by C. J. Skuse
She had seen me – there was no point pretending otherwise.
‘Nice to see you again.’
‘Hello, Rhiannon.’ She turned languidly to face me, as though waking up from a pleasant dream.
‘Sorry, I didn’t wake, you did I?’
‘No, I was waiting for you as a matter of fact.’ She unclasped her bag and retrieved a small notepad and a pen. ‘I’ve got some more questions about Craig. Where is it best to talk?’
‘Not at the house,’ I said. ‘Elaine can’t cope with it. We can go over to Bay Bites.’ I pointed towards the café.
Over a cappuccino (for her) and a hot chocolate with cream and extra sprinkles (for me), she asked me every question about Craig she hadn’t previously asked – about his mates, men he’d previously worked with at the quarry, men he’d recently done jobs with on building projects. And my dad.
‘Craig and Tommy were close.’
It seemed rhetorical but I answered anyway. ‘They were, yes. Dad thought a lot of him.’
‘And they worked together.’ She put her pencil to her lips but didn’t chew it.
‘For a while, yeah. He took over Dad’s building work when he got sick.’
‘Get to know Tommy’s friends as well, did he?’
‘What do you mean?’
Géricault left her question hanging in the warm café air between us. I knew exactly what she meant – and she knew I knew it too.
‘If you’re asking if Craig was a vigilante like my dad then no he wasn’t.’
‘Is it possible that Tommy and Craig shared some mutual acquaintances? Maybe Tommy introduced Craig to a guy down the pub one night after work perhaps. Someone he’d done a job with?’
‘I don’t know.’ I slurped my hot chocolate even though it was fiery-hot, and tried my best to effect a meek visage. ‘You’d have to ask Craig.’
‘We have.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Not much. Who is Craig particularly close to nowadays?’
‘Eddie, Gary and Nigel are his oldest mates. He went to school with Eddie and he met Gary and Nigel when he was at technical college.’
‘Do you get on with them?’
‘I tolerate them, as much as anything. They all seem to share a brain. I don’t know who’s using it at the moment.’ She didn’t laugh. ‘Why?’
The woman in the kitchen fishwifing it about her son’s wedding and scraping endless plates into the recycling caddy was getting on my last tit.
‘Why didn’t you tell us that you and Craig had got engaged a few days before he went to Holland?’
‘I didn’t think it was important.’
‘You’ve recently sold your parents’ house.’
‘Yes.’
‘Presumably when you and Craig were married, your share of your parents’ house – over three hundred grand – would be half his?’
‘I guess so, yeah.’
She checked her notes. ‘And the other half of the house sale went to your sister who lives in… Seattle? Seren Gibson?’
‘She’s moving to Vermont soon but yes. It was an even split after the solicitor’s fees and whatnot. What’s this got to do with Craig?’
‘You’re not even slightly concerned by the fact that he asked you to marry him just a few days before he was arrested for multiple murder?’
‘I tend to only see the best in people,’ I said. I don’t know how I didn’t smile. ‘Craig’s not after my money. He’s not like that. Honestly.’
She sat back, stirring her coffee. ‘You love him. I can see it, right there.’ She pointed two fingers towards me. ‘You’d do anything for him.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Rhiannon – I don’t have to tell you that aiding and abetting a felon is almost as serious as committing the crime yourself, do I?’
‘No you don’t have to tell me that. And I wouldn’t anyway. I had no suspicions about Craig at all. I didn’t even know he was sleeping with my own colleague, let alone catfishing guys and… all that other stuff you say he’s done. You want answers about Craig, I suggest you talk to Lana Rowntree. I’ve told you everything I know.’
‘Your father Tommy was a convicted murderer, Rhiannon – a murderer of sex offenders, who consorted with similar men who targeted guess what – sex offenders. Now two men and one woman are murdered in cold blood – at least one of them being a sex offender, and your fiancé’s DNA was found all over them. I’d say I’m talking to exactly the right person, wouldn’t you?’
