In Bloom

by C. J. Skuse

‘She was getting harassed by detectives and journalists and she wanted someone to talk to. She seemed sad.’

  ‘And you were there to cheer her up?’

  ‘Are we going to talk about the fact you were snooping around my house without a warrant?’ They both looked at each other. ‘You tell me I’m not under investigation and then you go rummaging about uninvited in bathroom cabinets? What’s the police ombudsman’s view on that?’

  Géricault placed the colour copy of Lana’s body next to the pill photo. Then a picture of the sweet peas I’d brought her. ‘A post mortem on Lana Rowntree’s body found traces of Tramadol in her stomach. Large traces.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Other contents included paracetamol, whiskey, cereal and chocolate – potentially your Rice Krispie cakes.’

  ‘She didn’t eat the sweet peas then?’ I said.

  ‘You brought her those flowers. You brought her those cakes. Did you lace the cakes with Tramadol, Rhiannon?’

  ‘No I did not.’

  Tubbs leant forwards again. ‘You wanted Lana out of the picture. You made her change her alibis so Craig would be left in the shit, and when she was at her lowest ebb, you encouraged her to kill herself.’

  ‘Why would I get her to change her alibis and then make her kill herself as well?’

  Gericault rubbed her chin with one of her finger stumps. ‘You like the thrill of it?’ Géricault suggested. ‘You like playing with people’s emotions? Perhaps because you don’t have any yourself.’

  I smiled, licking my dry lips. ‘I made Lana some cakes to cheer her up. What she did after I left is nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Where did she get the Tramadol from?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  Tubbs and Géricault glanced at one another again, then Tubbs collected up the photos, announced he was leaving the room then quickly departed. Leaving me and Géricault alone.

  They’ve got nothing. Remember that.

  She clacked her dwindling mint and studied me, as though comparing paint swatches. Like she couldn’t decide which way to go.

  ‘Your father Tommy was your hero, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Dads are most little girls’ heroes, aren’t they? I expect yours was too.’

  ‘Did Tommy teach you to box?’

  ‘He taught me how to throw a punch, yeah. In case I ever needed to.’

  ‘Have you ever needed to?’

  ‘Once or twice at school.’

  ‘At Julia Kidner?’

  Ooh she’s got you on the ropes now, Mummy.

  ‘No, like I told you, I barely knew the woman.’

  ‘What did you do with her fingers?’

  I laughed. Hooted. ‘Seriously? You’re seriously going down that road with me? You said I didn’t need a lawyer, that this was an informal chat to take down some evidence. I was providing a witness statement, you said.’

  Géricault switched off the tape. ‘Where did you keep Julia Kidner?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. What happened to your fingers?’ A eyebat.

  ‘What did you do with her fingers?’

  ‘Are you deaf?’

  ‘How many times did you visit Lana Rowntree in the weeks before her death, goading her, enabling her, drugging her food?’

  ‘I had nothing to do with Lana’s untimely death.’

  She sat back. The mint had gone. Her colleague had gone. It was her and me, a staring competition. And she blinked first.

  Yay, go Mummy.

  Gathering her papers, she pushed back her chair and stood up, exiting the room. I heard voices in the corridor – too faint to work out. A full half an hour later one of them returned but it wasn’t Géricault.

  ‘You’re free to go, thanks for your time,’ said Tubbs. ‘I’ll have one of the squad cars run you back.’

  ‘You better,’ I said, gathering up my things.

  Sunday, 2nd December – 30 weeks exactly

  It’s Dad’s birthday today. He would have been fifty-seven. I still light a candle for him on this day. I can’t find any today. I think all the Yankee Candles from the flat have gone into storage. Got to go out and buy one.

  Pregnancy continues to be a never-ending cavalcade of delights. Today it’s time for the listlessness and achy lower back symptoms to shine. Another crap night’s sleep and a kick-fest that went on for two and half hours.

  I had a dream about the fortune teller. She was on the clifftop outside the Well House. She had the baby in her arms and she was telling me to Go. That’s all she kept saying. Go. Go. Go. And then I was in the water. Awake but face down. And my body kept smashing into the rocks again and again.

