The Perfect Girl

by Lorna Dounaeva

  Kicking a bright pink kitten heel out of the way, she trudged downstairs to find the back door swinging in the breeze. As she stepped outside, the lights came on in the house next door. Her cheeks burned at the thought that the neighbours were watching. She marched down the garden and leaned over her mother to switch off the mower.

  “Are you mad?” her mother screamed, her face pale and anxious in the moonlight. “Can’t you see I’ve got work to do?”

  Gertrude thought quickly. “It’s Claire,” she lied. “She’s got a fever. Do you know where the thermometer is?”

  “It’ll be in your father’s study, where it always is.”

  Gertrude bit her lip. Her father had moved out years ago.

  “I can’t find it,” she said. “Can’t you help me for a minute? You can finish mowing later.”

  With an irritated sigh, her mother followed her back into the house. A couple of neighbours nosed over the garden fence, craning to see what was going on.

  “Everything OK, love? Do you want some help?”

  Her mother’s head turned slightly in the direction of the voices, but Gertrude looked straight ahead as she herded her mum back inside to bed.

  “What’s that?” Jock asked, pressing his nose up against the glass.

  “Fat Rascal,” said Angie.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Fat Rascal. It’s like a cross between a scone and a teacake.”

  “Sounds like it was made for you,” said Dylan, with a smirk.

  “Thanks,” Jock said. “But I think I’ll stick with my Battenberg.”

  Angie smiled. “You know what you like, don’t you?”

  Jock settled at the table by the window and Dylan plonked himself down beside him. He never seemed to have anything better to do than hang around the tea shop – or the bar.

  “You like this table, don’t you?” Dylan said.

  Jock shrugged. “I like looking out the window while I drink my tea.”

  “It’s OK, as hobbies go,” Dylan agreed. “Of course, some people exercise.”

  Jock ignored him and took a bite of his cake. It was deliciously light and sweet. He felt guilty, enjoying such simple pleasures while Sapphire was still missing, but he had to get through the day somehow. He could go crazy thinking about her.

  “You know, I would have thought this May Queen business would be right up your alley,” Dylan said. “You write about mysteries for a living and now here’s your chance to solve a real one.”

  “I’m not sure being a writer is much of a training for playing detective,” Jock said, feeling a little defensive. “Not when there’s a real life at stake.”

  “But you must have done some digging?”

  He nodded. He had barely thought of anything else.

  “So?”

  “So I can’t help thinking, why her? I mean, there were eight May Queens crowned on Saturday, three of them in this county, so why Sapphire?”

  “Because she’s blonde,” Dylan said, without missing a beat. “I saw a couple of others interviewed on the local news; one was ginger and the other one was Indian. But the missing May Queens have always been blonde, haven’t they?”

  Dylan was right. Every single one of them had blonde hair and blue eyes.

  “Why is that?” Jock asked.

  “Because the first one was blonde,” Dylan speculated. “The killer is trying to recreate their first time, over and over.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I don’t. I’m just trying to put myself in his shoes.” He picked up his iPhone and began to play Angry Birds, signalling that the conversation was over.

  “And what time do you call this?” Angie asked, as Morgan skulked in.

  Morgan pulled a face. “I had a dentist appointment. Thought I told you?”

  “No, you didn’t,” Angie said.

  “Uh oh, handbags at five paces,” Dylan said loudly.

  “Shh!” Jock said, embarrassed. Why did Dylan always have to poke his oar in?

  “Then I must have told Bronwyn,” said Morgan, determined she wasn’t in the wrong.

  “You don’t work for Bronwyn,” Angie told her.

  “I don’t work for you, either,” Morgan spat back.

  Angie blinked rapidly. For an awful moment, Jock thought she was going to cry. He busied himself with his laptop just in case.

  “When is Sapphire coming back?” he heard Morgan whine.

  “I really wish you’d stop asking me that,” said Angie.

  “But you must know something! I thought she was your best friend?”

