Good Thing Bad Thing

by Nick Alexander

I shrug. “I don’t… I didn’t…”

  “It’s nothing,” Jenny says. “It’s secret.”

  Tom frowns. “Show me,” he says.

  Jenny shakes her head and walks on. “It’s not happening,” she says. “So forget it.”

  Tom looks at me worriedly and I shrug. “Dunno…” I tell him.

  “Look,” Jenny says pointing down the hill.

  About thirty feet below a natural terrace has been turned into a vegetable garden. The woman from the gite is watering a row of freshly planted vegetables.

  “Is that Chantal from the gite?” Tom asks.

  “Yeah,” Jenny says. “Poor bitch.”

  As if she has heard us – which is impossible – Chantal straightens, looks up at us, presses one hand into the small of her back and waves with the other. We wave back.

  “Why do you say that?” Tom asks. “I think they have a wonderful life up here.”

  “Hard though,” I say.

  “Not really,” Tom says. “Not compared with traffic jams and public transport. I think she’s really lucky.”

  “Says the man who walks ten yards and then needs to sit under a tree,” I point out.

  Tom laughs. “You have me all wrong,” he says. “I love gardening.”

  Jenny snorts. “When did you ever garden?”

  “I helped my dad on the allotment all the time,” Tom says.

  “Whatever,” Jenny says with a wave of the hand. “But so far I’ve seen her make beds, serve us breakfast with a baby under her arm, cook dinner and now she’s watering vegetables.”

  “With a watering can,” I say. “I mean, she could at least treat herself to a hose pipe.”

  “And where’s the husband?” Jenny points out. “So I say, poor exploited bitch!”

  “I wonder if that’s our lunch,” Tom says, ignoring Jenny’s cynicism.

  “I hope not,” I laugh. “She’s just planted it. Unless you’re counting on having lunch in September.”

  Tom laughs. “In the basket, idiot!”

  Jenny shakes her head. “It’s not,” she says, reaching out for Sarah’s hand. “We didn’t book lunch, remember? We said we were going to that other town for lunch. The one after Guillaumes.”

  “Valberg,” I say.

  Tom pulls a face. “Really? Oh… Well, come on,” he says, suddenly spurting forward. “Let’s get going! I’m bloody starving.”

  *

  Unlike every other day, Tom won’t get up for breakfast. Unlike every other day Tom needs to get up – he has a plane to catch at lunchtime. When I reach the dining room Jenny and Sarah are already settled at our favourite table – the one with the stunning view over the Alps.

  Jenny is saying, “Don’t!” and pulling Sarah’s finger from the sugar bowl. She looks up at the sound of the door closing. “Morning sleepyhead,” she says. “I was just thinking about waking you two up.”

  I finish my yawn and pull up a chair.

  “Help yourself,” Jenny says, rotating the coffee pot so that the handle is facing me. “There’s plenty.”

  I ruffle Sarah’s hair affectionately, but she pulls away in irritation. I pour myself a cup of the thick black liquid. “The croissants any better today?” I ask Jenny who has taken to dipping hers, French style, into her coffee.

  “Nope,” she says. “The only horrible croissants in France.”

  “I think they’re those long life ones,” I say. “But then, I suppose there isn’t any kind of bakery here.”

  “They’re okay if you dunk them,” Jenny says.

  I wrinkle my nose and start to smother mine with butter.

  “Where’s Tom?” Jenny asks, pulling a lump off her croissant and putting it on Sarah’s plate to replace the one she has just thrown on the floor. “Packing?”

  I shake my head. “He pulled a pillow over his head and told me to fuck off,” I say. “Me thinks the man doesn’t want to go home.”

  Chantal pushes backwards through the door from the kitchen carrying a tray containing a fresh pot of coffee and more dodgy croissants.

  “Bonjour,” she says brightly, sliding the tray onto the edge of the table.

  I thank her and move things around on the table so that everything fits, but today Chantal – who usually seems to be rushed off her feet – lingers.

  “Tout le monde est parti?” Jenny says slowly. Her accent makes me giggle. She sounds like Jane Birkin.

