30 Days in June

by Chris Westlake

  I know it only takes twenty-five (huge) steps to walk from one end of my long (not so long) boat to the other end, because I counted it. This morning, though, I don't reach more than five steps before I stub my big toe on the kitchen skirting board; I then hop the other twenty steps cursing under my breath. I put on my pink, fluffy dressing gown and glance down at my legs, exposed from the knees. It should have been put in the trash years ago, but then a sane man would never have purchased it in the first place. I pick up a packet from the working top and slip it inside the chest pocket. Pull the belt tight. Nobody deserves to see one of my balls unexpectedly popping out, even if - personally - I'd find it hilarious. Glass in one hand, a bottle in the other and a box of matches balancing between my teeth, I open the (only) door of my boat, my home.

  Sure, to the bystander it isn't much, but this life is my choice. Besides, who gives a damn what a bystander thinks? I had much, much more - once - but I gave it up. The boat suits me just fine.

  Stretching my legs onto the uneven, grassy bank, I inhale the familiar odour of the canal. Pull out my deckchair. Clasp my hands behind the nape of my neck. Close my eyes. Breathe in slowly through the nose. Pause. Exhale out through the mouth. Normally this routine is sheer bliss, one of the simple pleasures in my life. The rhythm is off this morning, though. Unwanted thoughts bang on the door, demanding to be let in. Telling them to fuck off just doesn't do the trick. Not this morning.

  Opening the bottle and pouring myself a sherry, I stir the glass and observe the drink before taking a sip. What is the time? Who knows? Who cares? The cool breeze that slips beneath the opening to my dressing gown suggests that it is still early morning. When was the last time I had a drink? Days? Weeks? I try not to count. I don't tend to follow a routine. I don't, for example, open a bottle on a Friday and Saturday night just because it is deemed socially acceptable to do so. Who makes these rules, anyway? Are the rule makers regulated? As far as I'm concerned, they can all go and do one.

  I light my cigar and extend my legs. This is another simple pleasure. This one seems so much easier this morning.

  A couple with a young boy and a dog walk along the bank and past my boat. This is all unhealthily healthy. Shouldn't the boy be stagnating in his room, trying to beat his top score on Minecraft? They're set for a trek, with rucksacks and bulky walking boots that pick up the mud. The dad's red shorts and yellow raincoat is surely preparing for all eventualities. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail. Fuck off. I take a long swig of sherry as my mind flicks back to the cream raincoat from yesterday afternoon. Was it really just yesterday? It was a long night. Yesterday was the first day of June. Odd. May had been glorious, bar the odd thunderstorm here and there; but then, what is more delightful than the occasional sprinkling in spring? Yesterday was a bright, hot day. The clear clouds gave no indication of rain. Irritated commuters on the tube wiped sweat from their foreheads with their bare arms. The cream raincoat stood out.

  Every member of this walking party, not excluding the dog, jerk their heads backwards as they pass me. The boy's mouth drops, able to catch a fly. Dad checks his watch. I hold my hand up and wish them good day. The jolly family jerk their heads back to the front in perfect synchronisation. Mum clips the back of the boy's head (presumably) for gawping. I smile and take another sip of my sherry. There aren't many sips left till I reach the bottom of the glass.

  I pull my mobile phone out of the chest (and only) pocket. No messages. No surprise. I tap away with my index finger.

  Miss you, Princess x

  Although I try to avoid technology wherever I can, and I seriously fear robots will bring down the world, perversely it still fascinates me. I just try not to tell anybody that it does. The idea that I can send a message on my phone that instantly pops up on somebody else’s phone (miles away) is just mind-boggling. And that is just texting! It feels like only seconds before my phone starts vibrating. How are other people so quick? Do they use more than one finger? How do they manage that?

  Aww watch you. I miss you too Dad x

  I tap away, trying to impress my little girl with my speed. I am caught out by the predictive text, and so I delete what I’ve written and start again. She isn’t going to be impressed at all. I consider writing a long message but think better of it.

  Give my love to your mum x

  Another vibration.

