All That Mullarkey

by Sue Moorcroft

  A relief, after such a frustrating day, to leave them behind. Queuing at the roundabout for the Soke Parkway she saw she’d be in good time to fetch Shona from Dora.

  Dora and Sean. Sean and Dora; seeming so happy together. Dora was comfortable and content in the ordinary terraced house – in a way she’d never appeared to be in the Posh Pad where Keith now lived alone, except for, according to Gav, a mini harem.

  Gav. She’d been trying not to think about his pushiness and how her flesh had shrunk from the contact with his. How things had changed.

  It made her wonder whether she’d ever actually been in love with Gav – or just what she thought he’d been?

  She shook off her introspection the moment her daughter tumbled into her arms, her face alight with the joy of being able to shout, ‘Mummee’s here!’

  Cleo folded her arms around the light, tight-knit little body. ‘Hello, sweetie!’

  This was love.

  It wasn’t about possession or point scoring or getting your own way. It was about coming alive when your loved one walked into the room.

  Justin was evidently already home. His car stood outside, the kitchen window was spilling light into a garden of bare twigs and mud. A bit like his life at the moment – no colour and nothing nice.

  Cleo carried Shona, the familiar trusting weight snuggled into her side as they stepped into the warmth. Instantly, she was aware of the smell of something good cooking.

  Then Justin hurtled through the sitting-room door. ‘TARRAH! Tan-tan-TARRAH!’

  Shona reacted with a fluid ‘har-har-har’ of toddler chuckles like musical notes, while Cleo gasped. ‘You frightened me to death!’

  But Justin was beaming, Justin was dancing on the spot, eyes sparkling. ‘GOOD NEWS!’ He snatched Shona from Cleo’s arms and tossed her once, twice, high up in the air. ‘BRILLIANT, FABULOUS, FANTASTICO NEWS!’

  Cleo laughed, relief at seeing the lighthouse beam of his smile once more surging through her, but arms hovering as if he might make a mistake and let Shona fall. ‘Tell me.’

  He hoisted Shona up onto his shoulders. ‘The CID returned my Mac today – TOTALLY CLEAN! THOSE BASTARDS DIDN’T GET TO IT.’ And then, in a more normal voice, ‘I’m completely cleared of suspicion. And Neil, wonderful, wonderful Neil, called the whole studio together and explained about me being set up and that if he finds out anyone in the studio is anything to do with this vendetta against me, it’ll mean instant dismissal.’ He began to twirl round, Shona, from her shoulder-carry perch, squeaking in delighted fear, fastening little hands tightly under his chin so it looked as if he was wearing a Shona hat.

  Cleo was struck by such a hot rush of thankfulness and relief that she had to fight her way out of her coat. ‘That’s wonderful,’ she choked. ‘I’m so relieved for you.’ She ventured a brief hug of solidarity.

  And then she was clamped against his chest in a one-armed embrace, his voice muffled against her hair. ‘I’ve been so scared –’

  She patted his back. ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s been absolute hell.’

  ‘But it’s over.’

  He gave her one final squeeze and released her. ‘And now we’re going to celebrate.’ He lifted both of Shona’s hands high in the air. ‘Yeahhhh!’

  Shona instantly echoed him in her squeaky little toy voice. ‘Yeahhhh!’

  It was a lovely evening.

  Justin cooked his speciality, chicken and chips, setting a festive table with wine glasses and kitchen-roll napkins. Even Shona drank her apple juice out of a (very chunky) wine glass – messily – and giggled and gargled and banged her tray every time she ran out of chips.

  Justin abandoned the dishes into the sink and herded Cleo away. ‘I’ll get up early and do them tomorrow.’ Then produced chocolate eclairs filled with fresh cream.

  Shona piped, ‘Oooh, cake!’

  Cleo protested, ‘I’ll never eat one of those.’ But did.

  Justin devoured his in huge, silly mouthfuls, making yumming noises and rolling his eyes until Shona began to do the same and grew a rhino horn of cream on her nose, nearly choking Cleo with laughter.

  Justin played Dire Straits loudly on the stereo and they all danced in a ridiculous, giggling, Men Behaving Badly way, spilling wine all over the orange-and-black carpet when they collided, Shona bouncing and wobbling at their knees.

