The Cost of Living

by Rachel Ward

  ‘Oi! Bea! That’ll do,’ Bob protested.

  This time Ant heard. He looked their way and his face brightened when he saw Bea. He jogged along the pavement and leaned down to her window.

  ‘Get in,’ she said.

  He looked past her to Bob and the smile dropped from his face.

  ‘Um, it’s okay,’ Ant said.

  Bob sighed. ‘Don’t be soft, lad. Get in.’

  Ant opened the back passenger door and climbed in. ‘Thanks very much, Bob. That’s very decent.’

  ‘You been to see Dot?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Bea saw Bob looking at Ant in his rear-view mirror. She wondered what was going on in his head. A tiny muscle was twitching beneath his left eye, but whatever emotions he was wrestling with, he kept to himself.

  ‘Put your seatbelt on, then,’ he said.

  As they set off back to Kingsleigh it started to rain. Bea found the red taillights of the cars in front and the white headlights coming towards them mesmeric, blurring and sharpening as the wipers swept back and forth. She lost track of where they were and was surprised when the car turned off the bypass and started travelling through the outskirts of the town. She realised that no one had spoken for a long time and desperately tried to think of something to break the silence.

  ‘Hope it doesn’t rain tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘The funeral,’ said Bob. ‘Bad business. Young girl like that.’

  ‘Have you got the time off, Bob?’

  ‘Yes, but I think that Gavin should close the shop. Everyone does. It only right, isn’t it, that we should all get to pay our respects? I reckon we should just close the shop ourselves, give him no option.’

  ‘Direct action.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘What do you think, Ant?’ said Bea.

  ‘I dunno,’ said Ant.

  ‘Shall I drop you here?’ said Bob. ‘You live on the Rushton estate, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, um, no, it’s okay. You can drop me at Bea’s or wherever you’re dropping her. I don’t think they want to see me at home at the moment.’

  ‘Hmm, I saw your mum in the shop yesterday.’

  ‘Yeah. You and half the town.’

  Bea fancied she saw a wisp of tumbleweed blow through the car from the back seat. Awkward.

  ‘Come and have a cup of tea at mine, Ant,’ she said. ‘I’ll introduce you to Queenie.’

  ‘Okay. Ta.’

  ‘You, too, Bob, if you like. I’m sure she’d like to see you.’

  ‘No, that’s okay. I’d better get on.’

  Bob took Bea and Ant right to Bea’s door. As they clambered out of the car, Bob called out to Ant.

  ‘There are some flowers in the boot, Ant. Fish them out, will you? You can take them in to Bea’s mum for me.’ Ant leaned over the back seat and retrieved the flowers. They said their goodbyes to Bob and watched as he drove away down the street.

  ‘I don’t have to come in if your mum doesn’t like visitors,’ said Ant.

  ‘Where else are you going to go?’ said Bea.

  ‘Back to Dot’s, I suppose. I’ve got her key.’

  His shoulders were sagging and he looked done in.

  ‘Come and have a cuppa.’

  As they walked up the path, Ant said, ‘Did you see what was in the boot of his car?’

  Bea shrugged. ‘Nope.’

  ‘There was a blanket over it, but it didn’t cover it all up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A toolbox. One of those metal ones where the top folds out.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Tools, Bea. Screwdrivers, pliers – hammers. He carries them around with him.’

  Bea stopped walking.

  ‘Oh shit,’ she said. ‘Bob?’

  Ant raised his eyebrows. ‘Could be.’

  ‘We need to get into the car. Have a look. See if there’s any, you know, blood on them.’

  ‘Or if they look suspiciously clean,’ added Ant, and Bea nodded her approval. He was starting to think like a detective, too. ‘How are we going to do that?’

  ‘Dunno,’ she said.

  ‘Or, and I hate saying this, we could tell your ginger friend,’ said Ant.

  ‘Tom?’

  It’s nothing, though, is it? Not worth telling the police. Perhaps we could just borrow Bob’s keys one lunchtime?’

  ‘I like the way you’re thinking, Miss Marple. I’m up for that.’

