by Anna Legat
‘That’ll teach you,’ Trevor told the nutter, telepathically.
But the nutter didn’t hear him, or didn’t want to listen. He revved up and overtook. Not just Trevor, but also the car in front of him. Two birds with one stone. Zoooom.
Trevor wasn’t having any of it. Not today. He inhaled deeply, put his foot down and stuck his nose out. It was an interesting sensation to feel his adrenalin kick him in the gut. He hadn’t felt that in years. It set his teeth on edge. Whoa! Trevor was behind the nutter. He attached himself to the nutter’s rear. Let him see how that felt! Having someone sitting on your backside, breathing down your neck, ha! But it didn’t last. The nutter accelerated to overtake once again. Zooom.
Trevor was on a roll. He followed. It felt as if he was on a rollercoaster and the rollercoaster was just beginning to pick up speed. A car from the opposite direction whizzed by, blowing his horn at Trevor. The sound stretched in time, ringing in Trevor’s ears. That was close, a realisation dawned on him. Cold sweat covered the back of his neck. The adrenaline ebbed away into his feet. Shit!
That was dangerous driving. Bloody dangerous. It was the nutter’s fault. He was endangering other road users, like Trevor. He had to be reported before he killed someone. Gripping the steering wheel with one hand, Trevor took out his phone and attempted to focus its camera on the nutter’s number plate. There – he pressed the button just as the red car sidestepped yet another vehicle in front of it, and vanished. Trevor had no intention of following the bastard to his death. And anyway, he had what he wanted – he had his number plate.
*
Theirs was a matriarchal household. Sandra ruled supreme. There was no other way. She stood alone on one side of the barricade, Trevor and the boys on the other. One lone woman having to reckon with five, almost grown-up men (she would never accept Trevor as being fully grown up). She had to keep them on a short leash. Trevor didn’t mind. He had managed to blend into the boys’ pubescent existence rather well. He could identify with their way of thinking. After all, it had taken him thirty-two years before he had let himself be trapped into marriage, and even then the whole experience had come to him as a mild shock. A year later, the first set of twins, Bradley and James, arrived to his utter bewilderment. Two years later, the second delivery of twins, Nathan and Ross, sealed Trevor’s fate for ever. He capitulated. He had to do as he was told. Sandra had her hands full and had lost interest in him, which on many levels was a good thing because another set of twins would sure as hell break him in half.
Truth be told, Trevor had lost his sexual drive. The fear of producing more children, in twin-packs, was overwhelming. It paralysed him to the core. It had made him go weak in the knees, and in a couple of other organs too. Trevor withdrew into a fantasy world. It was so much safer! He read a lot, he watched and listened, he day-dreamed, but didn’t dare to act on any of his increasingly pornographic fantasies. Slowly, over the period of the last fifteen years of his formidable married life, he had regressed into his own puberty. It suited him.
It suited Sandra, too. She had come not to expect much of him – just bring the money home, do the lawns, empty the bins. And never, ever leave the toilet seat up!
‘So,’ Sandra was dishing out the sausages and mash, Trevor’s favourite combo, ‘are you going to tell me?’
Trevor blinked. ‘Tell you?’ He had to think. Was there a secret he kept from her so hard that he, himself, forgot it? Guilt stung him in the gut like a bad case of indigestion.
‘Oh, come on, Trevor! I really hate your childish games. Did Hurn give it to you or not?’ She put the plate in front on him. The sausages smelled good, but Trevor’s throat was too tight to admit them to his stomach.
James smirked at Bradley. Trevor saw that; he wasn’t blind. Both Nathan and Ross were stuffing their faces, keen to get away from the dinner table. It was a race – who leaves first. Who gets first to the damn console. Trevor winced. Sometimes he found it hard to believe he had fathered these forever eating and growing life forms.
‘Trevor?’ Sandra wasn’t impressed.
‘I... I really... I’ve had a tough day. Did I tell you?’
‘So you didn’t get it.’ Her face dropped into a scowl.
‘I don’t know... Get what?’
Bradley shook his head, a pained look in his rolling eyes. He said, ‘The post, Dad! Head of English. Remember? Hello...’
