s just scary, that’s all. It happened quite near our flat.’

  ‘Well, you look after yourself, my girl. Don’t get walking around there at night. You never know what’s lurking in them shadows. Smack heads, crack heads. All sorts. All sorts.’