by BarnaWilde
The indian shopkeeper reappears suddenly.
"I am finding only this," he says holding a spray can out towards me. At first glance I assume it's an aerosol deodorant, but closer inspection reveals the legend 'Spray Starch, Lemon Scented'.
"That will be five pounds, Sir," he adds, holding the can tantalisingly out of my reach.
I hesitate fractionally before handing over the money. I've been here too long already. Julie will be getting worried. I take the lid off the spray. There is no time for ceremony. I spray a generous dose of the lemon scented mist onto my jacket under each arm. For good measure I also spray the inside of the jacket too, in the general region of the armpits. There, that ought to do it.
"And I am phoning the police while you are waiting," the indian continues. They will be arriving very shortly, Sir. So there is no point in trying to take the money." He looks very pleased with himself, but doesn't hang around to find out what I will do, disappearing back through the curtain into the curried obscurity of the back of the shop.
What I will do is run. Yep. It's back to running again I'm afraid.
As I turn to flee the shop, I am aware of an increasing sensation of heaviness in my arms. They seem to have lost all their strength. I can barely raise my arm to open the door of the shop. By the time I get outside I have lost all movement above the wrist. My arms feel as though they are welded to my sides.
My arms are welded to my sides!
The spray starch must have set solid. I can't lift or bend either arm. I run towards the car like a demented penguin, swinging my shoulders to retain my balance. I try to jump the low wall around the edge of the layby to get to the car, but my balance is all wrong with my arms trussed to my body, and I catch my foot on the top of the wall. I can't even put my arms up to save myself, and I topple like a felled tree into the gutter by the car. I'm completely rigid. Unable to move my upper body.
I hear a car door open, followed by the sight of Julie's feet and ankles appearing below the car on the far side. She runs round to my side of the car.
I lie there, immobile, on my back, looking up seemingly endless legs. I crave those legs. I'd like to run my hands up those legs. But I can't run my hands over my own legs at present, let alone Julies.
"Mr F. Mr F. Are you alright?"
"Fine thanks, Julie. Just checking the exhaust. Thought it sounded a bit noisy as we drove up."
"Mr F. I saw what happened. I saw your leg give way when you tried to jump over that wall."
"Yes, that dicky knee of mine always lets me down at the most awkward times. I don't suppose you could help me up could you?"
"But Mr F. What if you've got a broken bone? I read somewhere that you shouldn't move injured people. I should put you in the recovery position."
"What recovery position?"
"Oh. I don't know Mr F. It just said recovery position. But I do remember that I shouldn't move you."
"But, Julie. I can't lie here all day. We've got a house valuation to do. Duty must come first. I can't let a little personal discomfort stop us. What would Mr Hudson say?"
"Oh, Mr F. You are brave. But you are lying funny. I think your arm might be broken. It looks very peculiar from here."
I become aware that I'm starting to feel very cold. The road is sucking my body heat out of me. If I don't move soon I'll freeze to death. And the police. They'll be here soon. Julie has knelt down beside me. She looks very concerned. She has taken off her coat and made me a pillow. The cold is having an effect on her, too. Her nipples are creating two pronounced blips through her blouse. As she leans over me to push the coat under my head one of them passes within an inch of my lips, but I am locked solid. So near and yet so far.
"Help me up," I croak. "It's freezing down here. Nothing is broken. I just need to get this jacket off."
At last she complies and heaves me up to a sitting position. I am totally unable to help. Now that I am sitting I can just see over the top of the wall beside me. Inside the newsagent's shop I can see the shopkeeper peering out at the spectacle on the pavement. He appears to be conducting a running commentary into the phone in his hand.
We struggle into the car. I sit with my arms jammed to my sides. I can't do anything like this.
"You'll have to take my jacket off," I say to Julie.
"Mr F. You're embarassing me," she says.
"Undo the buttons," I implore.
Gingerly she begins to undo the buttons. Under different circumstances this could have been fun, but I'm sure I can hear a police siren somewhere. "Hurry," I cry.
