Jack by the Hedge (Jack of All Trades Book 4)

by DH Smith

  ‘But I’m not.’ She appealed to the others. ‘I am answering all his questions. How am I obstructing anything?’

  He scratched his hair. ‘This is way over my pay grade. I need to go to the station and get some advice.’ He stood up. ‘I may be back later. I may not.’ He turned to Zar. ‘Sorry, mate. But you could be an important witness in this case. Our relationship will have to stop at a pizza until this is cleared up.’

  ‘I understand, Eddie.’

  ‘Then I’ll say good night to you all.’

  He left them. Liz followed him to the door.

  ‘What a pity,’ exclaimed Rose, rubbing Zar on the back. ‘He’d have been a real treat for you.’

  ‘I thought it was too good to be true,’ said Zar ruefully. ‘Though he might be able to help me with somewhere to live. He knows people.’

  Liz returned, and threw up her hands in relief. ‘Thank God, he’s gone. I thought he was going to arrest me then and there. That’s enough day for me. I’m off to bed. And you need to make sure Mr Swift is alright, Rose.’

  ‘I’m sure he is, but I’d best go next door and check. See how good I’m being?’ She rose from the armchair. ‘What about Zar in your spare room?’ Adding, ‘He’s not me, Liz.’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ said Liz. ‘Get your stuff from the pavilion, Zar. Rose, let him have your key. You don’t need it. And let’s all get some sleep. It’s going to be an eventful day tomorrow.’

  Rose gave Zar the key.

  ‘I’ll get my stuff,’ he said and left them.

  When the front door had shut, Rose held her sister by the shoulder.

  ‘You didn’t take death stalks, did you?’

  ‘No. It’s a load of rubbish. Look at me.’ She broke away, swung her arms and did a pirouette. ‘Bet you can’t still do that, Rose. Not now you’re thirty.’

  Chapter 49

  Jack considered phoning his Alcohol Halt buddy, Max. He hadn’t spoken to him for six weeks. Nice guy, but really not that suitable, not for him. Max was having a God phase, and kept trying to persuade Jack to have one too. At their last meeting, he’d told Jack to pray.

  ‘And if I can’t?’

  ‘Just try. It’ll come easier with practice.’

  Max had a soothing voice, but his nostrums weren’t useful. God, or his stand-in, the doorknob, wouldn’t work for Jack.

  Weariness did. He was home. In order to get drunk, he’d have to go out again to search for a late night booze shop. Too far, too long. But he felt so alone. He’d walked out. Alcohol Halt said if a situation becomes too demanding – leave. You are always free to go, said the convenor. And so, Jack had left. No, he hadn’t, he’d been thrown out. She’d told everyone he was harassing her, because she’d rejected him.

  He’d failed to convince any of them that Liz had taken poison. She had so convincingly denied it, that he was beginning to wonder himself. Could it have been a simple mushroom omelette on her plate – that his own fears had read as death stalks with scrambled egg?

  What more could he do?

  He could’ve said that she had confessed to murdering Ian. But she’d deny that too. Say Jack was the bitter lover who’d say anything in revenge.

  He strode about the flat. This was appalling. He felt so useless, so taken over. Greg at AH swore by yoga. It took his mind off alcohol and his inner demons, he said all too often. It was his inner higher power, he claimed. Jack had tried it once at a class and couldn’t stop looking at the attractive women in front of him, in clinging leotards. His own, inner, lower power.

  He showered, and got into his pyjamas. Another step away from booze. He put on some jazz, closed his eyes and listened to the oozing trumpet and piano rhythm twisting round and round each other. Let the music swell. She’d done the dirty on him. Maybe she thought he’d done the dirty on her?

  In the rose garden, she’d told him that she’d killed Ian. Then when he came into her house later, she said she’d taken death stalks. No, not quite like that. He thought back. She had told him she was eating a mushroom omelette. And he’d asked her – are they death stalks? And she’d said – what else? Then he’d thrown them in the bin.