James chuckled.
Nathan put down his cutlery. ‘I’m done,’ he declared, mashed potato still foaming in his mouth.
‘Well, did you get it or not?’
‘No! I mean, I don’t know! We’re having an inspection. Out of the blue! It had to be Mrs Steadman and her damn letters of complaint.’
‘OFSTED?’
‘Tomorrow – the second day. I’m knackered.’
‘So Hurn didn’t speak to you, about the post, I take it?’
‘No! Of course, not! It’s bedlam up there, believe me! Ed Hurn’s running around like a headless chicken. I had an observation. It was...’ Trevor exhaled. He had no words to describe it, and that said it all because he was good with words. He wrote poetry – his only, jealously guarded secret.
‘He was supposed to talk to you after school today, about the post,’ Sandra said. She could never take no for an answer.
‘It was the last thing on his mind. On my mind.’
‘I guess we’ll have to wait a bit longer though, if you ask me, we've waited long enough. Oh well, what difference can another few days make?’ Though she tried to sound philosophical, her tone was less generous. ‘He has promised you that promotion.’
‘Not in so many words.’
Sandra glowered at him. There was no contradicting her. There was no contradicting himself. He had to go with the main party line. ‘Well... Philippa is retiring at the end of July. Ed needs a new department head. Who else is he going to give it to?’
‘I wish he hurried up and kept his word.’
No point reminding her Ed Hurn had never promised anything. Trevor bit his tongue. Then he thought of his sausages. He was bloody hungry.
Sandra picked on her salad. It was a furious assault. She turned leaves, tossed cherry tomatoes. Angry, impatient woman. She had to have one last word, ‘He’d better stick to his promise. What with James and Bradley doing their A levels next year, Nathan and Ross their GCSEs, it won’t be long before we have to pay through our noses to get them through uni. Every penny will make a difference.’
*
The moment he saw Ed’s face, he knew: he didn’t get it. Ed twisted and turned, avoiding eye contact. And he asked him to take a seat. He would never do that. Not ordinarily. Ed and Trevor were not only work colleagues – they were friends. They had known each other since they were NQTs, both starting at Parkhurst Secondary in 1991. Ed’s career took off, with him steadily progressing through the ranks, while Trevor quietly relished his full and unrestricted immersion in what he loved best – English. Trevor and English – a pig in mud. But now the poor piggy had to be dragged out of his muddy paradise and bumped up one tax bracket, so that he could provide for the future of his not-so-little piglets. Ed was in possession of all the facts. Ed knew Sandra would not let it go. He knew Trevor needed that promotion.
‘I thought I’d let you know first, Trev.’ His eyes were still avoiding Trevor, meandering along the geometric patterns of his office carpet. His dark face was ashen. ‘I’m giving the English Department headship to Jill.’
Slowly, Trevor was being drained of blood. It started trickling away from his brain first, going in a wave across his face, flushing it red; then ebbing from there down to Trevor’s feet. They were heavy, laden with all that drained blood. If he were asked to stand up and walk away, he wouldn’t be able to do that. He wouldn’t be able to lift his feet to perform the miracle of walking. He remained seated.
‘You know she’s good.’
‘I do.’
‘Young, full of that...’ Ed struggled with words. He wasn’t
into words like Trevor was. He was a mathematician. Trevor’s first instinct was to finish the sentence for his friend, but he realised that would amount to stabbing himself in the back. He remained silent while Ed battled on. ‘She wants it! If I don’t give it to her, she’ll walk. And like I said – she’s good. Good with kids.’
‘Yes, she is.’
‘You know I’d give it to you, if I could.’
‘I do.’ One more I do, Trevor mused, and they would be as good as married. He had to stop saying that.
‘It’s OFSTED. You know we’re in deep shit –’
‘I do.’
‘And the thing is, Trev, your lesson observations, I mean the feedback I got, I just... I couldn’t justify giving you that post.’
‘No, you couldn’t.’ Trevor couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t take watching his old mate squirming like the proverbial worm on a hook, all because of him. He had to put a stop to it. He said, ‘I know where you’re coming from, Ed. I totally understand. I do.’