  I don’t like going to sleep anymore. I don’t feel safe in my own head.

  I’m supposed to be starting antenatal classes this week. Two hours a week for the rest of my gestation. I’m supposed to be learning all about diet and exercise, breathing techniques, coping with labour, breastfeeding and aftercare, which hole it comes out of, that kind of thing. Pretty sure it’ll be a waste of time though. I can probably Google most of it.

  *

  I can’t do anything about the bad dreams or the achy lower back but I decided to do something about the listlessness. My walk into town this morning to buy a candle took me instead to the church. I decided to light a candle in there instead. The Sunday service had emptied out but two of the WOMBATs – Poll Potts and Bea Moore the Colossal Bore – lurked, tidying up the hymn books. I lingered near the children’s area at the back. The last time I’d got stuck talking to that interminable giblet Bea Moore on the coach to Cardiff, she’d bored my ear off about the picture book she was writing – Pip the Glow Worm and the No Fucking Hope of Getting Published Whatsoever. Elaine had told her I had written a book myself and worked in journalism so knew what I was talking about.

  The children’s art boards were better illustrated. Jesus’s face on paper plates. Interpretations of What God Looks Like on A4 card. Decorated paper puzzle pieces with the heading We are each a piece in God’s great plan with coloured-in lolly stick crosses decorating the edges.

  I headed towards the green-clothed altar, next to which stood a table with a display of lit tea lights, each one a memory of a passed loved one. I lit one for Dad.

  ‘Hello,’ said the vicar, a sweet-faced young man who appeared from the vestry like an apparition.

  ‘Sorry, is it all right to come in and light up?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s for my dad. It would have been his birthday today.’

  He nodded. ‘He’ll feel the warmth of its glow. You can be sure of that. Did you enjoy the service today?’

  ‘I didn’t go. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘I do like the Bible; I’ve been reading it.’

  He smiled. ‘Any particular passages?’

  ‘Yes lots.’

  I contemplated telling him about the ones I’d underlined but I thought better of it and went for the safer ‘I like Noah’s Ark’ option.

  ‘Yes that’s one of my favourites, too.’

  ‘Is it all right if I sit and talk to Him? He hasn’t clocked off, has he?’

  He laughed. ‘No, He’s always here for you.’

  Bea and Poll had finished – the hymn books all stacked neatly on the ends of the pews, the kneelers upright, the organ off, the flowers changed over. The dust had stilled, the air had cooled, and I was alone. I started up the central aisle towards the gold eagle lectern. I sat down in the front pew staring up at the saints on the three stained glass windows at the front of the church. The middle window was a mother and child. Mary and Jesus.

  ‘Dad?’ I said. ‘You might not even be up there – wherever “there” is – I don’t know. What do I do? I need signs. I know I’m probably going the other way when my time comes but if anyone can point me in the right direction now, it’s you. Keston says he can get me away from here but can I trust him? Where do I go? And… is there any point anyway? Does the world need me in
it? I don’t want to die. But at the same time, I don’t know how to live.’

  Silence. The window seemed to glitter in the morning light. The eagle lectern glared at me, all sharp and beaky.

  ‘Seren said I thought you were some kind of god. I think she was right. I worshipped you. I still do. You’re always in my dreams. You’re always the hand that pulls me out of the pit. The arms I fall into. The voice saying everything will be all right. You’re my Man in the Moon now. And I need a sign. Tell me what to do. Where do I go? Will the baby be all right?’

  I looked down at my kneeler – blank blue and scratchy. The kneeler next to it had a picture cross-stitched into the wool – a boat.

  Still the silence. The candle flickered in its holder.

  ‘Is that it?’ I said. ‘A boat? Is that supposed to mean something? Do I find the answer on a boat? Which boat?’

  More silence. The candle flickered again. Dust motes floated up as I patted the kneeler and checked underneath it for a written note or something, anything. ‘Technically that’s not my kneeler though. Mine’s blank. What am I supposed to read into that? Are you telling me I need to get on a boat? Can you be more specific please? Give me a definitive sign – do I find the answer on a boat or do I get on a boat? What does the boat mean?’

