by M. J. Hyland
He stands up from the bed, takes two steps forward.
He’s standing too close.
‘I like you,’ he says again.
‘That’s good,’ I say.
I move away.
‘I didn’t much like you at first,’ he says, ‘but now I think I’m getting the hang of Mr Oxtoby.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ I say.
‘Let’s have a nightcap,’ he says. ‘I’ve still got a bit left in that whisky bottle. I’ll go and get it.’
He goes to the door, but turns round.
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he says. ‘I’ll be right back.’
‘I think we should call it a night,’ I say.
He comes back, sits down on the bed again.
‘So soon?’ he says. ‘Why not just one quick nightcap? I’m in a jolly fine mood tonight. How about a game of poker? I could go all the way. I could go till sunrise.’
‘I’ve got to be up early for work,’ I say, ‘and I’ve got some things that need taking care of.’
He gets up off the bed and comes to me, stands close and leans his left hand against the sink and I’m leaning with my right hand and I expect the sink and cupboard to slide right through the wall, the whole room to crash down around us.
‘Are you sure?'
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘You want me to go.’
‘Yeah. I think so.’
‘You think so?’ He laughs. ‘Well, that might be a bit ambiguous.’
‘It’s not. I want to go to sleep.’
He smiles. ‘Okay, then. Goodnight, Patrick.’
‘Okay. Goodnight.’
He goes to the door, but doesn’t open it. He turns round, faces me.
‘Are you sure you want me to go?'
‘Yeah.’
He looks at the bed. ‘You want to sleep?'
‘Yeah.’
‘Goodnight, then.’
‘Goodnight.’
He leaves.
I lock the door and get under the bed-covers.
11
I wake at 6 a.m. and go to the bathroom for a wash then put on a clean shirt and trousers and stuff my overalls in my duffel bag. I write a note for Bridget to tell her I won’t be stopping for breakfast and put the note under the kitchen door.
I don’t want to talk to Welkin and I’ve got to see Georgia.
Although I’ve walked the long way into town, by the sea, I get to the café at half-seven and have time to stop a few doors down to look at myself in the window of the pawn shop. I don’t look too bad. I straighten my hair a bit and tuck my shirt in.
I’m the first customer and Georgia hasn’t yet turned on the lights, not even put her apron on.
She looks lovely. Her face is clean, no make-up, and she’s wearing a pretty summer frock, pink with yellow flowers.
‘You’re early,’ she says.
‘I like walking by the sea in the early morning.’
‘Me too. Sometimes when I can’t sleep I get up and just go for a walk along the promenade.’
‘Isn’t that a bit dangerous?'
‘Because I’m a woman? No. Not here. I feel completely safe here.’
‘That’s good.’
She smiles and I sit in a booth facing the door.
‘You’ve always got to face the door,’ she says.
laugh. ‘Yeah. That’s right.’
‘My dad said there’s a certain personality who has to do that.’
Her lips are big and red. She doesn’t need make-up.
‘Yeah?'
‘Either a nervous person,’ she says, ‘or a domineering one that has to be in control all the time.’
‘Neither of them sounds too good.’
She smiles. I wish she’d sit with me a minute.
‘Breakfast will be about twenty minutes. Okay?’
‘I’m happy with that. I’ll read the paper.’
She goes to the door to get the papers that’ve been left out on the street.
I stand. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ll get them.’
She goes to the kitchen and I watch her walk and imagine we’re lovers, that we’ve spent the night under covers together, that we’ve just woken and she’s to cook my breakfast before I go to work. I imagine that I own my own garage and in a few weeks we’re going on holiday to Spain and we’re going to stay in a five-star hotel where we can have room service in the middle of the night and drink champagne in a big hot bath.
Once she’s in the kitchen, and busy with the frying, I find a knife in a drawer near the till and get the bundle of newspapers from the street and cut them out of the plastic wrapping.
The headline says there’s been a triple murder around the corner from my mother’s house.
A man’s killed his wife and two small kids and poured drain unblocker down their throats.
I can’t get my head round what order he would have done it in. Did he knife them, then pour the drain unblocker down, or the other way round? And did he have to kill the mother first, or was it the mother having to watch him kill the kids first?
I can’t turn the pages to get to the sports section, can’t quit reading the story of the murder. I’ve read it a half-dozen times when Georgia comes back with my sausages and eggs.
‘Here you are,’ she says. ‘The usual.’
I hold up the paper’s headline for her to see.
CHILDREN TORTURED IN BRUTAL TRIPLE MURDER
‘This happened round the corner from my childhood home.’
I’ve not meant to say childhood home, makes it sound like I’m a bit sentimental about it.
‘Really?'
‘Just around the corner from the house where I grew up.’
She sits down next to me in the booth and we both face the door.
She reads the article.
‘This happened near your family home?'
‘Right round the corner.’
‘Do you think you might know the people?'
I shouldn’t have shown her the paper. I want to talk about our drive and picnic. I’ve gone and botched it good and proper. ‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘There are no names.’
‘But the description? Do you think you might know them?’