*
After dinner, Jim, Elaine and I were sitting in the living room not watching Britain’s Got Talent – Jim had pulled up an occasional table and was planting seeds in a little germination tray, Elaine was doing her Kindness cross-stitch for WOMBAT. I was glugging Gaviscon, courtesy of my lunchtime inquisition with Géricault. I Googled Patrick Edward Fenton.
I wish I hadn’t.
The guy was fairly recognisable – Liam Gallagher hair, beer gut, tatt sleeves and ear spacers. Inordinately large nostrils too – I could probably slide a Sharpie up each one without him even noticing. There was one picture with his spacers taken out and his ears looked like they were melting.
Anyway I digress. Initially I found the story of how the snub-nosed maggot had downloaded thousands of child porn pictures. 65,000 in all.
Fenton, 50, was arrested after police searched his home in Winterbourne, Gloucestershire and seized two laptops and a phone.
My acid reflux started to bite.
Police analysis revealed the devices contained over 65,000 indecent images of children aged two to twelve, comprising 966 Category A images – the most serious – 6,722 Category B and the rest at category C.
Fenton pleaded guilty to all charges. His defence barrister claimed that since his arrest Fenton has completed a self-improvement course with the Bristol branch of NewLeaf, a clinic specialising in treating sex offenders and is genuinely apologetic and ashamed of his actions.
He was handed a suspended jail sentence at Bristol Crown Court.
The prosecution barrister was Heather Wherryman – my damsel in distress.
But that wasn’t the only article I found relating to Fenton. This case was ten years ago. There were three more recent stories. Clearly not that ashamed of his actions then.
A twelve-month sentence followed attacking a child in a playground in Mannamead, Plymouth. And last year, he was caught masturbating in the children’s book corner of a library in Minehead and charged with public indecency. But it was the last story that caused me to dry heave.
The RSPCA had been called to his home in the Weston-super-Mare area. A neighbour reported sounds of animals in distress. Inspectors found cats, matted and half-starved. Dead snakes in dirty tanks. Sickly rabbits covered in shit. And a dog that looked like Tink, shut inside a bathroom and left to starve. Scratches up the wallpaper. Chunks bitten out of the skirting board. A slow, agonising death.
That was the one that got me. Right in the murderous feels.
Take it easy, Mummy. All this acid is not good for me.
I swigged my Gaviscon.
So Patrick Edward Fenton is still out on licence, receiving ‘treatment’ for his addictions, walking the streets, past playgrounds where children play, probably still has a library card too. All right he’s not allowed to keep animals again but who’s going to check on that? And what’ll he get if he does keep animals again? A fine? A community service order?
Why is he free? If it’s his human right to freedom cos of his ‘mental condition’ then it’s my human right cos of my ‘mental condition’ to kill him.
Don’t you dare.
‘You’d rather this guy was out there, waiting for you?’ I angled the laptop screen at my stomach. ‘Look at him. Look what he did to those animals. God I’d give the world and a handful of planets to see that guy suffer. You think he should be allowed to walk around, as free as a bird?’
Technically if he was a bird, he’d be flying.
&n
bsp; ‘Yeah and I’d be pointing up at him with a shotgun.’
I’m scared, Mummy. You’ll get in trouble.
‘No I won’t. Torquay’s not far from here, just along the coast—’
It’s not the right time. You’ll get caught. Forget about him.
‘I could go to that kebab shop, follow him, pretend to chat him up, drug him with some of Elaine’s Tramadol—’
I SAID NO.
Heil Foetus has spoken. Better keep old Patrick on ice for a bit.
Tuesday, 7th August – 13 weeks, 2 days
1.Sandra Huggins.
2.Patrick Edward Fenton.
3.Men who still aren’t getting the memo that women don’t like to be felt up on public transport – grab me by the pussy, you’ll take your dick home in a bag.
The Bible pretty much says that if I repent my sins and love the Lord, I can do what I like. But this is true of anyone, isn’t it? Like, if the Blue Van Rapists repented their sins at Heaven’s Gate, would they be let in too? And Derek Scudd, despoiler of ten-year olds? And Gavin White? And Pete McMahon – the man who would have raped my sister had I not been there? We are not the same. You can’t wash that shit away with a few Hail Marys. Everything is fake and wrong and I hate the world.