  He was sure then. Now, not so sure. She’d said why she’d taken them. Because it’s fitting, she’d said. What on earth did that mean? He was tired, too tired. Examining every damn word. And so muddled. He’d forgotten half the words he or she’d said. But the sense of it was that she told him that she was eating death stalks. That was no joke. But then when the others came, she denied everything. Saying it was him getting back at her.

  He didn’t know what to believe. She was poisoning herself. She wasn’t. She was. And there it stayed. She was. But what could he do? Calling an ambulance would be useless. She’d say, it’s that dreadful builder. Look at me, I’m fine. Go and treat someone who’s really ill.

  His phone rang. Late for a call. Liz or Rose? To say they were coming over. Fat chance. He half laughed and looked at the phone. Neither of them.

  ‘Hello, Mia.’

  ‘They’re having another row, Dad.’

  Jack laughed. He couldn’t stop himself.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ she declared. ‘Not the slightest bit.’

  ‘Sorry, Mia.’

  ‘Why are grown ups so stupid?’

  ‘That’s a tough one…’ And totally apt. What does one say? Hormones, laziness, loneliness, but he settled for, ‘Animal instincts pretending to be civilised actions.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s why the world is in such a mess.’

  ‘And Mum?’

  ‘She’s a lonely animal pretending to be a deputy head. Mostly, she gets away with it.’

  ‘Until Tony turns up. Oh, listen to them! Mum got hold of his phone again. And Emily hasn’t gone. What can I do?’ she wailed.

  It’s easier to give advice than to take it, he thought. No one had listened to him so far tonight. Why not make it a series?

  ‘Go in and tell them to damn well shut up,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘You can,’ he said. Reminding himself of Max and prayer. His certainty. ‘You won’t know till you’ve tried.’

  ‘She’ll shout at me.’

  ‘Shout back at her.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Are you still there, Mia?’

  ‘I’m going to do it. I’ll phone you back, Dad.’

  That was better. Distraction. Find another story to lock himself into. Of course Mia might walk straight into their lovemaking. A shock to everyone. The secrets of the bedroom. Except they were screaming their heads off, so unlikely to be in sexual throes. Unless a row was simply sex gone bad.

  The jazz was still playing. He’d turned it lower during the phone call. Now it was ‘Take the A Train’, Duke Ellington. And he segued into a train hoping to stop at a quiet siding, but there was none so he’d roll on – until… Acheson, Topeka and Santa Fe.

  The metaphor didn’t hold. Trains don’t need love. Have rows, get drunk, have children.

  The phone rang. He picked it up, expecting Mia on her own track.

  ‘Jack.’

  It was Alison.

  ‘Hello,’ he said carefully. ‘I hear you were having a row.’

  ‘Did you put her up to it?’ she said.

  ‘She was totally miserable,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing. But stop it.’

  He amazed himself by his forthrightness, but what the hell, what was there to lose?

  ‘Tony’s leaving,’ she said and paused. ‘There. That was the front door.’

  ‘What are you doing in such a stupid relationship?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just wanted to believe him when he came back.’

  ‘He’s a rat.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can’t believe you are agreeing with me. This never happens.’

  ‘Oh, why can’t you be in Brighton now!’

  He laughed. ‘You don’t mean that.’

 
‘I do at this moment,’ she said. ‘You never did the dirty on me. Just got drunk. And now you’ve sorted yourself out – I’m kinda sorry you’ve gone.’

  The irony. Someone thought he was OK. On the phone. For the moment. Seventy miles away.

  ‘It wouldn’t last,’ he said.

  ‘It might.’

  He’d never considered getting back together. Not seriously. They always rowed. It was a pattern. The way they were. Blame v blame.

  ‘Would you like to come to Brighton for the weekend?’ she said.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Did he want to? You can’t step into the same river twice, said some clever dick at AH. He was two years on. Older, but wiser? That was the question. And there was Mia to consider. The Fat Controller was throwing his switches. Which track to where?

  ‘I’ll come,’ he said. ‘Best behaviour.’

  ‘Ditto.’

  Part Four:

  The Big Day

  Chapter 50

  Liz gave Zar a shout in the morning to wake him. She informed him she’d left a clean towel in the bathroom. To help himself to toast, eggs, yoghurt or whatever. But wash up afterwards. She had to open up the park and get going. Busy day.