*
Trevor was trembling like a leaf. It wasn’t anger that was shaking his body – that would be somewhat more manly, easier to accept. But no, Trevor was trembling with fear. How on earth would he tell Sandra? Was there a way of not telling her? She had been at his throat about it since OFSTED had left, three weeks ago. Every day she would ask, Did you get it? Every day Trevor would say, No, not yet. A clear statement of fact delivered with a clear conscience on Trevor’s part. No longer today. Today it would be a plain, straightforward NO – a no without the merciful prop of a not yet. Today it would be a singularly final NO. Sandra would never forgive him.
If he told her the truth, he would have to kill her. He contemplated the possibility of that happening. How. When. Where. Body disposal. Alibi. The boys. No sausages and mash. Stinking socks stuck under mattresses. The police asking questions. The body decomposing in the garden under the lilac bush; the odour, especially on a hot summer day. Perhaps a holiday in Mexico, when the dust settled. Sending the body to random addresses all over the UK, in parts – that could be an alternative to burying it under the lilac bush. What had the lilac bush done to anyone to be so cruelly treated?
What if he were found out?
Forty minutes wasn’t a distance long enough between the school and home to consider all eventualities. Trevor was driving slower than usual. He was wishing for a sudden detour, some road works redirecting the traffic on a merry roundabout of mercy across the county. All the way to Land’s End. But no such luck. Out of spite, the traffic was moving unusually smoothly, and to top everything, the bloody nutter in the red car had just attached himself to Trevor’s rear.
Then, ZOOOM...
Trevor found a reason for a detour. The photo of the nutter’s number plate he had taken the other day came out blurry. He needed another one. Sorry Sandra, civic duty called. Trevor put his foot down. His heavy, laden with drained blood foot. It didn’t take much effort. The foot sort of fell on the gas pedal. As if Trevor didn’t care anymore. ZOOOM...
Actually, he didn’t care. Not at all.
It was fun. Weaving in and out of the neatly lined up beads of traffic, overtaking, laughing at the blasting horns, flashing his middle finger at them – Trevor didn’t care. He had death in his eyes. Mercy-killing.
The nutter had led him to the shopping mall on the outskirts of Sexton’s Canning, on the other side of town to where Trevor lived, or at least used to live until today. After today, he couldn’t be so sure. Sandra was likely to have alternative plans for his future accommodation. What the hell! He put that thought out of his mind. At least he had had some fun before his sentencing later tonight.
He watched the nutter park his red devil of a car, an Audi cabriolet, a far cry from Trevor’s sensible Skoda, fitting it nicely into a narrow space between two Trevor-like, sensible station wagons. Trevor pulled out his phone, poising himself to take a photo of not only the number plate, but also the nutter himself, so that when he reported the speeding bastard to the police, he wouldn’t be able to say someone else had been driving it. An old trick popularised a couple of years ago by a certain MP. Too old a trick for Trevor to be fooled by it.
Finger on the button, ready to shoot, Trevor froze dead in his tracks. A woman emerged from the car. The nutter was a woman.
THE FIRST FEW WEEKS AFTER THE ACCIDENT
‘I usually build a timeline, you see? I place everybody’s whereabouts and movements around the time of the... the incident under investigation. It's just to eliminate innocent people caught up in the event through their links to the victims. It saves time and resources, you’ll appreciate...’ Gillian is reluctant to tell Ben Rydal he is a strong favourite on her list of suspects. She would rather be telling him he was a strong favourite for other reasons. He is a damn fine specimen of the male race, well worth sampling at any time of day or night. In his grief he is even more irresistible. Gillian would much rather be drawing him into her arms than questioning him on his leaky alibi. But fantasies will have to wait till bedtime. She has a job to do, a crust to earn. No pulling punches. She throws a left hook at him.
‘You see, I’m finding it impossible to stitch together your timeline. So many gaps! Gaping wide... Of course, I’m positive you can fill those gaps for me.’ She blushes at the mere mention of the gaps Ben Rydal could fill for her. It is such a nasty involuntary reaction – blushing! It lets Gillian down from time to time; makes her look juvenile, which she fears she probably is.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ Ben Rydal tells her. And that doesn’t help in the least. Gillian’s blush floods her face. She fans it with her hand.
