Simeon's Bride

by Alison G. Taylor

  Jack asked, ‘What might it be?’

  ‘Jaundice. Meningitis. Onset of some bowel trouble…. It’s not appendicitis because he’s got no appendix. It might be food poisoning. Or maybe too many sleeping pills. People sometimes take more than they should at times, hoping for a decent night’s sleep, a bit of peace….’

  An ambulance took McKenna away, his pyjamas and odds and ends hurriedly stashed in a holdall. Jack packed cat food from the kitchen cupboards, clean bowls and the brush, put them in the car, and went back into the house to switch off central heating and stop tap and lock up. Finally, he gathered up the cat, she suspicious and watchful, and carried her up the stairs and outside. She crouched on the back seat throughout the journey, bewildered and forlorn.

  ‘I’m going to the hospital,’ Emma announced. ‘You try Denise again, and keep trying until you get her.’

  ‘Will he want to see her?’

  ‘Probably not. I just want her to know, that’s all. Might make her sorry.’

  ‘What’s Denise got to be sorry for? He left her.’

  ‘And why? If I’m not back by teatime, you can all have fish and chips.’

  Chapter 22

  ‘Is that what all the fuss was about, sir?’ Dewi asked.

  ‘It seems so,’ Jack told him. ‘Mr Stott is Mr Prosser’s boyfriend. Jamie borrows the car in consideration for not grassing up either of them to their mates, employers, spouses or the chapel.’ He grimaced with distaste. ‘Nauseating, isn’t it? The thought of those two together.’

  ‘Actually, sir, I reckon Jamie and his blackmail is a lot more sickening than a couple of blokes fancying each other. What’re we going to do to him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t’ve thought you’d have any time for the likes of Prosser and Stott.’

  ‘I’ve got less time for the likes of Jamie, because I don’t expect either Stott or Prosser thought much about anything ’til Jamie brought it to their attention, as you might say, and persuaded them it was worth forking out cash to hush up. How did he know, anyway?’

  ‘Dunno. Our informant didn’t know the ins and outs.’

  ‘What are we going to do with Jamie?’

  ‘Stop badgering! You’re like a bloody sheepdog. Until we know how long Mr McKenna’s likely to be off, I’m not starting anything. You’ll have to curb your enthusiasm.’

  ‘I don’t see the point. Jamie’ll know, won’t he?’

  ‘Not if our friend in Turf Square has any sense.’ Jack twiddled McKenna’s pen. ‘Bit odd, you know. Stott’s got a wife and child.’

  ‘You don’t know much, do you, sir? Fancying other blokes never stopped anyone going with women and having children. He’ll be what they call bi-sexual. Being married is a good cover, anyway.’

  ‘Have you shown that photo round the village?’

  ‘They’re burying that Rebekah today, so we didn’t get to speak to a soul. Half Bangor hanging round the church, sticking their noses in and getting on TV. May as well leave it until tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow! Everything gets left for some reason or another! Tomorrow never comes, or don’t you know that in this neck of the woods?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, sir. More like God putting the mockers on things, isn’t it? Having Mr McKenna ill is the last thing we need. What’s wrong with him? Does anybody know yet? I hope he’s not very poorly. Don’t you?’

  At one moment Emma hoped Denise would rush in, flushed, anxious, dishevelled, and the next, she prayed for her continuing ignorance of McKenna’s condition. Perched on the edge of a plastic-covered chair in the ante-room to one of the medical wards, Emma asked herself what she intended to say to McKenna when allowed to see him, knowing she could say the house was locked up, the heating and water switched off, and the cat safe in her care. She could sit by his bedside and smile and prattle and soothe, and if he looked at her again with that light in his eyes which shone so briefly the other day, she could excuse herself if she stroked the russet hair from his forehead, and warmed his cold thin hand with her own. She thought of physical contact with him, and a fearful longing shafted her body, leaving her shaken, weaker than the man upon whom she waited.

  ‘Silly bugger’s got gastro-enteritis.’ Eifion Roberts perched on the corner of McKenna’s desk.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Dewi said. ‘Some of the places we’ve been lately … he probably caught it from John Beti breathing in his face.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Prys!’ Jack snarled. To the pathologist, he said, ‘How long will he be in hospital?’