  Will do. But you can speak to her yourself the next time I see you! x

  I consider sending her another message, but think better of it; I'm sure Emma doesn't want to spend her Saturday morning texting her dad, does she?

  I think back to when I met her mum, the mother of my only child: I was nineteen in December 1989 and I'd been working in the city for just over a year. When I say I had been working in the city, what I really mean is that I had a junior administrator job that was located in the city. Friday evening. Pay day. Naturally I felt like the richest kid on the planet, even though I was paid just above what my employer was allowed to pay me without getting into trouble (remember, there was no minimum wage then). And yet, despite my sudden wealth, I was still the invisible man at the bar as I waved my crisp ten-pound note in the air with one hand and hid my identification in my pocket with the other. I'd been shaving for at least six months but, with no confirmed sightings of hair, it had merely brought a flush to my cheeks. I looked up and caught the eye of a pretty young lady with ash blonde hair next to me.

  "Oh hello," she said, smiling.

  My shaven cheeks probably turned two shades redder. And then I spoke my first word to my future wife, and mother of my child, Jenny. It was a very simple, unoriginal word. "Hello," I said.

  A lady brushed my shoulder, her back appeared in my peripheral vision and then she embraced the girl I'd just said hello to. Damn. So she wasn't speaking to me after all. I waved my ten-pound note even more elaborately as the two women exchanged pleasantries. The intruder left. I hoped that the girl hadn't noticed me speaking to her. And yet I could still sense her eyes on me. I dared to glance up. I noticed that she was smiling. I glanced over my shoulder. Once is unlucky, twice is careless.

  "You're a charming young man, aren't you?" Jenny said. "Saying hello to random people at the bar, completely unprompted?"

  I smiled. It wasn't forced. I found it funny because she only looked a year or so older than me. She had the perfect opportunity to make me feel small, but she chose to do the opposite. Suddenly, I was standing head and shoulders above the other people at the bar still waiting to be served. I was instantly and unusually comfortable speaking to her. Still, she ignored me for a few moments as she ordered her drink (even though I was sure I was at the bar before her). "Less of the young, please," I said. "I'm old enough to drive, although I can't. I'm old enough to drink, although I can't do that very well. I'm old enough to do plenty of other things that, surprisingly, I am very good at..."

  Jenny raised her eyebrows and laughed. My last statement could very well have been true: I was still a virgin and so, for all I knew, I could turn out to be the greatest lover in the world. I longed to pull the photograph out of my wallet, just give it a quick glance, make me feel stronger, but I couldn't. I knew I had to do this on my own.

  "Well, it sure is a shame you can't drive," Jenny said. "I was looking for somebody to chauffeur me around, to be Clyde to my Bonnie."

  "I'm not sure Clyde was best known for his driving skills," I said. "Do you come here often?"

  "Is that a chat up line?"

  "Depends..."

  "On?"

  "How well you respond to it."

  Jenny glanced over my shoulder, smiling. I yanked my head and was met by a group of girls waving in our direction. Jenny fumbled in her handbag. She pulled out a pen and a strip of white paper. She used the bar to write on the paper. "Listen," Jenny said, "I've got to go back to my mates. But you seem nice, and harmless enough. Not openly weird. If you fancy meeting up for a drink sometime, give me a call."

  I was numb as I returned back to my boisterous grou
p on the other side of the pub. They were young guys in suits, mainly traders on the floor who all earned a multitude of my salary. Traditionally, I faded into the background.

  "Where you been?" one of them asked, arm stretched over the back of the chair.

  "The bar," I replied.

  "Where's your drink?"

  I looked down at my empty hands. "Oh for..."

  I was interrupted by a chorus of raucous laughter. This was the first time I'd been the centre of attention. It was a good night.

  Now, nearly thirty years later, I return to the boat smiling. The dry, claustrophobic cabin is of startling contrast to the fresh air outside. I crack eggs on the frying pan and lay bacon under the grill. Cooking is usually therapeutic. Any distraction that is even remotely interesting usually is. The thoughts invade my mind, though. I want to swat them, like an annoying fly - just like the one Richard talked about - hovering with intent around the fried food; I know this merely makes the thoughts stronger. I need to ignore them. It is painfully difficult, however, to avoid the metaphorical elephant in the room.