  She shivered. ‘I was crapping myself getting into the car with him. What a relief when I spotted you at the bus stop!’

  ‘You’re telling me. I was freezing my nuts off out there. Anyway, that’s why I stayed in the car. So you weren’t on your own with him.’

  ‘Thanks, mate. You definitely deserve a cuppa for that.’

  The back door was locked. Bea knocked and Queenie opened up. She backed away when she saw Ant standing in the doorway.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Mum, it’s all right. This is Ant, from work. I’ve told you about him.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were bringing anyone here.’

  ‘No, I didn’t tell you. It’s a spur of the moment sort of thing. Bob gave us a lift from the hospital and we both ended up here.’

  ‘How is Dot?’

  ‘She’s not too bad.’ Bea beckoned Ant into the room, knowing that her mum would be too distracted by one of her favourite subjects – other people’s medical problems – to worry too much about him. ‘They’d made her get out of bed already.’

  ‘Really? But she had the operation this morning, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah. Seems cruel, doesn’t it?’

  ‘And was it painful?’

  ‘Yeah, she was dosed up on painkillers, though. When they gave her some more, she went to sleep.’

  ‘Ah. Nasty business. She’s not that old, is she? Same age as me.’

  Ant was standing just inside the door, not knowing where to put himself.

  ‘Sit down, then,’ Queenie said. ‘You’re in now. You all right?’

  He sat down at the kitchen table. In the harsh fluorescent light, his face looked even more pinched. He ran his hands over the top of his head.

  ‘It’s been a long day,’ he said.

  ‘Have you eaten anything?’ said Queenie.

  ‘Yeah. No. I dunno. I think I had a sandwich or something at lunchtime.’

  She bustled over to the toaster and put two slices in. Without asking what Ant wanted, she buttered them up and cut some thick slices of cheese on top, with a dollop of pickle on top.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Try this.’

  Without seeming to look, Ant started cramming the food in.

  ‘Mmm,’ he said, through a full mouth, ‘this is good.’

  He washed it down with the sweet tea that Bea made and after a few minutes, he started to look a bit more human. As the food hit his system, his eyelids became heavier. ‘I’m knackered,’ he said.

  ‘Better get off home, then,’ Queenie said.

  Ant hung his head.

  ‘Nah, not yet. Bit of a domestic, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Yeah. You could say that. I should go though. Leave you ladies to it.’

  He started to get to his feet, but swayed a little and had to hold onto the table. Queenie stepped towards him, put her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Tell you what, why don’t I put some blankets and a spare pillow on the sofa for you? Make up a little bed.’

  ‘Ah, cheers, Mrs Jordan. That’d be ace.’

  Bea and Ant looked at each other as they listened to Queenie go up and down the stairs.

  ‘She likes you,’ said Bea. ‘God knows why, but she does.’

  Ant smiled. ‘Mums do like me. Except for mine.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. She loves you, Ant. She was just worried about you. It’ll all blow over.’

  ‘Yeah. S’pose.’

  ‘Go and see her tomorrow.’

  ‘Maybe. Perhaps I’ll go afte
r the funeral.’

  ‘While you’re at it you could sort your brother out, too.’

  ‘My brother? Which one?’

  ‘Ken. He and his mates jumped out at me last night when I was walking home.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  He pinched the skin between his eyebrows, shut his eyes briefly. Bea wondered if it was all too much for him.

  ‘They were the eggers, too. I saw them throwing some when I’d seen them off.’

  ‘That figures. Little shit.’ He sighed. ‘I need to go home, don’t I? Teach him some manners.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Bea. ‘Tomorrow’s soon enough. I had a bit of a run-in with Kevin, that photographer, as well last night. He’s definitely still on the list.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Bea told Ant everything she’d told Dot earlier.

  ‘And now we’ve got Bob’s box of tools, too,’ said Ant.

  ‘It’s almost too much information, isn’t it?’ said Bea. ‘But it feels like we’re getting closer now. Closer to whoever did it.’

  ‘Does it? It just feels like a mess to me.’ He rubbed his head again and blinked strenuously. ‘I’m too knackered to think about it.’