"It's not very easy," she replies. But by degrees she gets them all undone.
"Now take it off," I say.
"Take what off Mr F?"
"The jacket. The jacket. Quick. I can hear them coming. They'll be here any second. Please get it off."
As soon as my arms are free, I get the engine started and into gear. We surge out of the layby and away.
"Mr F."
"Yes, Julie."
"It's all stiff, Mr F."
"Yes. I know."
She passes the jacket behind her. It's absolutely rigid, and remains standing on the back seat.
"Mr F."
"Yes, Julie."
"It smells of lemons, Mr F."
"Yes, I know."
I had almost forgotten about the smell, but the car is now full of a pot pourri of different scents. Julie's perfume, pine, lemon, a hint of oil and a frisson of exhaust.
As we pass the brow of the hill, a police car rushes by in the opposite direction, blue lights flashing and sirens shrieking.
"They're in a hurry," observes Julie. "Must have been a murder."
"Oh, I expect they are just looking for deodorant thieves," I say. "Been a lot of that recently. One of the fastest growing crimes you know. Been on Crimewatch apparently."
She looks a bit puzzled. She opens her mouth to ask a question, but closes it again without speaking. Such a pretty mouth. One day. One day.
"Mr F."
"Yes, Julie."
"I think I know how you got your wall wound, now. You weren't teasing me at all, were you?"
CHAPTER 14
That smell is still here. Even amongst all the other odours swirling through the car, I catch an occasional whiff. There is no escaping it. Someone around here has a personal problem. I know it isn't Julie, she smells like heaven. It has to be me. Why? Why is it always me? Why am I the one whose stomach rumbles in meetings? Why do I always get hiccups in church? Why am I the one who farts in the lift? And how does everyone else always know it's me?
Why couldn't I have been born suave? Please, couldn't I be suave just for one day? Just once. Just to know how it feels.
I have to do something. I see a flower stall by the roadside as we approach the final roundabout. Maybe flowers will do the trick. It's my last hope.
"Mr Hudson's birthday," I mutter to Julie as I jump out of the car.
She says something in reply, but I don't catch it.
I use the last of my money to buy a dozen red roses, but as I go to put them on the back seat alongside my starched jacket the source of the smell is finally revealed. In the floor well at the back of the car are two track suit tops. Two track suit tops that I stole from the boys in the park when I lost my trousers. When I last visited Carole's house. Carole's house, a shiver runs down my spine at the thought.
Those boys can't have washed for weeks. Filthy little tykes. I've a mind to go and tear them off a strip. Those clothes must have been festering in the car for the last two days. Why didn't I notice before?
I feel a surge of relief that I am not the source of the smell and throw the track suit tops, without ceremony, into the gutter.
Listen. I know it isn't very nice to dump litter in the road, but this story will never get anywhere if we have to go and seek out a litter bin every five minutes.
Look. This is a murder story not a homily on recycling and environmental conservation. I'm a potential murderer, remember?
How often have you read that the murderer washed out his empties and took them to the local bottle bank before pumping five soft nosed slugs into his victim? Or that James Bond neatly bundled the newspapers and tied them with string before dropping them off at the district recycling depot along with the bodies he had stockpiled during the last week?
Look. Just get off my back, and go check your own waste bins, ok!
We arrive at Carole's house without further incident. There are curtains twitching all around. The neighbourhood mafia are watching in force. I see the curtains to Carole's house twitch too, and, sure enough, the front door opens before we are even out of the car.
"Tom. You've brought me more flowers." Carole's voice echoes around the front gardens. She must have been using binoculars to see those roses from the house. By the time I am out of the car she has the back door open and the roses in her hand.
"Why, thankyou Tom," she continues. "You are always so thoughtful." She bobs towards me and before I can take avoiding action she has planted a moist kiss on my cheek. "And who else do we have here? Can this be the dear, deaf, old cleaning lady?"
Julie looks confused. She waits for me to explain.
"Uh. This is Miss Green, my personal assistant. Miss Green, this is Mrs Carroll."
