Ruby said, “Ish it late? Hi everybods.” And closed her eyes.
Amy was saying, “Well, I’ve never been terribly religious, you know. I went to church when I was little, but not once I grew up.”
Betty said, “I find religion a great consolation. After all, I shall drop dead any day now. It’s nice to know I won’t be all alone.”
The bottle went pop and Yvonne started pouring. “Ruby? A little plonk?”
“Shsss,” Ruby waved a vague index finger. ‘Naughty. No more. Goshsss. Feel all shwilling already.”
“I always think,” said Yvonne, “if you’ve had a little too much, then have a glass of water and something to eat. Absorbs the alcohol.”
“Good idea,” said Ruby and fished around in the carrier bag Brad had given her. She unearthed a box of chocolates and handed it to Sylvia, then took the other box for herself. She did not manage to open the cellophane, but Yvonne leaned over and opened it for her. Ruby popped two large smart looking chocolates into her mouth and handed the box to Yvonne.
“Not with wine,’ Yvonne said. “Each spoils the taste of the other.”
Ruby ate two more and waved the box in the air. Betty took one and sucked slowly. The others shook their heads. “Shuckssh,” said Ruby, and ate two more. “Ever sho nice.”
“I never really believed those sermons in church,” said Yvonne, sitting on the arm of Sylvia’s chair. “I can’t imagine any creator clever enough to invent the whole universe, being daft enough to invent us.”
Amy giggled. “Well, I’m not sure if I’m a believer or not. I suppose I am. After all, I was castrated as a baby at the local Methodist Church.”
Percival blinked open one eye. “Christened, my dear. Not castrated.”
“Ah, yes,” conceded Amy. “And I didn’t like the preacher.”
The vague misunderstandings spared infectious. “I believe the world is symbolic,” Sylvia said vaguely to herself. “We are some sort of physical symbol of the more important mental.”
“Spiritual,” said Percival.
“Doesn’t that combine with thought and emotion? Ah well.” Sylvia gave up, “symbolic of something.”
Ruby was a bit lost. She ate a couple more chocolates. “Sylivikins,” she said with the chocolates open on her lap. “Eat up.”
“Bless you dearest,’ Sylvia mumbled, “but I just don’t like milk chocolate, only the dark stuff. I’ll give these to Harry when he comes home. But it was darling of you, thanks so much.” She frowned. “You look a little the worse for wear, my dear. Can I help you up to bed?”
Ruby’s head dropped almost to her chest, and she began to snore. Sylvia beckoned to a couple of the younger of the male residents and called for Lavender. “I’ll get Arthur,” said Lavender at once. “He can carry her up to bed, poor dear.”
“I’ve known her to drink a little too much before,’ Sylvia mumbled to herself, “but never this much. She seems completely sozzled. And she went out by herself at lunchtime saying she was going to the Plaza. They don’t serve liquor at the cinema, do they?”
Ruby’s lavishly made bed, silken in crimson sheets and a quilt of red and black patterned velvet, awaited her and Arthur plonked her down on the pillows, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and trotted off again. Sylvia had followed, and Lavender behind. They now both loosened Ruby’s clothes, took off her shoes, unbuttoned the somewhat wintery cardigan, pulled a sheet and the quilt over her, and tiptoed out. Lavender said, “She’ll sleep tight now. But she’ll wake with a headache. I’ll leave a glass of water on the bedside.”
“I wonder if we should leave a bowl on the floor too,” said Sylvia.
“She wasn’t that bad, was she?’ asked Lavender. “She might be a little offended if she saw something like that when she wakes in the morning.”
Sylvia shook her head but closed Ruby’s bedroom door, and trotted back downstairs. “We’ll have to install a lift one day,” she said.
“Exercise is important when you get older,’ said Lavender. “But if everyone who lives on the upper floor wants to donate something, I daresay we could put in one of those stair lifts. But they’re horribly slow.”
“But in a zoom,” said Sylvia, “or a drone you can hang onto.” But she was interrupted. From upstairs echoed a crash, a faint shriek, and the sounds of someone being violently ill.