  ‘You’d better get your head down then.’ She smiled. ‘Still can’t believe Queenie let you stay. It’s a miracle.’

  ‘She’s nice, your mum.’

  ‘Yeah. She has her moments.’

  She went to put a beanbag in the microwave. ‘Do you want a hot owl?’

  Ant looked at her like she’d lost her mind. ‘What is that?’

  ‘You put it in the microwave and it stays warm for ages.’

  He puffed a long breath out of his mouth. ‘Course I don’t. I’m not a girl.’ But when the microwave pinged, Bea handed the owl to him. He held it to his stomach. ‘Yeah. Okay, that’s really nice.’

  Bea smiled and put a second owl in to warm.

  She left Ant bedding down on the sofa and went upstairs. As she pulled the duvet up around her shoulders, her phone pinged.

  A text from Tom:

  Goodnight, sexy. Xxx

  Night. Xxxx

  She stared at the screen until it shut off. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the bright rectangle, imprinted on her eyelids. That’s what Tom is, she thought, a bright light in this dark, dark world. She wanted the thought to stay with her but instead she found herself thinking about Bob, his large hands bringing the cleaver up and down on the chopping block. She heard Ant switch the light off downstairs and realised she was listening for other noises too: cars, footsteps, the rattle of the letterbox. She lay on her back with her eyes open – listening, thinking – and she knew that sleep was a long way away.

  15

  On Monday afternoon at half past two, the Costsave family started gathering in the churchyard of Saint Swithin’s, joining Ginny’s real family and friends, and people from the town who hadn’t known her but wanted to pay their respects. There had been no need for rebellion in the end. Staff had arrived for work ready for an act of mass resistance but were met with a black-edged notice Blu-Tacked onto the front door: ‘As a mark of respect to a much-valued colleague, Ginny Meldrum, this store will be closed from 2.00pm until 6.00pm. We apologise to our customers but hope that you will understand.’

  There were press and television crews lurking about too, although they kept a discreet distance. Gavin and Neville were already there when Bea arrived. They were welcoming their employees, shaking hands with them. It was both formal and somehow very inclusive.

  ‘Good to see you,’ Gavin said to Bea. She felt a bit odd holding out her hand to him, but he took it firmly with both of his, enclosing it, like it really meant something to him.

  ‘Glad I can be here,’ said Bea. ‘What changed your mind?’

  ‘It was Dot,’ he said. ‘I rang her last night and she said that her dearest wish was that everyone could be allowed to come here today. I couldn’t really say no, could I?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ said Bea. ‘It’s a shame she can’t be here too.’

  ‘She’ll be thinking of us, though. She told me that.’

  Saint Swithin’s was used to witnessing funerals peopled by mourners wearing something bright, or the loved one’s favourite colour, especially when the deceased was someone young, but Ginny’s family had made no special requests about dress code. They had let it be known that they wanted this to be a celebration of her life, but as the dark-dressed mourners arrived it was clear that celebrating was too much to ask. Everyone seemed crushed by grief. There was a palpable air of shock.

  Keisha joined the group, with little Kayleigh in her pushchair. The tot was wearing a rather smart navy coat, with navy ribbons in her hair. She looked tired, burrowing her head into the corner of her seat and sucking her thumb.

  ‘I wanted to be here,’ Keisha said. ‘But I’ll sit at the back, take this one out if she starts fussing.’ Keisha looked tired too.

  ‘How’s she been?’ asked Bea.

  ‘So-so,’ she said, and Bea wondered what that really meant. ‘I’ll take her in. It’s a bit cold out here.’

  Now Bea spotted another little group making its way up the path, with a young woman in the middle. Emma. It was the first time Bea had seen her since the attack. People were looking at her and then looking away. Everyone was aware she was there, but no one knew whether to approach her or what to say.

  Bea left Gavin and walked up to Emma. She was wearing a black scarf on her head, tied at the back, but a pale edge of bandage escaped from one side. Bea’s stomach went soft at the thought of the wound underneath.

  ‘Hi Emma,’ she said. ‘Good to see you.’

