by Freer, Echo;
Nine
The following day at Beattie’s house, after one of the most beautiful and brightly coloured funerals she had ever seen, Modesty was feeling as awkward as a haddock in a hot air balloon. There had been very few mourners to send Beattie off to the great ecology centre in the sky, partly because Laura had wanted to play it down and had refused to put notices in the paper but mostly, Modesty suspected, because people had been frightened off by the developers - aka Archie Bigg and Councillor Peggitt.
Modesty had managed to persuade Cerys to accompany her as support for two reasons: firstly because - as the funeral director - her father was sitting in a corner of Beattie’s sitting room glowering at her over a cup of tea and watching her every move. But more importantly because Claire was hogging Oz’s attention. Modesty had barely even had the chance to offer her condolences.
‘I don’t know what I’m doing here, Moddy - I hardly knew her,’ Cerys whispered, taking another mushroom vol au vent.
‘You’re here to celebrate the life of a passionate and feisty old lady and...’ Modesty looked over Cerys’s shoulder to where Claire was talking to Oz and wiping her eyes in a theatrical gesture, ‘...to tell me what you think about Claire and Ozzie.’ She said his name in a pronounced northern accent.
Cerys raised her eyebrows and grinned. ‘I always knew your politics were green - I didn’t know you were going in for the emotional version too.’
Modesty sighed and gave a tut of resignation. ‘Oh God! I am, aren’t I? I’m jealous!’
‘Just a tad,’ Cerys agreed. Her eyes swept across the table before she screwed up her nose and helped herself to a slice of quiche. ‘Isn’t there anything with meat in it?’
‘No, Oz and his mum are veggie.’
Cerys cocked her head on one side and made an empathetic face. ‘Aw - you two are so suited, you know.’
‘Cheers, Cerys - but not helping in the current situation.’ She ran her hand through her hair. ‘This is so stupid. He’s only been down here a week and he’s probably only going to be around for about another week. I don’t know why I’ve let this get so out of hand.’
Cerys flapped her hand dismissively. ‘I told you - he’s got the hots for you and a week’s a long time in the land of lurve! Anyway, she’s probably just his cousin.’
Modesty looked at her friend with a pained expression. ‘He’s an only child of an only child - he hasn’t got any cousins.’
Cerys took a handful of crisps and shrugged. ‘Second cousin twice removed?’
‘Nice try.’
‘On his dad’s side?’
‘I do appreciate the whole clutching at straws thing you’re trying here but he hasn’t got a father either.’ Cerys sucked in air through her teeth. ‘Tricky - but...’ she raised her eyebrows and smiled, as though she’d been struck by a brilliant idea, ‘...he must have had one at some time...’ Her face dropped again as another possibility struck her. ‘Unless he’s a clone.’
Modesty was beginning to question the wisdom of inviting her friend when their attention was attracted by a loud wail from the other side of the room. Looking over, the girls saw Claire throw her head on to Oz’s chest as sobs wracked her body. Tenderly, Oz put his arms round her and drew her closer but she broke free and fled the room with Oz following.
Cerys paused with a piece of pizza mid-bite. ‘Whoa! She must have been really fond of the old dear.’
Modesty shook her head. ‘Far as I know, she’d never even met Beattie.’
Cerys wiped the crumbs from her mouth. ‘And, you know what? I’m thinking that that cuddle wasn’t really a cousin-type cuddle after all. In fact, I think you’ve got opposition, Moddy - big time. And, to be honest, I’m not sure a week’s going to be long enough.’
‘This is one occasion when I’d really rather not have to say I told you so - but thanks for the support,’ she replied through gritted teeth.
At that point Laura Appleby approached them. ‘I just wanted to thank you girls for coming. I know Mum was very fond of you, Modesty, and I want to thank you as well for being such a support to Oscar this week until Claire could get down.’
A heaviness came over Modesty, as though someone had poured liquid lead through her veins. She coughed slightly, trying to relieve the tightness that had constricted her throat. ‘No problem,’ she managed.
‘Is she staying long?’ Cerys asked, pointedly.
‘Oh no,’ Laura replied. ‘She’s going back tomorrow.’