  Who was it who called me Jeffrey Allen? And why, thirty years to the day since the first killing?

  Fortunately - thank God - there is a close and welcome distraction. I don't even need to go looking for it. There is a gentle rustling of sheets on the bed. I observe movement underneath the duvet, like a mole furrowing beneath a lawn. A long sigh. And then a yawn. Smiling, I pour two cups of coffee and perch on the edge of the bed.

  A hand appears from under the duvet and grazes along my thigh. The hand didn't need to wander, to search for me; it instinctively knew where I was, where to find my naked leg. Erica knows my body like it is her own. I imagine Erica under the duvet. She sleeps on her front. She sleeps naked. Her face will be buried deep in the pillow, her black hair nestling on the nape of her back, just above her pert buttocks, curved like a ski slope.

  Her naked body remains motionless. Her hand, though, continues stroking my thigh. Continues rising. She takes me in her hand. I stiffen.

  Momentarily, at least for the next five minutes or so, the overwhelming compulsion to find out more about what happened yesterday afternoon vanishes, just like I did, thirty years ago.

  DAY THREE

  3RD JUNE 1988

  Yvette nurses her cup of tea in her dressing gown and slippers at the round, oak kitchen table, early morning daylight just beginning to fill the room. Glancing at the clock, she momentarily wonders whether young John King had slept in again, bless him; she wasn't sure that an early morning paper round suited the young boy in the village who carried a sleepy demeanour with him wherever he went. Still, it was Friday morning and so he could have a lie in tomorrow, couldn't he? The thought passes; the rustle at the front door and the thud indicates the paper has safely dropped on the mat.

  The morning paper is delivered at about seven and then the South Wales Echo is pushed through the letterbox at about four in the afternoon. Yvette was more than happy to walk up to the shop in the afternoon, stretch her legs, but the last thing she wanted was to deprive the paperboy of some extra pocket money, put the kid out of a job. On the other hand, the Echo was a bulky paper, and maybe David Williams would welcome a little less weight on his shoulders, one less paper to worry about? Maybe she would discuss it with Joyce in the shop next time she popped in.

  Yvette unfolds the paper and then flattens it down on the table, removing the crease in the middle. This is her time of the day. She sits back in her chair and puts her slippers up on her husband's chair. Her eyes scan the front page. Her hand droops. Body goes cold. She is only awoken from her trance by the warm tea that trickles down her arm.

  She wipes away the drink with her hand, then tugs at her hair, head bowed over the paper like she is praying.

  "Morning, love."

  Yvette springs up like she has seen a ghost. Where did he come from? Normally she hears her husband's footsteps as he comes down the stairs in the morning. Now he stands in their kitchen, crisp sky-blue shirt tucked into his slacks and tie straining his collar. He leans down and kisses her on the temple. She squeezes his hand. Yvette pushes the newspaper across the table. She wants to throw it in the bin. She has only read the front page.

  "There has been a murder. A couple have been stabbed to death in their own home."

  "In their home? How did he get in? Did he break in?" Gordon asks.

  "From what I can make out, the newspaper is saying the couple likely invited the killer into their home to partake in - you know - well, to have sex..."

  "Oh. I see. That type of couple. Where did it happen?"

  "Cardiff. Ely."

  "Jesus," Gordon says. Yvette knew what he was thinking. This was the morning paper. The afternoon paper was supposed to provide the local news. This was big news. "It's one thing when these things happen on the other side of the world, another when they happen on your doorstep. When did it happen?"

  "The early hours of Wednesday morning. First of the month. What a way to start June," Yvette says.

  Gordon thumbs the words on the page. His silver eyebrows become one, the lines on his forehead form an upside down triangle.

  "I know they weren't youngsters, that they were in their forties, but I still can't help but think," Yvette says. "Everybody has a story to tell, Gordon. Somebody has still probably lost a daughter and a son. What was the need? There was none. No need at all..."