I threw the book across the room and did some baby research instead. Apparently, the foetus is now the size of a peach – and a hairy peach at that. It’s covered in a ‘fine downy hair called lanugo which regulates the baby’s temperature and which will disperse before birth’. Allrighty then.
So today I’ve read things, I’ve taken my vits, I’ve walked Tink, I’ve lied my ass off to Jim about a cancelled August booking for the Well House (‘so near, so far’), watched some Gordon Ramsay and put together my Sylvanians Post Office. I’m a bit disappointed, to be honest. The eBay seller said it was used but I didn’t expect there to be hairs stuck in jam on the shelves or a used plaster in the cash register. And some of the stamps had been licked. Ugh.
I’ve also been up to the Well House to tend the garden – well, I deadhead and water and mow the lawn but for the most part I like being with AJ again. I can’t take Tink up there with me anymore though – she won’t stop trying to dig him out. Dogs always know.
And now I’m bored. I keep getting Sandra Huggins’s payslip out and looking at it. Flat 17b The Esplanade, Monks Bay. I know which building that is. It’s wardened and has key card entry. There’s no way of pretending I’m her carer like I did with Derek Scudd—
You’re not killing her, I mean it. I’ll be so cross if you do. It’s too risky.
‘I’m not stupid. I know it’s too risky. But how else do I get to her?’
You don’t. At least not while I’m in here. You have to protect me, above all else. I don’t want you to kill.
‘Just her. Or Fenton. Her or Fenton and then I’ll stop. Please.’
I. Said. NO.
See? This is what I get. Stymied at every turn by a hairy peach who monitors my every move. Fucks ache. I need a hobby. I need to go fishing.
Catfishing.
*
I’ve spent the entire day by the cybernetic riverbank, seeing what’s swimming. It’s quite fun once you select the right kind of fish. No point baiting the confident, good-looking types. And once you’ve weeded out the gimps, wimps, fuckboys, flakes, prison inmates and dick pics, you can concentrate your efforts on a select few morons. Currently my keepnet comprises:
•Indian Prince aka The Lovestruck One
•White and Nerdy – aka The Panty Sniffer
•Lord Byron – aka The Wordy One
I met them all via a dating site called Slave4U.com. This site specifically pairs up weirdos who want to be belittled, beaten up, trampled, dominated or ‘sissified’, with those who wish to belittle, beat up, trample, dominate and sissify. So, as you can imagine, it’s a real playground for someone like me.
Indian Prince can’t spell or if he can, he does a good job of hiding it.
I can feel my election rise in my boxers, he says.
Oh god not another election. I haven’t got over the last one.
Do you liek [sic] having your prissy locked?
Can’t remember the last time my prissy was locked. He’s invited me out for dinner several times – he’ll pay – but I told him I want to get to know him better before we advance to Rohypnol and chips.
White and Nerdy spent three hours one night saying how much he wanted to kill himself. I said he should so I could get back to sleep. But his pain is entertaining. He’s having problems at work or something. He keeps telling me I have gorgeous eyes and that he wants to ‘tie me up and do me all day and night’. Bear in mind I can barely sit through EastEnders without falling asleep at the moment, I’d like to see him try. White and Nerdy adores Sweetpea though. He’d do anything for her.
Like tell her he thinks he loves her after just few hours’ texting.
Or carve a flower into his skin.
Wednesday, 8th August – 13 weeks, 3 days
Chronic horn has properly kicked in. I’ve exhausted PornHub for every category of video it has to offer and there’s only so many packs of Duracell a woman can buy before it starts to look like she’s creating an incendiary device. I could do with a serious cockular implant right about now. There’s a new weather boy on Up at the Crack of a morning who certainly fits the bill. There’s no Donkey Dick Tompkinson to leer at anymore since they fired his ass for sleeping with the intern but now there’s Nick, a thirty-something stud meteorologist. You can see his pec muscles tighten under his shirt when he’s pointing to East Anglia. That’s what I call a warm front.
You allow anything human up here and I’ll bite it off.
Le sigh. I either need to screw someone or kill someone soon. And at this moment in time, I don’t give a shit which.