  “I thought so, too,” Angie said. “And frankly, I don’t know what I’m going to do about the shop. I can’t keep on authorising new stock.”

  He glanced up and saw that Bronwyn had come out of the kitchen. “We’re all going to be out of a job, aren’t we?” she said.

  “Not just yet,” said Angie. “We can keep things ticking over for a few more weeks.”

  “And after that?”

  “And after that, it will be out of our hands.”

  Jock stared at the screen in front of him. Come on, Sapphire. You have to come back now. He bent his head over his keyboard and bashed out a few hundred words. He looked up just in time to see Angie’s boyfriend limbo under the door frame like some kind of superhuman.

  Dylan looked up from his phone. “Alright, Simon? How was your trip?”

  The giant nodded pleasantly. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

  “Pity you had to come back to this,” Dylan said.

  Jock wasn’t sure if he was talking about Sapphire or the fact that her tea shop had turned into a circus.

  Simon nodded. “Do you mind if I sit with you? The place is chocka.”

  “Course.”

  Jock waited for an introduction, but Dylan went back to his Angry Birds with an air of studied concentration, so it fell upon him to introduce himself.

  “Hi, I’m Jock.”

  “Yes, Angie told me about you.”

  “Told you or warned you?” Dylan asked.

  “And you’re Simon?” Jock said, choosing to ignore Dylan’s remark.

  “Thanks. I’d wondered.”

  Was that supposed to be a joke? If so, Simon was extremely deadpan.

  “So … er … what do you do, Simon?”

  “I teach environmental geography, amongst other things.”

  “Oh.” He couldn’t really think of anything to say to that – Good for you? I’m sorry? “What … er … what does that entail?”

  This resulted in a long, drawn-out reply that made Jock wish he had never got out of bed that morning. Simon spoke in a slow, deliberate manner, enunciating each syllable as if it were his last. Every time he thought he had finished speaking, he started up again.

  Jock glanced at the next table, where a group of people sat in ripped jeans and camouflage jackets.

  “Someone should tell them May Day’s over,” Dylan said, a little too loudly.

  Jock reddened, but to his relief, they didn’t look up. Only one of them ordered anything, he noticed. The rest ate packed lunches they had brought with them. Some did so sneakily, by hiding their sandwiches in their laps, but one was quite brazen, as if he wanted to be challenged.

  “Who do they think they are?” he whispered. He felt outraged on Sapphire’s behalf. She would know how to deal with them.

  “In a way, I can sympathise,” Simon said.

  “What?”

  “I mean, of course there is a certain thug element that naturally attaches itself to these groups …”

  Jock nodded and stifled a yawn. He fought the urge to rest his head on the table and close his eyes.

  “… But in their defence, I think these people have a genuine gripe with …”

  Jock glanced at Dylan, but he had got up from his chair and was pretending to examine some of the fifties memorabilia hanging on the wall.

  “… in the face of the … er … ongoing global economic crisis … austerity measur
es …”

  Jock tried not to watch as Dylan constructed a fake noose behind Simon’s back and pretended to hang himself. He was being incredibly rude, even for Dylan, but that didn’t stop the laughter that was welling up inside of Jock.

  “… poor working conditions,” Simon continued. He looked at Jock, as if he had asked him a question. Since Jock had no idea what the question was, he smiled awkwardly.

  Simon looked round. “How about you, Dylan?”

  “Sorry, just gotta point Percy at the porcelain,” Dylan said and charged off towards the gents.

  “Why isn’t he wearing any shoes?” Jock asked, desperate to change the subject.

  Simon shook his head. “Ah, Dylan and shoes. Now that’s a complicated history.”

  Dylan returned a couple of minutes later, by which time Simon appeared to have run out of steam. Out of the corner of his eye, Jock was aware of Stavely approaching their table. He swallowed and loosened his collar. What did he want now?

  Dylan looked up from his phone. “Oh yeah, Simon, the police came looking for you while you were away.”