  Left alone, he might’ve slept till noon. The night before, he’d found the pavilion floor hard, and, when he’d finally got to sleep, been woken up by Rose and Man Mountain. And though grateful for her company, she did chatter. Death and autumn. She was rather a loony, but he liked her. And she’d got him this bed tonight.

  He mustn’t call friends loonies.

  As he showered, he wondered whether he could persuade Liz to make this permanent. He’d have to be a model guest. No mess, no noise. That wasn’t his style anyway. And he didn’t have any lovers to bring back. Eddie who might have been, wasn’t.

  No screwing of witnesses.

  Somewhere to live came first. He would be so nice to Liz today and hope. Pay the rent and housekeeping of course, without any argument. The others might think it peculiar, him staying at Liz’s place. He’d need to come out as gay. But then Liz knew, Rose knew. Amy was gone. That only left Bill. And he’d moan whatever Zar was.

  He went down to the kitchen. It was as tidy as his mother’s. What were they saying about him at home? Nothing much, he suspected, once they’d blown their tops. Probably just glad he was gone and so couldn’t disgrace them. At least, not in their house. Not so that the community would know.

  He’d never cooked at home. Nothing more than toast, that is. The kitchen was his mother’s realm. So he’d have a go now. Tea was just a tea bag in a cup. No problem. Toast in the toaster, simple enough. Dare he try fried egg?

  Zar put too much oil in the pan. He broke the two eggs badly. They fried greasily, popping and spitting. He was glad Liz was out at work and so wouldn’t witness his haplessness. He made the atmosphere worse by frying a slice of bread in the swimming oil. The kitchen steamed with greasy odour.

  Zar ate hungrily. Then washed up, scrubbing the frying pan. He opened the window to release the smell. It was a warm, sunny day. Great. There was the builder already at work.

  Jack was coming out of the yard with a wheelbarrow of bricks when he bumped into Liz. He stared at her for an instant and would have ignored her, but she spoke.

  ‘Sorry, Jack.’

  He almost charged off, but instead stopped.

  ‘That was a bitch thing to do,’ he said.

  ‘For which I can only apologise.’

  She was in her overalls with a clipboard in her hands, her fingers grimy with peat.

  ‘Did you eat death stalks?’ he said.

  ‘Change the subject,’ she said.

  ‘It’s the only subject.’

  ‘Then I didn’t.’

  ‘And did you kill Ian?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So erase the conversation in the rose garden, erase what you said in the kitchen?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, holding his gaze. ‘I was depressed. I said crazy things. I’m fine now.’

  ‘You look well,’ he said.

  She smiled at him. ‘Wait till you see me in my suit.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Oh, I must rush. Such a lot to do before the nobs come. See you later.’

  He watched her stride down the path to her greenhouse. Not knowing what to think. What she’d said, what she was. He’d agreed in the early hours to go down to Brighton to stay with Alison. Well, that could be cancelled. If anything happened here.

  All this hedging of his bets. It was too Tony.

  He unloaded the bricks by the wall, and went back with the wheelbarrow to the yard to make up the mortar. Rose was coming in. She gave him a peck on the cheek, so she wasn’t mad at him either. So maybe he wasn’t judged so badly. Or had Liz had a word with her?

  She told him Mr Swift had overdone the bricklaying yesterday and was having a lie in. So he’d have no mate. And then she rushed off. Zar came across the lawn and hailed him. Even Bill had a good morning. Jack noted that Zar went out with the leaf vac. The lawn was priority. Bill had a two wheeled barrow of white, yellow, purple and red flowers. Primulas, he said. And had gone off to plant them.

  The mortar made up in the yard, Jack took a barrowful outside and began today’s bricklaying. The courses they’d laid yesterday were even. He simply had to keep to them with the spirit level. His action with the trowel had improved from watching Mr Swift. And he hit a rhythm.

  Every so often he saw Liz, in and out the marquee with plants from her greenhouse.

  He was surprised to see Amy. She came in the other gate, past the playground, and must’ve seen Rose there, but she didn’t go in. Bill and Zar gave her a wave, she waved back, and went to talk briefly to Bill. And then went into the marquee.