  Finally, Justin put a wilting Shona to bed and Cleo rushed to get the washing-up done but he came stomping into the kitchen to tell her off, pulling her away from the sink with suds up to her elbows and dancing her round in circles as he composed a song that mainly consisted of ‘Justin’s not a pervert, Justin’s not a per-er-er-vert!’

  And something clanged in Cleo’s head.

  It fell into place so heavily that the kitchen executed an extra spin around her.

  She pushed him away, slapping both hands to her mouth, her hair standing up on her neck with horror.

  ‘What?’ His face was still creased into a great grin, his hair a nest of wild spikes.

  Cleo felt her eyes burn as she gazed at his laughing face, his eyes shining with joyful relief. ‘It can’t be. Can’t be.’ She covered her eyes, pressed the heels of her hands hard against them until she saw stars. ‘It must be. Oh no.’

  She felt his fingers on her wrists, pulling her hands away, the laughter fading. ‘What?’

  This was what misery was, chewing you up and spitting you out, washing the bones from your legs. She crashed down into a kitchen chair. ‘When I saw Gav … He called you a pervert. A man who drools over kids.’

  Justin stared.

  Cleo coughed up sudden tears. ‘I hadn’t told him anything about it.’

  Justin sat down suddenly on the edge of the kitchen table, almost missing. ‘So how did he know?’

  Cleo groaned and pounded her temples with her fists. ‘It must be him.’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Cleo banged the brass doorknocker, hard. Then again, harder. Shona had been overtired to be left with Liza, but Cleo hadn’t been able to put off this confrontation for an instant. Through the panels of patterned glass she watched a wobbly person shape approaching.

  Gav opened the door, shirt collar unbuttoned, tie missing, stocking feet peeping from under his trousers, hair tossed above his eyes. ‘Hello,’ he beamed. ‘This is a great surprise … oh.’

  Justin must’ve stepped into view behind her, judging by the way Gav’s face stilled into aversion. Cleo’s throat felt stretched and strained, and she was sickened with guilt. Without speaking, she brushed past Gav and trailed across his rented-house brown cord carpet, aware of Justin’s following footfalls and Gav blustering, ‘What the hell’s going on? What do you think you’re doing?’

  Cleo followed the sound of the television into a small, square sitting room containing the furniture that had been hers and Gav’s. And waited to face her ex-husband.

  It was difficult. Unthinkable. If she didn’t feel so unbelievably, deeply implicated, she’d find it impossible. She swallowed.

  A pale Gav swam into view. ‘What do you think you’re doing, Cleo? And why have you brought this bastard? I’d –’

  ‘Shut up,’ Cleo snapped. ‘Just shut the fuck up. We know it’s you.’

  Shock washed over Gav’s face and he looked suddenly apprehensive. Cleo looked away. Flipped a glance at Justin. His eyes waited.

  Silence.

  Huddling into her coat, Cleo glanced about the room. Gav’s homecoming routine hadn’t altered. Jacket and tie flung over the back of the sofa, his watch, keys, mobile phone and small change parked in the blue willow-pattern bowl that used to be theirs, on top of the television. She went over. A bowl that, instead of fruit, hosted the miscellany of daily living: a credit card statement, a birthday card waiting to be written, keys. But no second mobile phone. Disappointing. She’d more or less convinced herself that that was where she’d find it.

  She rifled her fingers gently through the bowl. And there it was, at the bottom, taki
ng her by surprise: a tiny white oblong of plastic with a small, gleaming, gold square that she knew was the brain and heart for a mobile phone. A SIM card.

  At least a thousand years older, Cleo extracted it. Held it in the air with distasteful fingertips. ‘Spare SIM card?’

  She forced herself to watch Gav, the panic of expressions jostling across his face, the sweat beading his pallor, the furtive tongue moistening his lips. ‘No law against it, is there?’

  From behind her she heard Justin laugh. ‘That depends what you use it for.’

  Cleo was tired. So extraordinarily, desperately, hopelessly spent, so exhausted that even breathing seemed effortful. She pushed the card slowly into the deep pocket of her coat, closing her fingers round, feeling the corners dig in. She heard her own voice, but as if from a dream. ‘What would happen if we took this SIM card to the police?’

