by Matthew Ross
‘She’s given up the golf? Looks like a lovely day for it as well.’
‘I know, she wasn’t happy about it, anyway I’ve promised to get back by lunchtime so she can still get nine holes this afternoon.’
‘Is she good with kids?’
‘If none of them need hospital treatment by the time I get back, I’ll be happy.’
‘How’s Sophia, what with what’s happened?’
‘Poor little love doesn’t understand what’s going on.’ We paused, quietly letting the enormity of that statement hang.
‘Sally told me she’d met someone, sounded excited.’
‘I know, it’s so sad,’ said Karen.
I didn’t recall seeing anyone looking like a boyfriend amongst the bereaved – Brazil was there of course, but he was no grieving boyfriend, he was just an arsehole with anger issues, same as every day.
‘So, where’s the boyfriend today then? I mean, if they were that keen on each other, talking of moving in and all that, didn’t he want to say a few words?’
‘He really did want to be here, but when I spoke to him, he said he didn’t think it would be appropriate. It’s complicated. He’s married.
‘Married?’ I recalled Sally saying his ex was a nuisance but still being married? That sounds a bit more than a mere nuisance, that sounds like good old-fashioned trouble. I suddenly felt sympathy tinged with anger for Sally. Something wasn’t right.
‘Apparently, she’s a proper nightmare, he’s been wanting to leave her for ages, only stays with her for the sake of their boy. Sally said she’s one of those that always make a scene, very jealous, says they’re going kill themselves, you know the sort I mean?’
‘Makes sense for him not to come I suppose,’ I said, disappointed he wasn’t here, I felt I was getting close, I desperately needed something to give Hamlet. ‘Have you met him, the fella?’
‘Course, I introduced them.’ There was a hint of pride in her voice. ‘I’d often see him and his boy up the park, and we’d get talking when the kids played. One time I was with Sally, bumped into him and I made the introductions, Cupid Stunt, that’s me. His boy and our girls, they’re best friends. His work takes him away a couple of days a week, Essex I think, so I’ve started looking after his boy too a couple of times a week, that way they’re all together.’
‘Nice. Got a photo?’
‘Yeah.’ Karen’s tone suggested that she was enjoying the conversation, and without her hostile edge I was enjoying it too.
‘Here they are, the Three Amigos.’ She turned her phone towards me. I could see three ridiculously cute toddlers posing in their dress-up costumes: two Disney princesses and Batman.
‘Cute. Any others?’
‘Here you go, that’s all of us at the Christmas party,’ she said passing me the phone displaying the two mums either side of Santa Claus and the three children standing in front of them.
As I looked closely at the picture the boy’s face looked back straight and direct down the lens, his long shaggy mop of blond hair brushed away from his face, Batman unmasked.
‘That’s Joe is it?’
‘Joseph, yeah ... how’d you know his name?’
‘You must have told me earlier,’ I said, but my reply was distracted, I was too busy scouring the picture. The bushy Santa beard and wig obscured most of his face, but the eyes, the eyes were clear, I recognised them, but where from?
‘Very nice.’
I handed the phone back to her wondering whether I’d ever track this boyfriend down: I’d been to her flat, been to her work, not a trace of him. This was the closest I’d got but it still wasn’t enough. It dawned on me the only option left was to ask Karen directly, but not too directly, I couldn’t be seen to know too much, not after my mistake telling her I knew she’d discovered Sally, otherwise Karen might suspect something. ‘So that’s him is it, her fella?’ I asked. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Bobby,’ replied Karen. Bobby? Fucking Bobby? The only Bobby I knew was a pub landlord in Chatham, a fat old Irishman with the pisshead’s customary red vein network spread across his cheeks like the London Underground out to Zone 6 and beyond, the only pulling he’d done for years was pints, not bright young women like Sally. It definitely wasn’t him. I didn’t know anyone else called Bobby, but I knew those eyes.
‘Bobby? You’re definitely sure his name’s Bobby?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ said Karen, a slight edge to her voice, annoyance, ‘Sally always called him Bobby, and he looks like a Bobby, so Bobby stuck, we all call him Bobby. Far less formal than Robert, don’t you think Robert sounds a bit stuck-up?’