‘My brother Russell might, or my mum.’
She reads the article again.
‘It’s a terrible thing,’ I say. ‘Why would he stick drain unblocker down their throats?'
‘You should call your mum,’ she says. ‘You can use the phone out the back.’
I don’t see the point. I can’t change anything that’s happened. I can’t do any good.
‘All right,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
Georgia leads me out the back to a utility room that’s full of mops and buckets, a stepladder, a small table, a locker, and a school desk piled with papers.
‘Do I need a coin for this?'
I point to the old-fashioned black pay-phone on the wall.
‘No, just dial.’
Georgia leaves.
I call and there’s no answer. The sound of the ringing gets my heart racing.
I’m ready to hang up, but my father answers. He’s always got to let the phone ring at least four times before he’ll pick it up. Just like how he refuses to be a passenger in a car, always has to drive.
‘Hello? Jim Oxtoby speaking.’
‘Hello, Dad. It’s me.’
‘Hello.’
I turn to face the wall.
‘How is everybody?'
‘We’re fine, son. How are you getting on?’
‘I’m fine.’
He says nothing more. He’s bad on the phone, always has been, but he’s not even asked me about my new digs, my job, the cars I’ve worked on.
‘So everything’s okay, then?’ I say.
‘Grand. Everything’s grand.’
‘Can you put Mum on?’ I say.
He doesn’t bother to say goodbye, just puts the phone down. He’s come back.
‘She’s not here.’
&
nbsp; ‘Right.’
‘By all accounts you weren’t exactly hospitable to her.’
My throat’s got thick and I’m short of breath, but I’ve got to talk about what I said we’d talk about. Georgia might be listening.
‘Isn’t that murder round the corner a dreadful thing?’ I say.
‘What’s that murder got to do with the price of fish and chips?’
‘Is Mum all right over it?’
‘You mean the murder?'
‘Yeah. Who were they? The woman and kids killed?'
He takes a big deep breath, and I know he does it to stop his temper flaring, same as I do.
He speaks slowly. ‘It were a young couple just moved up from Essex.’
‘So nobody knows them?'
‘I’m sure somebody does. But not us.’
‘When will Mum be back?'
‘I don’t know, son. If I knew that, I’d have told you.’ It’s like he hates my guts and I’ve got the pain in my shoulders and my neck as bad as I’ve ever had it. ‘Right,’ I say.
I want to talk to my mum. I want to tell her I’m sorry.
‘I need to hang up now,’ he says. ‘I’ve got to see a man about a dog.’
He hangs up, might as well have kicked me in the head.
‘Bye then, Dad.’
I put the phone down. Georgia’s come back and she stands in the doorway.
She comes to me, puts her hand on my arm.
‘Patrick, you’re sweating.’
She points to the front of my T-shirt.
‘Oh.’
‘Is everybody okay?'
‘Yeah. The dead people were strangers. They’d just moved from Essex.’
‘Do you want to sit down?'
We go back out to the café, to where we were sitting before. She gets me a glass of water and I drink it down fast.
‘Do you want another?'
‘No.’
She sits next to me.
There are no customers.
‘I’ll reheat your food in a minute,’ she says.
‘I’m not hungry.’
I turn round to face her.
‘Thanks for letting me use the phone.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she says.
We’re silent for a moment, both watch the door.
‘I was wondering about that drive,’ I say.
‘Oh?'
‘Do you still want to go?'
She moves the menu across the table.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘But I’ll have to ask Michelle.’
‘Good,’ I say. ‘I was hoping you’d say yes.’
I reach for her hand and hold it.
She takes her hand away, puts it in her apron pocket.
I’ve moved too quickly.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
She seems too calm, as though nothing’s gone on, keeps looking straight at me.
I turn the menu round.
‘You’re about twenty,’ she says.
‘Twenty-four.’ I add an extra year.
‘I’m almost ten years older.’
‘So?'
‘I think it’s better not to start anything.’
‘Why?'
‘Patrick, I’m too old for you.’
The way she says my name, it’s like she’s talking to a stranger, a different Patrick. When I found Sarah’s letter under my bedroom door it was the same. ‘Dear Patrick, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to end it…’ I thought the letter must have been meant for a different Patrick.
I stare ahead.
‘I just don’t want to start anything,’ she says.
‘I should go.’
‘You can stay,’ she says. ‘You can stay if you want.’
As soon as she’s said I can stay, she gets up from the booth as though to tell me to leave.
‘I think I’ll go,’ I say.
We’re standing close.
‘I like you,’ I say. ‘That’s all.’
‘And I like you.’
‘Then why not?'
A customer’s come in. A woman and her small kid, hard to say whether the kid’s a boy or a girl.
I get my toolkit and head for the door.
Georgia calls after me.
‘Wait!'
I turn round.
‘Come back tomorrow. Come early again. We can talk.’
‘Okay,’ I say.
‘Good.’
I go out the door, then come back. She’s still standing by the booth.
