Dirty Old Town

by L M Krier

  ‘Where’s the boy? Has he done his homework?’

  The good mood seemed on the brink of evaporating already. It made her nervous. She fumbled and so nearly dropped the eggs as she took them out of the fridge.

  ‘He’s watching one of his programmes. I think he’s done his homework.’

  ‘Think? You haven’t checked it?’

  There was a warning edge now. He was looking for things to find fault with. She didn’t want to give him any ammunition so she said meekly, ‘I was going to do it as soon as I’d made your tea. Shall I put your egg on now?’

  The mask was slipping rapidly. The look he gave her was one of angry contempt.

  ‘Of course not, you stupid bitch.’

  As ever, he didn’t raise his voice. He might simply be talking about the weather. Except the scorn in his tone was like a physical blow.

  ‘I’m going to check up on the lad’s homework, since you couldn’t be bothered to do it. If you put my egg on now it will be like a golf ball by the time I’ve done that.’

  He went through into the sitting room. She heard him turn off the television and start speaking, still in that same quiet voice.

  ‘Have you done your homework yet, lad? You know the rules. You should have finished that, properly, before you even think of watching television. Your education is far more important than some stupid rubbish on the telly. Get your books out and show me what you’ve done.’

  She paused for a moment, her head cocked to hear what was going on. She wasn’t brave enough to stand up to him when he started on her. But if he so much as sounded like he was about to raise a hand to the boy, she would be in there like a shot, determined to do whatever she could to protect her son.

  ‘Well, I can see that you’ve tried. That’s something, at least.’

  He was speaking patiently, now. Reasonably. For the moment, at least. She’d go and put the water on to boil for his egg, so she could have his meal ready as soon as he’d finished checking the homework.

  ‘But you could have done so much better than this. It just isn’t detailed enough. And look, here, you’ve made mistakes with your spelling. Basic mistakes. You can do a lot better than that. I’m disappointed with this. If you’re serious about going for the career you want to, you’ve got to do better than this. Remember, lad, the devil is in the detail.

  ‘Now, I want you to sit back down at the table and have another go at it, while I go and eat my tea. You can do better. I know you can. And you’re going to need to, to make anything of yourself. Do it again, while I eat. Then I’ll come and have another look.’

  Her hand was reaching for the egg box when he came back into the kitchen. He crossed the small room with angry strides, one hand reaching out to grab her wrist, hard, to stop the movement.

  ‘He’s writing rubbish. An infant could do better than that garbage,’ he hissed into her ear. ‘It’s an embarrassment. You might be a half-wit, but I expect better of him.’

  He was still gripping her arm with one hand. With the other, he turned off the gas and lifted up the saucepan in which the water was starting to bubble up to boiling point. He held her hand over the sink as he slowly and methodically emptied the pan of water over it.

  Tears started from her eyes as she bit down so hard on her lip to stop the scream escaping that her teeth drew blood.

  ‘Now give me my tea. And make sure the egg is cooked just the way I like it, if you know what’s good for you.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Ted Darling! That better not be an in use work mobile I see in your hands.’

  Ted gave a guilty start as Trev stumbled into the kitchen, yawning widely, wearing a hastily pulled on pair of boxers, back to front. He hadn’t expected to see him surface for a while yet.

  It had been some ungodly time in the wee small hours when they’d returned from Bizzie’s house. Despite his earlier reservations, Ted had found the whole thing more fun than he’d imagined he would. Douglas had been resplendent in his kilt, in the green and blue Campbell tartan. Several of his friends were also sporting their clan colours.

  One of Ted’s abiding memories would long remain the sight of his slightly inebriated and more than a little bit stoned partner attempting to master the intricacies of dancing Strip the Willow without falling over.

  Ted was there as a guest of a valued friend, not as a police officer, so he’d turned a blind eye to the group of people who would occasionally assemble under the apple trees at the far end of the garden to partake of something which was clearly not tobacco. He couldn’t really do otherwise when, to his astonishment, he witnessed Bizzie join them on one occasion. He was seeing a totally different side to the pathologist.

