Walter slammed on the brakes, there was a screech of rubber on tarmac, and the car came to a violent stop.
Walter hardly dared open his eyes. He hadn’t been aware of a thump. Or a scream. But there must have been both.
He had screamed, anyway. Perhaps death had come too suddenly for her to make any noise.
He knew, he knew if he opened his eyes, she would be plastered across his windscreen. Or parts of her would be. Or perhaps he had struck her so hard that she still hadn’t landed. That even now, as he was thinking this, she was descending from space, just about to crack through the roof of his car and kill him as well.
Walter’s heart was beating ninety to the dozen.
I should have known, I should have known, things were going so well. Thank You God! Thank You! Show me heaven, then condemn me to hell.
Walter opened his eyes. The windscreen was clear. The traffic ahead of him was flowing normally. Surely if he’d struck her, people would have stopped, if not to help, at least to gawk.
Unless she was under the car, and nobody saw. Squashed to a pulp.
Walter looked left and right. There were no pedestrians. People didn’t walk on the Malone Road. His luck was in. If he just eased the car forward, slipped into the traffic, he could get to the car wash and—
No! How callous and evil was that? Much better to drive home, clean it up there. Too many people at the car wash.
No - no! He’d have to drive over the body, and he couldn’t do that. No - he’d have to get out, drag the body free and stuff it in the boot. Work out some way to dispose of it later. There was a lake near—
No!
What if she’s not dead? What if even as I sit here tuning in my radio, she’s struggling for her last breath?
He’d only had the most fleeting glimpse of her, but she was definitely old. Old women have brittle bones. Even if he’d only touched her, the force would probably have been enough to shatter every bone in her body.
If I try and pick her up, she’ll shatter in my hands. What if she needs the kiss of life?
Walter didn’t think he was up to kissing her. She probably smelled of old woman. Either pee or Youth Dew like his own granny used to wear. She would slobber all over him when he was a kid, and it terrified him. And every time he’d smelled Youth Dew since, it reminded him of moist old women. And in the Belfast way it had always been pronounced Youth Jew and for many years it had made him vaguely anti-Semitic until he’d finally seen the label and realised his mistake.
There was a sudden tap on the driver’s window. Walter’s heart, which had been racing out of control, threatened to explode. Not more than thirty seconds had passed since he had struck, squashed or shattered the old woman, yet it felt like a lifetime.
Slowly he turned his head.
She was there. Her face was white. Deathly white.
My God. My God.
Walter touched a button, and the window eased down.
‘Are you all right?’ It was the old woman asking. Not him.
‘I … I …’ Walter stammered.
‘I’m so sorry. I stepped out without thinking. I’m such an idiot!’
‘No, no,’ said Walter. ‘I should have …’
‘Nonsense. I need to take more care. Are you okay? You look very pale.’
‘I’m fine.’ He put his hand to his chest. ‘Just … shock.’
She touched her own chest. ‘Well, thank God. I thought my number was up.’ She blew air out of her cheeks. ‘Well, sorry again.’
She nodded, and began to turn away. She stopped again and took a deeper breath.
‘Miss … Missus?’
She turned.
‘Can I … can I give you a lift home?’
She studied him.
‘I’m not a pervert or anything,’ said Walter.
30
Just Friends
It was a curious thing, Margaret thought. Prior to her extreme allergic reaction to a slice of carrot cake she had only met Walter once, and they hadn’t exactly hit it off. Yet she was quite calm and relaxed about the fact that he had mounted a vigil in her hospital room for three days and nights. Of course, if he had turned out to be a murderer or pervert there was nothing she could have done about it, being in a coma and all, but when she did wake up, and discovered what he’d done, it had made her feel good instead of worried, reassured instead of concerned. Her soon-to-be ex-husband Billy had also visited conscientiously, yet the realisation that he had been there while she was unconscious still filled her with a kind of dread, mostly because she did not doubt that he had the capacity to do some kind of harm to her. Not murder her - but if he had been given the choice of switching off her life-support or waiting to see if she ever came out of her coma, she did not doubt for one moment that he would have chosen to switch it off. Walter, she thought, would probably have sat with her until he was an old man.
She didn’t hate Billy. She just didn’t like him, and that was a terrible thing in a marriage.
Had she changed? Or had he?
They had married young. Probably they had both changed. They wanted different things. They’d just got caught up in the excitement of a first proper relationship. Sex, really. Nobody called it courting any more. Then he’d asked her to marry him, and she’d said yes straight away. She thought now that it had been about getting an engagement ring. About being able to show it off to her friends. And she’d loved planning the wedding and choosing the dress and walking down the aisle. But the reality had set in not long after they’d come back from honeymoon.
No - in fact, it had set in on their honeymoon. They were in Spain, and it was about the outdoor restaurant and the breakfast buffet.
It was, basically, your Ulster fry - save for there being no soda or potato bread, and the addition of beans. It was now ‘the full English’. Billy had once taken her on a weekend to Jury’s in Dublin and made her laugh by asking for ‘an unoccupied twenty-six counties fry’. And then when they’d gone back to the hotel after a night on the tear the doorman had asked if they were residents and Billy had shot back, quick as you like, ‘No, mate, we’re Protestants.’
