by C. J. Skuse
5.People who act like a football team losing is the end of the world (Craig, Nigel, Eddie, Gary)
BIG SCUDD news. So just one day after seeing him for myself, this happens…
I’m ensconced behind my desk, thinking about my forthcoming long weekend, Simnel cake overdose, chocolate overdose, Craig overdose and typing up some shit about loose paving stones in the High Street when in walks the postman – this nondescript guy with ginger hair who always delivers the post but who I’ve never taken much notice of before.
Anyway, he’s become quite thick with AJ and I’m eavesdropping on their conversation as he’s handing AJ the post.
‘I just saw that paedo going into the post office.’
‘What paedo?’ asks the Aussie.
‘You know, that Scudd bloke what got done for messing with those two kids at his flat. He got let off, didn’t he?’
‘Where was he?’
‘He was just going into the post office with a couple of parcels.’
‘Guy gives me goosies.’
‘Had his coat collar pulled up and a flat cap on. I knew it was him though.’
I didn’t wait to hear any more. I threw my coat around my shoulders and shoved my arms through the holes.
‘AJ, I’ve got the dentist’s. I won’t be long.’
There’s always a queue at our post office. The weeks before Christmas, it would leak out on to the street. I scanned the line from the back, and I clocked him, four people away, clutching two parcels and leaning on a walking stick. My heart raced, like seeing an old lover, not a seventy-something half-crippled convicted rapist wearing a flat cap. He was older and a lot more stooped, but facially, he had not changed one bit since his front page trial picture. I pretended to scan the magazines.
When he left, I waited a little while before I followed him, keeping well back but never once losing sight of that flat cap or the tapping sound of that walking stick as it weaved slowly through the crowd of shoppers. Paddy Power. Getting cash out of NatWest. Up Castle Lane. Along the High Street. Boots the chemist, then Iceland. Looking in the freezers. Buying a shepherd’s pie for one and a two-litre bottle of cider. Looking in the window of Clarks shoes. Through the precinct.
Across the car park.
Across the county courthouse.
Past the hospital.
And finally into a town house. Number four Hastings Row. I waited a little while across the road, before I went to look at the names on the door buzzers. They were flats. Number three – empty. Number two – empty. Number one – Derrick. I saw the TV flicker on inside, through the thick yellowy net curtains.
Derrick? His first name was his surname now? Or was that a coincidence? I wasn’t sure. Either way, I’ve got him right where I want him.
The rat is in the trap.
Saturday, 20 April
1.People who pay for pop-up adverts on websites – you could be reading a tragic article about some woman who lost all her kids in a bomb blast in Aleppo and then up pops an advert for a new frappuccino. Mind you, it was a bloody good deal and triple points too
2.Double dippers (aka Craig and Linus)
3.People who write unfunny things on dirty vans – there’s one on Craig’s at the moment that says ‘Rolf Harris’s Tour Bus’. I don’t think he’s noticed yet
4.People who make bad sandwiches – I asked the new woman at the Apple Blossom Café if I could have some bread with my butter this morning.
5.Indian call centres – I’m sorry and all that but WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?
Another bad dream. My old faithful. Hospital, the pleading eyes, the dry lips, the pillow poised. Yadda yadda yadda. After two years, it’s getting tedious. Fuck knows what my brain is up to now.
I did Craig ‘hands down the best sausage casserole he’s ever had’ for tea, plus waffles and peas. I made a chocolate brownie with squirty cream for pudding AND sliced up a strawberry for the garnish. Then the lads came round the football – Manchester Someone vs Sheffield Whoever – so he, Eddie, Gary and Nigel were ensconced on my three-piece for the rest of the evening, chugging back Stella Artois and farting into my cushions. The whole flat stank to Murgatroyd in no time.
Neither Biggus Dickus nor Mr Sizzler48 were online, so I couldn’t even distract myself by talking to them so I decided to call up Anni and see if I could pay a visit. She cried on the phone, but through the tears, I heard her say, ‘That would be so lovely,’ and I surmised that the rest of the PICSOs had already forgotten she existed and that post-natal depression doggie was beginning to lick her neck.