  “What?” Simon turned from Dylan to Stavely, who was now standing in front of him.

  “Simon Carter, I’d like you to come down to the station,” Stavely said in a grim voice. His colleague Sweep appeared beside him.

  “Why?” asked Simon. “What’s going on?”

  “We would like to question you in connection with the disappearance of Sapphire Butterworth,” Stavely told him.

  Jock gasped. Why did they need to take him down the station? It had to be serious, didn’t it?

  Simon’s nostrils flared with indignation. “I know my rights,” he said. “If you want to talk to me, I demand a lawyer.”

  Stavely nodded. “We’ll sort all that out down the station.”

  Simon opened his mouth and closed it again. For a moment, it seemed like he might resist. But then he looked towards the door, where Constable Wesley was standing, and he walked quietly out to the waiting Panda car. Without quite meaning to, Jock followed them to the door and watched them drive off.

  “They think he’s the May Queen Killer, don’t they?”

  He turned to see a shocked, frightened Angie behind him. She let out a strange, strangled sob and fled to the kitchen.

  10

  “Simon?” Dylan chuckled, as if it were all a great joke. “They think Simon is the May Queen Killer? Is that the best they can do?”

  “It’s not funny,” Jock hissed. “Didn’t you see how upset Angie was?”

  “Yeah, well she has a tendency towards hysteria.”

  He glanced around the tea shop. Dozens of journalists sat tapping away on their handheld devices. Had anyone noticed Simon’s arrest, he wondered, or were they all too engrossed in their own lives? Certainly, there didn’t seem to be much of a buzz. If they were aware of what had happened, wouldn’t they be tripping over themselves to question Angie?

  After about ten minutes, she re-emerged from the kitchen, looking remarkably composed. Jock guessed she was aware that the walls had ears. She came over and stood by his table, pretending to look out at the street.

  “Why did they arrest him?” she asked in a low voice. “He hasn’t done anything wrong!”

  “I’m not sure they did technically arrest him,” Jock said. “From what I heard, they just wanted him to help them with their inquiries.”

  “Oh, we all know that’s just a euphemism,” she snapped.

  “Maybe they want to know if he saw anything suspicious while he was up in the mountains,” Jock reasoned. He wasn’t sure he believed it, but anything to comfort her.

  She closed her eyes. “Stupid fishing trip. He didn’t even catch any flipping fish!”

  “Well, good luck to them interviewing him,” Dylan said, as she went off to serve a customer. “I bet he talks even slower when he’s nervous.”

  Jock shook his head. “I don’t know how you can joke about it.”

  “Oh come on, it’s never going to be Simon, is it?”

  “Then what do they want with him?”

  “Who knows? They’ve got to look like they’re doing something, haven’t they? Just be grateful it’s him and not you.”

  “What on earth have you done?”

  Gertrude looked around the utility room in disbelief. Her mother had scrawled all over the walls, from the ceiling, right down to the floor. She must have climbed up on top of the machines to have reached so high. She was lucky she hadn’t fallen and hurt herself.

  “What does it even say?” she asked, squinting at it all. But the writing was too shaky to decipher.

  Her mother opened and closed the washing machine door, repeating the same phrase over and over again: “Are you mad? Are you mad? Are you mad?”

  Gertrude placed a hand on her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you a cup of tea.”

  Her mother spun round. “No! You’re trying to poison me!”

  “Mum, I can promise you I’m not.”

  Her mother’s face filled with rage. “Don’t you dare call me that! Only my daughters call me Mum.”

  “But it’s me: Gertrude!”

  “You can’t fool me! I can always tell when you’re not you. You get that devilish look in your eye.”

  Gertrude bit her lip, choking back the words she wanted to say. She knew her mother couldn’t help it, but that didn’t make it any easier.

  She stepped out of the utility room and drew a long breath. She would check on her mother again in ten minutes. She walked into the kitchen and pulled a tub of ice cream from the freezer. Anything to calm her nerves.