Margaret smiled at the memory of it. There had been good times. But how long had it been since Billy had made her laugh? More than a decade, she thought.
On the honeymoon she’d watched him eat his breakfast, his plate piled high, shovelling it in as fast as he could, and it made her feel sick. She’d wanted it to be romantic, sitting on the veranda, facing the sea, the gentle breeze, holding hands. Not sitting opposite Igor, with bean juice rolling down his chin.
‘Couldn’t you slow down?’
‘It’ll get cold.’
‘Couldn’t you just … talk to me?’
‘It’ll get cold. It wasn’t hot to start with. It’ll be bloody freezing. They should heat those things a bit better. What do you want to talk about?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does. Just let me finish this. I hate cold food.’
‘Okay.’
‘Don’t look like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Sulky. I’m just trying to eat my breakfast. What’s so important it can’t wait until I finish my breakfast?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Well then. Their bacon is really crap.’
‘So why are you eating it?’
‘It’s free, isn’t it?’
‘No, Billy, it’s not free. We’re paying for it.’
‘Yeah - all right, smarty pants, I know the breakfast’s included. But the amount I’m eating, there’s actually about four breakfasts here. So, as far as I’m concerned, three of them are free. And I won’t need any lunch, ’cause I’ll still be stuffed, so I’ll be saving money there as well. You’ve only had cereal. You should go and get a fry. Fill your plate. That’ll mean we’ve had eight breakfasts between us, six of them free, and we’ll save on two lunches. First day of our honeymoon, and we’re already into profit. This is the life, eh?’
&nb
sp; Margaret sat back in her hospital bed and picked up the book Walter had brought her. Tom Hanks would have held her hand and talked to her. He wouldn’t have shovelled in his food like that. Neither would Walter. They’d only had one meal together, and he’d eaten it like a perfect gentleman, never putting so much into his mouth that he couldn’t swallow it quickly and respond to whatever she said.
He was coming back that night. And so was Billy. Damn.
Her ex-husband had been bad enough earlier. ‘Who is he? Why’s he hanging around? He arrived at my front door with a bag of baps!’ She’d laughed out loud at that. She’d been so nervous on their one and only date that she’d eaten every bread roll she’d been offered in the restaurant. This was Walter’s little joke. She liked his sense of humour.
‘Are you having sex?’
‘No, of course not.’
Why had she said of course not? It was nothing to do with Billy who she had sex with, or how often. Not any longer. It was entirely her decision. If she chose to have sex, then she bloody well would have sex. With Walter. Or with a passing traffic warden. Anyone. The fact was, she hadn’t had sex with anyone since she’d left Billy. She just hadn’t met the right person yet. Or maybe she had.
‘He’s just a friend.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘I swear to God.’
‘You’ve been seeing him since before we split up. You left me for him.’
‘No, I didn’t. I only just met him.’
‘You’re a liar.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Billy, you’ll meet someone else.’
‘No, I won’t. I love you.’
‘No, you don’t. You’re just lonely.’
‘Yes, of course I’m f**kin’ lonely - you left me.’
‘I had to.’
‘Yeah, right. A big boy made you do it.’
‘Billy, please. Not here. Not now. We’ve been through this a thousand times.’
Billy stared at the ground. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘It’s okay.’
‘I miss you.’
She nodded. She did feel desperately sorry for him. And there were occasional moments when she did miss him. But the problem was, she really didn’t miss him enough. In fact, she wasn’t sure if it was even Billy that she missed. It was someone. Someone to laugh with. To share things with. To eat toast and jam with in bed and not worry about the crumbs. To go onto the second layer of Milk Tray without finishing the first, and without worrying about your husband slapping your fingers for doing it.
He had done that, her Billy. Slapped her hand like she was a baby. She couldn’t imagine the real Milk Tray Man doing that.
Or Walter.
31
DIY
The old woman was called Bertha James, and she lived in an impressive three-storey terraced house in South Belfast. She was from Omagh originally, and although she’d been in the city for sixty years, she still retained a country twang. Walter parked outside. They had chatted amiably enough on the short drive home.
When she’d told him her name, he’d smiled and said, ‘Good job you’re quite small.’
‘Why?’
‘Well - you know - Bertha.’ And he’d winked. She’d stared at him blankly, and he’d flushed, because he was coming across like Eric Idle. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more. But he had persevered. ‘You know - Big Bertha.’
Then she’d nodded.
‘Heard it once too often,’ said Walter.
She nodded again.
‘Name you don’t hear that often, these days,’ said Walter. ‘Bertha. And Hilda. And Sadie. And Wilhelmina.’
‘And Walter,’ said Bertha.
‘Aye,’ said Walter. ‘I suppose.’
She said, ‘Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?’
Walter had an immediate image of turned milk and rock-hard scones.
‘No, thanks, I should—’
‘Just to check for burglars.’
‘You’ve had … ?’