I took round the leftover brownie in a Tupperware box. It was time for Operation: Golden Pineapple Part 1.
She cried when she opened the door. Sam was crying too as he wriggled on her shoulder like a little bag of beans.
‘How are you doing?’ I asked, though one look at the living room behind her told me all I needed to know – the place was a landfill site, with a small carpeted pathway through to the kitchen. It wasn’t dirty, just cluttered. I could see where everything was meant to go – there were cupboards and drawers carefully labelled with things like Nappies and Teething Rings. It just hadn’t quite made it to the right places yet.
‘Sorry, you’ve caught me at a bad time. It’s a bloody tip.’
Ramsay’s Hotel Hell was on silently in the background, the episode where he helps this struggling lodge in Oregon where the guy’s too stoned to focus. I’ve seen it before but it’s still a good one. I nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘He doesn’t sleep. Ever,’ she told me, starey-eyed like a banshee. ‘And when he does, when I finally get him down, I go to make a start on all this but I just can’t be bothered. I just want to sleep. And I’ve got three haemorrhoids now. Three!’
‘Where’s Rashan? Why isn’t he helping?’
‘Oh, he is, but he’s taken on extra work so he’s working weekends now as well. He hasn’t stopped going to the gym either. I have. I’ve made sacrifices for this baby. He hasn’t sacrificed… Is that brownie?’ She opened the box and inhaled it.
‘Freshly made tonight. Just for you.’
She started crying again. ‘His mum’s been over twice this week. My mum and dad are due to fly over from Mauritius next Monday but… ugh, it’s just hard.’ She shoved a brownie in her mouth and replaced the lid on the box. ‘Couldn’t be bothered to cook anything tonight.’
Rashan reminded me of Paul in our office. The obsession with going to the gym, the pictures all over his Facebook of him kayaking in Canada and rock climbing in New Zealand, before he and Anni even met. He still hadn’t changed his header or his profile picture to the baby. I have noticed, several times, Paul phoning home to wifey saying he was ‘under the kosh from Ron’ and had to work late because he was ‘backed right up’ and then I’d walk past his desk and he’d be in the middle of an online poker game. He just wanted to miss the dreaded bedtime.
‘Sorry, do you want a tea or gin and tonic or anything?’ Anni offered, sitting on the edge of the sofa and jiggling the grizzly bundle about on her shoulder. She picked up the remote and switched Hotel Hell off, just as Ramsay was getting in his stride.
‘No, I’m fine, thanks. Listen, say no if you want to, but why don’t you make use of me while I’m here? Go and get some sleep for a few hours. I’ll mind him.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t ask you to do that, Rhiannon.’
I sighed. ‘Anni, to be honest, you’re no company in this state and I don’t want to go home cos the boys are doing their football and farting thing in my lounge. Why don’t you go and rest? You’d be doing us both a favour. He’s changed, isn’t he?’
She looked down at Sam, who was still full of waah. ‘His nappy? Yeah, just.’
‘Fed?’
‘Yeah. He should be a-bloody-sleep!’
She cried again. I marched over to her, hands out for the baby, and she plonked him in my arms.
‘Are you sure? Are you OK with babies?’
‘I’ll have you
know I babysat Lucille’s two when they were this age. Remember when she walked out at their christening? Four hours she was gone and I was the only one keeping an eye on them. I didn’t like the way that uncle of hers kept staring at them.’
Anni afforded me one watery smile of thanks and a brief look back before trudging up the stairs. She then stopped and looked back at the baby. He had actually stopped crying the moment she put him in my arms.
‘See? We’ll be fine. Go. Sleep. That’s an order. We’ll be here when you get up, don’t worry.’
See what a brilliant friend I am?
Sam had a milky smell about him – tit milk I realised, with a stomach churn. I rocked him for a bit then placed him on his back in his basket in the corner. The childminder used to stroke our eyebrows when she wanted to get us off to sleep after lunch sometimes. It worked on Sam in no time.