Modesty struggled to restrain the smile that was threatening to break out across her face. But it was premature.
‘We all are,’ Laura continued. ‘I might have to pop back a couple of times, of course, until the house is sold but otherwise...’ she looked round and gave a reflective nod, ‘...we’ll be saying goodbye to London, for good.’
Just then, Mortimer de Mise approached the group. He inclined his head graciously towards Laura.
‘Thank you for the tea, Miss Appleby; I shall take my leave now. I want to say again how sorry we all are for your loss.’
Modesty seethed at her father’s hypocrisy. Laura smiled. ‘Thank you for everything, Mr de Mise, and please send the bill to my mother’s solicitor. She’ll be handling everything.’
Again, Mortimer gave an obsequious nod of his head. ‘Of course.’ Turning to his daughter he smiled and asked, ‘Would you girls like a lift home?’
Modesty would rather have spent a night in a pit full of venomous snakes than three minutes with her father in the limo. Plus, she suspected he had only offered to make sure she left the Appleby house without speaking to Oz further. She opened her mouth to refuse the offer but Cerys was too quick for her.
‘Aw, brilliant. Thank you.’
As her father headed for the door, Modesty shot her friend a disapproving glare.
‘What?’ Cerys looked hurt. ‘My feet are killing me.’
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ she explained. ‘Without any sanctimonious input from He Who Must Be Obeyed.’
Cerys folded her arms in a huff. ‘You should’ve said - I’m not a mind-reader.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Modesty placated her. ‘I’ll just go and say goodbye to Oz. Wait there.’
She went upstairs and, as she neared the landing, she could hear voices coming from the small box room at the front of Beattie’s house. The door was slightly ajar, so, although it had not been her intention to listen in to their conversation, it was difficult not to overhear what was being said.
Oz was doing all the talking and Modesty was at first enthralled but then saddened by the gentleness in his voice.
‘...Come on, Claire, we’ve been through this. I’ve told you, I really like you. I think you’re clever and funny and kind - not to mention being one of the prettiest girls in our school...’
Not for the first time since Oz had come back into her life, Modesty felt a wave of disappointment the size of a tsunami crash over her. Her mouth gave an involuntary twitch as she tried to control the tears that were threatening. There was no way she could face him like this. She turned to go back downstairs but the creak of a floorboard gave away her presence. Oz appeared at the door.
‘Moddy, you OK?’
She swallowed hard and nodded. ‘I just came to say bye but I could hear that you were busy, so I didn’t want to interrupt.’
‘Yeah, it’s not a good time just at the moment.’ He looked sheepish as he spoke. ‘Look, I’ll give you a ring tomorrow - OK?’
Modesty nodded and turned away in silence. Tomorrow? Would that be before he left for the station and went out of her life for ever, or might he even wait until he was back in Scarborough to say goodbye? She’d planned to invite him over the following evening when her parents were away, but there was no point now. In fact, there was no advantage to getting rid of Glenys for the night either. A
heaviness filled her body and she wished he’d never come back into her life.
Later that evening, in a quiet street of semi-detached houses that ran parallel to the road where Gemma King lived, a red Astra, stolen that afternoon from the forecourt of a garage in Romford, drew to a halt.
‘See that ‘ouse through there?’ Harley Spinks pointed out of the car window, past the house they were parked outside and through to the one that backed on to it. ‘The one wiv the light on downstairs.’
‘I thought you said you’d checked it out?’ Mickey Bigg sounded dubious.
‘I ‘ave - me and Cynth did a recce this afternoon while you was nicking the car.’
‘But the light’s on - that means she must be in the ‘ouse. I don’t like the look of that, ‘Arl darl.’
Harley gave him a glare that could have withered an entire rainforest. ‘It don’t always follow, Mickey. Sometimes the lights is on and there ain’t no one ‘ome,’ she sneered cruelly. ‘Know what I mean?’
Mickey looked hurt. ‘Leave it out, ‘Arl. You’re always ‘avin’ a dig.’
‘Ah, you big wuss,’ she said dismissively. ‘Now look, me and Cynth reckon your best bet is the bathroom window down the side, see?’
