by DH Smith
Tomorrow night, well not tomorrow anymore, tonight, she and Nancy had to complete the spell by burying the box by moonlight. She’d seen the moon tonight, on the way to a full moon. So tomorrow at midnight. Completion. She just hoped he’d be drunk or out with the cab or anywhere but here.
Please work, she prayed.
Chapter 18
Rainy morning. You always got extra work on rainy days. Everyone wanted a cab. But this morning, he had other things to do. Besides, he’d worked practically all of the last seven days, so he deserved it. The car needed a clean out, so might as well be today. He’d get Bessie on it when he got back.
The wipers swished the screen, clarifying it for an instant before it began to blotch over again. That didn’t make it easy following someone. Especially with rush hour traffic. Stratford High Street was murder at the best of times. But he mustn’t get too close or she’d spot him. Or too far away as he’d lose her. He should’ve got a black car, this orange was too easy to pick out. But when you buy second hand, colour is not top of the list.
Quite a few jars he and Bert had downed last night. Couldn’t face breakfast, the usual sausages, beans and egg. Told Bessie to bin it. Good to talk to his mucker, someone civilised, who knew what was what. And he needed the beers after that fight with that black bastard. His tooth was still hanging by a string of flesh and his eye was black. But the matter was in hand. Bert and he would do for him and his missus.
Maggie was on the right hand side, into the slip for Carpenters Road, maybe heading for Hackney Marshes, that way anyway. He got into the lane, stopped at the traffic lights as she was. And waited. She wasn’t going anywhere for the moment.
He’d given Bessie another smack this morning for not supporting him at the meeting. The two others had kept quiet, mind you. Nancy, well he could expect no more of her and her half dead moggie. He had plans for that too. But Anne, she’d never said anything. Full, fleshy bit of work, conveniently downstairs. He’d never seen her with anyone, so maybe he should visit and see if he could change her attitude.
The lights changed and he was just able to get round before they were against him. Less congested here. Lots of old factories cleared out for the Olympic Games. There was the Olympic Stadium and that Paki’s twisted, scrap metal whatjercallit. He was crossing and recrossing the river Lea, never quite sure which bit was which. In a few minutes, he was into what he called the arty farty sector of Hackney Wick. He’d clear ‘em all out. Wastrels most of ‘em. Living off benefits. Best keep fairly close, with all the mess of roads this side of Victoria Park, easy to lose someone.
His thoughts returned to Anne. Bessie was boring, passive, had to be threatened to do anything. And she wasn’t much anyway. Just there. A fill in, while he waited for someone like her downstairs. There, any day of the week and twice on Sundays.
Why wait?
He knew this area. Homerton, heading north from Victoria Park. Traffic lights coming up, better keep close watch. She was on the green and turning into Homerton High Street, by the old Hackney Hospital. This could be tricky; he’d have to beat the lights. Or she’d get away.
He zipped round with the lights barely on yellow, going red as he came past. But he was there amid the hooting. Cab driving had taught him aggressive driving. Still, that was chancy. But he could see her, a little way up, in clear view. Concentrate, mate, lay off the fantasies with her downstairs, or he’d lose Maggie in a quick turn off.
Bert’s place in Epping. Perfect. So out of the way, you could scream and not even the deer would look up. Concentrate. She was turning.
Down a side road. Someone else just ahead was turning too, a builder’s van. Jack of All Trades – he’s the guy working on the house. What’s he doing up here?
As Frank turned, he saw Maggie’s car a little way down the road turning off into a school driveway. The builder’s van ahead of him pulled up at the side of the road, and Frank drove past. Marshland Primary School, he noted the sign. Then, perhaps 50 yards further on, he pulled up himself. He was curious about the builder. Could he also be watching Maggie? If so, he’d better find out why or they’d be treading on each other’s toes.