One of the catfish perhaps. Indian Prince is my current favourite. He’s unintentionally hilarious. He messaged me this morning:
IndianPrince: Sweetpea why you not message again last night? I wait but yoo do not come. I make love to you and tell that you have captured my soul and are the pure duplicate of an angel but you gone. What did I do? I look forward to read from you.
Sweetpea: Soz. Fell asleep. Did you do as I asked? IndianPrince: Yes! I did! I send you the picture! I drew it on my leg. I love that we came together last night!
Well, he came. I was watching Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and doing quizzes on BuzzFeed. Turns out I only know twelve out of fifty capital cities, am fifty-six per cent more Kurt than Goldie and my Patronus is a hedgehog. There’s a line in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof that really chimed with me actually. It’s something the alcoholic says – I wish I’d written it down now. Something to do with him drinking to hear the click in his mind – the click that turns the hot light off. That’s what I have – a hot light. It’s on all the time, nothing cools it. Killing cools it. At least it used to. Who’da thought Paul Newman had the answer? Elaine’s banned me from his creamy Caesar dressing though, aka the only thing that makes her salads bearable. Endless witch.
Later on, Indian Prince sent through a picture of his homemade leg tattoo – a pathetic marker-drawn flower on his upper right thigh.
IndianPrince: You see? My angle I did that for you to show you my love.
Sweetpea: You don’t love me enough to do it properly.
IndianPrince: I do my love! I love your lovely hair, your shining eyes, your lady parts. I want so badly mate you.
Sweetpea: [stops laughing] Then do the flower properly. Or else you don’t love me at all. Other men have done it, why haven’t you?
IndianPrince: My religion doesn’t allow tattoos
Sweetpea: I don’t want you to get a tattoo. Do it yourself. With a knife. You would do it if you loved me.
IndianPrince: Will I be able to spend another night with you?
Sweetpea: If you do this for me, you can have me Every. Single. Night.
IndianPrince: I can???? And you won’t talk to any other mens?
Sweetpea: No. My body will only be for your eyes. You can watch me tease myself while I talk to you on Skype if you like.
IndianPrince: I can??? You promise me my lady?
Sweetpea: Of course. I’ll keep myself pure for you. But you have to do the flower. It needn’t be a big one.
IndianPrince: I will do it for you my love, my precious angel of love.
Sweetpea: Do it. I want to see your blood.
Two hours later, a video message plinked into my inbox. It was him, leg up on the bathtub, shaking hand carving the flower shape into his thigh, crying like an endless little bitch. It’s a small flower, as expected. A pussy like him can’t take pain for too long. Then he messaged again.
IndianPrince: My love, I done it for you. It hurt so much. Have I pleased you? I am in so much pain but this means that you are mine now, yes? We can finally be together my angel?
BLOCK.
Haha.
Thursday, 9th August – 13 weeks, 4 days
1.People who pick the raisins out of food. STOP ORDERING THINGS WITH RAISINS IN!
2.People who constantly ask me how ‘far along’ I am and when I tell them inform me that ‘it must be twins’ because I’m so big.
3.Scientists who STILL haven’t invented an easier way to do pregnancy.
The vivid dreams show no sign of abating. I’m dreaming about everything from the the Gazette to the childminder at Priory Gardens to breaking the necks of live chickens at the dinner table. I have dreams about AJ too. He is always alive when I see him – alive and smiling, rather than in eight separate wrapped pieces under the warm earth at the Well House. The baby doesn’t like me dreaming about AJ. I get woken up in a full sweat, this terrible screaming in my ears— NO! NO! NO!! I WANT MY DADDY BACK. I WANT MY DADDY BACK! — over and over again.
Woke up at 3 a.m. in such a sweat and couldn’t get back to sleep. Scrolled social media and the news channels for updates on Craig. Four mentions of me out of twenty-four – in each story I was simply ‘The Gripper’s Pregnant Girlfriend’ and it went on to talk about Priory Gardens. I was not a person in my own right – I was either the child survivor of that guy or the girlfriend of that other guy. They were the headliners. I was just a bit part.