Although Mickey’s head was nodding agreement, his demeanour suggested otherwise. ‘But what if she goes to... you know...’ Mickey looked embarrassed. ‘What if she... needs a Jimmy Riddle?’
Harley ran her hands through her hair. ‘Flamin ‘ell, Mickey! You ain’t gonna stay in the bathroom, you doughnut! You gonna get in through the window, close it behind you and then go to ‘er dad’s bedroom, go through ‘is things till you find the diamond. What d’you think you was gonna do? Burgle ‘er toiletries cupboard? Nick a couple of bars of soap?’
Mickey looked at Harley. ‘I want you to stop bossin’ me about, ‘Arl darl.’ He paused, waiting for her reaction, but when none seemed forthcoming, Mickey decided that he was on a roll. ‘I wear the trousers in this relationship,’ he ventured tentatively. ‘And... er... I want you to remember that from now on. OK?’
Harley Spinks made no response. Her eyes were fixed on the pools of yellow light given out by the sulphur streetlamps on the tarmac ahead. Mickey bit his bottom lip nervously, waiting for the repercussions of his mini-rebellion, but still Harley did not reply. Mickey began to screw up his eyes as though, having lit the blue touch-paper, he was bracing himself for the inevitable explosion - but still it didn’t come. The atmosphere inside the Astra was like the aftermath of a nuclear bomb.
Almost wincing, he turned towards her. ‘Good. So, what’s next then, ‘Arl... erm... darl?’
Without moving her eyes from the road ahead, Harley folded her arms but remained silent.
‘Shall we go then?’ Mickey’s voice was quaking in anticipation of Harley’s temper. He had never known her to be so quiet and was finding the whole episode disconcerting. ‘So, er, ‘Arl - when you an’ Cynth come round, ‘ow did you plan on me gettin’ through the window, then? ‘Cos it don’t look like it’s open from ‘ere.’
Very slowly, Harley turned her head to face her boyfriend. Then, in a low voice that was as soothing as fingernails down a blackboard, she finally broke her silence. ‘Well, Mickey, as you’re the one what wears the trousers...’ her voice rose ten decibels and increased in intensity, ‘...and I am simply the one what ‘as to remember that...’ she jacked it up a notch, ‘...Maybe, Mr I-am-the-boss-man, you’d like to tell me?’ Finally she reached the chainsaw-on-metal rasp for which she was known and loathed. ‘Course it ain’t open, you flamin’ plonker! You are gonna open it, you ‘alf-witted dipstick! That’s why it is called breakin’ in - get it? ‘Cos you are gonna ‘ave to break your way in.’
‘Sorry, ‘Arl darl.’
‘You will be bleedin’ sorry if you try pullin’ that one again.’ She picked up a paperback book from the floor of the stolen car: Self Esteem for Men. ‘And next time you nick a motor, try nicking one from a brain surgeon - ‘cos if you’re gonna try readin’ for an ‘obby, I reckon you should start wiv Brain Transplants for Dummies.’
Mickey took several seconds to respond to the fact that his half-hearted bid for respect seemed to have fizzled out, then seemed relieved at the restoration of the status quo. ‘Cheers!’ He leaned across and gave her a peck on the cheek which she promptly wiped away. ‘So, ‘ad you any ideas about ‘ow I was gonna break in, then?’
Harley sighed and took a short metal crowbar from her bag. ‘With a jemmy.’
Mickey grinned. ‘Cor, you ain’t ‘alf brilliant, ‘Arl darl. You fink of everything, don’t you?’
Harley gave him a look that said good job one of us does and reached for the door handle.
‘ ‘Aarrrl?’ Mickey whined as she pushed open the car door.
‘Now what?’
‘ ‘Ow am I gonna get up there?’
‘Jeez, Mickey!’ she snapped. ‘You’re gonna climb up - ‘ow d’you fink you’re gonna get up there? Put bleedin’ rocket jets on your shoes? Or maybe you’d like me to ‘ire you a flamin’ trampoline? I wear the bleedin’ trousers,’ she mimicked.
‘But it’s ever so ‘igh. I ain’t good wiv ‘ights, ‘Arl.’