“Perhaps you were right,” said Lavender, turning and running back to the first floor and to Ruby’s door.
Sylvia and Lavender, pushing past each other, slung open the door and stared down at the bedroom floor. Ruby had collapsed there, but was lying face down in her own vomit. Sylvia lifted her face to the side, encouraging breathing. Yet Ruby barely breathed, and the vomit was copious and smelled both strange and vile. The stench of sweet alcohol was strong, but another drift of slime stank of something quite different. Lavender, already on her phone, was calling an urgent ambulance, while Sylvia bent, risking puke, to see if Ruby was conscious, and to discover how to help.
“Best not touch,” said Lavender.
“I had to. She was drowning in her own muck. I’m not even sure if she’s alive. I need something to clean out her nostrils. And what about CPR?”
“Oh dear.” Lavender took a step back. “Not the kiss of life?”
Sylvia had pulled a wet flannel from the bathroom and proceeded to wash Ruby’s face. She cleaned both nostrils and mouth, eventually sticking a finger down Ruby’s throat and clearing the pile of muck from where it had collected. With a huge gulp of air, Ruby breathed. But her eyes rolled upwards and closed once more, and her breathing, although returning, was shallow.
“Shit, piss, fuck,” Sylvia muttered in a desperate mumble. “Come on, darling. It’s only some sticky Tia Maria or something.”
They heard the ambulance siren and breathed deeper themselves.
Ruby, after a brief effort at pumping her heart by the paramedics, was put hurriedly on the stretcher, carried downstairs and into the ambulance. It sped off with a renewal of siren-urgency.
“Yes,” sighed Sylvia, collapsing onto the chair in the corridor, “we need a lift.” It was almost immediate that the front door opened again, letting in a blast of chilly wind, but although Harry had arrived home, Sylvia couldn’t rush into his arms. Virtually every resident from the living rooms had hurried out to see what had happened, who had dropped dead, and what they should all do about it. The voices crowded upon each other and no one could hear anything. Finally, Harry managed to squirm through.
“Good lord,” he said. “Sylvia my darling are you sick? You smell – well, I’m sorry, but you smell terrible.”
“It’s Ruby again,” said Sylvia in a daze, and burst into tears.
Johnny Tavistock, already bored, left the heart of Cheltenham and wandered down some of the back lanes. The light was dimming, and a late sunset was clipping the horizon over the distant hills. Twilight had turned every tree into a rich black silhouette, and in contrast, the sky behind appeared pure. An everlasting blue. But it did not last forever, and not even for the next half hour. The silhouetted trees dimmed into dusky obscurity. Sky blue swirled like a silken petticoat into rising pinks, lilacs and golds. It was a sky of treasure and proud display.
Yet within only moments this too faded. The vivid colours turned sweetly hesitant, and finally sank behind the hills. The darkness, grabbing the final permission, heralded night. The trees disappeared. The hills disappeared. The lanes, the hedgerows and even the ditches disappeared. But in their place, the stars sparkled out like a thousand minuscule drops of sunshine.
With little interest and little hope, Johnny turned and made his way back towards the train station. But he was still a long way off when someone passed him with a swish of coat and a tap-tap of high heeled shoes. He watched as she passed. Then, turning once more, Johnny followed and then overtook her. She was young and very pretty.
“Sorry, love. You got a light?”
He held up a cigarette. The girl fumbled in her coat pockets, foun
d something and held it out. A red throwaway lighter. Johnny took it and lit his cigarette, then handed the lighter back. “Cheers, I bin longing fer that fer ages. No shops open now. Bin gasping fer a fag.” He turned away then quickly turned back. “You want one?”
Smiling, she nodded. “Yes, I suppose so. That would be nice. I’ve only got one left.”
“I got a packet, but I lost me lighter.” He handed her a cigarette. She took one, and with her own lighter, he lit it for her. “Can I ask yer name?”
“I’m nearly home, so don’t try asking me out now,’ she said. “But my name’s Lara. What’s yours?”
“Johnny,” said Johnny. “And I know wot you means about nearly home. I ain’t gonna push me luck. But we could have just a little walk down the road. No more, fair enough. But a couple o’ minutes to share news won’t hurt. See whether we fancies making a date fer tomorrow.”