As I drove her home, I encouraged her to talk about their kids, it seemed like a safe topic and I let her words wash over me as white noise, I didn’t give it any attention and simply grunted reaction noises every now and then, because my mind was otherwise occupied. When we finally pulled up outside Jen’s house, Karen bid me a friendly goodbye, which surprised her more than it did me, and I drove away feeling happy because you see, Robert, now we’re getting somewhere. The only trouble is I know loads of Roberts. And then I also know a lot of Robs. But I only know one Rob with eyes like Santa’s.
40
On my way home I stopped at the big Tesco on the Bowaters Roundabout, found myself a quiet spot in the furthest corner from the store, and wondered what to do next. I watched the constant flow of traffic through the gaps in the conifers and listened to Pop Master on the radio as a distraction.
‘In which year did Bryan Adams spend a record-breaking 16 weeks at No.1 with ‘(Everything I Do) I Do It for You’?’
‘Nineteen ninety-one,’ I said out loud, even though I doubted Ken Bruce could hear me.
‘Ninety ninety-two?’
‘Ooh, one year out,’ Ken’s catchphrase, then his soft Scottish tones confirmed, ‘It was nineteen ninety-one.’
See? Should have listened to me, Tina in Bradford, although the final round, name three Robert Palmer hits in ten seconds, good luck with that Tina, you’re on your own there. The quiz moved on to the news, I lost interest and snapped the radio off. I still didn’t know what to do with myself, and my procrastination wanted a coffee.
A surprisingly upbeat and happy young woman handed me a takeaway latte from the coffee concession. Her badge said she was Viorica. There was an unfamiliar green and red flag below her name, I asked her where home was – partly out of interest but mainly so she’d know I was looking at the badge and not staring at her tits.
‘Belarus,’ she replied, sounding like a sultry Bond femme fatale. ‘You want a muffin?’
I declined and walked away regretting that I couldn’t think of a quippy response. James Bond would have batted something straight back, but then could James Bond beat me at Pop Master? No, I didn’t think so either. As I wandered slowly past the multitude of conveyor belts, the pole-mounted flashing lights above the tills caught my attention. I’d had a contract a few years back changing all of them over in stores across Kent, it was a nice tickle – good rates, fast in and out work, premium for working overnight, lovely.
‘Mark! Mark!’ I looked around to find who was calling me. ‘I thought that was you,’ said Mrs Wilkes. She was one of those women that always seem to be dressed for the gym, no matter what time of day, like even now when pushing a trolley laden with bags she was in her customary lycra and hoodie. ‘Didn’t recognise you in a suit, very smart.’
I smiled at the compliment, but she had realised too late the significance of my clothes. She raised a startled hand to her mouth, ‘I’m so sorry. Was it Tommy’s funeral today?’
‘No. I’d actually just been to somebody else’s funeral.’
‘Oh, well that’s okay then.’ Rather a peculiar reply, but I sort of knew what she meant.
A few shoppers bustled between us, interrupting our silence, then she spoke again and this time the shoppers went round us making our conversation an island rather than a short cut.
‘I’m glad I saw you, I’ve bee
n meaning to call,’ said Mrs Wilkes. ‘The police have gone, and said we can move back in. When do you think you can come back and get going again?’
‘Brilliant news. Start of next week suit you?’
Instead of looking pleased, she fiddled with her long-beaded necklace, clicking across each amber bead like a rosary. ‘Please don’t be cross with me,’ she talked down towards her Nikes, ‘but I don’t want the kitchen anymore.’ She took a deep breath before continuing. ‘It just doesn’t seem right. How am I expected to live, make dinner, carry on, knowing that someone was murdered there? It’s just ... wrong.’
‘But I thought you wanted me to come back? Didn’t you say—’
‘Yes, yes.’ A tremble had crept into her voice. ‘I want it all ripped out and done again new. I don’t want a single trace of it to remain.’
