How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery

by Robin Storey

  He couldn’t bear to look at her any longer. He dropped his gaze to the floor. ‘I thought I did. I talked myself into believing it. The joke’s on me now, I conned myself instead of everyone else.’

  He looked up at her. ‘And you, too. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry doesn’t cut it, I’m afraid.’ She sprang up from the couch and stood in front of him. ‘You’ve humiliated me in front of my family, you’ve lied to me, for all I know you’re probably having an affair; and worst of all, you don’t love me and never have! I’ve just wasted the last six months of my life!’

  He watched her as she marched into the kitchen, grabbed a tissue from the box on the fridge and blew her nose with a fierce honk.

  ‘I think I should leave,’ he said.

  She stopped mid-blow. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I need some space; to think things through. It’ll do us both good to have some time apart.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t you tell me what’s good for me! And don’t give me that “need some space” bullshit. Next thing you’ll be saying, “it’s not you, it’s me.”’

  Reuben got up. ‘I’ll pack some things.’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ Tears welled up again in her eyes. ‘You’re not serious! Where are you going?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll find somewhere.’

  A look of panic flitted across her face. ‘So you’re going to her place.’

  ‘I’ve told you, there’s no her.’

  What else could he say to convince her? He felt as if all the life had been drained out of him by a super-suction hose. Looking at her flushed, tear-stained face, he couldn’t even summon up the energy to feel compassion.

  He went into the bedroom and threw some clothes and a toothbrush into an overnight bag. His body moved as if on automatic pilot. He didn’t have a clue where he was going, dimly aware that at five pm on Christmas Day, his options were limited.

  When he came back out into the living room, the TV was on – some Christmas sitcom full of American twang, canned laughter and people in Santa hats. Carlene was on the couch staring at the TV screen, tissues curled into a tight ball in her hand.

  ‘Well,’ Reuben said. ‘I’m going. I’ll be in touch.’

  Carlene kept her eyes on the TV. ‘Don’t expect me to be hanging around waiting for you to call.’

  ‘Right, I won’t.’

  He stood there; bag in hand. The air was thick with emotions untapped, words unspoken. How had this happened? Last night they’d made love, Carlene tipsy after a couple of Christmas Eve drinks, giggling as she wrapped a piece of tinsel around his erect penis. It’s only for a few days. Breathing space. For both of us.

  As he turned to go, Carlene said, ‘I hope you’re not going to drive.’

  Reuben looked at her blankly then down at the Barbiemobile keys in his hand. She was right. He’d probably be over the alcohol limit. The cops would be out in full force – the answer to his accommodation problem was not a hard bunk in a watchhouse cell.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said.

  He left the living room before she had time to say anything else – there was no point in prolonging the moment. As he closed the front door behind him, a car horn in the distance shrilled the first line of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas.’

  CHAPTER 27

  ‘Where to, mate?’

  ‘Twenty-four Hill Street New Farm, thanks.’

  The taxi driver did a U-turn with a screech of tyres and headed in the direction of Gympie Road. Despite the cab being air-conditioned, there was a huge sweat stain across the back of his white shirt. He reeked of onions and cigarette smoke.

  ‘Had a good Christmas, mate?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  It’s not over yet. Maybe the next few hours will be an improvement. Who was he kidding? Even Thommo hadn’t been too pleased to hear from him. Reuben had been just about to hang up when Thommo snapped, ‘Yes?’

  He sounded out of breath.

  ‘It’s Reuben. I’ve got a favour to ask.’

  ‘Bloody hell, mate can’t it wait? This is not a good time.’

  ‘Sorry, I hate to do this to you on Christmas Day ... Merry Christmas, by the way.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. What do you want?’

  ‘A place to stay. Just tonight. Carlene and I had a bit of a blue.’

  He gave a loud sigh. ‘Whatever. My day’s ruined anyway, you may as well come over and finish it off.’

  ‘Thanks, I really appreciate it. What’s your address?’