‘What about tomorrow night? What about we meet for a drink?’ She’s flushed in the face and neck. ‘What about lunch?’ she says.
I smile. It’s Friday tomorrow. I can work in the morning and leave at lunchtime.
‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘That’s really good.’
‘All right,’ she says. ‘I’ll see you at midday?'
After all that, I’ve got a date with Georgia tomorrow and only one day to wait. I’ve got so light on my feet, it’s like I’m flying.
Hayes is bent over, searching through the big black bin in the corner of his office.
‘Sleep in?’ he says.
‘Sorry.’
‘No matter.’
‘I’m usually an early bird,’ I say.
‘Why don’t you make yourself a cuppa?’ he says. ‘You look dead on your feet.’
‘I’d rather get on with work,’ I say.
‘There’s some work to be done on a Morris Mini and there’s a Mercedes SL that’s just come in.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
It’s my lucky day and, if all goes to plan, I’ll be taking Georgia out for a picnic in a Mercedes SL convertible.
I get started. The Morris is an easy job, some water in the distributor and with the Mercedes, a really beautiful car the owner’s kept in great nick, the battery’s not charging, so it’s probably something like the regulator.
I get it all done in two hours. All I’ve got to do is tell a small lie about the Mercedes needing a bit more work and I can take it out tomorrow.
I go to the tea room and wash my hands with the cake of dirty yellow soap. I look in the small mirror above the sink and imagine it’s Georgia looking at me. She doesn’t think I look dead on my feet. She thinks I look all right.
I go out to the garage.
There’s somebody working under a car.
I go back into Hayes’ office.
‘Who’s that?’ I say. ‘Is that Ben?'
‘Yeah.’
‘So he’s started?'
There isn’t enough work for three men. I could do it all alone. We don’t need an apprentice.
‘Yeah. You can say hello and all that when we have our tea-break.’
‘Right.’
I get to work and finish everything that needs doing and I think I’ve proven the point that we don’t need another man. When Ben comes back tomorrow, he’ll see he’s not needed.
Hayes comes to get me and the three of us sit in the tea room.
‘This is Ben,’ says Hayes.
Ben’s the pimply lad who was with Mark, the lad I beat at pool down at the station pub.
‘We’ve already met,’ says Ben. ‘This guy beat the pants off Mark playing pool the other night.’
‘So, you’re a shark on the pool table?’ says Hayes.
‘I’m better at snooker.’
‘We should all have a game some time,’ says Hayes.
‘Can you teach me to play snooker?’ says Ben.
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘There’s a place in St Anne’s,’ he says. ‘We could go there during lunch one day.’
‘The three of us,’ says Hayes. ‘I fancy some snooker. Haven’t played in years.’
We drink our tea and chat about snooker. They ask me about the rules and such, and I answer all their questions and they’re pretty impressed.
‘Well,’ says Hayes. ‘Why don’t we all call it a day?’
‘I’m happy to keep
on with the work,’ I say.
‘No need.’
I get my toolkit from the garage floor and leave. But I don’t go home right away.
I go to the corner and stand outside the post office and wait for Ben to leave.
But Ben doesn’t leave. He stays back there with his uncle.
I walk home by the sea and the sky’s full of low, dark clouds and the air’s got a kick of that stormy chemical smell and I breathe it in gulps and walk with my hands spread out like a tightrope walker, my eyes shut. I want to get a good mood going so, when I get to the house, I’ll have calmer nerves. I’ve got to be ready for the chat with Welkin.
I go straight up the stairs, but stop on the first-floor landing. Welkin’s standing outside his room with a girl. Maybe it wasn’t Georgia he was describing the other day.
‘Welcome to the red zone,’ he says.
She laughs. ‘You’re crazy.’
Welkin sees me.
‘Hello, Par-trick,’ he says.
‘All right?’ I say.
‘Yes, I’m fine. And this is Isabelle. She’s even finer.’ Isabelle slaps Welkin on the arm. ‘Hello,’ I say.
She steps forward to shake my hand.
‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ she says, her voice even posher than Welkin’s.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I say.
‘Where?’ says Welkin.
‘To my room.’
I put my toolkit under the bed and sit a minute with the pillow behind my head and close my eyes.
Welkin goes into his room with the girl and it’s not long before they get started. I’ll not stay in here and listen to the sound of them rutting.
I turn to check the time and see that my alarm clock’s gone. I’m sure it was on my bedhead this morning, but it’s not there now. I search under the bed, beside the bed, under a pile of clothes, in the cupboard. I search everywhere, but it’s gone.
I go downstairs and knock on the kitchen door.
‘Come in,’ says Bridget.
She’s cutting a loaf of bread at the big wooden table. ‘Something’s gone missing from my room.’
‘What’s missing?’
‘My alarm clock.’
She laughs. ‘Oh, that silly monkey.’
She stops cutting the bread.
‘Ian said your alarm was making a terrible racket this morning and waking the whole house.’
‘So you gave him the key?'
‘He was worried about you.’
‘You shouldn’t have let him in my room.’
‘I’m sorry, Patrick.’
