Wink Murder

by Ali Knight

  This morning should be like any other, fiddling with packed lunches before hustling Josh and Ava off to school. Normally I can take almost anything in my stride but today the children’s bickering shoots right to my irritation vein. There is milk all over the kitchen table and chair, Josh is flicking a sodden magazine so splatters hit the paintwork. My children are spoiled, and guilt steals over me at how I overindulge them, overcompensate for what was lacking in my own childhood. Paul doesn’t mind though, he’s very forgiving.

  I step through the kitchen chaos and pick up Paul’s cricket bat, untouched and ignored by his unsporty son, and return it to its place in the hall. I’m suddenly struck by how close I came to really battering him with it, and he doesn’t even know. Roll on 12.30 and lunch with Jessie. Today I’m drinking wine.

  4

  Jessie’s not my longest-serving friend but she’s the most entertaining. We’ve arranged to meet in Trafalgar Square, I assume because she wants to have a scoot round the National Gallery, but when I start walking up the steps she turns the other way, showing no interest in seeing Impressionist masters or elbowing tourists to get to the postcards in the shop. ‘Let’s have lunch outside, it’ll be fun.’

  ‘Outside?’

  ‘Yeah, let’s get a picnic and eat it by the lions.’

  ‘Are you mad? It’s hardly a nice day.’

  ‘Where’s your sense of adventure? Come on, it’s on me after all.’ She grins cheekily, I’m seeing her for lunch today because she recently had an exhibition and sold a painting and is buying me a meal to celebrate.

  We queue at a noisy sandwich shop and take the death run across lanes of revving traffic, then sit on the edge of one of the fountains. Greaseproof paper flaps in the gusts of wind as we tuck into sandwiches and pour wine into plastic beakers.

  ‘So, how are you?’ I ask, picking tomato out of my bacon triangle. ‘Work going well?’

  She bobs her head from side to side, munching. ‘I’ve been meeting some new potential clients. Maybe something will come of it. I feel I’m on the brink of something exciting.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘Or I’m just listening to bullshit.’

  ‘Well, that’s the lot of the artist, isn’t it?’

  ‘My lot, anyway.’ Jessie has only ever had one love: her art. She worked in bars and nightclubs to put herself through art school, lived in squats so she could buy canvas, still has to work today to afford studio rent and materials. Every spare moment she has she uses to paint. ‘What time is it?’

  I peel back my coat sleeve to find my watch. ‘Nearly one. Why?’

  She doesn’t reply, her eyes roaming around. ‘Oh, there’s someone I know.’ Jessie waves at two young men sitting further round on the fountain. ‘Don’t look now but the one on the left behind you is someone I’m sort of seeing.’ I peer over, taking in a guy who looks about twenty with a goatee. ‘He’s nineteen.’

  ‘You should be arrested!’ I say, faux scandalised. Jessie has dated, left and been dumped by a million men over the years I have known her. I doubt there’d be room for them all in the National Gallery, while my former lovers would struggle to get intimate in my bathroom. Her life has been lived with many different passions, mine with only one.

  The young men wave back. ‘Aren’t they coming over?’

  ‘Maybe in a bit.’

  I shrug, nonplussed. Pigeons swoop and waddle, people huddle. It all looks normal, but something’s not right. ‘Are you OK Jessie?’ She’s looking at her phone messages.

  She smiles. ‘Never better. How’s Paul?’

  Talking about him today doesn’t bring the usual warm glow to my heart. ‘He’s OK. A bit stressed, maybe. His programmes are going well, I guess. Crime Time’s moving up the ratings.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘The audience-participation element has really caught on. Viewers are picking up their mobiles and texting in in their droves.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Jessie says, chewing a mouthful of mozzarella and rocket. ‘Maybe I need to talk to him about how to get my message across. He really knows how to stand out from the crowd. What time is it now?’

  ‘It’s one. Why does it matter?’ She wipes a spot of mayonnaise off the corner of her mouth. The rumble of traffic is suddenly overlain with the strains of loud music. I can’t tell where it’s coming from. ‘What’s that?’