  The candle flickered. Then went out altogether, as I was looking at it. ‘Noah’s Ark, is it? You were agreeing with the vicar, were you?’

  The candle came back on. I blinked. I didn’t see that. That did not happen. ‘Dad? Are you fucking around with me or what?’

  *

  Elaine did us a nice roast for Sunday lunch – sweet potato pie for me but with all the trimmings. And then we had blueberry crumble (vile) and we all sat down to watch Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit. I didn’t even mind that they talked the whole way through it. I curled up with Tink on the sofa and nodded off thinking about what I’m going to get them for Christmas. I’m going to get Tink her usual – stocking full of treats and a few bulls’ cocks. I’m thinking of getting Jim and Elaine something substantial – like a holiday.

  Or a cruise maybe. I can hear the Man in the Moon laughing at me, somewhere beyond the clouds.

  Wednesday, 5th December – 30 weeks, 3 days

  1.People who give Baylis and Harding gift sets as presents.

  2.People who tell pregnant women that ‘if it’s a ten or eleven pounder, you’re going to struggle cos you’ve only got narrow hips’.

  3.People who constantly eyeball me for eating chocolate.

  4.People who say ‘your bump is huge but your breasts haven’t grown’.

  5.Elaine – who is responsible for the above listings.

  I decided to go round and see Marnie and Tim this evening. Thought I’d give the old Nazi the benefit of the doubt. Besides which, I just wanted to see my friend, even if she didn’t want to see me. I missed her smile and her smell. I missed her being in the room; her atmosphere, you know? You know that feeling when you want to be near someone? I bought the largest pizza they had on offer in Tesco, a bagged salad (I didn’t intend on eating any anyway) and a bottle of White Zinfandel – Marnie’s favourite.

  Tim opened the door.

  ‘Oh hey, Tim, how are you?’

  ‘Oh Rhiannon, hi,’ he said, buttoning up his white shirt. There were wet patches below his moobs. ‘Yeah good, thanks. How are you?’

  ‘Fine thanks. Sorry, I didn’t disturb you, did I?’

  ‘No, I just got out the shower. You okay?’

  ‘Well I was a bit bored actually. Thought I’d pop by and see how Marnie’s doing. I tried texting her but she’s not answering. Is she okay?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s fine.’ He pulled the door open a little wider and Marnie was standing at the end of the hallway in her leggings and vest, holding a sleeping Raphael against her shoulder.

  ‘Rhiannon? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Hiya. I just came to see how you were. I was saying to Tim that I haven’t been able to get you on your phone.’

  ‘Oh. Must have been switched off.’

  ‘For two weeks?’

  She looked at Tim. Tim looked at me. I looked at Tim, then her, then held up my carrier bag. ‘I brought pizza and dough balls?’

  ‘We were going to get a takeaway tonight weren’t we?’ she said, coming to the door to form a triple human barrier against my entry.

  ‘No need to now, is there?’ I said, practically barging them aside.

  ‘I’ll stick the oven on,’ said Tim.

  Marnie laughed. ‘Yeah, of course. Do you mind taking your shoes off? We’ve just had the carpets cleaned.’ She stood aside as I de-shoed and shuffled behind her and Tim into the kitchen.

  The first thing I noticed was the mess – there wasn’t any. At all. No leftover plates or mugs or crumbs, nothing. It was like a show-home kitchen with a bassinet in the corner by the French windows. All the utensils were perpendicular on the immaculate black granite worktops. The giant American fridge looked like it’d just come out of its box. Highly disturbing.

  ‘Are you selling up?’

  ‘No,’ said Tim, flicking the oven on. ‘Why d’you say that?’

  ‘It’s so tidy.’

  ‘That’s all me,’ he said. ‘Comes from my army days. I like things in their right places.’

  I handed Tim the pizza as Marnie took the wine from me and put it in the fridge. If there’s one place you can be messy in your house it’s the fridge, right? Not here. Top shelf jars, next dairy, next veg, then meat. All stacked. Labels outwards. No drips. No overhanging packets. Quite extraordinary.

  ‘Blimey.’

  ‘What?’ she said, turning to face me.