  Gordon rubs her shoulders with his long fingers. He knows exactly what she is thinking, too. They'd been a couple since school and he knows her thoughts before she even thinks them. He follows her eyes, fixed on the photograph on the windowsill. Two boys. One is ten and the other is eight. The older boy has his arm around his younger brother. Yvette dabs her eye with her finger. The best of friends. Went everywhere together. And Luke was so protective of his younger brother, always fighting his corner. Luke would have been twenty now had it not been for the leukaemia; had that wicked, wicked disease not taken him away. Not a day goes past without Yvette wondering what he would be like now. What would he look like? Would he have a girlfriend? A job? She knew, though - just knew - that the two boys would still be the best of friends.

  His little brother had grown up, of course. Had only one year left before he headed off to university. They needed to talk to him about that. They needed to make sure that was what he really wanted to do. She didn't really mind what he did with his life so long as he was happy: she hated the thought that he could possibly be unhappy.

  Yvette can't bear the silence in the room, the thoughts that fill both their minds."It gets worse," Yvette says, filling the void. "South Wales Police have put this detective on the case, DCI Baldwin. He thinks that this is likely to be only the beginning of the killings."

  She watches her husband's reflection in the kitchen window, his face strained, searching for the right words. "He can't possibly know that, dear. They don't even know the motive. Maybe it was a personal vendetta? People don't kill for no reason. Besides, I'm sure the police will catch him before he can do any more damage."

  Yvette looks up at Gordon and manages to smile. "Anyway," she says, "any sign of that son of ours?"

  Gordon shakes his head. "Not yet."

  "That boy is getting up later and later. We can't let things slip now. He spends too much time in that room of his. It isn't healthy. We need to have a word with him."

  "I'll speak to him, Yvette."

  She squeezes his hand. She wants to see her little boy more than ever this morning, just to know he is safe. She worries when he is asleep, worries that he will never wake up. Her husband leaves the room, stands at the bottom of the stairs, gently shouts to Jeffrey that it is time to get up.

  DAY FOUR

  4TH JUNE 2018

  The poster on the wall is split equally in two, cut in a straight line down the middle. The one side is blue and gives a list of incidents when you should call 101. The other side is red and gives a list of incidents when you should call 999. Both lists are exte
nsive. I can't help but think that, by the time I'd decided which number to call, the burglar has probably already escaped with the jewels. I glance around the walls and hope to find mug shots of wanted villains. No such luck. There is not much else to do and the urge to look at the walls is instinctive. It is just like at the doctors. I go in because I have a cold, but by the time I actually see the doctor I'm convinced I must be dying of at least one disease. I glance at the vacant seats. Somebody has left a newspaper. Apparently Jeremy Thorpe's hit man isn't dead after all. Who would have guessed?

  I stretch out my hand to pick up the paper, but I'm interrupted by another hand, dangling in my face, "DCI Reeves. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Clancy."

  "Marcus," I say, rising to my feet. "Please call me Marcus."

  His handshake is firm, but it feels natural, not like some of the Alpha males I meet in my workshops who try to crush the bones. The shoulders stretch his shirt and fill the doorway to his office, and yet his waist could belong to a ballerina. The effect is a V-shape that could grace the cover of Men's Health. I notice, with a hint of envy, that his jet-black hair, which is full and cropped short, has no hint of grey. I estimate him to be in his mid-thirties, but then it is likely the guy has a moisturising routine that would put Posh Spice to shame. "Thank you for seeing me at short notice."

  The interview room is square and bland. Just a table separates us. It brings back memories; only last time, this was so much more bland, much more dire. DCI Reeves dabs at an imaginary stain with the tips of his two middle fingers. He sits with a straight back and his solid arms by his sides. Reeves looks like the type to take his online DSE training very seriously. "This deranged man goes on a killing spree in the month of June, beginning on the first day of the month. You were supposed to be the seventh victim, on the final day of the month. And yet you are the one that got away. The only one. It isn't every day we have a celebrity knocking on our door. So I was honoured to see you at short notice, Marcus."