  Gav’s eyes widened.

  She waited. Justin fidgeted. Silence lengthened. Abruptly, Cleo flumpfed down onto one of the chairs, her ears ringing unpleasantly. ‘Oh Gav! Was it all too easy? I suppose you sat here persuading yourself that all your troubles were down to Justin, then swapped the unregistered, prepaid SIM card into your phone. Then what? Ring Justin at two in the morning? Call out the fire brigade to his address? Order him a pizza? These untraceable calls, did they make you feel clever?’

  Despite her angry attempts to stop it, her voice began to shake. Ignominiously, she had to blow her nose before continuing. ‘And you even set fire to his flat. Gav, you bastard. Shona might’ve been inside. You could’ve killed my baby!’

  Gav’s voice was bleak but defensive. ‘The fire wasn’t down to me. It was when the police began asking questions about it … well, that’s what gave me the idea. The bastard deserves a hard time. If you just think what he’s done to me –’

  Justin interrupted, sounding somehow satisfied. ‘That would explain how the campaign appeared to become cleverer. Presumably, the lunatic tenants began it but were put off by the police enquiries, and you took over? What about the guys who set on me in Muggie’s?’

  Cleo interrupted her nose blowing to glare at Gav. ‘Manny?’

  After a moment, Gav nodded.

  Cleo explained drearily to Justin. ‘Ian Mansfield was at school with Gav. He’s a trained bodyguard.’

  Justin nodded slowly. ‘He could really handle himself, that guy.’ He stared meditatively at Gav. ‘You’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to make me miserable. Particularly by involving the CID.’

  Gav smiled, thinly. ‘When you moved in with Cleo I had to get creative so she wouldn’t be hurt. I wrote to the police a couple of times, but nothing seemed to happen. Then I rang Crimestoppers. Efficient service, isn’t it? Aren’t you impressed?’ He took off his glasses. ‘Are you sorry yet that you screwed my wife?’

  Justin took his hands out of his pockets. ‘Not one bit.’

  The air almost crackling with the hostility between the two men, Cleo spoke swiftly to claim Gav’s attention before he flared up. She let her voice emerge as a hiss. ‘You’re going to stop now.’ Her hand tightened over the SIM card. She watched his eyes.

  ‘I suppose so.’ A pause. ‘Are you going to the police?’

  She glared. ‘I should do. But we’ve got the card so I think you know it’s over. Your nasty games and cowardly conniving are useless now we’re in the know.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And just you try anything else – I will go straight to the police.’

  His lip quivered momentarily. ‘I don’t know why you spoiled what we had.’

  ‘I don’t think we ever had anything.’ She mustn’t give him even a microcosm of hope to cling to. ‘My solicitor will write to you.’

  He nodded slowly, miserably.

  ‘Apart from that, I don’t want contact.’

  A final nod.

  She let the silence spin out, before turning to leave.

  Gav sank onto the sofa, let his head tip back, and closed his eyes.

  His heart, which had been thumping against his ribs, began finally to slow. The worst had happened: he’d been found out. He almost felt relieved. Continuing the vendetta was now impossible. He had his dark moments, like anyone, but sustaining a hate campaign had consumed him. He wasn’t a bad bloke. Not really. He’d got carried away. That was all.

  He clenched his eyes and thought about Cleo with that bastard, Justin. Deliberated carefully how they’d been together in his house, their body language towards one another. That Justin had kept his distance, not making even a single gesture towards Cleo when she became angry and upset.

  He opened his eyes.

  It was for all the world as if their affair was over. In fact, the more he considered it, the more convinced he became. Justin hadn’t tried to console Cleo, Cleo hadn’t looked to Justin for comfort. They were no longer lovers! Any fool could see that, if they looked in the right way.

  He went into the kitchen and reached into the fridge for a beer, cracked it open and took a shaky draught.

  If Cleo wasn’t with Justin, he didn’t feel so bad. Gav might not have won but neither had Justin. Tipping his head back, he let the icy, angry fizz of the beer race into his mouth. So he hadn’t really lost.