‘Hot in here.’
‘Let me open the door.’ Rydal flings the conservatory door open, and instantly a dog bundles in. It’s a beautiful young Airedale terrier. It patters on the stone tiles excitedly and attempts to mount its owner’s lap, or possibly hump his knee, its backside arched like the Arc de Triomphe. How can one resist a grieving man with a cute dog? Gillian is struggling.
‘Down, Piddles! Lie down!’ The dog appears to have a hearing problem. It jumps even higher, its joy having no limits. It takes Rydal a couple of minutes to settle the beast down at his feet. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Piddles?’
He smiles. ‘Yes, we called him that when we got him. The first thing he did was to piddle behind the telly.’
‘I’ve a cat,’ Gillian is relieved to be able to say. Fritz doesn’t piddle, never did unless forced by circumstances beyond his control, like when he was left home alone for a week, and even then, to his credit, he maintained high hygiene standards by peeing in the shower.
‘Ah, a cat!’ He has a smile to die for. A smile you want to experience over and over again. Gillian contemplates saying something else to bring that smile back on. She needs to pinch herself – urgently. For crying out loud, she is interviewing a potential suspect, not looking for someone on match.com!
‘Yes!’ she says, fast and furious. ‘Back to my gaps... in my timeline!’
He nods and smiles, but she won’t be swayed.
‘You see, I’ve established you finish work at 3p.m. Is that correct?’
Rydal nods, without a smile.
‘You told us that last Monday you got home at half-past-five.’
‘That’s about when I usually get home.’
‘But you see, even on a bicycle, your journey between work and home can’t be any longer than half an hour. That leaves us with, what?’ She searches the glass ceiling of the conservatory for inspiration, ‘I’d say two hours unaccounted for... Could you shed some light on this gap...?’
Rydal’s body language betrays discomfort. He swallows before he responds, his Adam’s apple gaining buoyancy in his throat. ‘I like to cycle. I usually do, in the evenings. I did the same last Monday. I go for a spin.’
‘Two hours?’
‘Yes, more or less. I lose count of time. I enjoy cycling, keeps me fit.’
Tell me about it, Gillian has no choic
e but acknowledge the impressive result of that exercise routine. But this time, she doesn’t surrender. ‘I see,’ she says without conviction and moves to the next item on her agenda. ‘So you get home two hours later. It’s the evening. I still can’t get my head around it. You said you knew, or suspected, rather, that your wife might have been involved in the Poulston collision when you saw the news at six.’
‘I did.’
‘So why didn’t you contact us then?’
‘I thought I explained that.’
‘Well, can you explain that again? I want to understand it, and I’m not getting it.’
He swallows again. The discomfort in his voice is unmistakable. ‘Emma had always been a reckless driver, I told you that. She’d been in one serious accident before, spent a month in hospital, months of convalescence, all her own fault. A few minor bumps now and again, every so often – always Emma’s fault. The insurance premiums on her car are through the roof. So I knew... I knew when she didn’t turn up by seven, no phone calls, nothing, I just knew there was no hope. Normally, the hospital would call, or the police, but not this time. And I saw the carnage on TV. She couldn’t have come out of it alive. They said one man – a man – had been airlifted to the hospital...’
‘I will have to repeat my question – why didn’t you contact us straight away? Why did you wait all night?’
‘What would that change? Would that bring Emma back to life? I knew she was gone. I had to come to terms with it in my own way.’ He shifts his eyes away from Gillian, to the dog, and pats it on the head. It is a pitiful, comfort-seeking gesture. The creature gazes at his master lovingly with its wet, brown eyes.
Gillian’s first impulse it to pass them – the man and his dog – a handkerchief. But moved to tears as she may be, she remains unconvinced. She says, ‘You knew we were appealing for information about the identity of all involved.’
‘I’m sorry if I delayed you in any way. For me, I was certain. I didn’t need any affirmation. I knew what I had to know, and I wanted to be alone!’ He has raised his voice. It resonates within the glass walls of the room, as if in an attempt to break them. The dog lifts its head, alerted.