  Jessie stands and brushes crumbs off her jeans. ‘Do you have your iPhone?’ I nod. ‘You may want to get it out.’

  A bass beat booms out across the square and a couple start to dance not far away. It’s impossible not to start moving my shoulders to the catchy tune and now there are four people line-dancing near by. ‘See you in a minute,’ Jessie says and skips off to where sixteen people are now dancing in two lines. Jessie’s boyfriend and his friend have joined in, adding to the expanding quadrant of dancers.

  The pigeons scatter with the moving crowd. I’m disorientated, a swirling group of people make weird yet beautiful shapes in front of me. Passers-by stand uncomprehending, a couple hurry away, a down-and-out stands mesmerised. The dancers come in all shapes and sizes, some must be as young as thirteen, others retired. There are housewives, women in stilettos, a man with a moustache.

  They’ve obviously rehearsed their moves as there are now more than a hundred and fifty people dancing in a similar fashion. Jessie’s brought me to a flashmob, and just like every other viewer I get out my phone and start videoing. A joyful spontaneity fills me; I rock from side to side, the rhythm in the song impossible to resist, the absurdity of this performance under Nelson’s Column impossible to ignore. What the admiral would have made of it all I can’t guess.

  The music’s changed now to a modern, upbeat tempo, the dancers are gyrating more free-form and with more energy. I know someone must be videoing to upload to YouTube minutes after this spectacle has finished. I stand on the low fountain wall and see a man high up on one of the huge lions with a powerful video camera.

  The steps of the gallery, where so much art that once was innovative now hangs behind glass screens, are crowded with onlookers.

  Jessie’s waving her arms, singing loudly. The music is building to a crescendo, the spectators grin at each other, someone cheers. With a final flourish the dancers perform their most difficult move and half of them jump into the arms of a neighbour, arms aloft.

  Just as quickly as it started, the music stops and the dancers melt away as if nothing had ever happened. Two policemen, their faces teetering between bemusement and caution, stand marooned in the middle of the now-empty concourse. The crowd on the steps of the gallery clap and cheer.

  Jessie collapses into my arms in a peal of giggles. ‘I couldn’t tell you, the look on your face was just priceless!’

  ‘That was great! How on earth did you get involved in that?’

  ‘We organised it through Facebook, had one rehearsal in a warehouse in Clapton and then we just did it. God, I’m so pumped!’

  ‘Look.’ The policemen are trying to talk the man with the video off the lion. ‘You’ll probably be on the news this evening.’

  ‘The closest I’ll ever come to fame.’

  ‘Oh, I have high hopes for you, Jessie.’

  ‘Let’s go and get another drink.’ She links her arm through mine.

  ‘Can I meet the new man?’ I cast around, looking for him.

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t really matter.’ She pulls me away. ‘Thing is, I really like this married man I’m seeing. I think it’s all spiralling a bit out of control.’ She looks at me carefully. ‘If you disapproved you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘How can I? Remember Paul was married when—’

  Jessie makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. ‘He was far too young, it doesn’t count.’

  ‘Yes it does, he took those vows with someone else, remember.’

  ‘Till death us do part,’ she says as we begin to walk up Charing Cross Road. ‘It’s a good title for a painting.’ Her eyes take her
somewhere else for a second or two. ‘Crowds of people are so powerful, aren’t they?’

  ‘Very true. Organise them and they’ll do the most amazing things.’

  ‘When you’re part of it you’ll say or believe anything.’

  ‘That’s the first lesson of history, isn’t it? Groups of people are easy to manipulate.’

  ‘My heart’s still racing!’ Jessie’s hand is on her chest, her eyes shining.

  ‘Who is this married man?’

  ‘Sshh.’ She puts her fingers to her lips. ‘I don’t want to hex it. After all, the sex is amazing, I think I’d die for it!’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ I am surprised. Jessie doesn’t usually talk like this, talk seriously about her love life. ‘Wow. Lucky you.’ Our conversation shrivels. She says nothing and I unexpectedly feel a shard of jealousy pierce me.

  ‘What would you die for?’

  ‘Oh.’ I shrug. ‘Paul and my kids, I suppose.’