  Ted was happy enough in his usual pastime of people watching. To his surprise, he had a devoted companion. Despite Ted’s long fear and mistrust of dogs, the young pup, Spilsbury, appeared to have adopted him. Ted knew the dog was named after the founder of modern forensics, Sir Bernard Spilsbury, someone whose work Bizzie admired.

  Something which had surprised him even more was that he had, by trial and error, found a way to control the young miscreant. The dog was mostly white with a large brindle patch over one eye. It gave him a roguish look, which certainly suited his nature.

  ‘Leave,’ Ted tried, experimentally, when in the absence of his mistress, Spilsbury once again mounted his leg. ‘Get off. Sit.’

  It was only when he prefaced the command with an attempt at Bizzie’s stern tone saying, ‘Spilsbury!’ that the dog obeyed. It first sat on its haunches, grinning up adoringly at him. Then it slowly collapsed onto its side, offering up its underbelly for stroking. Very cautiously, Ted bent down to give it a fleeting rub, which sent it into excited wiggling contortions. From that moment on, it became his inseparable shadow for the whole weekend.

  ‘I was just looking to see if there were any messages from work that I needed to deal with before we go back to Bizzie’s for the next round,’ Ted began, but Trev cut him short.

  ‘Ted, I’m always telling you, you are a totally rubbish liar,’ Trev said, going to put the kettle on. ‘I could hear you talking from upstairs. And unless we’ve suddenly acquired a cat called Jo that I don’t know about, you were talking shop with your DI.

  ‘Delegate, Ted. Delegate. How often have you been told that? And not only by me. Let the poor man get on with his job and show you what he can do without you.’

  It was hotting up at Rob O’Connell’s end of town. He was heading up a serial of twelve officers. He’d made a couple of requests for Mounted support but been told that the horses were currently deployed at another scene of disorder. The mounted officers had been obliged to draw their batons, something they seldom did, to get the unruly throng of pushing, shoving protesters, to move back as ordered, in an attempt to keep the two factions apart and avoid a flashpoint.

  Rob was right up in the front line, flanked by Virgil and Jezza on one side, Steve on the other. Virgil was doing his usual job of looking solid and menacing. Many of the protesters were giving him a wide berth because of it. But Steve was visibly shrinking in the face of the open aggression he was facing. At one point he started to take a step back until Rob grabbed him and bodily hauled him forward to keep the line unbroken.

  At the very least, if he couldn’t get much in the way of back-up, Rob was going to need a replacement for Steve. The mob had already seen him as the weakest link and were doing their best to exploit the knowledge.

  One man was shoving his considerable beer gut right at Steve like a battering ram, jeering into his face, trying to wind him up.

  ‘Come on then, sonny. Think you’re a hard man, do you? Let’s see what you’ve got, then.’

  Steve was doing his best to stand firm in the face of it. Rob could sense the effort it was costing him. For a brief, optimistic moment, he thought the line was going to hold. Then Steve whirled abruptly, doubled over, and threw up, spattering the footwear of anyone nearby with vomit.

  At least it made Beer-gut
hesitate, long enough for Rob and the other officers to close up the gap once more and start to push back against the crowd.

  It took a long time for things to calm down to the point where most of the officers could stand down and head back to the station for a debrief with Kevin Turner. There was no sign of Steve anywhere as Rob and the other officers made their way back.

  ‘Anyone know what happened to Steve?’ Virgil asked, as they were putting caps, vests and equipment back in their lockers.

  None of them bothered to change into their own clothes. As soon as they did, they would no doubt be called back out. It was just tempting fate.

  ‘I don’t know whether he was ill or something else,’ Rob told them. ‘I don’t want to judge him, but it didn’t look good from where I was standing. It look like he lost it. I’m not going to bring it up in public at the debrief unless I have to. But I’m going to have to tell Jo and he’s going to have to talk to Kevin Turner. And to the boss, at some point.’