  ‘Your fridge is immaculate. Ours looks like a Jihadi’s gone off in it.’

  Neither of them spoke. I wondered if they had known someone killed in a bombing. Or if it was just a bad time. Or maybe it was that I was an uninvited guest. I saw it on Saved By the Bell once – Zac and Screech turned up at the muscly one’s house with a pizza and he was so pleased to see them. I thought Marnie would be pleased to see me. I don’t think she was.

  ‘Ribena?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, please.’

  She knew I was a murderer. Did Tim know as well now, hence the awks? Had they seen me coming up the drive? Had she already given Géricault a witness statement about Fuckboy Troy? Were they on their way to arrest me?

  ‘I’m sorry to turn up unannounced, Marnie, but like I said I couldn’t get an answer when I called.’

  ‘Oh?’ she said, making for her phone, charging on the sideboard. She clicked it on. ‘There’s no missed calls or anything. Must be a bad signal.’

  ‘I’ve sent texts too,’ I said. ‘And WhatsApped. They all delivered.’

  ‘Something wrong with it, Marn?’ asked Tim, unwrapping the dough balls from their plastic box.

  She frowned and clicked open her messages. ‘Nope, nothing here. Are you sure you’ve got my number, right?’

  The oven came up to temperature and Tim turned to put the pizza in. I mouthed Bullshit to Marnie – she looked away. She was skittish; her hand was shaking slightly as she poured me out a tumbler of Ribena. She diluted it, handed it to me and watched me drink.

  ‘Nice,’ I said, amidst all the awks. I stood there, half a glass to go. I could sense her watching me. Looking at the oven clock. Watching me again. ‘Am I on a timer or something?’

  She laughed. ‘God, no.’

  ‘So have you heard from the Pudding Club since the barbecue, Rhiannon?’ asked Tim, leaning back against the sink.

  ‘No, not at all. I don’t think I was cut out for that kind of crap anyway.’

  ‘What, barbecues?’

  ‘No, friends. Not those sorts of friends anyway. Too cliquey. And I didn’t agree with a lot their ideologies. Like, we’re supposed to be feminists and build up our sisters and support them come what may but what if your sister’s a cunt? What then? Do you just lie about it?’

  Tim cleared his throat and threw a
glance at Marnie as she rocked Raph in her arms, watching the rain pitter-pattering on the patio doors.

  ‘I always say less is more anyway. One good friend is worth a thousand acquaintances and all that.’

  The second my empty glass hit the sideboard, Marnie put Raph in the bassinet and walked over to wash it up. I don’t think the Ribena had hit my oesophagus before the glass was dry and back in its place in the cupboard.

  She and Tim both stood there, not offering any further conversation.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ I asked.

  Tim folded his arms. He seemed larger in this house than he had in Pin’s massive garden – like a bear at the mouth of an immaculately clean cave.

  ‘I’m not great with hints this is a bad time, isn’t it?’

  Tim turned to me. ‘Marnie told me all about Cardiff. And I don’t think you’re a good influence, Rhiannon. There, I said it to her face now. That make you happy?’ Marnie was suddenly crying like the tears had been hiding backstage and he had just torn down the curtain.

  ‘Told you what exactly?’

  ‘About you and her going out. Drinking all night, even though you’re six months pregnant and she’s breastfeeding. It’s disgusting. You encourage her.’

  ‘Encourage her?’

  ‘Marnie has a problem with drink.’

  ‘Yeah, she wants to drink and you won’t let her.’

  ‘No, this is all you,’ he snipped, pointing a stubby finger my way. ‘Anything could have happened to her in that state.’

  I turned my head slowly to Marnie. She had one hand on the bassinet, staring out into the garden.

  ‘I don’t want you seeing her anymore.’

  ‘Wow. Well, I’m shook, I don’t mind telling you, Tim.’

  ‘Shame on you. You are free to do whatever you want with your body but that baby isn’t. And nor is my wife.’

  ‘Your wife isn’t free to do what she wants with her own body?’

  ‘Of course she’s not. Not when it’s feeding our son.’

  I looked at his face the way Tink looks at me sometimes – tilting left to right. ‘What’s wrong with you, Tim?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’