‘And Mr Wilkes? Is he okay about this?’
Mrs Wilkes pulled her phone from her handbag and called her husband, telling him she was with me and recounted our full conversation so far before handing the phone to me.
‘My wife has decided she cannot set foot in that house again. I want your best price to rip out and install a brand-new kitchen, as well as giving the whole house a general tidy up, then we’re putting it up for sale.’
How would I react if it had been in my house – would I be able to sleep at night, I wondered before having the presence of mind to let him know that what they were proposing was very expensive.
‘I’m well aware of that thank you.’ Mr Wilkes’s attitude clearly hadn’t improved at all I noted, whilst making a mental reminder to change my quote from very expensive to obscenely expensive.
‘Look, I’m happy to grub it all out, but I still need to be paid for the work done to date.’
‘I’m well aware of that too,’ he said. ‘I want you starting Monday, so I need your estimate pronto, understand? I’ve told the estate agent she can market the house from the start of next month, so you’ve got two weeks to do everything and get out, is that clear? I want rid of the bloody thing. There’s been lots of distraught tearful women leaving flowers outside, it’s very depressing.’
‘If I get an invoice to you today, can you pay it?’
A frustrated sigh blew in my ear, he clearly wasn’t happy about it, but to my sheer delight he said, ‘Alright, send it over today and if I can I’ll pay it on-line this afternoon, if not it’ll be tomorrow. But don’t take the piss.’
Back in the van my coffee tasted sweeter with the thought that I might actually be winning: I’d be able to pay most of my debts without even touching Hamlet’s money, and then if I can load something extra into Mr Wilkes’s new estimate I might be able to clear the interest on Hamlet’s debt and give him the whole lot back and walk away from this fool’s errand.
41
With the subtlety of a Hellfire missile, Perry bounced through the kitchen door, announcing herself with a loud hello. I’ve never had anyone let themselves into my house unannounced like that, I thought it was a tv soap opera thing, I didn’t know it happened in real life. Even Dad would tap on the glass first. I wasn’t sure how I felt, part of me welcomed the intimacy, but a bigger part of me resented the intrusion.
‘Hello to you too,’ I said, once I’d caught my breath back after the surprise. ‘What’s that you’ve got?’
‘This?’ she looked at the envelopes clutched in her hand as though it was the first time she’d seen them, ‘Post. Clinton gave them to me outside.’
‘Clinton? Who the bloody hell’s Clinton when he’s at home?”
She looked at me wide eyed and open mouthed, ‘Duh! The postman.’
Through the window I could see the postie a few doors down the street: dreadlocks bouncing rhythmically under the band of his large headphones as he walked, shorts in all weathers.
‘I never knew his name was Clinton. He’s been delivering here for years, he’s never spoken to me in all that time, you’ve only been here a few days—’
‘Yeah, he said you were a misery guts,’ she replied playfully, but by now I could at least see it was me failing yet again to connect.
‘Looks like a lot of bills for MP Electrical Limited,’ she continued, flicking through the dozen or so envelopes in her hand, until she came across a small brown one. ‘Oh, no, wait, looks like one from the taxman for a Mr Mark V. Poynter esquire’
Great, just what I need right now, a letter from Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. I took it from her and dropped it on the table: the longer I leave it unopened the less I owe.
‘So, Mark Vee?’
‘Mark Five. It took them a while to create perfection,’ I said and she smiled, held it for a beat and then:
‘I didn’t know you had a middle name. What’s the V stand for? Vincent? Victor?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Vladimir?’ she said in a terrible vampire voice.
‘Leave it.’
‘Alright, calm down ... Veronica.’
An unwelcome warmth had bloomed around my cheeks.
‘Oh, come on.’ Perry gave me a playful nudge of the elbow, ‘I promise I won’t laugh, come on, tell me.’
I paused, drew in a deep breath, held it for one second two seconds three seconds, then, ‘Vivian.’
‘What?’ she hooted with laughter, falling to her side on the sofa in hysterics.
‘You said you wouldn’t laugh!’ I rose to my feet and crossed the room to face her, ‘It’s not funny.’