“Just for a few minutes,’ said Lara. “My da’s waiting for me.”
89
Three telephone calls followed each other, and Sylvia leapt up each time, grabbing her phone from the coffee table in front of her.
Firstly Daisy Curzon sounded bubblingly cheerful. “Dean’s home. I thought you’d like to know,” she said. “My baby boy’s home again and looking ever so much better than before. We’ll never forget poor George, but like Dean says, he’ll live on in our hearts. No more crying.” Her voice sank again. “I do apologise, Mrs Joyce, for being such a nuisance over the past weeks, but you seemed to be the one person I could talk to. You understood me so well. You helped. And after all, it was you and your husband who solved those shocking crimes when they started.”
“I’m so glad Dean is back home with you, Mrs Curzon. I hope it’s the start of a better time.”
The second in line was Morrison. “I thought I’d better tell you and Harry first, before you see it in the papers,” he told her. “Yes, it’s happened again. No details yet, but it’s Cheltenham this time. A very nasty business. So I’m going to be busy for the next few days or longer. We’ll have to forget coming over for dinner tomorrow night, I’m afraid.”
“We understand. God – I hope you find the bastard this time. Not slowed down by bullet holes, I gather?”
“Not in the least, far as we can see.”
And thirdly the hospital phoned, which was the call she’d been waiting for and which she had both wanted the most and feared the most.
“Mrs Joyce? Mrs Ruby Pope is in a bad way, I’m afraid. She’s asking for you. You can spend as much time as you wish together, but hopefully we’ll get to talk too. I’m Doctor Verdie, and I need to discuss something with you. No, no, don’t get worried, Mrs Pope isn’t on death’s door, but she came very near it until we pumped out her stomach. So hopefully I’ll see you soon, Mrs Joyce.”
“Almost immediately,” said Sylvia, hung up and called Harry.
They went briefly to Ruby’s bedside and gazed in disappointment at the pale figure lying motionless on her back, white sheeting to her chin. Her eyes were closed, and she seemed to hear nothing. Harry suggested Sylvia stay there while he spoke to the doctor, but she wanted to know exactly what the medical diagnosis promised.
Doctor Verdie crossed his hands over his chest and smiled, banishing all thoughts of death and coma. His words weren’t quite so reassuring. “I have to tell you, he said, “Mrs Pope came very close to death. But we caught the problem in time, and cleared the poison.”
“Poison?” Hiccup. “You mean the virus? Or bacterial? Dysentery?”
He shook his head. “This lady was poisoned,’ he said, “and the police have been informed. The problem might not have been caught or even understood, had I not recently had another similar case. Most serious, I’m afraid. And I understand from her notes that Mrs Pope recently attempted suicide? Might she have taken poison intentionally, do you think?”
“I’m positive she didn’t.” Sylvia, astonished, leaned forwards as if to emphasise her point. “Ruby was depressed and lonely, and afterwards deeply regretted the whole idea. She’d never do that again. She’s been perfectly happy. But last night she came home quite intoxicated. So could it be alcohol poisoning?”
“Actually, no.” The doctor smiled across at Harry. “This is something quite different, and almost positively intentionally administered.”
Harry said, “Well, not suicide. For one thing, she’d have been too pissed to mix anything or decide to take anything.”
“She ate about thirty chocolates she’d got from somewhere,” Sylvia added.
This seemed to interest the doctor, and he drummed his fingertips on his desk. Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. Did she often eat chocolate.”
“Oh yes. But this was a brand I’d never seen her buy before. Special, I expect. Not homemade.”
“Well boxed? In a commercial wrapping? What name?”
Sylvia couldn’t remember. “She ate most of them, but I think one or two others had one too. We had to clear up after her, so the box and the wrapping all got thrown away.”
Doctor Verdie seemed almost excited. “Can the box be rescued? And who else ate one? Has anyone else been sick?”
“I don’t think so, and I don’t think so,” said Sylvia. “All I’ve been waiting for is the call from you. But I have another box since Ruby gave me an identical one last night but I didn’t bother opening it. I was too worried about her.”
