by Heide Goody
James tried to tilt his head so that it would pour out. Gravity was against him, and Polly was able to keep the tube upright with no trouble. He started coughing and retching. Vodka sputtered and sprayed from the pipe, but it mostly went down.
When the coughing and panting had ended, Polly stepped back to give him a break.
“Now, you need to take better care than that. We don’t want you choking, do we?”
His eyes watered. A trickle of vodka ran from his nose, but he had his breath back.
“Best to just drink it straight down, wouldn’t you say?” Polly asked.
There was a panic in his eyes now, but she ignored it. She poured straight from the bottle this time, bracing the snorkel firmly in the crook of her other arm. It was an oddly intimate moment as she clutched his head to her bosom. She saw his Adam’s apple working as he drank it down, keen to avoid choking. She gave him a small break before tipping the bottle again. She stopped when it was empty.
She stepped away. James was keening in distress.
“Just breathe, James.”
“Mwamph! Mwaph!”
She went to the kitchen, found a towel and came back to wipe the trickles of vodka that had poured down his face.
“Just settle down,” she said. “Do not throw up because I don’t know how you’d breathe with a snorkel full of sick.”
Whether he saw the wisdom in that or simply had no choice, he sat still and watched her.
She sat on the arm of the sofa, realising she also needed to get her breath back. This whole charade was turning out to be thoroughly exhausting. “Round two in a minute,” she said.
James tried to twist in his chair to better see her. Polly dipped into her bag and withdrew full sized bottles of vodka and whisky.
“Vodka man, right?” she said.
James hollered and protested, but there was no making sense of any of it.
She put the whisky back in the bag, unscrewed the vodka and gave him a third of the bottle, straight down the pipe. Polly had never heard someone simultaneously drinking hard while sobbing into a snorkel pipe. It was a horrible sound, but rather than be disgusted, she found herself thrilling in it.
“Running out of air there?” she said, patting him on the shoulder.
“Mmph,” he panted, miserably. The inside of his goggles were splashed with tears.
“Drinking. Drowning.” She looked at the bottle. “Two more should do it.”
He shook his head groggily and wheezed down his snorkel.
“Two more,” she said and gave him half of what was left.
As he desperately swallowed, she crouched before him, safely out of kicking range and watched. “Shall I tell you why I’m doing this?” she asked.
“Mmph?”
“I could. I could tell you, but you wouldn’t like it. Or we could just pretend this is a weird little party with vodka and cake.” She twitched her lips. “I thought it would be important that you know why I’m doing this, but I’m not so sure anymore.” She stood and fed him the last of the bottle. “What does it matter what you know or think, James?”
She mopped his face with the towel again, tenderly, like he was child. Like she was a nurse or nanny. “You’ve got to promise to not throw up, and then I’ll take it off in a bit.”
“Mwaph-a mmf?”
“In a bit.”
She needed to go and check out the next part of the plan. She picked up his car keys and went through into the kitchen. There was a door off to the side that could only lead into the garage. She found the key for it on the same ring as the car keys, opened the door, and turned on the light.
The garage was the usual size for a British suburban home, which meant you could either fill it with a modestly sized car, or you could use it for storage. James Huntley had opted to house his old Vauxhall in there. Only by sliding carefully sideways could an adult human get in between the car and the walls. In fact, the gap at the rear of the car was barely any wider. James had implemented the time-honoured system of hanging a tennis ball from the ceiling, so that when he reversed into the garage he knew to stop when it appeared at the top of his windscreen.
Polly opened the car door, slipped in and let the handbrake off. It rolled forward until it nudged the garage door. She went round to the boot, opened it and looked inside. There was nothing in there except for some shopping bags and a small tool box. It would do. She went back into the house.
James sat where she’d left him, naturally, but he sagged in the chair. Behind the mask, his eyes were unfocused, and there was a sheen of sweat on his face. She shook his shoulder.
“Smmph mmph?”