  “Yes,” Chantal replies, her accent as strong as Jenny’s. “Everyone go – only you.”

  I smile at her and shrug.

  “And today you leave too!” she says.

  Jenny nods. “But I bet you’ll be glad,” she says. “You seem very busy…”

  Chantal nods and Jenny frowns, then says, carefully, “Trop de travail!”

  Chantal nods again. “Yes it is very ‘ard.” She looks at me solemly and then lapses into French. “Depuis que Jean est parti…”

  When she has gone, and the kitchen door has swung closed behind her, Jenny looks at me and nods seriously. “Did she just say what I think she said?”

  I nod. “Don’t tell Tom,” I say.

  *

  Sarah points and says, “Sheep!”

  “Hey she said it right!” I remark.

  Jenny, who is driving says, “Yes doll, that’s right. Sheep.”

  “Goats,” Tom says glumly. “They’re goats.”

  Jenny glances back at us, then returns her regard to the road and powers the VW out of the bend. “There aren’t any goats in her animal book,” she says. “Don’t be so mean.”

  I try to take Tom’s hand but he pulls away. “What’s up with you?” I say, sighing and watching from his side window as Chateauneuf D’Entraunes disappears behind a hill.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t save me a croissant,” he says. “You know how starving I am in the morning.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t get up for breakfast,” I retort.

  Jenny glances at us in her rear-view mirror and I catch her eye momentarily. “We can stop in Guillaumes,” she says. “You can go to the bakery and get as many croissants as you like Tom.”

  Tom raises an eyebrow. “See,” he says. “Jenny cares.”

  I drop my mouth in fake outrage. “That’s so unfair,” I say.

  Tom turns away, and I watch what he’s watching – the green valley surrounding the riverbed, a farmhouse, a donkey in a field…

  “Don’t you feel sad?” Tom asks. “Having to leave all this behind. I mean, doesn’t it get to you?”

  “It was nice,” I say. “But holidays end.”

  “Tell him,” Jenny says. “Don’t be mean.”

  Tom turns his frown upon me. “Tell me what?” he says.

  I shrug. “Nah,” I say. “Sorry, it’s a secret.”

  Tom turns silently back to watching the countryside slip by.

  I glance at the front and see Jenny looking at me again.

  “He’s being horrible,” I say. “Never reward bad behaviour.”

  Jenny shrugs. “It might cheer him up,” she says, a note of sarcasm in her voice.

  Tom turns back to face me again. He’s intrigued now. “What?” he says.

  I shrug.

  “I’ll be good,” Tom laughs, starting to smile. “Honest.”

  “Oh it’s nothing really,” I say. “I was thinking, maybe it might be nice to do something like that together one day.”

  Tom’s swivels slowly around in his seat. “Like what?” he says.

  I suppress a grin. “Like run a gite, or a bed and breakfast or something.”

  Tom stares at me, solid as a rock. He looks puzzled.

  I smile at him and he snorts and then slips into the widest, sweetest grin I have ever seen. “You’re not joking?” he says.

  I shrug. “We’re both sick of our jobs… I mean, why not?”

  Tom takes my hand. “You are serious right?” he says again, his eyes now visibly watering. “Because if you’re winding me up… I’d be heartbroke
n I think.”

  “Well we have to think about it properly Tom. It would take lots of planning, and it’d be hard work.”

  Tom smiles. “The man from Del Monte, he say, Yes. No hesitation.”

  I nod. “Well, we still need to think about it all… It really isn’t an easy option. Not financially, not physically. Let’s look around and think about it…”

  At the airport Tom slides the door open and steps onto the pavement. He grins broadly. “I’ll call you when I get in,” he says. “I’m… well, I’m really excited actually.”

  I kiss him goodbye. “Well, try and stay calm,” I say. “It ain’t gonna happen overnight. And you might wake up in a cold sweat at 3 AM and decide that it’s not what you want at all.”

  “Or you might,” he says.

  I shrug. “I’m ready for an adventure too,” I say. “It’s fun just thinking about it anyway.”

  Tom glances at his watch. “I guess I have to go,” he says.

  I nod and reach for the door.