  ‘Oh, no time at all, so long as he doesn’t get dehydrated from all that vomiting and the runs. They won’t let him take up a bed unless he’s dying, and not always then these days.’ Dr Roberts dismissed McKenna as of no further interest. ‘What’s the latest?’

  Told the tale of Prosser and Stott, Dr Roberts said, ‘You’re being very naive thinking that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘What else could there be?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? It might’ve started out that way, but I can’t see it going on. When it comes to the crunch, Jamie could say what he likes, but I doubt he could prove it. And even if he could, they’ve not been doing anything either illegal or that half the male population isn’t doing some time or another.’

  ‘I don’t do that sort of thing,’ Jack pointed out.

  ‘Don’t you? Not even when you were a teenager? My goodness! According to some folk’s reckoning, you’re not normal.’

  ‘Don’t start winding me up because McKenna’s out of your clutches for a while!’

  ‘There’s a body of legitimate and respectable research which argues most men go through a homosexual phase during adolescence, and that it’s quite normal. There’s other research which suggests those who don’t grow out of it have a chromosome disorder or abnormality. I rather favour that myself. You know, the third sex syndrome. Poor buggers can’t help themselves, imprisoned by their own genes.’ He sighed. ‘Might get to the root of it one day, when I’ve cut up a few more homosexuals. God knows, there’s enough of them round here for any amount of research.’

  ‘Stott and Prosser are prisoners of the chapel mentality,’ Dewi said. ‘All that Sunday respectability’s got to be kept up, no matter what.’

  The doctor’s words wrought devastation to Emma’s dream of nursing McKenna through near mortal sickness, willing him back to life and health, and reaping the rewards. Gastro-enteritis was such a menial sickness, unlovely and not in the least heroic. And probably self-inflicted, she thought sourly, following the doctor’s billowing white coat into the ward where McKenna had been admitted for the night.

  He looked yellow and ill and pallid and utterly lost, smiling the lopsided smile that cut her to the quick. He held out his hand.

  ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Emma. I keep putting you and Jack to the most awful trouble.’

  She stood over him, his hand resting lightly in her own. ‘You mustn’t worry. Have they any idea what made you ill?’

  ‘Something I’ve eaten, they say….’

  ‘You should be home soon.’ Emma smiled. His hand still rested in hers, quiet, acquiescent. Wishful thinking intruded itself, putting something into the relationship which had no right to be there. She felt embarrassment, shame for her own imagination. He squeezed her hand and let it go.

  ‘Does Denise know I’m here?’

  ‘Not unless Jack’s managed to contact her. I’ll make sure she knows as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t, Emma.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t want her here, that’s all.’ His eyes were bleak. ‘Anyway, it’s not really worth bothering her.’

  ‘I suppose sick visiting isn’t quite her forte, is it? Won’t you be lonely?’

  He sank back on the pillows, and gazed at her, an expression in his eyes she could not read. ‘Would you come again? If it’s not too much trouble. I’d like to see you.’

  She left without asking if he wanted to see Jack as
well. She thought she might allow herself a few more hours with the dream like spun gold in her heart, before she had to let the deathly chill of common sense prevail upon its promise, tear its diaphanous fabric to shreds.

  Jamie slouched in an armchair in the unheated front room of his mother’s council house, his feet thrust out in front of him.

  ‘How much did those boots cost?’ Jack asked.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Jamie wouldn’t know how much they cost because they’ll be nicked,’ Dewi offered. ‘The sports’ shop on the High Street lost a few pairs like that a while back.’ All three stared at Jamie’s feet, encased in black nubuck flashed with red, silver and green.

  ‘D’you think they could identify these if we took them in?’ Jack mused.

  ‘Sure to be able to, sir.’ Dewi smiled at Jamie. Jamie stared back, his face bland.

  ‘Well, Jamie?’ Jack turned to the youth.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘What’ve you got to tell us?’

  Jamie lit a cigarette, blowing smoke into the chilly air, where it settled in ragged bands.