  There seemed little point hanging around now. He’d ask Dad for a couple of Doncaster papers and look for another job in the friendly north. At the interviews they’d want to know why he’d been shuttling about between jobs. He’d smile ruefully and explain about Mum’s death, Dad’s health, that he felt uneasy about him living alone. They’d appreciate his loyalty. And, he’d add, who wouldn’t want to live in Yorkshire, given the choice? They’d grin and nod at one another.

  He’d tell Dad he’d tried his best with Cleo.

  He was going to miss her.

  Cleo was upstairs. Justin could hear her footfalls. Bathroom, landing, Shona’s room. Her murmurs falling into the soothing cadences of the bedtime story. Shona’s bird-voice replies.

  He turned on the television ready for Frost. If she took much longer, she’d miss the beginning. He tuned out the irritating adverts and considered events.

  That utter shite monster, Gav! Fancy it being him. So much grief. Everything since the fire down to him. Months of fury over unwanted deliveries, nuisance calls, being roughed up. And worst, of course, the police, the kiddie porn thing. Fancy him doing all that. Bastard.

  He jerked suddenly, waking to stare uncomprehendingly at David Jason’s face, exasperated under his trilby, on the screen. Had he been asleep? The video clock suggested that half an hour had mysteriously disappeared from his life.

  Funny Cleo hadn’t come down. But, now that Shona was in a bed rather than a cot, Cleo got so cuddled up and comfy that she occasionally dozed off, too. If he looked in he’d see her fringe sliding across her face, lips slack, arm round their daughter, book fallen across her legs. He trod up the stairs.

  But no, Shona was alone in mouth-open sleep, titchy and adorable in the full-size bed.

  On the landing he hovered outside Cleo’s closed bedroom door, slightly disappointed. They often watched police dramas together, theorising who’d “dunnit” and whether the personal problems of the detective in question were going to have a bearing on the finale. Maybe she needed space, an early night? Funny she hadn’t even shouted down that she wasn’t bothering with Frost.

  He turned away.

  From behind the old-fashioned, panelled door, he heard Cleo blow her nose.

  He turned back, hesitated, then tapped on a panel. ‘Fancy a coffee?’

  Her reply sounded thick. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘You’re missing Frost.’

  ‘Am I? Oh.’ More nose blowing.

  He cocked his head, listening hard. ‘Are you OK? Can I come in?’

  ‘No! I mean, I’m fine – you go watch telly.’ Her voice wavered and caught.

  Oh right, he was bound to. He opened the door.

  On the far side of the bed Cleo was an instant too late in rolling onto her other side to hide the red blotche
s around her eyes.

  He made his voice gentle. ‘You’ve been crying.’

  Shaking her head, she wiped furiously at her face. ‘’Course not.’

  He rested one knee cautiously on the bed. ‘Are you upset about losing contact with Gav?’ He dropped his hands onto the quilt cover strewn with lilac blossoms and crawled a couple of feet towards her.

  She shook her head, snatching three clean tissues from the box beside her and burying her face in them. Her shoulders shook.

  Hmm. Well, he couldn’t just crouch next to her like some guardian ape. He eased full length then scooted until he was spoon-like behind her, an inch away. Tentatively, he patted her shoulder.

  For a moment, she stiffened. Then, abruptly, wriggled round, buried her face against his shoulder and collapsed into big, chest-tucking, headaching sobs. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she choked. ‘I’m so, so sorry. How could I’ve not realised? How could I marry a man like that, a cunning, low bastard? All that trouble, because of me, my fault, all the time, my fault!’

  Somehow his arms got themselves wrapped around her back. ‘It wasn’t.’

  ‘But it was! Because of me! It could’ve driven you round the bend, you could’ve lost your job or gone to prison.’

  He tutted. ‘You’re not responsible for a sad git who copes with rejection in such a shitty, underhand manner. Also, you didn’t sleep with his wife – I did!’

  Her sobs became a strangled laugh and she settled into a thoughtful, sniffy silence. He even had the opportunity for a bit of thought. To slowly assimilate that he was lying on Cleo’s bed with Cleo clutched to his chest. The bedclothes were soft and smelled freshly laundered. Her shoulder blade was firm and warm under one of his hands, the nape of her neck soft and downy beneath the other.

  His hands were developing a yen to travel, to trail across her back, tiptoe up the ladder of her ribcage, to brush across her breast and feel the nipple harden.