  Tom leans through Jenny’s window and kisses her on the cheek, then glances at Sarah and pouts. “Tell the little one I said goodbye,” he says.

  Jenny grins, gives a little wave and then accelerates away.

  “The little one won’t notice he’s gone,” she says dryly. “The little one thinks you are two manifestations of the same person.”

  I wave to Tom from the rear window and then settle back in my seat for the final drive home. “Well, that cheered him up,” I say.

  Jenny nods. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell him though, about the gite, I mean,” she says.

  I shrug. “I suppose I don’t want to get his hopes too high just yet,” I say. “There’s plenty that could go wrong,” I point out. “I mean, she might not sell the place after all, her husband could come back, she might get an estimate and double the price…”

  “I suppose so,” Jenny says vacantly, indicating and pulling sharply into the traffic on the Promenade des Anglais.

  “It was enough to send him back happy anyway…” I say. “And if Chantal does call me and confirm the sale price, well, that’ll be a fresh round of good news. The way I see it, Tom needs as much good news as he can get.”

  “Oh!” Jenny exclaims. “I nearly forgot.” She pulls a folded sheet of paper and proffers it behind her back.

  “Oh yeah,” I say, reaching for it. “The newspaper mystery.”

  “I thought it best that Tom not see that,” she says. “Well, not unless you think he should anyway.”

  “What is it?” I ask as I unfold the double-page sheet.

  Jenny shrugs. “Read it,” she says. “And no shouting or screaming please, Sarah’s asleep.”

  I scan the various articles on the page but nothing catches my eye. Jenny glances back at me and makes a tutting sound. “Other side,” she says.

  *

  New Twist In Italian Murder Mystery

  Pignone, Italy – Terrorised inhabitants of a sleepy town, more used to lost tourists than bloody murder mysteries, awoke today to discover that yet another murder has been committed on their patch.

  Much of Italy’s media visited the town in April following the grisly discovery – following a series of anonymous tip-offs – of two young men’s bodies buried at a local farm. Public interest was fed by interviews with locals and speculation over the identity of the murderer but when investigations failed to throw up any useful leads, interest waned and the town was left to come to terms with the unsettling knowledge that the perpetrator remained at large.

  The sensational events of the last week have thrown Pignone back under the full glare of the media spotlights with a fresh batch of anonymous calls to Police resulting in the discovery of a third body on Sunday.

  Gruesome Details Leaked To Press

  Details of the gruesome deaths were leaked to the press before the police had even begun their investigations, prompting accusations of incompetence.

  The sensationalist Chi magazine voiced speculation that the manner of the deaths – prolonged beatings and slashed throats – suggested the involvement of satanic cults, whilst the more serious La Repubblica pointed the finger soberly at the Mafia even naming specifically the Corleone clan.

  With the revelation that the latest victim was not just anyone, but the son of wealthy French business mogul Jean-Claude Robero, the scandal could only deepen, whilst controversy raged over the refusal of local Police to question Dante Migliore, the owner of the farm where the bodies were discovered. The Police Nationale placed Migliore beyond suspicion calling him, “a well respected member of the local community.”

  But as dawn broke on Monday, Migliore was found dead on the steps of the local Police station, the cause of death a single bullet wound to the head.

  Accusations once again have centred on Mafia involvement, even bringing denials from the Corleone clan – unprecedented from a family that traditionally shuns the media. A spokesman told Rai Uno, ‘First we are accused of protecting this Migliore character, and then we are accused of murdering him. It’s absurd….’

  continued on page 72.

  I frown and flip the piece of paper. “Where’s the rest?” I say.

  Jenny shrugs. “It just went on about that Mafia family, the Correones or whatever…”

  “Wow,” I say. “He’s dead.”

  “Yeah… I wasn’t sure if it was good news or if it was better not to tell Tom, better he doesn’t think about Dante at the moment…”

  I shiver involuntarily.

  “Mark?” Jenny says.

  I swallow hard.

  Jenny touches my thigh. “Mark, what’s wrong?” she says.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know,” I say. “I really don’t know.”