  ‘What would you kill for?’

  ‘Jessie!’

  ‘Come on!’ She leans into my arm.

  ‘My family. Only my family.’

  She wrinkles her nose. ‘How predictable and sentimental.’ She’s still on a high from her public dancing and spreads her arms wide and spins on the pavement. ‘I’d kill for an exhibition in New York, the cover of Art Monthly, some new boots . . . are you OK?’

  Jessie is staring at me as I’ve stopped dead in the street. As she was prattling on a thought struck me: what would Paul kill for? I had assumed his answer would mirror mine: his family. We used to pride ourselves on having no secrets – until last night. I simply don’t believe he could get that upset about a dog. But if the blood wasn’t an animal’s then whose was it? For a second I think of telling Jessie what happened, but I dismiss it a moment later. I doubt I will ever tell anyone what happened last night. It will remain mine and Paul’s secret, till death us do part, and beyond.

  5

  Paul phones later that afternoon to say I don’t need to cook as he’s ordering a curry for everyone and he’ll pick it up on the way home. I suspect his hangover taste buds are doing the talking and now the rest of us have to fall into line. Curry is not my favourite meal. I lay out plates and half-heartedly try to get Josh to help but his only contribution is to scratch his armpit and yawn.

  Ava jumps into her daddy’s arms when he comes through the door, causing him to nearly upend the curry bag on the floor. ‘Whoa, monkey!’ he shouts, scooping her up with one arm and play-acting the desperation of trying to stop falling. Ava squeals as he weaves and bounces off the walls into the kitchen, curry in one hand, child in the other. ‘And into the chair she goes . . . and food is on the table! Phew!’ He wheels round and gathers me up in a tight and loving embrace. ‘It’s good to be home.’ I squirm away, images from yesterday still too fresh in my mind for me to play happy families. Paul spoons out chicken and spinach and chick peas on to a plate for me. ‘Rice, babes?’ he asks me over Ava’s screams as she spills apple juice.

  ‘Mum! She’s soaked me!’ Josh throws his poppadom to the table and shoves his sister as I make placatory noises. Ava takes the gulp of air needed for a big howl, but Paul whizzes round the table and picks her up, transplanting her back on his knee, and tries to eat with a child’s head blocking his way. ‘It’s all soggy!’ Josh’s fork clatters to the floor.

  Paul raises his glass of water to mine. ‘Welcome to dinner at the Formans’,’ he says, smiling at me.

  ‘Mummy, are you twenty-seven?’ Ava asks, crunching on a breadstick.

  ‘No, darling, I’m much older than that.’

  ‘Are you twenty-one?’

  I look at her indulgently. ‘No, I’m thirty-seven.’

  ‘That is soo old, Mum,’ Josh says, head resting in one hand as he shovels rice into his mouth with his fingers. I try to catch Paul’s eye but he’s staring at the table.

  ‘I saw Jessie today. She took me to a flashmob in Trafalgar Square.’

  Now he’s interested. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, she was in it. It was amazing. I’ve got some of it on my phone.’

  ‘TV is chasing mobile and the internet now.’ He shakes his head. ‘If I’m not careful I’m going to become obsolete.’

  ‘She’s having another you-know.’ I look at him meaningfully. He can decipher child-proof English.

  ‘So who’s this one?’

  ‘He’s married.’

  He groans. ‘Poor bastard.’

  ‘Paul! That’s uncalled for. Anyway, it’s his wife you should feel for. She has to suffer her husband’s midlife crisis.’ His answer is to drop his nose to Ava’s head and breathe deeply. I stand with the curry bag over the opening of the bin and watch him. ‘Are you OK?’

  He comes back to us from far away. ‘Yes, yes . . .’

  ‘What happened last night, Paul?’

  He avoids my gaze. ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘Why were you back so late?’ I’m all reasonable inquiry, sweeping leftover rice into my palm.

  ‘I was just out with some people from work.’

  ‘Which people?’

  He looks at me. ‘You’re quizzing me.’