Frank pulled up and got out of the car. Lots of kids and parents on the pavement, both sides of the road. And all the cars from the school run. He’d been lucky to get a spot. The rain was teeming down, wetting his neck and remnant of hair, running down his face. He was about to dive back in the vehicle when he saw the builder get out of his van. He was with a schoolgirl who had an umbrella up. He was holding her hand as he crossed the road with her, saw her to the school gate and waved her in.
A proud dad. There we go. Coincidence. Leave now, best not to be seen by the builder as he’d find it difficult to say why he was here. Dropping off a fare, he’d have to say, something like that. Coincidence only stretched so far.
He climbed back in the car and was quickly away. Next on the list: mincemeat and tacks. He had plans for a cat.
Chapter 19
Jack spent half an hour in a café on Woodgrange Road, just down from Forest Gate Station. Very local, he was a regular. This morning he had his usual, a bacon sandwich and large mug of tea, hoping the rain would stop. The windows were steamed up, and he could barely see outside although he had a window seat, but knew it was still raining from the state of those coming in. The café was quite full, mostly workmen, watching the weather like himself, eating greasy food and reading tabloids or chatting noisily about last night’s game. He finished his Mirror, drained the last of his tea. Maybe he did need a better paper; something with more meat. He worked on his own, so who cared what he read?
Except the Guardian was Alison’s paper. Forget that then. And no way the Times or the Telegraph. Papers for toffs. Could try the Independent. Except you get used to a paper – and giving up the Mirror would be like abandoning an old friend.
The rain wasn’t going to stop. And so with reluctance, he went back out into the flurry, and drove to the house, along Woodgrange, across the Romford Road to Upton Lane. The traffic was slow, rain always did this, stop, start. Then round the bend and past the sad old Spotted Dog. That used to be such a good pub. Even giving up drinking, he could regret its dilapidated state. Tiles were coming off the roof, the white weatherboard siding shifting in places. Before you knew it, there’d be wet rot and dry rot, and another bit of history lost to ruin.
He turned into Ham Park Road, and, once he’d parked, staying in the van, put on his overalls. Kitted up, he got out and took his sledgehammer from the back. The full skip had been taken away. Good. They were a reliable firm, but you could never be sure. And an empty one had been left, except someone had already put a mattress in it. He thought of chucking it out, but never liked it when people dumped stuff on the streets, so wouldn’t do it himself. He hoped there’d be enough room for the remnant of the wall.
He went in by the garden gate, noting the wheelbarrow that he’d left by the wall upside down. He’d hardly taken half a dozen steps in when Bessie ran out from the shed at the back of the garden.
‘I’ve moved the plants already for the next bit,’ she said eagerly.
Her hair was soaked, the lengths straggly down her face. Her dress clung to her.
‘Bessie,’ he said sternly, ‘you don’t have to be out in this weather.’
‘I’ve got to look after my plants,’ she said defensively.
‘Well, now you’re ahead, get in the shed for half an hour. Or go upstairs in the dry.’
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she said brightly.
He didn’t, except it’d get her out of the rain. But would that mean he’d have to keep drinking tea until the rain stopped?
‘I don’t want you catching pneumonia,’ he said.
‘I won’t.’
He shook his head at her petulance. What to do? He didn’t want to shout at her. Then he had a thought. He had hardly any food in the house.
‘Will you run an errand for me?’
‘Yeh, course,’ she
said eagerly.
He took her to the van. And in the dry made up a grocery list. He handed it over with a twenty pound note.
‘Now go and get a coat and a shopping bag.’
She skipped off. He was glad to be free of her for a while, and went back to work. There was nothing for it but to get a soaking. No one was paying him wet time. He’d have to grin and bear it. Putting on his goggles and gloves, he set to at hammering the wall, the rain coming down steadily.
Having carted away two barrowfuls, he was returning through the garden gate when he saw a portly, middle-aged man in the garden. Whatever was he up to on the lawn, walking about, eyes down, and dropping things? Jack stopped, put down the barrow and watched. There was a furtiveness about him. Having dropped a few of whatever it was, he took more out of his jacket pocket and dropped some more every few yards.