  I stare at the newspaper clipping. Paloma rubs frantically around and between my legs. She’s begging for food, not because she needs food – a neighbour dropped by this morning – but because feeding her is what I have to do when I get home. It’s how she knows I care.

  I put the page down on the coffee table and replace one batch of food with another. Paloma purrs ecstatically. Then I grab a glass of water and sit and stare at the page again, waiting for the free-association filing system that is my brain to do its thing and come up with some ideas.

  “Dante is dead…” I run that thought through my mind. Murdered and dumped on the steps of a police station.

  I wrinkle my nose. I wouldn’t wish a death sentence on anyone, but I can’t say I’m sad about it either. I remember discussing exactly that with Tom. He won’t be sad either. Au contraire.

  I wonder if he already knows. The page comes from Tom’s newspaper after all, and it’s hard to imagine he spent two hours in the airport and then an hour and a half on a plane without reading it. Could he really have missed it? And if not then why didn’t he tell me?

  Yes, Tom would be thrilled at Dante’s death. It would be the first thing he would tell me. If he knew. And if he wasn’t hiding something.

  I shiver, for there it is, the thought I have been trying to avoid facing. In fact who would want Dante dead more than Tom? Well, any of the relatives of the deceased I guess. And maybe it was the Mafia … The Corleone family… But why?

  I huff, and drop the clipping again and start to stroke Paloma who has reappeared at my side. I imagine men in dark suits slipping in, screwing on a silencer, and positioning the gun against Dante’s head.

  In my mind’s eye, the killers are stocky men in dark suits. Men with bad skin, shiny shoes and Bluetooth earpieces. Men like the thugs at Tom’s father’s funeral. Like the lurking pedestrian outside Tom’s flat.

  I shudder again. Of course I’m being ridiculous. I didn’t even see the guy outside Tom’s flat. But all the same… And Tom’s uncle, Tom’s work colleagues. Why do they all look so dodgy. Why does the Gambino family look so shady? Gambino. It even sounds like a Mafia.

  Mysterious foreign exchange operations, a new Mercedes… The more I think about it, the worse it gets.

>   I close my eyes and raise my fingers to support my temples. This is out of hand… I can’t possibly be dating a Mafia son… or can I? I feel guilty for even imagining the possibility.

  I walk through to the kitchen and switch on the kettle and stand, a little numb, and watch it boil. A watched kettle never boils, I think obtusely. Where there’s smoke there’s fire.

  I check my watch. Another hour and a half before Tom gets home.

  The phone rings a little earlier than I expected – I am in the shower. I even imagined that this would happen when I turned on the tap. I skid across the bathroom floor to the bedroom and swipe the phone from the base.

  “Hiya,” I say. “I was in the shower.”

  “Oh, shall I call b…”

  “No it’s fine,” I interrupt.

  “Okay, well… I’m home,” Tom says. His voice is distant, strained.

  “Okay, well, good,” I say. “It all arrived on time then, the flight and stuff…”

  “Yeah,” Tom says. “And I opened my post.”

  I frown. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Tom says.

  I pull a face at Tom’s cagey replies. “Anything interesting?”

  There’s a pause. Tom coughs. “Yeah,” he says. “I suppose so.”

  I shiver and start to towel myself off. “You suppose so?” I repeat.

  “Yeah,” Tom says slowly. “I take it there’s something you want to tell me.”

  I sit on the edge of the bed, my brow furrowed. “Is there?” I say. “I thought maybe you had something you wanted to tell me.”

  Tom clicks his tongue. “Look, can we stop playing games here?” he says. “I’m tired, I don’t know what you’re up to and frankly, it’s irritating the fuck out of me.”

  “I’m not playing anything Tom,” I say. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Okay, let’s start with why you posted this?”

  “Posted what?”

  “The page! It arrived. Perfect timing,” he says, his tone rich with sarcasm. “Well done.”

  “Tom, I…”

  “So tell me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re…”

  “Mark, the page from my newspaper. You took it.”

  “From the Times? About Dante?”

  “Bingo! From the Times. About Dante,” Tom spits.

  “So you do you know about that… Yes, Jenny took it. She gave it to me.”