  ‘All I’ve got to say is if you don’t stop giving me grief, I’m going to complain.’ He took a long pull, and let smoke dribble from his nostrils and mouth. ‘I went to see Councillor Williams the other day. He’s not very happy with you lot, is he?’

  ‘Councillor Williams can go stuff himself,’ Jack said quietly.

  ‘Tut tut!’ Jamie said. ‘I hear he’s dead matey with that posh wife of your boss. She went to his daughter’s wedding. Did you know that?’

  ‘I don’t think Mr Tuttle or Mr McKenna give a toss about Councillor Williams’s mates, Jamie,’ Dewi said. ‘They’re not over keen on the likes of Councillor Williams interfering and stopping us from doing our job properly. You know, we all take an oath to do our work without malice or favour. That’s right, isn’t it, Mr Tuttle?’

  ‘Indeed it is.’ Jack smirked at Jamie. ‘Got something on the councillor or his cronies, have you?’

  Jamie stared at the ceiling. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Maybe, sir,’ Dewi said, ‘Councillor Williams or some of his friends belong to the fifty percent Dr Roberts was talking about.’

  Mystified for a few seconds, Jack laughed when realization dawned. ‘You could well be right, Dewi. How about it, Jamie?’

  ‘How about what?’ Jamie fidgeted. ‘You two’re getting on my fucking nerves! You’re like Laurel and sodding Hardy!’

  Jack watched the sweat begin to bead Jamie’s forehead, noticed fingers yellowed with nicotine, the bloodshot eyes and trembling hands. ‘What muck are you putting in yourself now?’ he asked. ‘Apart from fags and booze.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Jamie repeated.

  ‘We’ll find out. When we’re ready…’ Jack responded. ‘Right now, we’re more interested in something else. Would you like to know what that is?’

  Jamie sighed. ‘Not particularly, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.’

  Dewi flipped open his notebook. ‘It’s this car, Jamie. The Scorpio. We can’t get to grips with it.’

  ‘How many more times!’

  ‘Well, as many as it takes to get to the bottom of things. We had another chat with the new owner. Well, at least, Mr Turtle and Mr McKenna did.’

  ‘So what?’ Jamie lit another cigarette from the stub of the old one. ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do with yourselves? You’re supposed to be looking for a murderer, aren’t you? Taking you long enough, isn’t it? Did you know people are talking? Saying they’re not safe in their beds, and you lot couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery, never mind catch a killer.’

  ‘That’s a long speech coming from you, Jamie,’ Dewi observed. ‘People aren’t safe in their beds with you around, are they? Don’t I remember you being arrested in the early hours with your pockets so full of fifty pence pieces from all the meters you’d robbed you could hardly move?’ He turned to Jack. ‘Jamie can get places water can’t reach, sir.’

  ‘I’ve done my time for that. Twelve sodding months banged up. You don’t let folk forget a thing, do you?’

  ‘Not some folk we don’t. Because some folk go from bad to worse, don’t they? From robbing meters in the middle of the night to blackmail, and maybe even worse than that.’

  ‘Blackmail?’ Jamie sniggered. ‘You’re off your trolley, Dewi Prys.’

  Jack intervened. ‘We have it from a very reliable source you get to borrow that fancy car because a certain Christopher Stott has been made afraid of what you might say about him.’

  Jamie said nothing.

  ‘Ever get to drive a big red Volvo, Jamie?’ Dewi asked casually.

  Jamie uncoiled his body from the chair, walked to the window and peered out through dingy net curtains. Empty crisp packets and bits of cardboard skittered along the street, fretted by the wind. A child with feverish cheeks and runny nose dragged a tricycle with only two wheels over the pavement, bumped it into the road, and tried to pedal away. Jamie turned to face the room, his face shadowed. ‘Why don’t you say what you’re hoping to fit me up for, then you can sod off, can’t you?’

  ‘Nobody’s trying to fit you up,’ Dewi said. ‘It’s what other people are telling us, you see. They’re the ones putting all these thoughts in our heads. You don’t do gardening or anything else for Mr Stott, and you never did. You get the car instead of money, ’cos he probably can’t afford to pay you to shut up.’

  ‘Shut up about what?’