  Thankfully the cab had arrived within five minutes. Reuben stared out the window as they passed shops, warehouses and factories, still and blank-faced. There were few cars on the road and the odd sprinkling of pedestrians. Thankfully the cab driver didn’t pursue further conversation but turned up the music – Frank Sinatra belting out ‘My Way’. At least it was better than Christmas carols. Only just.

  The cab turned into Fortitude Valley and down Brunswick Street. When Reuben had last lived in this city, The Valley, as it was known, was the ‘Kings Cross of Brisbane’, full of seedy strip clubs, drug dealers and streetwalkers. Now it was the home of ‘cool’, with its bold, shiny shopfronts, intimate pubs and glitzy nightclubs. The seediness was still there but it had gone underground.

  If he had his old life back, this would be his stamping ground. Being seen at the right places with the right people was all part of the job, networking like any legitimate business. There was a lot to like about it if you discounted the possibility of being caught and going to jail. Good food and wine, lavish home, expensive toys and holidays – anyone who said they were only superficial trappings and not worth striving for, was talking out of malice or envy. Maybe they weren’t everything you needed but they were a good place to start. And now not only he had lost them, but what little he had was slipping out of his grasp.

  ‘Regrets, I’ve had a few,’ Frank warbled. On second thoughts, ‘Silent Night’ would be preferable. Reuben slouched in his seat and tried not to think about Carlene. I’m not leaving her for good; just having some time out. I’ll go insane if I don’t. I know I haven’t been the perfect husband, but I don’t think I’ve been a bastard. And if I have, it hasn’t been intentional. So why do I feel like one?

  The cab turned down a side street then another, and they were in New Farm. It was divided into two sections – the exclusive area with its upmarket apartment blocks, restored terrace houses and trendy offices; and the original New Farm of workers, students and migrants, with its shabby bedsits, tiny workers cottages fronting right onto the footpath and old tumble-down Queenslanders.

  Thommo lived in the latter part, as befitted a struggling actor. His apartment was one of four in a converted old Queenslander, two down and two up. Dirty-white with faded blue awnings, it sagged in the heat. A straggle of weeds poked their heads above the cracked pavers of the front path. In a row of carports to the right of the building, Thommo’s battered Ford Escort was the sole occupant.

  Reuben paid the driver, got out and walked up the front path. Thommo’s apartment, number one, was on the bottom right. The door opened and a girl bowled out, flinging her handbag over her shoulder. She stopped when she saw Reuben, scowled, then swept past him down the front path. She was short and squat with a sheen of blue-black hair and make-up applied so heavily it resembled plaster of Paris.

  Reuben knocked on the door.

  ‘It’s no good running back to me now,’ said Thommo’s muffled voice from inside. The door flung open and he stood there bare-chested, a sarong draped around his lower half, his pale, hairy stomach suspended over the top.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ He inclined his head in the direction of the girl, who’d now disappeared from view. ‘You owe me, mate. Big time.’

  ‘Sorry ... were you two...?’

  ‘No we weren’t, thanks to you. Getting all hot and heavy until you rang, then she went right off the boil.’

  ‘Why did you answer the phone then?’

  �
��I’m an unemployed actor, for fuck’s sake, I always answer the phone, even on Christmas Day. Of course she had to know who it was, so when I told her she said, “There’s not much point going on with it if your friend’s coming over.” Then when I suggested we kind of … you know … speed things up a bit so we could be finished before you arrived, she said “Fuck you, I’m not that type of girl”, got dressed and stalked out.’

  ‘You should have told me; I could have gone to the pub till you’d finished.’

  ‘Forget it.’ He stood aside and gestured for Reuben to come in. ‘Don’t worry that I was about to break the Great Drought of the Twenty-First Century. I’ll think of a way for you to make it up to me.’

  His flat was cramped and dingy, a typical bachelor pad with its sparse furnishings and lack of interior decoration. Evidence of the attempted seduction was obvious – the couch cushions had been thrown on the floor and two empty wine glasses stood on an occasional table next to a smouldering incense holder, which didn’t quite disguise the stale cooking odours.