Distinctly odd.
Jack picked up the barrow handles and began whistling to alert the man, as if he hadn’t seen anything. Then wheeled in to the bit of wall where he was working.
The man, alerted, came over. He was attempting to smile through bad teeth. He had quite a black eye.
‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I’m Frank. Bessie’s dad.’
He put out his hand. Jack took a glove off and shook it.
‘Jack,’ he said. ‘Doing some building work for you all.’
Frank looked at the wall thoughtfully, as if he knew about these things. ‘Doing well there. Had to go, leaning like the Tower of Pisa.’
‘I was hoping to finish the demolition today,’ said Jack, ‘and put the fence in tomorrow, but this rain…’
‘Seems to be easing off,’ said Frank looking up at the sky.
Jack didn’t think it was, but you never could tell. Then he remembered.
‘Didn’t I see you up Marshland school?’
Frank shook his head forcefully, ‘No, wasn’t me. Never heard of the place.’
It was you, thought Jack, I’ve seen your orange Aurora out front. But why push it?
‘You haven’t seen my daughter, Bessie, have you?’
‘Well,’ said Jack, not sure how this would be taken. ‘I sent her off to buy some groceries for me. Sorry if I shouldn’t have.’
‘That’s fine, mate,’ said Frank quickly, tapping him on the shoulder. ‘I like to see her busy. Idleness only gets you fat. I’ll be upstairs in the flat. When she gets back, send her up.’
‘Will do,’ said Jack.
Frank wandered off to the back door of the house. Jack shook the water out of his hair, he’d obviously interrupted Frank in whatever he was doing; he’d have a look in a minute. Jack dumped some lumps of broken brickwork in the barrow. And, when he was sure the man was safely inside, Jack had a look on the lawn. And there, he picked up a raw meatball, about the size of a marble. He squashed it between his fingers. Inside was a half inch tack.
Jack went back to work, reflecting. He continued filling the wheelbarrow. Once full, he wheeled it out to the skip in the roadway. There, he’d set up a long plank leaning against the skip. He ran the barrow up and tipped it in the skip. Dangerous, he knew, especially in this weather, but it saved time. One tip and it was all in. As he strolled back with the empty barrow, he thought why would you put a tack in a meatball? Because of who might eat it, obviously. He could think of no other reason. A crow might eat it, or a dog or a cat. The animal might swallow the tack or it might get stuck in its throat, which was surely the intention.
He looked up at the windows of the house. The man might be watching him. Well, so what? It was a heartless way to kill anything.
He went up and down the lawn, picking up meatballs. At first, he took out the tack and tossed the meatball away, but when he began picking up empty meatballs, he realised he had to gather them all up or he wouldn’t know which was which.
A little later, Bessie returned with the shopping. She had Sainsbury’s shopping bags hanging from each hand and looked pleased with herself. She wore a thin plastic raincoat, which probably didn’t do her much good at keeping out the rain as she was thoroughly wet already, but perhaps kept her marginally warmer.
He took the shopping and change from her, and gave her a two pound coin.
‘Thank you,’ she said with a smile. ‘You don’t have to.’
He couldn’t help liking her, she was just like a child really, so eager to please. So easy to offend.
‘It means I’ll have some food in the house. Thanks a lot, Bessie,’ he said. ‘And oh yes, your dad’s upstairs and he wants you.’
She gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks.
‘It’s alright,’ he said, a hand on her arm, ‘he told me it was no problem you doing some shopping for me.’
She was dancing on the spot as if in pain.
‘He’ll go bananas!’
And she was off running to the house.
Chapter 20
The rain continued through the morning. Jack felt like an abused carthorse, but the only whip was his own. He could of course sit it out in the dry somewhere; he was his own boss, but he’d be that much poorer when it came to the reckoning as he was paid by the job, not by the hours.
His hair, shirt and trousers were soaked through. At least his feet had stayed dry, a decent pair of boots paid off, his hands were protected by the gloves, but the rest of him was a chilly layer of wet. And the sky a dark grey with no sign of a break.