‘Lock on the back door’s broken. Would you mind?’
‘No. Of course not.’
He followed her up the drive. She fumbled with a key for several moments, then handed it to him.
Walter unlocked the door and pushed it open. He stepped into the hallway and shouted, ‘Give yourself up, the house is surrounded!’
His voice echoed along the wooden floors, and up the stairs, and rattled off the hundreds of shelves lined with vases and china and ornaments. From where he stood, and then as she led him through the house to the kitchen, there was hardly an inch of wall or floor which was left bare. The house was crammed with every single commemorative plate ever advertised in a Sunday supplement. Every leather-bound volume ever offered as a extra special free gift by a dodgy book club. Every priceless antique ever sold at a once-in-a-lifetime price by a market-stall huckster. It was a museum of tack.
‘I collect things,’ said Bertha. She set about making a cup of tea.
‘So I see.’
‘It passes the time, since Frank ...’
‘Your husband?’
‘He passed away. 1973. Just up those stairs. He was bringing me up a cup of tea. My legs were bad, even then. He was singing “I’ll Be Your Long-Haired Lover from Liverpool” then there was this tremendous crash and when I hobbled out to see, there he was, bottom of the stairs, scalded with tea and his head squashing the Swiss roll. He’d had a massive heart-attack. Just like someone switched the light off. Sad.’
‘Sad,’ agreed Walter.
‘Never been able to hear that song again, without feeling sad.’
‘Me neither,’ said Walter. ‘You never remarried?’
‘Nah. There was only one Frank. They broke the mould when they made him. Plenty of proposals, mind.’
‘But no one measured up.’
Bertha gave a little shrug. As she poured a cup for Walter she said, ‘Are you married, Walter?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘No children?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘You wouldn’t want to be leaving it long.’
‘No, I suppose.’
‘Who were you visiting at the hospital?’
‘How do you know I’m not a brain surgeon?’
‘Are you a brain surgeon?’
‘No. Not yet.’
Bertha smiled. Walter added milk from a semi-skimmed plastic bottle. He surreptitiously checked the date before he poured and was pleased to see that he had at least twenty-four hours before it became poisonous. Just as he lifted the cup to his lips, Bertha said, ‘Would you take a look at the lock?’
Walter set the cup down. He nodded at the back door. ‘This one?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
‘No. No trouble at all.’
There wasn’t much the matter with it. Two of the four screws holding it in place had slipped, shifting the locking mechanism slightly. Once he tightened it up, and added a little oil to smooth the action, it worked just fine.
She poured him a fresh cup of tea, and offered him some shortbread. He declined the biscuit, because he could see that the seal on the tin was broken, and shortbread is notoriously difficult to keep fresh. He was looking forward to the tea, but even as he raised the cup she caught his eye, and he hesitated. ‘Is there something else?’ he asked.
‘I hate to ask.’
‘No - not at all.’
‘There’s a window upstairs. It bangs. Slightest breeze sets it off. Keeps me awake all night.’
‘Would you like me to take a look?’
‘Only if you have time.’
Walter set his cup down. He had time. There were still four hours to go before evening visiting time at the hospital.
Three and a half hours later, Walter was just finishing off the grouting around Bertha’s ancient bath. He had sweated through his shirt and grazed three of his knuckles badly enough to bleed. He had fixed curtain rails, chipped ice out of a freezer, re-hung thirteen paintings and removed the ske
letal remains of a mouse from under a Super Ser gas-heater. Bertha had hovered over him throughout, lavishing him with praise and thanks, yet he had still not managed a sip of tea.
‘It’s just so long since I had a man about the house,’ she said, several times.
‘Don’t worry about it. I nearly killed you this afternoon. Look on this as my penance.’
‘Well, if you really don’t mind.’
And then she remembered something else that needed fixing. It went on and on, but finally, when she remembered another last thing, Walter called a halt. ‘Sorry, I’m going to have to get going.’
She looked rather crestfallen. ‘Oh, of course. I understand.’ She looked at the floor.
Part of him wanted to say, ‘I don’t know you from Adam, you old bat, and you have me working like a slave all because you walked out in front of my car. I’ve done my bit.’ He didn’t, of course. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, ‘but I have to meet someone.’
‘Of course, of course. I’ll be fine. You’ve done a grand job. Do you think I might have your telephone number?’
‘My … ?’
‘It would just be reassuring to know there was someone I could call. You see, The Samaritans, they only listen, they’re not allowed to have a proper conversation. Might as well not be there. When you get to my age - I’m eighty-five, you know - talking is about all you have. And the Samaritans, they’re all very well if you want to jump off a cliff, but you can’t invite them round for a cup of tea and some shortbread.’
No - and they won’t fix your windows either.
‘It’s no problem,’ said Walter. ‘Call any time.’
He wrote down his number, and she thanked him profusely. She waved from the door. Walter waved back as he drove away. It was nice seeing her smile. He wondered if she’d be smiling so much when she phoned the number and discovered it was for a kebab shop.
32
The Impending Death of Redmond O’Boyle
I Predict a Riot Page 12