  ‘Where is Steve, anyway?’ Jezza asked, a note of concern in her voice. ‘Shouldn’t we at least find him to check if he is actually ill or not, and make sure he’s okay?’

  She was fishing for her mobile, finding his number and dialling. After the briefest of pauses she looked at the other two and made a face.

  ‘Straight to voicemail,’ she said, then, ‘Steve? It’s Jezza. Where are you, mate? Let me know if you’re okay, at least.’

  Jo Rodriguez turned up for the debrief, which was led by Kevin Turner. Standing in for Ted as he was, Jo knew the boss would expect him to have a handle on anything and everything the team had been up to over the weekend, while he’d been off enjoying himself. It was one of the things he’d phoned up about that morning, full of apologies for checking up on him.

  Rob stayed quiet about what had happened with Steve. He knew he was going to be asked about it at some point, but he was hoping it would not get mentioned in public. Not until he’d at least had chance to find out if Steve was okay, and to ask him for his own version of what had happened.

  One or two of the others who’d been nearby and seen what had gone on looked at Rob expectantly, but then appeared to accept he’d decided not to discuss it in an open debrief. It was clear someone had already put the word in to Kevin Turner though, because when they’d finished, he invited Jo and Rob to follow him to his office and told them both to sit down.

  ‘So what happened today, with Steve, Rob? Not the edited highlights, either. I need to know what really happened. Did he bottle it?’ Kevin Turner asked him outright.

  ‘Honest answer? I don’t know,’ Rob told him. ‘He wasn’t right from the start, but he could have been coming down with something, I suppose. He was physically sick, after all.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ Jo wanted to know.

  ‘Another thing I don’t know. Jezza tried to phone him, but it went to voicemail. She left him a message, but I don’t know if she’s had a reply yet.’

  Kevin looked from one to another.

  ‘Well, sick or lost it, I can’t take the risk of having him back in the thick of it, if we do have to do this all over again tomorrow. I’m hoping we don’t, but if we do, is there anyone you can find to replace him with, Jo?’

  ‘If we have to, I will, of course. Even if it means me pitching in. But like you said, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, eh?’

  Jezza was the one who got the text from Steve, but not until later that evening. She’d arrived home and headed straight for the shower. Luckily for her, her boyfriend, Nathan, who now lived in, had a meal waiting in the oven and was busily helping her brother Tommy with his endless quiz question compilation.

  Jezza had initially felt wary of letting Nat into her life. She’d been fending for herself and taking care of Tommy for a long time and it felt intrusive at first. Watching the two of them together when she got in, she felt a warm rush of affection for both of them, in different ways. She paused to plant a kiss on Nat’s cheek but made no attempt at physical contact with Tommy. Some days it was allowed. Others it led to meltdown, and there was no visible trigger warning, or none that she had yet learned to determine, of which it would be.

  ‘Do you mind if I have a shower before we do anything else? All this front-line police malarkey is harder than it looks. I’d forgotten what it can get like on the sharp end.’

  Nat gave her a suggestive smile.

  ‘I do like the look of a woman in uniform, though.’

  She smiled as she headed for the en suite bathroom opening off from her bedroom in the flat her parents had bought for her. Her phoned pinged with an incoming text as she was peeling off her uniform top and putting it in the laundry basket. The trousers would have to do another day.

  ‘Sorry about earlier. Some sort of gastric flu. Staying with Océane tonight but I doubt I’ll be in work tomorrow. Please can you let everyone know. Thanks. Steve x’.

  She wasn’t sure she entirely believed the story. She tried to call him, but once again it went straight to voicemail. She didn’t bother to leave a message this time. Steve knew he could talk to her if he needed to. He’d probably be best off staying with Océane. Bill Baxter, with his long years of service in the force and his bravery medal, might be the last person Steve would want to talk to or confide in after a day like today.

  * * *

  She was, as ever, on the alert for signs of danger from the moment she heard his key in the front door. She’d never managed to learn to read his mood properly. It must be her fault. She couldn’t tell when he’d had a stressful day at work, so she did and said stupid things which acted like a trigger to his pent-up frustrations.

