by Mark Timlin
‘What happened, Dad?’
‘She was murdered.’
‘Knifed, he said.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Christ! You and knives.’
‘What?’
‘The restaurant that night we came down.’
I’d forgotten all about that. ‘What can I say, Judith?’
‘I don’t know, Dad. Your life.’
‘It was nothing to do with me.’
‘Are you sure?’
And of course I wasn’t. Could it have been someone from my murky past getting revenge at last? ‘I’m not sure of anything right now.’
‘She was so nice.’
‘I know.’
‘I really thought you two might make a go of it.’
‘So did I.’
‘I’m so sorry, Dad.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Do you want me to come down?’
‘No. Stay as far away from all this as possible.’
‘Were you even going to tell me?’
‘No. Yes. Of course I was. I was just waiting for the right time.’ I felt a stab of conscience. I hadn’t even thought of Judith over the last few days. ‘It’s bloody difficult, love.’
‘How could something like that happen? She seemed like a good person.’
I gripped the side of the table. ‘She was.’
‘So how?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘If there’s anything I can do…’
‘I don’t think so, sweetheart.’
‘When’s the funeral?’
‘I don’t know. Her sister’s here. She’s handling things. They have to release the body.’
‘Let me know and I’ll send some flowers.’
I nearly wept again at that. ‘That’ll be nice.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come?’
‘Quite sure. There’ll be press I expect. I don’t want you involved.’ Judith had been involved once before in one of my escapades and I didn’t want her going through that again.
‘OK, Dad.’
‘How’s Jerry?’
‘Fine.’
‘What he must think of me?’
‘He likes you.’
‘Well that’s something.’
‘And so do I. I love you, Dad.’
‘The feeling’s mutual.’
‘I know. If you need to talk…’
‘You’ll be the first person I call.’
‘Good. I’ll talk to you soon.’
‘You will.’
And with that we both said farewell and hung up.
I went over to the window and looked outside and saw that Lucy’s car was still parked in front of my house and as I was standing there an old Honda with a cab radio aerial stuck on the roof pulled up and she stepped out.
I ran downstairs and caught her as she got into the car. ‘Lucy,’ I said. ‘Listen. I’m sorry about last night.’
‘Morning-after remorse?’ she asked.
‘I know I was drunk.’
‘Extremely drunk.’
‘Yeah. Extremely. But I didn’t mean…’
‘Didn’t mean what? Trying to force yourself onto me or to belittle my sexual preferences.’
‘Come on, Lucy,’ I said. ‘Don’t go all PC on me. I didn’t try and force myself on you. You got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘And?’
‘Well OK, I belittled your sexual preferences, but I just didn’t expect…’
‘What? That I bat for the other side? Dance at the other end of the ballroom? Isn’t that how you boys so graciously put it?’
‘Well, you know…’
‘Don’t you think I have to put up with snide remarks at work? And why do you think I quit the army? I’ve heard them all, Nick. “All you need is a fuck by a real man and you’ll be cured.” You know the sort of thing.’
I did.
‘I’ve had the notes left on my locker, and photographs of cocks left on my desk, and men who should know better trying to put their hands up my skirt.
‘But I expected more from you. Sheila led me to expect more.’ And all of a sudden she was crying.
I put my arm around her and said, ‘Come on upstairs. I’ll make tea.’
She allowed me to lead her into the house and up to the flat, where she sat at the table whilst I reboiled the kettle, and she dried her eyes with a bunch of tissues I gave her.
‘Christ, but this is a lousy job,’ she said. ‘No wonder you got out.’
‘I was given a helping hand,’ I explained. ‘But you must know that.’
She nodded and dropped the Kleenex in the bin, sniffed and blinked.
‘Better now?’ I asked.
‘Don’t patronise me, Nick,’ she said angrily.
‘Jesus, I can’t do anything right, can I?’
She smiled. ‘You’re on probation. Let’s leave it at that. And I got a message this morning. They’re releasing Sheila’s body tomorrow, so I’m going to arrange the funeral.’
On which happy note I put a couple of tea bags into the pot and poured on the hot water.
Part Two
To Babylon By Bus
28
She stopped and talked for maybe an hour. She told me something of her and Sheila’s childhood. Not an idyllic one by all accounts. ‘We were rivals from the beginning,’ she said. ‘When Sheila was five and I was three, she took me down to the police station in her doll’s pram and told them she’d found me in the street. Mum and Dad went potty. It may seem funny now,’ she added, seeing the look on my face, ‘but it wasn’t then.’
‘But that’s where you ended up anyway.’
‘Yeah.’
I asked what had happened to their mother and father. Sheila had told me they were dead but left it at that. I hadn’t enquired further. It seemed she didn’t want to talk about it, so I hadn’t pressed her.
‘Mum had cancer. Dad just curled up and died after she went. He didn’t last two years.’ Then she went on to explain how the two girls had drifted apart after that, before the arrival of Johnny Tufnell had made the rift more permanent.
‘He’s got a lot to answer for, that bloke,’ I said.
‘It wasn’t just him. We were so stubborn. It’s a family trait.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘But I’m glad neither of them is here to see this.’