He was, of course, incomprehensible, but she suspected after all that vodka he would be without the snorkel.
“I’m going to help you feel a bit better,” she said. “If we go for a little walk, then you’ll soon be right as rain, yes?”
He nodded. She undid the handcuffs, put them aside and brought his hands together. She held them in hers and clapped them gently to get his circulation going.
“Up you get. Come on,” she said.
He staggered to his feet, but he was very unsteady. Clumsily, he felt for the tape around his face.
“Leave that for now.”
“Mwaph fuff-a mmph.”
“No, leave it,” she said. “Movement will help, come on.” She took his arm across her shoulder. He wasn’t a heavy man, but he was heavy enough to make her grunt as they moved. “There, that’s better already, isn’t it?”
She walked him out to the kitchen and then through the door to the garage.
“Mmmf fa wah?” he slurred.
“I’ll take you to a doctor, shall I?”
“Ma!” he said which meant nothing.
“A nice drive, eh?”
He wasn’t fighting her. He could barely stand. He couldn’t stand at all. He slumped against the car and began to sink to his knees.
“No, not yet,” she said, getting down to prop him up. “Let’s take you round to the passenger side. I’ll need to drive.”
She manhandled him round to the back of the car.
Munph pff!” he noted.
“So it is,” said Polly. “You wait here, and I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
She draped him over the edge of the boot. He slumped back like it was a bed. Polly went round to the driver’s door. The keys were in the ignition. She started the engine. The petrol gauge showed three quarters full. She reversed slowly until a muffled scream of pain told her she had reached the back wall. She didn’t need a dangling tennis ball to help her.
She left the engine running and got out. James was rolling and moaning. His lower legs were pinned between the boot lip and the wall. He was upright now, thrown vertical by pain or alarm or the crushing of his leg tendons. He was moaning at high pitch through the snorkel, the tuba become a bugle.
“Okay,” said Polly. “Let’s actually get this off.”
She reached for the tape around his face and he feebly swatted at her. She pushed back. She wasn’t hideously drunk and was currently stronger.
“Here.” She found an edge and pulled hard. He gasped as the snorkel came away with a stream of vodka-infused spit.
“N’legs,” he mumbled.
“Yes,” she agreed and ripped the mask and remaining tape from his head. His skin was flushed and mottled pink – tape abrasion, tears and nausea.
He tried to say something more but he couldn’t control his mouth. Polly surveyed her handiwork, making sure there was no more evidence of her on him. He attempted to move but he was fixed, tight. He’d be pinned in place as the exhaust fumes poisoned him.
“You left Rachel Duncliffe to drown in the dark,” she said to him, even though she doubted he could understand anymore. “There has to be justice, you see.”
She turned off the light as she went back into the kitchen and shut the door behind her.
She collected the party cake (too incongruous to be left in the house) and the bag with the whis
ky inside it. She collected her fans and her feather boa. She took out her long coat and wrapped it over her costume. Everything else went in the bag.
A little peek out of the front door and she was out, down the cut-through and back to the bike she’d left in Beresford Field.
58
The Friday before Christmas seemed to be the day when most of those leaving Otterside for the festive season left. It wasn’t a huge exodus, but a noticeable number of residents had departed, to visit family or fly to warmer climes. Nearly midwinter, the sun didn’t rise until gone eight and was set again at four, the day in between generally sunless and grey. The remaining residents tended to venture out only when they needed to, bracing walks and rounds of golf were reserved for incurable fanatics. The season of quiet crafts, card games and endless daytime television was upon them.
“Look what I found,” said Jacob, approaching the table where Strawb and Margaret sat. He held out a jigsaw corner piece.
“What’s that then?” said Strawb with polite interest.
Jacob brought it close to his eye. “I think it’s World Landmarks, a thousand piece Ravensburger. And I found it outside Chesney’s office.”
“And why would it be there?” said Strawb.