"Just Carole, thankyou Tom. Hello Miss Green, what a quaint outfit. Did you make it yourself? I imagine it was a remnant."
Julie opens her mouth to speak, but Carole has taken my arm and is dragging me up the path to the house. As we go through the door, she mutters "Get rid of her, Tom," in my ear.
Inside the hallway I notice a vase with several bedraggled red roses in it. A relic of my previous visit, I imagine. In the middle of the hall is a large package. A very large package. About the size of a big suitcase. We stand in a triangle around it.
"I've pressed your trousers, Tom," says Carole. I give a barely discernible nod. "And I've polished your shoe. I'm afraid you only left the one."
I'm feeling somewhat warm under the collar. Julie is still looking confused by the situation.
"The lounge I think, Miss Green," I say to Julie.
"Mr F?" she says.
"Measuring," I say. "We'll start in the lounge."
"But Tom," says Carole. "You've already done all that."
"Can't be too careful. Measure twice and cut once my old woodwork teacher used to say to me," I reply.
"Cut what, Mr F?"
"Yes, Tom. What are you planning to cut?"
"Figuratively speaking, I mean't. Not actually planning to cut anything actually. Just an expression actually." Why have I started repeating 'actually' all of a sudden? Not the two milisecond brain slip again. Please, not that.
"What will you use for a measure, Tom?" Carole is smiling at me. It's unnerving. She has something in her hand.
"Always use fresh batteries," says Julie suddenly.
We both look at her somewhat nonplussed.
"Mr Fletcher always uses new batteries in his tape measure," she adds. "You bought some on your way here didn't you Mr F?" She looks pleased with herself for remembering.
"Actually, no," I say.
"But Mr F, we stopped specially. Don't you remember?"
"Yes...... of course I remember, but they were fresh out of batteries, actually. Didn't have any at all in any size actually." I have to stop saying actually. I can't think why I'm doing it. My brain has gone into a sort of loop.
Carole is playing with something in her hand. She seems to be daring me to ask what it is. I won't. I won't play her game.
"Actually..." Damn, I've done it again.
"Actually what, Tom?" asks Carole. She is still smiling at me.
"Did I say actually? Ha. I mean't factually. Yes, that's what I meant. Have to get the facts. Now where did I put my measure?"
"Is this what you're looking for, Tom?" asks Carole. She's holding my sonic tape measure in her hand and she is stroking the case of it in a most suggestive way.
"Oh look, Mr F," says Julie. "She's got one just like yours."
It is mine. It's the one I left behind with my shoe and my trousers and my wallet. My wallet! I must get my wallet back. The poison is in the wallet.
Listen. I hope you've remembered about the poison. I don't want to have to keep spelling it out to you. I am expecting you to be following the plot at least. It's hard enough being me without having to keep remembering to spell things out for you.
"Actually I don't think we shall need to measure today," I say. "It can't have changed much in two days."
"But Mr F. Why would it change at all?"
"Temperature," I say. "Sometimes makes a huge difference. Everything expands by different amounts when it gets warm. Measure a house on a cold day and then measure it again on a hot one, and everything's changed. Changes the whole character of the property sometimes. That's why you don't sell so many houses in the winter, of course. They're all so much smaller in the cold weather. People can't get all their furniture in."
Julie looks a little doubtful, but she takes copious notes.
I start looking around for my wallet. I can't see it. I lift up the phone directory and move the ornaments on the window sill. Carole seems to find this amusing. She watches me for a few moments without speaking.
"Woodworm," I say to Julie. "Always remember to check for woodworm. And damp."
"Woodworm and damp," she repeats as she writes. "What does woodworm look like Mr F?"
"Sawdust," I say. "Just look out for sawdust. They eat it you know."
"Tom. I need you to help me with this package," says Carole suddenly, tapping the top of the huge parcel that we've all been stood around. "It needs to go upstairs."
I look at the parcel. I look at the stairs. I get a bad feeling about this. "And then you can help me put it up," adds Carole.