  Thommo picked up the cushions and threw them back on the couch. ‘I’ve only got one bedroom; you’ll have to sleep here. Let’s go down to The Crown and you can shout me a drink for ruining my day.’

  At The Crown, they perched at the public bar with their beers and stared at the large TV screen flickering in the corner. Apart from the board outside that said, ‘Xmas Day lunch. Roast turkey, veg, plum pudding. $29.95’, it was just another day. The bar was buzzing – many looked as if they’d been there for most of the day, raucous and rosy-cheeked, some past that stage and drooping slowly into their drinks like wilting flowers.

  ‘So, what did you and your wife have a blue about?’ Thommo asked.

  ‘She gave me a gift certificate for ten sessions with a life coach for Christmas.’

  ‘Ouch! Say no more!’ He looked contemplative. ‘Though in my darkest hours, I’ve seriously thought of being a life coach, just to earn a buck. It’s always easier to tell someone else what to do with their lives than take your own advice.’

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, what’s with the girl? Don’t you have a family to spend Christmas with?’

  ‘My mother’s overseas with her latest boyfriend and my father hasn’t spoken to me for years – ever since he kicked me out of home when I told him I was going to be an actor.’

  ‘Do you ever think that maybe you’ll never make it? That you’ll wake up one day an old man still waiting for your first break?’

  ‘There’re plenty of roles around for old men. Look at Michael Caine.’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘Seriously, all the time. But I’ve got two options – give up on the dream, find another career and end up an old man full of regrets or keep on trying and end up an old man full of frustration. A choice between two sorts of unhappiness. Which one do I pick?’

  Reuben shrugged.

  ‘It’s a rhetorical question. I’ve already picked option b. But there’s always the chance that I might make it. I want my epitaph to read, “He was an exceptional actor, even his death scene was brilliantly portrayed.”’.

  Thommo signalled the bartender, ordered two more beers and paid out of Reuben’s change on the bar. Reuben glanced at the faces around him. Most of them here to anaesthetise themselves against the boredom and loneliness of their existence. You wouldn’t be at a pub on Christmas Day if you had family or friends to share the day with. Or maybe you would, if you needed to get away from them. Which was just as depressing.

  ‘Anyway,’ Thommo said, ‘how long are you staying?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He’d have to go back before New Year’s Eve; he was supposed to be taking Carlene to the ball. He’d been intending to surprise her with the tickets. She might not want to go now. In fact, it would be easier for him if she didn’t, as he wouldn’t have to explain why he’d be arriving late. Shit, that was only six days away. Six days until he had to put his final, no excuses, definitive plan for saving Lucy’s life into action.

  What was she doing at this very moment? It was only Christmas Eve in Scotland. He imagined her huddled in front of the fireplace in a cottage in a quaint Scottish village, drinking rum toddies with her in-laws as snow blanketed the hills outside, blissfully oblivious to the fact that her life was hanging perilously in the balance. While he, Reuben Littlejohn, the only person in the world who could save her, was sitting in a pub, putting away beer as if he had not a care in the world.

  He signalled the bar attendant and ordered two more beers. ‘Make them schooners.’

  Thommo was saying something.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said, don’t rush back. Give her time to realise how much she misses you. Can you cook?’

  ‘Passably, just basic stuff.’

  ‘Great. You can stay as long as you like.’

  Thommo nudged him. ‘Hey, look.’

  On the TV screen, Reuben’s face flashed larger than life as he grinned at the girl sitting at the bar in front of him. The camera panned over her cleavage to a close-up of his hands as he pulled two Beckers beers with the easy assurance of a professional bartender – not an inkling of the number of takes before he could pull the beer with just the right amount of panache.

  ‘You’re famous.’

  Reuben looked around to see if anyone else was watching his six seconds of fame. No one was.

  ‘What’s it like seeing yourself on the big screen?’

  ‘Weird,’ he said. ‘I never realised before how lopsided my smile is.’