He was wiping the goggles which kept watering over, when there came a shout from the house.
‘Do you want a cup of tea, Jack?’
He glanced over to see Anne at the French windows, open just enough for her to poke her head out.
‘Love one,’ and he strode across.
She opened the windows wider. Jack looked down at his muddy boots.
‘Best take them off,’ he said.
He sat down on the patio and removed his boots, and then stepped into her nursery, carrying the boots. The children were playing, but Anne had gone off somewhere. Then she was back with a towel. Jack put his boots down by the door and closed the window.
Anne threw him the towel.
‘Dry yourself off.’
It was a thick, white bath towel, still warm from the airing cupboard. He began vigorously rubbing his hair and face. It was a relief to get some heat into them. Then his neck and arms, which was as much as he could get to.
‘I’ve got a kettle on,’ she said.
She felt his shirt.
‘You are absolutely drenched.’
Her hand stayed, and his folded over it. He pulled her to him and they embraced, and slipped into a kiss. There was no resistance. She was warm against his chill, her lips greedy. Eyes closed, his fingers explored her firm neck.
A cry from the baby broke them apart.
‘Will you make the tea?’ she said with a helpless gesture, ‘everything’s in the kitchen.’
She went to the playpen where the baby was standing against the side, holding onto the bars and crying for whatever babies cry for. Comfort, warmth, the same human needs. Pointless resenting his cry, although Jack couldn’t help it. Competition. He recalled Mia as a baby; as a screaming toddler, the best contraceptive ever.
Jack went into the kitchen. It was tidy and clean. Probably had to be, for inspections. He had no trouble finding things. The tea was in a caddy labelled tea, the teapot already emptied. The first cupboard he opened, over the sink, had mugs. He poured the hot water in the pot, reflecting on what had just happened. He had been kissed. Or rather he had kissed her, but she had wanted it as much as he had.
He didn’t get many tea breaks like this.
He put milk in the cups, and leaving the tea to brew, went back out to the nursery. She had given the twins milk and apple, while the baby was contently sucking from a bottle, half sitting, leaning against a corner of the playpen, reminiscent of an elderly alcoholic. She came back to him and put an arm round his waist as she surveyed the short term peace of the nursery.
He said, ‘What do you know abo
ut Frank?’
‘Other than I don’t like him,’ she said. ‘And that he treats his daughter dreadfully. Not much. Why do you want to know?’
He told her about the meatballs with the tacks inside.
‘Are there any animals in the house?’ he said.
‘Nancy has a cat…’ A hand went to her mouth. ‘He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.’
‘I’m afraid he has.’
She turned to him. ‘Shall we call the police?’
He shook his head. ‘They’d probably regard it as trivial. He’d say it was for crows or squirrels…’
‘It’s for Nancy’s cat,’ she said. ‘I know it.’
‘And another thing…’ he said, then interrupted himself. ‘Let’s get the tea.’
He led the way into the kitchen, she followed part of the way, staying half out to keep an eye on the children.
‘My daughter Mia stayed with me last night,’ he said as he poured out the tea. ‘And I took her to school this morning, Marshland Primary. And he was there. Frank. I’ve seen that orange car of his out here. But when I saw him in the garden, and said I’d seen him at the school, he denied it. And changed the subject dead sharp.’
‘Marshland?’ exclaimed Anne. ‘That’s Maggie’s school.’
‘Who’s Maggie?’
‘She and David have the top flat. Oh, I’m getting a bad feeling.’
She told him about last night’s meeting and its aftermath.
‘That accounts for the black eye,’ he said. ‘Why would he follow her?’
‘No good reason,’ said Anne. ‘Especially if he’s denied being there.’
They took their teas out to the nursery. She warned him to keep his mug well away from the children, to put it on a high shelf if he went anywhere near them.
‘I’m going to tell David and Maggie,’ she said. ‘Let them decide if they want to call the police.’