For a man with such a relaxed manner and easy wit he was a shocking liar, Margaret thought. And yet Jacob, a man with a literalist’s brain and such an eye for details that he frequently failed to see a larger picture, did not notice.
“I have several theories,” said Jacob. “None confirmed.”
Tired of Strawb’s silly tricks, Margaret took the newspaper from the chair arm pocket next to her and placed it on the table. “Strawb and I were just discussing the news regarding Mr Huntley.”
Jacob pulled back. “You started the meeting without me?” He checked the time. “It’s not time for the meeting to start yet.”
“We happened to be here,” she said. “This is just a pre-meeting chat.”
Jacob was not mollified. “But I’m always here for the pre-meeting meeting.”
“Ah, but this is a pre-pre-meeting meeting,” said Strawb. “We’ve not even started the pre-meeting yet.”
Jacob sat down with a measured formality that made it clear he was not best pleased.
“The news,” said Margaret, opening the paper so Jacob could see the story on page six.
Local man found dead in his own garage, read the headline.
“Three days after he died,” said Strawb. “Found by his brother.”
Jacob read then re-read, placing his finger on key words. “Doesn’t say if the police are treating it as suspicious.”
“They never do,” said Margaret. “We know this. There will be a coroner’s inquest. The police will not show any interest unless there is some anomaly.”
“I say our girl, Polly, has done a bladdy good job,” said Strawb.
Margaret offered a small nod of agreement. The others knew this was as good as a rapturous round of applause from her. “And so I’ve decided to put our next project into action,” she said.
“So soon?” said Jacob.
“Bernard owes the collective, and I was disturbed by his somewhat blasé attitude to the seriousness of our endeavours.”
“She’s still smarting over the fact he asked us to kill a turkey,” Strawb translated. “Let’s not forget that as an ex-military man, he’s been very helpful to us. Weapons, electronics, et cetera.”
“We have a target: Dr Erin Hackett. Bernard is already planning how to do it.”
“Her crimes?” said Jacob.
“Elder abuse,” said Margaret. “Emotional, psychological, financial. We have checked. When Polly was ‘strongly encouraged’ to sell her house, it was bought up through a series of transactions that ultimately put it in the hands of Polly’s niece. And the sale price…”
“Sixty percent of the facking market value,” said Strawb. The man’s hands twitched restlessly with emotion. Margaret considered he was, perhaps, genuinely smitten with Polly Gilpin.
“Theft then,” said Jacob.
“Ah, but it gets worse,” said Margaret. “Erin Hackett has been showing a surprising level of interest in Polly’s health.”
“Doesn’t want her knocking back the gins,” said Strawb.
“Yes?” said Jacob. “Does this fit into the fraudulent sale?”
“I have a theory,” said Margaret.
“And it’s a facking bastard,” said Strawb hotly.
Jacob pulled his chair nearer to the table, intrigued.
59
Sam was modelling outfits in her bedroom while Delia lent moral support, which she claimed was fuelled most effectively with cocktails. Sam had whipped up a batch of Christmassy cranberry and cherry liqueur based drinks which she christened Jingle Juice.
“What about this?” Sam twirled in a long burgundy dress.
“It’s a good colour for Christmas,” said Delia. “Very festive.”
“It needs high heels though, and I’m going to be on an oil rig.”
Delia rolled her eyes. “It’s not as if you’re going to be swimming to the place, is it? You said he’s got a casino out there. People turn up to a casino in high heels, don’t they?”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Sam. “What dress code do you have in a casino? I feel as if this isn’t glitzy enough.”
“I’ve got time to sew you some sequins on,” said Delia. “No, wait, what am I saying? There must be loads of sequinned things in this house from your dad’s stage act.”
“I have a love/hate relationship with sequins,” said Sam. “They can be very scratchy. I think this dress is a definite maybe. I wonder how warm it’s going to be in the middle of the North Sea, though?”