‘You are a good chap, aren’t you?’ I told him, folding his yellow blanket over his legs. ‘Now, Auntie Rhee-Rhee has to go and tidy up this mess for your mum so you be a good little man and go sleepies and I’ll be back in a minute, all right?’
Then I got to work. I even found the Mr Sheen and had a dust round once everything was in situ and got the place looking habitable again within the hour.
Mary Poppins – eat my ass. I even made Anni a sandwich for when she woke up. God, I could lick myself sometimes.
Then I checked to make sure Sam was OK – his little sleepsuit going up and down in the middle – and crept upstairs, remembering the last-but-one creaky step from the last time I’d visited.
‘Anni?’ I said, softly knocking on her bedroom door but I could hear her snoring. Her bedside light was on. I moved over to her wardrobe and eased it open, flicked through the racks of clothes until I found what I was looking for – three pristine mauve tunics, folded over hangers. I eased out the first one and stuffed the whole uniform up my jumper, replacing the empty hanger and closing the doors.
I looked at Anni asleep on the bed as I left. Dead to the world.
‘Jesus world, you make this far too easy.’
Back downstairs, I folded the uniform into my bag and checked on Sam – poor little sod was snoozing soundly, probably relieved to have someone looking after him who wasn’t capable of any emotion. I wouldn’t dream of hurting Sam, any more than I’d hurt Tink. I can stop myself. I can be a good person around the right people.
By the time Anni came back downstairs, two and a half hours and nearly three episodes of Hotel Hell later, she looked disorientated but refreshed.
She was still thanking me as I was halfway up the street to my car.
‘I’ve told you, you’re welcome,’ I called back. ‘Just say you owe me one.’ And I threw her a smile that dazzled like diamonds.
I stuffed the uniform bag in my boot, ready for next week.
Easter Sunday, 21 April
1.Marathon runners – how sanctimonious can you get?
It was the London Marathon today. Some Kenyan no one’s ever heard of won – again – same guy who won last year. I didn’t watch it.
Me and Craig went for a pub lunch with the in-laws. Or I should say ‘pube’ lunch, seeing as that’s what I found in mine. The guy carving the meat on the buffet looked clean enough but you never can tell what goes on behind the scenes, can you? He could have scratched his balls just before slicing up my lamb, we’ll never know.
Back at the ranch things ran to their usual form – Jim harped on about the ‘foreigners taking all our jobs’ (he’s been retired for the past five years), while Elaine serenaded us with tales of terrible local vandalism (a spurting cock has been drawn on the village hall) and the WI coach trip to Agatha Christie’s house (some woman called Marjorie fainted on the bus on the way back). I did quite enjoy it today actually. Dull, as always, but safe and familiar too. And Jim gave me one of his tiny model boats. He’d even painted my name on the side of it in wavy white script – Rhiannon. I’ve put it on top the TV.
Elaine cried when we left today and snuggled Tink for the longest time – Jim said she always cries when we leave and that it was ‘just unfortunate we saw her today’. I think that woman has serious issues and I’m not just talking about her stack of Woman’s Weeklys.
Thursday, 25 April
I haven’t updated for a few days because literally nothing’s happened. Life has generally plateaued to almost bridge-jumping proportions.
BUT…
The little nugget of excitement on the horizon comes in the form of Derek Scudd and Operation: Golden Pineapple, which has begun now in earnest.
So this week, my first week off of the year, I’ve spent each day monitoring the situation from a bench in the churchyard opposite his house on Hastings Row. Or stalking him, if you will. I’ve been pretending to sketch the gravestones while Tink roams about pissing on them and barking at the ducks on the river. Craig thinks I’m at work. He thinks they won’t let me have a holiday at this time of year because we’re ‘so up against it with deadlines’. Sucker.
Here’s what I’ve learned about old D-Scu…
He’s virtually housebound. He has three carers whom he lets in at three times during the day: 8.30 a.m.; 1.30 p.m.; and 6.30 p.m. Presumably, he needs assistance getting washed and dressed and fed, ironically, like a child. The first carer of the day is blonde and middle-aged with cankles; the lunchtime one looks like David Walliams in drag; and the tea-time treat is so fat she has to walk into the house sideways.