  ‘Stop acting innocent!’ Dewi snapped. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘Give him the benefit of the doubt, Dewi,’ Jack said. ‘We are obliged to say why we’re arresting somebody.’ He stared at Jamie. ‘You’ve been blackmailing Mr Stott. Forcing him to lend you that car, even after he sold it, so you’d keep quiet about his rather squalid little liaison with a certain Trefor Prosser. Blackmail isn’t very nice, Jamie, and the courts take a very dim view. They’re likely to send you down for at least five years.’

  Jamie spent a moment absorbing Jack’s words, then burst out laughing. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

  ‘It’s enough, isn’t it?’

  ‘Got a statement from Chris Stott, have you? Made a complaint, has he?’ Jamie sat down again, stretching languidly. ‘Thought not. Let me give you a bit of advice, eh? Both of you go out through that front door and get into your little cop car and go and see Chris Stott. And then,’ he added, with rage and malice glittering in eyes as cold as a mountain mist in winter, ‘see if you dare show your stupid bloody faces again!’

  Dewi drove. ‘Where are we going now, sir?’

  ‘Perdition, probably. One-way ticket.’

  ‘I reckon we made a cock-up somehow. Jamie wasn’t at all scared.’

  Jack stared through the windscreen. ‘You know him. Would he be afraid? Does he care? He’s been in prison often enough for another spell not to hurt. Anyway, prison’s an occupational hazard to Jamie and his ilk.’

  ‘Jamie wouldn’t relish the idea of going down again. Dents his pride and clips his wings. Five years would do his head in.’

  ‘I only said five years. I’ve no idea how long he’d get. Sob into your hankie in front of a senile judge these days, and you get community service for smashing somebody’s head in. What’s putting the black on a couple of queers worth? A smack on the hand?’

  ‘Jamie was afraid at one point, all the same.’ Dewi turned into the yard behind the police station. ‘Until he cottoned on to what we were talking about.’ He cut the engine and unbuckled his seat belt. ‘Perhaps we asked the wrong questions.’

  Jack climbed out of the car. ‘Know what the right bloody questions are, do you? Because I don’t!’

  Chapter 23

  Hospitals and prisons were, thought McKenna, the noisiest of places, each with its own special noise, each with its own smell, which lingered on skin and clothing and taste buds long after departure. Here, the clang and scree
ch of metal on prison doors and keys and floors gave way to the shuffle of feet and squeal of rubber wheels on linoleum; the smells of metal and sweat and despair to those of disinfectant and blood and faeces and sickness.

  He awoke in the dead hours of morning, roused by hushed urgent voices, the squeak of unoiled wheels as a trolley rolled down the ward; his dream, of walking on a black shore where thousands upon thousands of human skulls crunched underfoot seared into memory, the taste of his own death sweet and heavy in the back of his throat, its dust dry on lips and tongue. He raised himself on one elbow, feeling the pull of a drip taped into the back of his left hand. Screens were drawn around a bed at the far end of the ward, and within a few minutes of arriving, an Asian doctor departed, followed by the trolley, its cargo hidden under a sheet whose hem billowed gently in a draught from the open doors. The screens were opened to a bed bare and empty, and a young nurse about to lift a large plastic sack with ‘Contaminated Materials’ written bold on its side.

  McKenna lay back, wondering if the soul of his departed companion hovered still somewhere above his head, seeking exit and flight, released from a husk of a body collapsed with old age and mortal frailty. Eyes squeezed shut against wavering and fragmenting images of lights and windows, he felt a cool hand brushing away tears come of their own free will.

  ‘Did we wake you?’ a voice whispered. ‘I’m ever so sorry.’

  A sweet-faced girl, too young to have sickness and ugly death soil her youth with its dirty paws, stood by the bed.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ she asked. ‘We’re making a pot of tea, if you’d like some.’

  He crawled slowly from the bed, finding his legs wobbling and weak. The nurse unfastened the drip, closed its tap, and told him to put his arm around her shoulders. He shuffled like an ancient to the ward kitchen, and slumped into a chair.

  ‘I expect you’ll be glad to get home, won’t you?’ said his ministering angel, pouring boiling water into a teapot. ‘I’m sure your wife will be glad, as well. She’s very smart, isn’t she?’