“Again,” said Delia, “I’m going to mention the casino. You don’t expect to take a cardigan when you’re playing high-stakes roulette or whatever, do you?”
“You’re right,” said Sam. “I’m going to squeeze in a jumper, if it’ll fit. Rich said Dad and I should each plan to take one smallish bag.”
“Has he come over all Ryanair for a reason?” asked Delia. “That seems a bit harsh.”
“We have to get there by helicopter. I guess there isn’t that much room.”
“Don’t you need to do one of those ditch-in-the-water safety drills if you’re going to be flying to the rigs?”
“We’re not oil rig workers,” said Sam and sipped her cocktail. It might have been festive, but the sharp flavours were going straight to her stomach. “Now, what else do I need to take?”
Delia looked to the ceiling as she counted off on her fingers. “If all the practical things are going to be taken care of out there, then you’re looking at clothes, toiletries, jewellery. What else? Lingerie, obviously.”
“Stop it.”
“A book to read, or a game to play? Anything like that?”
Sam thought for a moment. “It would be a bit rude for me to sit and read when I’m spending Christmas with Rich and my dad. I’ll pop a deck of cards in there, just in case anyone wants to play.”
“Cards? Don’t you think they’ll have those in the casino?”
“I guess so. Although, if you were running a casino, would you let a magician borrow your cards for a quick game of patience?”
“Fair point,” said Delia. “Card games always end in arguments in our house.”
“And what will Christmas Day be like in your house?” asked Sam, wondering how she should inflect such a question in the light of the super posh Christmas she was about to enjoy.
“Being woken at five a.m. by screaming children,” said Delia. “Ripping off wrapping paper. Laughter. Tears. My parents and some singular aunts and uncles coming over for Christmas dinner.”
“Ah. Christmas dinner? Twizzler is….?”
“Off the menu,” said Delia firmly. “We’ve gone meat free this year.”
“Oh.” Sam tried not to sound like a judgemental carnivore.
“It’s just a case of starting Veganuary a
month early,” said Delia. “We will have a delicious beetroot and lentil bake with sweet potato parcels on Christmas Day.”
“Does sound rather lovely,” said Sam. “And the kids will like that?”
“I bought in some pigs in blankets, in case they go into meat-withdrawal. Cheap sausages, mind. Hardly any meat in those. And then its Secret Santa for the adults. Done that for years. Five pound limit, everyone gets a surprise gift. Are you taking presents with you to the gas platform?”
“Well, I do have a small gift for Rich, and one for my dad, but the food and drink should all be taken care of. He’s got this super-efficient butler called Peninsula, who makes Jeeves look like a slacker.”
“Never mind the butler, tell me about the gifts! What did you get for Rich?”
Sam sighed. “It’s always tricky buying something for a multi-millionaire. I like to get something that will surprise him.”
“Oh yes?” Delia waggled her eyebrows in the most lascivious way she could.
“Not that kind of surprise. A funny surprise.”
“I could have totally found you something in the shop,” scolded Delia. “He would not have expected a banana stand, would he?”
“You still not sold that?” Sam asked.
“Stop changing the subject. Come, on, tell me. What did you get him?”
“A shirt that’s printed all over with Nicholas Cage’s face,” said Sam.
Delia looked at her. “What? That actually exists in the world? Were you drunk shopping on the internet or something?”
Sam wasn’t sure how to respond to that. She had bought it off the internet, it was true. “How are we defining ‘drunk’? I was relaxing while I was shopping, that’s all.”
“You were drunk shopping!” crowed Delia. “God, I wish I could get a few customers to buy my stuff when they were doing that.”
“You haven’t got a website,” Sam pointed out. She pulled a top out of her wardrobe. “What about this?”
“Oh, that’s nice,” said Delia. “With wispy things like that you can have a few changes of outfit and still get everything into your Ryanair baggage allowance.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” said Sam. “There’s nothing worse than feeling uncomfortable at a swanky event.”