Each carer spends no longer than half an hour inside, they all have a cigarette when they leave and they wear white plastic aprons when they come out again. Aside from the odd postman, nobody else visits. The other two flats must be empty. Scudd himself has only been out twice this week – once on Tuesday lunchtime, to the betting shop and to Iceland, and once again this morning to the paper shop.
The 6.30 p.m. slot seems to be the right time to make my move. I cannot fucking wait.
Friday, 26 April
I’m writing this with shaking hands. The deed is done…
Derek Scudd is an ex-paedophile.
‘The fat cow’s just been,’ he growled at me when he opened the door. ‘I don’t need anyone else tonight.’
I was quite breathless as I faced him, boobage constricted slightly by Anni’s super-tight tunic. I can only describe it as the feeling one gets when one meets a celebrity, even a crap one like an ex-member of Atomic Kitten. Or a bloke who’s been in some advert. I was sick with it – with expectation, with intense longing. Is this how lovers feel, I wonder.
‘Sorry to bother you, Mr Derrick, but your form wasn’t filled in properly.’
He didn’t want to let me in and we had quite the argument on his doorstep. Eventually, he left the door open behind him as he withdrew back into his shell like an old tortoise. Inside it stank of damp and strong tobacco. The curtains were drawn and the place was shrouded in a stygian gloom. I noticed he was wheezing.
‘There’s tea in the pot. It’ll be stewed.’ He retreated into his lounge.
‘That’s all right, I don’t drink tea,’ I lied. I do drink tea but only Lady Grey, and if you are anywhere and you ask for Lady Grey, you sound like a ponce.
‘You go and sit down, Derek, that’s right.’ I just wanted to do it. To get on him and start squeezing the breath from his neck. But I knew the importance of the performance. The Act.
He sat in his armchair, surrounded by everything he could need – tartan slippers, folded newspaper, little table with his ashtray, fags and lager can on, pristine memory foam pillow behind his head.
‘She’s always messing up, that one,’ he grumbled.
I laughed with a theatrical eye roll as he sipped his lager. ‘She says she’s dyslexic but I think she’s just bone idle.’
He mumbled something and scrabbled around in a bag of dry roasted peanuts. I pretended to scribble down my notes and watched him, his eyes fixed on some church programme. Aled Jones was interviewing a woman bishop.
‘How are you feeling
today, Derek?’
‘The fat one asked me all that,’ he growled. ‘I got to go through it again?’
‘No, sorry. I didn’t think,’ I said, my heart pounding through Anni’s mauve uniform.
‘How come you don’t wear green like the other ones?’
‘I’m different,’ I said. ‘I’m special.’
He nodded and went back to the TV and his lager. I watched his lips accept the can, his throat swallow. His hand fumble with his cigarette lighter and his packet of Silk Cut. He plucked one out and lit up.
‘So have you had your dinner then, Mr Derrick or did you want me to make you something?’
A soloist was belting out ‘Amazing Grace’ on the TV, backed by a gospel choir and a too-tall Scottish guy with a set of bagpipes.
‘Shut up,’ he said, ‘I like this one.’
I stood up. And walked towards his chair. ‘Can I just check your pulse, Derek?’
‘No,’ he grunted. ‘I’m watching this.’
‘You still having sex with children, Derek? Or have you given all that up now?’
His face tilted to look at me, devoid of all expression. I grabbed his wrist and squeezed it, fingers tight around the bones.
‘I’m curious. Is it the kind of thing you can just give up on or do you sit beside that window of a morning, watching them all trot to school with your hand down your pyjamas?’
‘You’re hurting…’
I squeezed tighter. ‘I can see why you prefer kids. Much easier than a consenting adult, aren’t they? You don’t have to put the time in, wine and dine them. Just stick on The Little Mermaid and make some threat about hurting their parents.’
The TV choir grew louder. He put down the half-finished cigarette, then reached for his stick. ‘Get off me!’