  ‘I want to help. I’m here to help you, Paul.’ My voice is soft. I want him to know that we are a team, his problem is my problem and we can work through it together. He picks Ava up and pops her on a neighbouring chair so that he can stand and put cutlery in the dishwasher.

  ‘I don’t need your help, everything is OK.’ He is pacing round the kitchen distractedly, picking up things and looking under them, he’s moved his work bag twice. Our conversation is abandoned as I hear him opening the cupboard under the stairs and rummaging.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He comes back into the kitchen.

  ‘So who were you out with till the early hours?’

  ‘Lex and I ended up in a bar in town.’

  I nod carefully. No surprises there. Lex is Paul’s business partner, who loves nothing more than to drink, party and behave like a teenager. Our most common interactions go along the lines of:

  Me: Just grow up.

  Lex: Come on! Where’s the harm?

  Paul: (Silent eye roll.)

  Lex and I are not the best of friends. If this has ever caused Paul trouble over the years they’ve been in business then he’s hidden it very well.

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘I didn’t know Lex could make you so upset.’ This is clearly the wrong thing to say as he shoots me a look that drains the brightness from my face. ‘Where did you knock over the dog?’

  ‘Run over, you mean.’ He shudders and shakes his head. ‘Near that car park by the bridge.’ He takes a long glance at his shoes. ‘I don’t want to talk about this any more, Kate. The whole thing’s unsettled me.’

  ‘Unsettled you!’

  ‘Stop grilling me!’

  Sadness wraps around me as he retreats into the front room and turns on the telly. He has cut me out. Josh burps and Ava starts giggling, opening her mouth so that half-chewed chocolate raisins plop on to the table. I tell her off far more sharply than she was expecting and she starts to cry, which makes me feel guilty, which makes me feel angry with myself, which makes me livid with Paul for putting me in a bad mood and making me shout. Motherhood: a never-ending turntable of frustration and guilt.

  A few hours later I’m lying very still in bed feeling Paul’s body settle into the mattress. I cannot get what happened yesterday out of my mind. His desolation and panic churns in me like a bad restaurant meal in my stomach. None of my explanations are palatable. Could Paul get that upset about a dog? I don’t believe it, but I may have to – the alternatives are far more horrifying. The spectre of another woman, another passion throwing him off-kilter, sits leadenly with me in the dark. We have been married eight years. Have I missed something? I always thought that if Paul was ever unfaithful I would know, I would spot the signs.
I am a watcher. My dad left Mum when I was ten. Lynda and I heard the screaming and shouting from downstairs, the banging door. He never said goodbye. I have seen my dad about four times since that night; I didn’t invite him to my wedding and he has never met my children. Josh will be ten next year. The thought of Paul abandoning him at the age I was abandoned is unthinkable, just unimaginable. Mum used to say that it was a bolt from the blue, that she had no idea Dad was carrying on with his secretary. I have made sure in my relationships to never be my mother, outflanked and unaware. Mum’s with Dale now, a dull drinker who’s ‘company’. Lynda has never married or had children, but unlike Jessie I don’t think she’s happy about it. She was fifteen when Dad left and she has trouble trusting men.

  I hate my dad. You see, even someone as lucky as me has their crosses to bear.

  I spoon Paul as he slumbers on, curl my foot around his hairy shin and place my cheek in the groove between his shoulder blades. We fit together, we are man and wife.

  Everyone likes Paul. He is handsome and kind, but – and I think this is the cherry on the cake – he’s not bland. He can remember a funny joke, win the fathers’ sprint at Josh’s sports day, offer good advice for Jessie’s broken heart. But sometimes people tell me ‘Ooh, he’s a one, that Paul’ and I think: good. He never ceases to surprise me; he’s never boring, and boredom is the death of all marriages. He’s also successful. Two years ago Forwood TV – the name is a combination of Paul’s and Lex’s surnames (Lex being a Wood) – was bought by CPTV, the household name, FTSE 100 quoted media company. We joked that we’d get to go to soirées at Downing Street and probably meet Elton John, but that hasn’t happened. My children will still have to fight for attention and favours and opportunities, just not quite to the extent that Lynda and I had to. The aura of ‘special’ is still a long way off.