“Excellent,” beamed the doctor, as though promised a promotion. “Can you bring that in as soon as Possible? And check on whoever ate any of those chocolates yesterday?”
Both Sylvia and Harry had turned quite white. Harry said, “But it can’t have been actual purposeful poison? That’s impossible. Or do you mean some sort of mistake at the factory? Or even some worker who was sacked, getting his own back on the company? But maybe just Ruby drinking bleach instead of tonic water, or eating something contaminated in an unhygienic kitchen?”
“There are many interesting and possible hypothesis,” smiled the doctor. “But I need to examine those chocolates.”
Turning to Harry, still white-faced, Sylvia mumbled, “Harry, my love, could you nip back home and get the box Ruby gave me – on the chest in the bedroom. And see if anyone else is sick? I have to go and see Ruby.”
Ruby did not wake.
Shivering and gulping, Lionel lay on the straw, “Bloody help, silly bitch,” he yelled at his daughter. “Don’t just bloody stand there. I need you.”
“I’m not a doctor, Dad.” Tracy regarded her father. The hole in the middle of his face where once his nose had been prominent, was bleeding even more profusely than before and the flesh oozed some other liquid neither of them understood. “It’s your wickedness coming out,” Tracy smiled. “Cheer up, Dad, you’ll go off to Heaven like a saint. All cleansed and pure.”
“I ain’t wicked.” He mumbled through the blood. “That slimy muck’s from the sinuses or up the throat or something. But I never was wicked. I only do what I have to.”
“Rubbish,” sneered Tracy. “St. Paul won’t open the holy gates for you, you know. He’d lock that gate. Just like you used to do to me.”
“I’m not dying, stupid whore” Lionel shouted. “But I’m in pain, fucking horrible pain.”
“Look, if I hadn’t managed to nick a car and come up to find you, you’d be lying dead in a Welsh field. I’ve helped. But I’m no doctor, no surgeon, and no magician. I reckon all this stuff’ll heal in time. Just be patient. I’ll go and get you some painkillers if you like, but it won’t be strong stuff. You can’t buy morphine over the counter, you know.”
“You can nick it.”
“Where from? Just walk into a hospital and nip into their stores? You’re lucky you managed to phone me, and I’m doing what I can. I’ll go into the village and pick up Nurophen and Paracetamol and stuff. And some food, while I’m at it.”
Whisky, gin, anything strong.”
“I’ll try.”
Lionel attempted to roll over, but cried out sudd
enly, clasping both hands over his face, blood streaming between his fingers. His ear also bled, but it did not seem to hurt him. As he turned, Tracy saw that the wound in his hip was also widening and bleeding copiously. He was whimpering now. “I got a gun, Honey-Bunch. You could just finish me off.”
Tracy sat quickly beside him. “I know you don’t really mean that.” She watched him as he groaned, eyes hidden behind his huge trembling hands. “I nearly did it, you know, my last couple of weeks with Mum when she told me what you’d done to Karyn. I loved my big sister. She was the only sweet one in the family, and that included me. Mum sold me off to some bugger when I was eight. Told him I was virgin. I wasn’t, cos you’d started with me when I was seven. I bit the bastard’s nipple almost off, and Mum had to give him his money back. But I got whipped like some witch back in the old days. Then she sold me to someone else a week later. You weren’t there, so I thought you were the good one, till Mum told me what you did to Karyn. Then I had three years of you fucking me till you went away again. I never liked it you know. OK, so I didn’t object. Mum smashed me around and whipped me and chucked me down the stairs. But you cuddled me and kissed me and put those lovely big warm hands all tight and kind around me. You even used to say you loved me.”
“I did,” Lionel muttered. “I do.”
“I wanted so much to feel loved, I would have put up with anything. Well, I did, didn’t I – put up with anything.”
Lionel, snuffling violently through the widening hole in his face,. “I never meant to hurt Karyn. It wasn’t a proper beating, and your mum set it up. Besides, I always loved you the most.”
The Games People Play Box Set Page 81