  “Sorry, I got talking to some of the parents after the lesson,” Claire said when she got in from work. She had enjoyed a short but glittering career as a ballerina, but these days she taught classes at a nearby studio. “How’s Mum?” she asked, almost as an afterthought.

  “See for yourself,” Gertrude said.

  They peered into the living room. Their mother sat in her favourite armchair, calmly knitting a cardigan while she watched Coronation Street. She didn’t even look up as Claire looked in. She was too engrossed in her programme.

  “She looks happy enough.”

  “Yeah, she’s nice and calm now. Might attempt to get some dinner into her.”

  “Good luck,” said Claire, checking her mobile. “I need to get ready to go out. I’m meeting my friends in half an hour.”

  “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?” said Fizz.

  Sapphire opened her eyes and blinked. For a moment, she thought Fizz was serious. Then an unwelcome draft blew across the cellar and she realised it was just a joke. She closed her eyes again and attempted to go back to sleep, but all around her, the other May Queens were starting to stir and the warm pile of bodies she had been snuggling against pulled apart.

  “Right, who’s first in the shower?” Fizz called.

  “You go ahead,” Ingrid said, sounding tired.

  Sapphire watched as Fizz mimed stepping into the shower and hummed as she lathered herself under the imaginary jet. “Oh crap, I’m going to be late for work,” she cried, pretending to rub herself down. She tossed her imaginary towel on the floor and pretended to dress in an elaborate outfit.

  “I am always cleaning up after you!” Harmony scolded her, stooping down to pick up the invisible towel from the floor.

  “You must all have a lot of time on your hands,” Sapphire said, shaking her head at their display.

  Ingrid nodded. “And so do you now.”

  “Hey, I’m just going downstairs to the loo,” Harmony said.

  Politely, they all looked away and pretended not to listen.

  “I can’t go!” she wailed.

  “Sing Twinkle Twinkle.” Ingrid told her. “Always works for me.”

  “Is there anything for breakfast?” Sapphire asked hopefully.

  “’Fraid not,” Ingrid said. “No one’s been down.”

  “How about some champagne?” said Fizz. She made a show of wres
tling with the cork, before spilling the imaginary liquid into each of their hands.

  “Ah, the real reason for your name now becomes apparent,” Sapphire said with a smile.

  “Where’s my champagne?” Harmony asked, holding out her hands.

  “You’re underage,” Fizz argued.

  “Oh, go on! No one’s gonna know!”

  “Oh, alright then. But don’t tell anyone, or I’ll lose my licence.”

  “What’ll we drink to?” Sapphire asked. She was a little tired of this charade, but at the same time, impressed by the lengths they were willing to go to.

  “To friends,” said Harmony. “May we never argue and never part.”

  Jock couldn’t miss the cover of the Fleckford Star, splayed out on the bar at the Dragon.

  ‘Is this the face of the real May Queen Killer?’ the caption read. Underneath was a terrible picture of Simon, towering over the village like Godzilla.

  “It’s not just the Star,” Dylan said. “It’s in the national papers, too. Guess those journalists were on the ball after all. They’re saying some terrible things about Simon, all of it lies, I’m sure.”

  “How well do you know him?” Jock asked, scanning the article.

  “Well enough.”

  “And you trust him?”

  “Simon? He’s like a human tractor – slow and steady. He could bore for England.”

  “You’re not a fan then?”

  “Oh, no – he’s sound. You won’t meet a nicer fellow than Simon. Believe me, he’s no killer.”

  They walked over the cobbles to the tea shop. There were other cafes dotted up and down the street, but they never even considered going anywhere else.

  “Hello,” Dylan said, as Bronwyn approached their table. “What are you doing above stairs?”

  “Angie asked me to swap with her,” she said. “She wasn’t feeling up to serving customers today.”

  “I’m amazed she’s come in at all,” Jock said.

  Bronwyn looked at him a little oddly, as if trying to work out who he was. He had one of those faces that people instantly forgot.