  There was a soft clink as he put the keys down on the little table in the hallway. That was encouraging. At least he hadn’t flung them down with a clatter.

  ‘Hi, honey, I’m home,’ he called out.

  His voice was light, jokey.

  Another good sign.

  ‘I’m in the kitchen,’ she replied, trying to keep any intonation out of her voice. To make it bland and neutral, so he couldn’t read anything into it which would give him cause to react.

  He strode in to find her and, to her surprise, moved closer and planted a kiss on her cheek which felt almost affectionate. There was a hint of whisky on his breath but not much. He’d probably stopped for a swift one with colleagues before he came home. It seemed to have put him in a good mood, for once. She’d have to do everything she could not to break it and spoil the moment.

  He leaned back against the kitchen units, muscular arms folded across a big chest, as he watched her fiddling about with a pan on the hob.

  ‘What are we eating? I’m starving.’

  ‘It’s chicken curry. I’m making it just the way you like it.’

  He sneered at that. Put on a whining falsetto voice as he mimicked her words. ‘I’m making it just the way you like it. I doubt that. You never do anything just the way I like it. Why do you think I have to shop around for what I like?’

  She kept her eyes on the pan’s contents. Watching the wooden spoon stirring as if fascinated by its every movement.

  ‘And speaking of what I like, we’re going out for a meal on Saturday night. Some of the blokes I work with, and our other halves. A curry night. A proper curry. Not that bland swill you’re mixing up there.

  ‘I want you to look good. Sexy. I want to be getting a stiffy just from looking at you. Not see you in some sort of shapeless sack thing like you always wear.’

  He reached in his back pocket for his wallet. Took out a few banknotes. Grabbed a handful of the top she was wearing and stuffed his hand down the front of it, jamming the notes into her bra, then pinching her nipple. So hard it made her eyes water.

  The gesture was so full of disdain she wondered if that was how he paid some of the women he went with. When he couldn’t get what he wanted for free, as he was always boasting he could easily do.

  For a moment, he seemed to calm down again. She didn’t dare get her hopes up. She sim
ply carried on stirring the meal.

  Then she said cautiously, ‘I’ll need to get a babysitter for him. If we’re going out on Saturday. I hope I can get one easily at quite short notice.’

  He made a noise of annoyance.

  ‘Always so bloody negative. Always looking for any excuse to stop us going out and having some fun. Like a proper couple.’

  She waited for the explosion. It didn’t come. He seemed, for once, to be making an effort to control himself.

  ‘What about the boy today? Has he done his homework, and has he made a proper job of it, for once?’

  ‘Yes, he did it as soon as he got home from school. I’ve checked it all to make sure it’s right, then I said he could watch some telly.’

  Once again his face twisted into a scornful grimace.

  ‘You checked it? What bloody use is that? We both know you can barely write a shopping list and get it right. I’d better go and check it myself. Don’t burn that slop while I’m doing that.’

  She turned the heat down low. Put a lid on the pan. Whatever she did with it clearly wasn’t going to meet with his approval. The earlier good mood was now well and truly gone. Yet again she’d done the wrong thing. She needed to try much harder.

  She fished the money out of her bra and went to put it in her purse. She’d start by making an effort to dress up nicely for him on Saturday. She didn’t like the clothes he thought were sexy. Hated to dress in a way which drew attention to herself. But if she made an effort to dress to please him, perhaps things might start to improve between them.

  ‘Now then, boy, let’s have a look at this homework, shall we? Your mum says she’s checked it, but we both know she’s not looking for the same standards I am. She doesn’t know what you need for your career. But I do. I want you to do well, lad. To make me proud.’

  Chapter Eight

  Ted was in early on Monday morning. He wanted to catch up on everything which had been happening over the weekend. Trev had been strictly monitoring his access to his work phone, so he felt a bit out of the loop. He didn’t like the feeling.