  ‘It’s good to have a trademark, makes you stand out. When you’re famous, the reporters will refer to your rakish grin.’

  Thommo raised his glass. ‘To fame and fortune.’

  They clinked glasses.

  ‘And failing that,’ Thommo said, raising his glass again, ‘regular work and women.’

  ‘Don’t be so defeatist,’ Reuben said. ‘It’s fame and fortune or nothing.’

  They drank another toast to fame and fortune, followed by toasts to Becker Beer, Brigitte Bardot (when she was younger), sex on tap, XJ Jaguars, intravenous bourbon, not being killed by a would-be underworld figure and The Boston Stranglers. Although Thommo had never heard of them, he graciously conceded that they were the most under-rated group of all time. Encompassing so many toasts required the downing of a number of drinks, resulting in the toasts becoming more bizarre as the night wore on.

  The next time the Becker ad appeared on the big screen, Thommo pointed to it and called out,’ ‘That’s him, that’s my mate,’ and gave Reuben a hearty clap on the back. A group of drinkers at a nearby table glanced at the screen and at Reuben with a bemused expression before resuming their conversations. No one else took any notice. A brassy-blonde woman appeared at the bar beside them and ordered a drink. She looked sideways at Reuben. ‘That wasn’t you on the telly,’ she said. ‘That guy was much better-looking.’

  Thommo choked on his beer, causing a spasm of coughing and spluttering, beer streaming out of his nostrils. Reuben thumped him hard on the back. The woman rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  ‘Men,’ she observed to no one in particular.

  ***

  He was lying bound and gagged on a cold concrete floor. Frank was swinging blows at his head with a hammer – the pain was excruciating. He was going to hammer Reuben into unconsciousness then throw him in the river. From a distance, an auburn- haired vision in a floating white dress glided towards him. As she drew nearer, she reached down into her cleavage, whipped out a pistol and pointed it at Frank. Thank God, Lucy was going to save him.

  Hold on, that was all wrong, he was supposed to be saving her! Stop it this minute! Stop this dream!

  He jerked his eyes open. A wooden table leg swam into his vision. He looked around him. He was sprawled on the threadbare carpet, not much more comfortable than concrete, though thankfully not bound and gagged. And the hammering was still inside his head, as if trying to split it in two.

  A foot came in
to view, pale and elongated with a large knobbly toe, like a misshapen piece of dough. The couch creaked and sagged, and a loud bang reverberated in Reuben’s head as something was placed on the table above him.

  ‘Did you have a good sleep?’ Thommo said.

  ‘Not really. I must have fallen off the couch.’

  His throat was dry and he rasped like a blues singer.

  ‘You didn’t make it to the couch. You tripped over as you came in the front door and you just went to sleep where you landed.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Reuben had a vague recollection of tripping over, as if it had happened in a dream. He realised his knee was throbbing, as a background accompaniment to the beat in his head.

  Thommo picked up his coffee mug from the table. ‘Want a coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please. And would you mind not shouting?’

  ‘I’m not shouting. But if it hurts your poor wee head, I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.’

  He tiptoed out with exaggerated care. Reuben wrenched himself off the floor, sank into the couch and cradled his head in his hands. How could Thommo be so full of good humour after the amount they’d drunk last night? His stomach must be one miraculous organ.

  He became aware of a vibration in his jeans. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Without looking at the caller ID, he knew who it was.

  ‘Hi baby, how are you?’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘You don’t sound okay. Where are you?’

  ‘At Thom – I mean, Finn’s. In his hotel room.’

  ‘I thought he’d gone back to Sydney.’

  ‘He decided to stay over Christmas. He’s got relatives here.’

  Silence. ‘I found those tickets for the New Year’s Eve Ball.’

  What were you doing snooping in my underwear drawer? Reuben wanted to ask, but he wasn’t up to another argument.

  ‘I was going to surprise you,’ he said.

  ‘I was so upset when I saw them.’

  ‘Oh. Don’t you want to go?’

  ‘Of course I do. I thought it was really sweet of you and it made me cry.’