I agreed with a nod.
‘I’m all alone now,’ she said. ‘A real orphan. Sounds silly at my age, doesn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘I’m glad you’re here, Nick,’ she said, covering my hand with hers. ‘I couldn’t face all this totally alone.’
‘What about your…’
‘My partner? Sorry, I know you hate that word. No. She didn’t know Sheila. I don’t think they’d even spoken. It didn’t seem right to get her involved. I suppose she would’ve done if I’d asked, but this was something I had to face on my own. Apart from you of course,’ she added with a smile. ‘Listen, I’ve got to fly. I’ve still got stacks of things to do.’
‘Need a hand?’
‘No. But it’s been good seeing you. We’ll get together soon.’
‘Fine,’ I said, and she left me with a kiss on the cheek.
After she’d gone, I decided that that was the day to take my first recce round the City. I took the Mustang up as far as the South Bank, parked it in an NCP and caught a bus over the river to the financial district. I didn’t want any film of my motor on record. It was too memorable.
I got off the bus on London Wall and went looking for the alley that had been marked on the map Sheila had left me.
It was easy to find, a tiny blind thoroughfare between two slightly wider alleys that led from
London Wall to Moorgate. And bang on the corner of the main roads was The Allied and Irish Bank Depository. Bingo.
And guess what? Just where the red dot had been on the map was an iron manhole cover, giant size.
And guess what again? There was no sign of a CCTV camera in that alley. It all fitted.
But even without a camera I didn’t linger, just carried on strolling with the lunchtime crowds of office workers that I’d used as camouflage until I reached the edge of the City again, and found a quiet little boozer and had a couple of pints to placate the army of hobnailed booted infantry who were still marching around inside my head before walking back to where the car was parked.
I got back home around three-thirty and there was a message on my machine from Lucy. She’d had to go back to Birmingham, but would be back in London the day after next and she’d come round. The funeral was to be the day after that – Thursday. Pretty swift for a murder investigation. But Sheila was going to be buried so they could always dig her up again. An awful thought, but the truth. Lucy didn’t tell me why she’d gone back to the Midlands. Maybe it was something to do with work, or maybe she couldn’t wait to get back to her partner and get down and dirty with a real woman.
I opened the bottle of JD I’d bought in the off licence at the bottom of the street, put Stan Getz on the stereo, toasted the world and jumped back into the bottle.
When almost half the booze was gone I fell asleep and dreamed of Sheila.
She was alive and well, no blood, no knife slashes on her hands or arms or throat. I know that worried me, but I couldn’t think why. We were walking hand-in-hand down a wide, hot boulevard like something in the south of France. She was dressed in a little, flower-patterned, floaty summer dress and she was laughing. But what she was laughing at I didn’t know. I think that worried me too.
She looked so cute and pretty there walking next to me that no one could blame me for loving her. Her hair was clean and fresh and her skin was tanned and smooth, and she just seemed to float down that street like she’d never get old, which she wasn’t going to, but I’m not sure if I was aware of that in the dream, or I just thought about it later.
Then we went into a railway station. I’m pretty sure that was significant. It was a French railway station too, like I remembered from some holiday when I was a lot younger, although Sheila and I had never been abroad together. But we’d promised to. To just vanish for a few weeks, away from where anyone knew us, and pretend we were anyone else apart from who we really were. Inside the vast station I could smell coffee and French cigarettes, and the rays of the sun that came through the glass roof were full of pieces of dust that were as bright as crystal.
Sheila told me she’d forgotten something and that I must wait exactly where I was, not to move or else she might not be able to find me again, which of course she couldn’t, but that didn’t occur to me either. She jumped up and kissed me on the cheek, let go of my hand and moved away through the crowds that filled the concourse with just a glance over her shoulder, a heartbreaking smile on her lips. I watched the skirt of her dress twitching over her bottom as she moved through the people, dodging gracefully between the porters and the passengers until she vanished without another backward look.
How long I waited in my dream I don’t know, but it grew dark and cold and the crowds thinned and there was no sign of her. I knew that if I moved from where she’d left me I’d never see her again, but I also knew that there was something badly wrong and I needed to go and find her.
I was suddenly terrified and I tried to run in the direction she had gone, but like in so many of my dreams my legs wouldn’t obey me, and the faster I tried to go the further the walls of the station seemed to move away. I panicked then, and could feel the tears well up in my eyes, as much tears of frustration as sorrow.
And then I saw her. I wiped the tears away and there she was, standing at the entrance to one of the platforms talking to a shadowy figure and I noticed that she was carrying a huge bunch of white roses. I tried to call out but nothing came out of my mouth, and she passed through the entrance and out of my sight. I tried to run faster and call again, but all I could hear was the sound of my own breath rasping in my ears. Eventually, although it seemed like years had passed, I got to the barrier, only to see the last carriage of a train snaking its way past the far end of the platform, which was deserted except for a single white rose lying in the dirt.
I woke up in the dark, real tears drying on my cheeks, and I think I actually shouted her name before I remembered where I was and what had happened, and I reached for the bottle again and lay there with my heart beating so loudly it sounded louder than any shout ever could.