‘You know, Mickey - one of these days we might find somefink you are good wiv. Till then - shut up and leave things to me. There’s a ladder, right.’
He looked relieved.
‘Not a very big one but it’s propped up along the side of the shed and it’ll be long enough to get you on to the drainpipe what runs under the window - see it?’ She pointed through the back gardens of the houses to a thick black pipe that stood out against the white pebbledash of the King house in the next road. ‘Then, once you’re on the pipe you can prise open the window, jump in through it and find the diamond. Piece of cake! Now come on - we want to do it while she’s watching telly. If we leave it any later she might be goin’ to bed.’
The two of them left the stolen car and carefully made their way along the sideway of the large house outside which they had parked. Once they were out of sight of the road, they pulled on black balaclavas, partly as camouflage in the dark and partly so that if anyone did see them, they wouldn’t be recognised. Next they exchanged the leather gloves they had been wearing in the car for rubber gloves so that they would have more flexibility and yet would not leave fingerprints. Tiptoeing past the kitchen window, they kept close to the fence so as to dodge the security lights as they skirted the lawn, then over the fence at the back and into Gemma King’s garden. The curtains were drawn in the back room and they crept stealthily to the shed behind which Arnold’s ladder was stored and pulled it out. The passage down the side of the house was narrow, only wide enough for carrying out a dustbin, so when the ladder was placed again the wall it was at a fairly steep angle.
‘Make sure you ‘old it still, right,’ Mickey whispered urgently as he put his foot on the bottom rung.
‘Ain’t you forgettin’ somefink?’ Harley asked.
Mickey’s eyes circumnavigated their sockets as he thought frantically. ‘Er - don’t look down?’
Harley tutted. ‘The jemmy?’
‘Oh yeah! Dunno what I’d do without you, you know.’
‘Yeah, yeah - pull another stunt like earlier an’ you’ll find out,’ she threatened. ‘Now get your backside up that ladder and let’s get this over with. I’m seein’ my old man tomorrow an’ I want to tell ‘im this is sorted.’
Hesitantly, one rung at a time, Mickey made his way up the ladder to the drainpipe that ran almost horizontal to the bathroom window.
‘Don’t look down,’ he kept repeating under his breath. Steadying himself on the vertical soil pipe, he put one foot on to the drainpipe and then transferred his whole weight. Still retaining his left hand on the soil pipe for safety, he began shuffling along towards the bathroom window, jemmy at the ready.
/> ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ Edie, Gemma King’s elderly neighbour, had rounded the corner of her side passage. ‘Help! Police!’ she screamed, dropping the bag of rubbish she had been taking out to her dustbin.
‘Quick! Scarper!’ yelled Harley Spinks, which seemed to Mickey to be all right for her to say - she wasn’t halfway up the side of a house with a crowbar in her hand. As swiftly as he could, he shuffled back along the pipe to the top of the ladder and bent his left knee so that his right foot could feel for the top rung. Don’t look down; don’t look down, he repeated to himself as a mantra.
Harley dodged underneath the ladder and headed for the front gate but, in doing so, caught the ladder with her shoulder. Mickey had been poised to step back down on to it and the sudden sensation that his foot was dangling in midair forced him to drop the jemmy and let out a whimper of despair as the ladder crashed down on to the path at the side of the house.
‘Help! Police!’ Edie was still shouting.
‘Don’t look down, don’t look down,’ Mickey chanted, clutching to the vertical soil pipe with both arms.
‘Get a move on!’ Harley ordered.
Carefully, Mickey raised his right foot back up to the horizontal pipe and, still holding on to the vertical one with both arms, he shuffled closer to it and then wrapped first his left leg round the pipe and then his right. There was nothing else for it; he was going to have to shimmy down the pipe before the old bird in the dressing gown alerted the entire street.
‘Don’t look down; don’t look down,’ he reminded himself as he slid, centimetre by centimetre, down the old cast-iron pipework. He suddenly wished he’d paid more attention in gym lessons at school.
‘Nearly there,’ he heard Harley call from the front gate.
But, as if doubting her, he made a fatal mistake. He did what he’d been telling himself not to do: he looked down and saw the hard concrete about three metres below. He froze.