  She was in there, perhaps ten minutes, and came out weeping.

  A closed lorry came into the park. Jack had to move his wheelbarrow for it to get by. Folding tables were taken from its interior into the marquee, along with plastic chairs and a large open box of white tablecloths. The two men were leaving the marquee when Liz came out yelling at them. Jack could hear her from where he was. Telling them how short staffed she was and she’d report them if they didn’t set things up.

  She won. But then he knew she would. He’d seen her in action a few times. The men went back into the marquee. He could still hear Liz, but muffled by the canvas.

  He checked the course with the spirit level. Going well. Matching up at both ends. He should be finished by noon. Push on. Make up more mortar. He looked at the sky, with luck it should stay fine.

  He was sitting on the wall for his tea break when Liz came along the drive in her suit.

  ‘What d’you think?’ she said, doing a twirl.

  It was a navy blue dress suit, well cut to her figure. She wore a red scarf round her neck and was wearing smart flats on her feet.

  ‘No six inch heels?’ said Jack.

  ‘I can’t stand them,’ she said. ‘Useless to work in. Kill your feet. Scandalously overpriced.’

  She’d put on light make up and a little perfume. Jack looked in admiration; she almost frightened him. What clothes can do. She’d leaped out of the working class.

  ‘I prefer you in overalls,’ he said.

  She lifted her nose snootily. ‘I’m in manager mode. Ah!’ She indicated the gate. ‘That’s the Mayor’s limo. I’m the reception committee too.’ She wandered further up the path as the vehicle drove slowly in.

  Over the next half hour, a few other vehicles came, and various less privileged pedestrians who’d left cars outside the park. Several remarked on the quality of his bricklaying, including the soon to be ex Member of Parliament, who Jack thought quite nice for a Tory.

  The marquee was bustling. There were waiters and waitresses with trays of drinks to hand out to the besuited throng. Every so often, between people, he noted Liz chatting. She seemed at home, in demand.

  Zar rushed past him into the yard.

  ‘Liz wants me
to come in. She wants me to talk about the Tree Map.’

  He came out of the yard a minute later, indicating clean hands, and then ran towards the marquee. Deciding about ten yards from it, that he’d best walk. Jack saw Liz immediately draw him in and then he was out of sight in the mêlée.

  He’d brought out the last of the bricks. There was enough mortar to see him through. He was on the top course, laying the bricks crosswise to finish off. A little later, he noted there was hubbub and motion, guests were streaming out of the marquee and heading towards the avenue. It was mostly men, but some women, all with high heels except Liz in her sensible shoes.

  Every so often, as he worked, Jack looked over to the Mayor’s avenue, but with the milling of people could see little of what was going on. There was a TV camera, the operator dancing about, here and there. The tree planting, Jack assumed, but could see only a wall of suits. Speeches too, he guessed, a few dainty shovels of soil from the chrome plated spade – and back to the marquee for a drink or two.

  Though some with tight schedules were already heading off to meetings about budgets and personnel. The Mayor came past in his limousine, off to his next port of call. The MP went, telling Jack to keep up the good work. The TV people had nothing to stay for, but had a drink or two and grabbed some sausage rolls and were off to another assignment.

  Jack laid the last brick. And stood back to look. Straight and true. He’d only needed to use a few of the new bricks. And had separated them out, so they didn’t stand out. Now to clean up. And job done.

  In the marquee, Liz had a small audience of those less hurried. With a glass of red wine in one hand, she was pointing out and naming the flowers and plants down the sides of the waterfall in her cascade. Answering questions, when suddenly she doubled up, the glass and wine flying out of her hand and dropping into the rapids. She staggered, bashing into the side of her structure, and collapsed onto the bottom step where the gushing pool burbled through pebbles. She sat up brushing water off her hair, her hand among lilies at the side.

  ‘How on earth did that happen?’ she said with a smile.

  An arm helped her to her feet. Liz clambered out, water dripping off her suit, her hair dank, lips trembling. She began thanking her helper, tottered a few steps as if the earth were shaking under her, and would have collapsed but a man caught her, now a dead weight, and laid her gently on the grass.