‘But it is. Vivian.’ she collapsed into giggles again. ‘Come on, admit it, it is a bit funny. You certainly don’t look like a Vivian.’
‘Blame my Dad, he was a fan.’ I was trying to stay calm, I didn’t want to sound petulant.
‘Of who? Vivien Leigh? I guess you’re lucky he wasn’t into Doris Day!’ Cue yet more laughing.
‘Viv Stanshall, actually.’ I realised as soon as I added the ‘actually’ I’d failed the petulant test.
‘Of yes, of course,’ she said, holding back her smile. I knew she didn’t have a clue who I was talking about.
‘Dad was a fan. Mark for Marc Bolan and Vivian for Viv Stanshall’
‘I see.’ she had regained her composure and dabbed her eyes with her cuff then, ‘Hang on, Marc Bolan, he was Marc with a C. You’re Mark with a K.’
‘That was Mum’s doing. She was happy to go along with his choices providing it was with a K, we’re not Americans so spell it properly was what she said, so I’m told. Anyway, Bolan’s real name was Mark with a K.’
‘Well then, I learn something new every day,’ she replied, before adding, ‘Vivian.’
‘Stop it. It’s not funny. I don’t like it. When they found out my middle name at school, they took the piss so much it’d choke a dialysis machine.’ I was aware my tone had become sharper and slightly louder, she’d noticed it too, as the giggles stopped.
‘Oh excuse me, boo fucking hoo, poor old Mr Doesn’t-Like-His-Slightly-Posh-Silly-Name. My heart bleeds for you. How mean, the nasty boys teased you.’ Her voice was harsh, her spine was as straight as a pole and her eyes were locked on to mine, never breaking contact.
‘You want to try going to a school where the only person who looks like you is your own sister! Where you have to make your name so simple just to get anyone to talk to you. Where you’ve heard at least thirty horrible ways to describe you before you’re seven, and ten thousand by the time you’re seventeen! Where people actually stop and stare at you for eating a sandwich, oh I didn’t know your kind ate English food, and the weird thing is they’d think there was nothing wrong in saying it. Forgive me if I can’t feel your pain for your silly name, but believe it or not, some of us have had to carry a lot worse. So get over yourself, and man up Mark Vivian Poynter.’
An awkward silence filled every square inch of the room, neither of us knowing quite what to say or do, I’d messed up again and felt the shame burn red stripes under my eyes. She held the rest of the envelopes towards me, an olive branch in second
class stamps. I took them from her and muttered I was sorry. With a tap along the short edge and then the long I lay them as a neat, smart pile on the table; a problem for another day.
‘I’m on the graveyard shift tonight,’ said Perry eventually and immediately it felt as though the black clouds had parted to make way for the sun. ‘I don’t start until midnight so thought I’d pop over, see if you fancied something to eat and also, how was the funeral, tell me.’
Sally’s funeral, it seemed like ages ago. but it was only when Perry asked, I realised I hadn’t even taken my tie off.
‘Fine, nice, it was nice. You know, nice family, nice words.’ I struggled to think of things to say, how do you critique a funeral?
‘I was worried about you today,’ she said, and picking up on my quizzical expression continued, ‘About your dad. Sometimes funerals stir up emotions unexpectedly, you might walk in there right as rain for someone you barely knew but end up bawling your eyes out because without realising it the whole occasion has clicked all the buttons for someone you loved.’
‘Ah I see. Thanks, but I’m fine. What have you been up to?’
I was desperate to change the subject. I appreciated her concern but those buttons… they’re permanently flicked on and I can’t find a way to get them off, I don’t need a chorus of ‘Abide With Me’ to tell me my heart’s broken.
‘Well, actually, talking about your dad, I’ve been looking into mesothelioma.’
‘Have you now?’ I didn’t like the way this conversation was going, I already had a touch of resentment simmering from the over familiar way she’d waltzed in and then given me a dressing down, and now this topic was drip-feeding petrol to it.
‘I didn’t realise that the Medway Towns was a national hotspot for it, second highest in the country.’