  Emma looked startled for a minute then her face softened.

  ‘Bea,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

  Bea pulled a face. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Emma. She looked sideways at her mum, who was looking anxiously back at her. ‘I’m doing okay. It’s hard.’

  ‘Of course.’

  As she was talking, Emma looked around her. Normally Bea hated talking to someone who was constantly on the lookout for anyone more interesting. But Emma’s expression was haunted: she was scared to be out, among people again.

  ‘It’s good that you’re here.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’ Suddenly Emma’s eyes seemed to focus on one person.

  ‘I know him,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’ said Bea, turning her head and scanning the crowd.

  ‘I’ve seen him somewhere before . . . ’

  There were literally hundreds of people gathering. Without thinking Bea whipped out her phone and started taking pictures. She’d snapped three or four when she felt a hand on her forearm, gripping and pulling her own hand down.

  ‘What are you doing?’ hissed Neville. ‘Show some respect.’

  His face was close to hers. She could see a little white ball of spit at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, then turned back to Emma. ‘I’m sorry, Emma.’

  But Emma was clutching her mother’s arm. ‘I want to go home,’ she was saying. ‘I want to—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ her mum said. ‘We’re here now. Let’s go in.’

  ‘Don’t leave me. You won’t leave me, will you?’

  ‘No. Dad and I are right here. We won’t leave you.’

  Mum on one side, Dad on the other, they walked past Bea up the cobbled path and though the large arched doorway into the church.

  ‘Fucking ’ell, Bea. Were you taking a selfie with Emma?’ Dean was next to her now.

  ‘No! Of course I wasn’t.’

  ‘You had your phone out. Let’s see.’ He made to take her phone and Bea plunged it into her pocket, keeping her hand firmly round it.

  ‘Go away, Dean,’ she said.

  ‘You took a selfie! I love it,’ he said. He looked around for someone to tell and spotted Joe lurking nearby.

  Bea sighed.

  ‘You all right?’ Anothe
r voice in her ear, but this one was welcome. Tom. She looked round and there he was, in full uniform, buttons gleaming, shoes spotlessly shiny.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t just arrest that little git over there, could you?’ She nodded towards Dean who was in animated conversation with Joey.

  ‘What for?’ said Tom.

  ‘Just being annoying.’

  Tom laughed. ‘I’d be busy all day if I locked up annoying people. Anything else?’

  Supplying eggs to hooligans, thought Bea. Inciting intimidation. But she couldn’t bring herself to turn him in. Besides, did she really have any evidence?

  ‘No,’ she said reluctantly. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

  ‘Part of my role. Community policing. Be seen. Be supportive.’ He was standing a foot or so away from her, legs apart, hands behind his back. He too was looking around which she minded, badly. She wanted him to look at her. ‘And keeping my eyes and ears open.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The killer often comes to the funeral. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘Is that a real thing? Does it actually happen apart from on the telly?’

  ‘They like to feel close to the action. Watch the family.’

  Bea shivered. ‘That’s horrible.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Nothing will happen here. It’s perfectly safe.’

  ‘I know, but just the thought of it, that someone here could be the one . . . ’ She looked around again at the sea of people in dark coats. She tried to memorise the faces, fix them in her mind. At least she had a few photos. Maybe the killer was caught on camera.

  ‘Shall we sit together in the church?’ she said.

  ‘Better not,’ said Tom. ‘I need to sit at the back, so I can observe. Better mingle too, put myself about a bit. I’ll catch you later, yeah?’

  ‘Okay.’

  He looked so smart in his uniform. Young, but somehow authoritative. She resisted the urge to stand on tiptoes, plant a kiss on his cheek. This wasn’t the place or the time, was it? And he was on duty.

  There was something about his body language too, the way he’d kept his distance from her. No sign of anything other than a friendly chat between the community copper and one of his locals. He didn’t want anyone to know about him and her. Which she supposed was fine. Although a little part of her wanted to hold his hand, announce their relationship on Facebook or shout it from the top of the church tower, there was an equal thrill in keeping things a delicious secret.