29
I knew I wouldn’t go back to sleep, or maybe I was frightened to in case I dreamt about her being alive again, and the terrible disappointment I would feel when I woke and found it was all a lie. So I just lay there for the rest of the night, drinking and smoking, watching the bone white moon move across the sky over the houses opposite through the open curtains, and thinking about all the empty places in my heart where Sheila had lived and what I was intending to do to the people who had snuffed out her life. It was the only thing that kept me sane as that long night dragged through to morning.
It was another beautiful day, but I could see no beauty in it. For all I cared, if the sun had not come up at all it would have made little difference to the way I felt. I got up, made a desultory toilet and drank three cups of coffee. By eight I’d done everything I had to do and the day stretched in front of me like a blank white page. By eleven I was climbing the walls and decided to go for a drink. I wandered from one pub to another, watching them gradually fill and empty as the day went by. I spoke to no one but the staff as I went. I wasn’t in the mood for convivial saloon bar chat. I started on pints, then after four or five, when I began to feel bloated, I changed to large brandies with Coke and ice. I sat outside whenever I could, feeling the sun hot on my face and watching the world go by. I saw beautiful women and handsome men seemingly without a care in the world, laughing, enjoying the weather, and the more fun they had the less I did. When I wasn’t on licensed premises I walked the streets feeling as alone and lonely as I’d ever felt in my life. The day waxed and waned around me, and when the final barman in the final pub called last orders I drank up and walked home. I arrived there around midnight, not able to remember one of the pubs I’d visited and who I’d seen. I fell into my unmade bed and finally slept the sleep of the dead. I think I dreamt about Sheila again, but thankfully I couldn’t remember the details when I woke up.
Wednesday was the same, but as I was expecting a visit from Lucy I stayed closer to home. She eventually called at around four and told me she wouldn’t be back until the morning. Something had come up. She didn’t explain and I didn’t ask. The funeral was set for noon and she told me she’d see me there. I spent the evening with my friend Jack Daniel’s and a lot of repeats on TV.
I was up with the sun again on Thursday. I drank my breakfast from the bottom of the bottle I hadn’t managed to finish before falling asleep in front of the box the night before, and ironed my last clean shirt. I dressed in the same suit I’d worn for my first night out with Sheila, and walked to the cemetery, stopping at a couple of pubs on the way. I must’ve drunk enough to kill an Irish navvy that night and morning, yet I swear I was sober when I got to the cemetery. I walked up the long hill from the main road to the little chapel where Sheila’s service was going to be held, and the flowers bloomed and the little birdies sang in the treetops, and the sky was as blue as blue could be, and the sun shone brightly again, but I felt like there was a black cloud all over the world.
30
The funeral was a godawful affair. But what funeral isn’t? And I’ve been to enough for two lifetimes.
More.
There were only four of us in the small chapel. Five if you count the vicar. Six if you count the deceased.
Outside there was one reporter from the local paper. We all ignored him.
I was there, Lucy was there, DS Blackford was there, and Finbarr was there, and it took me all my self control not to tear out his lungs and feed them to him bit by bit.
The vicar, who had never met Sheila, intoned some words that were supposed to be comforting, but in fact were meaningless, and the sun shone through the stained-glass windows on the righteous and the unrighteous, the quick and the dead. The place smelled of damp, incense, fresh flowers, dead flowers, sorrow and pain. And if you don’t know what sorrow and pain smell like you should’ve been standing next to me looking at the plain wooden box that Sheila had ended up in.
When the short service was over we all walked to the graveside where the undertaker’s men deposited Sheila’s remains into the grave, the vicar read from his little black book, Lucy, Finbarr and I threw dry dirt onto the box, and I put in a bouquet of white roses similar to those that Sheila had been carrying in my dream, that I’d bought from the stall just inside the cemetery gates on my way in.
And that was where another chapter in my life closed.
DS Blackford kept his distance, only coming over when the funeral was done to say a few more empty words to which I didn’t listen, just nodded as a response. He shook Lucy’s hand and left. Why he’d come God knows. Maybe he’d expected me to make a confession over her coffin as it was lowered into the ground. Or maybe he’d expected Johnny Tufnell to turn up to see the final instalment of his ex-girlfriend’s life and Blackford could clap on the handcuffs. Whichever it was he was disappointed. Of course it could have been that he’d come out of sheer humanity at the death of another human being, but right then I wasn’t in the mood to credit that.
Finbarr, Lucy and I stood there in an awkward silence as we watched him walk down the hill, and the small earth moving machine trundled across the grass getting ready to fill in the hole. Finbarr suggested that we all go for a drink and I could hardly refuse without letting the cat out of the bag. So Lucy and I got into her car, after she’d put some more flowers on her parents’ graves, and drove to Dulwich Village where there was a boozer with a big garden. Finbarr followed us in his Jaguar. At that time of day the pub was almost empty. Finbarr bought a round and we took the drinks into the open air. On the drive over I don’t think Lucy and I exchanged more than half a dozen words.