Put it up? Put what up?
"Actually is that the time?" I say. "We really must be off."
"But Mr F. We've only just got here," says Julie. "And Mr Hudson said we had to help Mrs Carrol in any way we could."
"Yes, Tom. That's what he told me, too," smiles Carole. "He particularly told me to feel free to ask you for anything at all. All part of the service, Tom. That's what he said."
I know I have lost. One man against two women is no match. This man against one woman is no match. I give up any thought of protest and test the weight of the package. It weighs a ton. Figuratively speaking of course. "What on earth is it?" I ask.
"My new water bed, Tom," replies Carole. "You can help me test it."
I wish I hadn't asked. I told you I had a bad feeling.
A pint of water weighs a pound and a quarter. A gallon of water weighs ten pounds. A cubic foot of water holds six and a quarter gallons and weighs sixty two and a half pounds.
Fascinating stuff, water.
Look, if you don't want to know these things, you could always skip on a couple of pages.
Water is at it's most dense at four degrees centigrade.
Listen. This matters to you. If ice was denser than water, then the sea would freeze from the bottom up. None of us would be here at all. Or else we'd all be eskimos. I wonder if eskimos have estate agents?
OK. OK. I just thought you'd be interested.
We heave and strain to get the package up the stairs. Or I do. Julie tries to help, but the sight of her attempting to lift one end of the parcel saps my strength. Each time I look up I see endless legs disappearing into her short, tight skirt. My pulse rate goes up and I go weak at the knees. I decide that I would get on better on my own. Carole stands well clear and just makes encouraging noises.
Eventually we reach the bedroom. I am perspiring freely now. The pine trees inside my socks have gone completely squelchy. I suffer a pang of raw fear as I cross the threshold to the bedroom. It all looks horribly familiar.
"Oh look, Mr F. It's your photo."
Julie is pointing to the mirror at the foot of the bed. Pushed into the frame is the photo from one of my business cards
. Carole must have found it in my wallet. My wallet! What has she done with my wallet?
"No. I don't think so," I reply. "Doesn't look a bit like me."
"Yes it is, Mr F. It is you."
"No. No. Much taller. The man in the picture is much taller. And the beard."
"But he hasn't got a beard, Mr F."
"Exactly."
"But Mr F. You don't have a beard either."
"No, but if I did you'd see that we were two entirely different people."
Carole has been watching and listening with an expression of detached amusement. "Why don't you go and measure something, Miss Green?" she asks suddenly. "I'm sure Mr Fletcher would let you play with his little thingy, wouldn't you Tom?"
I don't like the way that she said that. I feel as though I am being led into a trap. Reluctantly I let Julie take the measure and she disappears like a child with a new toy.
"Can't you get rid of her, Tom?" hisses Carole. But I pretend not to hear.
Together we pull the mattress off the bed and lean it against the wall. With difficulty I heave the parcel onto the bed. Carole insists on helping, but her help consists mainly of running her hand across my behind and reaching through my legs to prod ineffectually at the package. I find myself moving around the bed with my buttocks clenched and my knees pressed together. It isn't easy.
Eventually I get the thing open. Inside it is an object like a giant ballon. A huge rubber bag. As if someone had sucked all the air out of a whale and then folded it up for neatness. There is a rubber teat at one end.
"We'll need a hose," I say. "For filling it."
Carole nods and makes for the door. "Don't go away now. I'll be right back. You look all hot and bothered, Tom. Why don't you slip something off?"
As soon as she has gone, I start looking around for my wallet. It isn't immediately visible, perhaps it's in one of the drawers. I pull open the top drawer of the dressing table. It's full of underwear. Silk and lace. There are dozens of pairs of silk pants. Tiny bikini briefs and loose French knickers. Black tangas and white slips of almost nothing at all. Creams and browns. Lace nonsense and old rose. An image of Exchange and Mart comes into my mind. I'll bet there's a peephole bra here somewhere.
"Well, Tom. Was there anything that took your fancy? I'd be happy to model something for you."
