Fish Tale (Cliffhanger Book 2)

by T. J. Middleton

  FISH TALE

  T.J. Middleton

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  1

  ‘You got a visitor,’ Bernie the screw said. It was three thirty in the afternoon. I’d just settled down to Channel 4 with a cup of tea and a biscuit.

  ‘There’s a western on,’ I complained. ‘Randolph Scott has just been pulled off his horse.’

  ‘Visitors, to be precise,’ he said. ‘Women. Two of them.’

  I hadn’t had a woman visitor in about three and a half years, not since my neighbour Mrs Poke Nose had turned up with a slice of macrobiotic Christmas cake and a bootleg of a Leonard Cohen concert in Cologne, 1988. Bernie had confiscated both. The CD was against the law, he said, and the cake ought to be. Two women? Hallelujah.

  I spat on my comb and walked down to the visiting room, checking my flies. Presentation is three quarters of the battle don’t you think? I needn’t have bothered. Audrey was sitting on one of the little blue plastic chairs, elbows on the table, hands clasped together, a packet of fags lying underneath. Woman number two was sat a little ways behind, like she was there semi-official, a little notebook sitting on her lap. There was something about her that stirred the inner me. Nothing I could put my finger on, but she caught my eye, and a bit more besides. She had a dark suit on, well cut, like a lawyer might wear, with short-cropped hair, and lips like a goat, all ready to nibble. Picture a young, thoughtful, Mia Farrow chomping on a bunch of thistles, you’ll get the picture.

  Audrey looked different from when I’d last clapped eyes on her. The Audrey I’d known and loved had hair the colour of a badly drained pond, sort of indistinguishable murky with the hint of something nasty lurking underneath. This Audrey had hair dyed bright yellow, and stuck up in the air all spiky, as if someone had shoved her tongue in a light socket. She was wearing big, red-framed glasses like Elton John wears when he wants a bit of peace and quiet, and her blue trouser suit looked suspiciously stylish. I didn’t like to admit it but she looked good, in a mad, I-don’t-care-what-you-of-me think sort of way. If I hadn’t known what she’d done, I might have even fancied her.

  I sat down, helped myself to one of her fags.

  ‘You’re taking a bit of a risk, aren’t you,’ I said, as she leant over with the matches. ‘By rights I should be half way across this table, with my hands round your throat.’

  ‘You’d be in for a surprise if you did.’ She patted the place where her stomach had once taken residence. That occupant had long gone. In its place was a layer of muscle that gave the buttons on her white blouse hardly any grief at all. I looked down.

  ‘Those legs,’ I said. ‘Are they your own?’

  ‘Those legs Al, cycle a fifteen miles a day, ten of them uphill. Any funny business and they’ll squirt your guts clean across this room. So come on, have a go, why don’t you?’

  She leant back. Miss Farrow pursed her lips into something resembling distaste.

  ‘Ms Cutlass has something to tell you,’ she said. She had a voice like a freshly clipped hedge, all prim and proper, something to keep the neighbours out.

  ‘Miss who?’ I said.

  ‘I’ve changed my name,’ Audrey said, proud of it. ‘I’ve taken my family’s name.’

  ‘Her mother’s family name,’ Miss Farrow butted in. ‘She’s Audrey Cutlass now.’ She seemed proud of it too. She hadn’t spoken but a dozen words and already she was beginning to grate. I turned on her.

  ‘Excuse me for asking,’ I said, as politely as four years banged up in the nick can muster. ‘But have we met? ’

  She sat back, brushed the top of her knees with a satisfying sweep of her hands. She had nice knees, nice legs too and she’d made sure they were all on show. Women do that to men in prison. It’s their way of getting their own back.

  ‘I’m her legal adviser,’ she said. ‘Amongst other things.’ Her lips tried a smile but thought better of it. I turned back to the ex.

  ‘Don’t tell me. You want to annul the divorce.’

  Audrey tapped the table with her wedding finger. There was a ring on it, but it wasn’t mine.

  ‘I’ve something to tell you.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I’ve made an appointment to see Adam tomorrow. Official.’

  ‘Adam?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Rump?’

  ‘Oh him. Still keen on his fish is he?’ Goat-woman snorted like she’d got a lump of thistle stuck up her nose. She must be some sort of brief, I thought. Probably saw Rump every week. Audrey tapped her forehead like she did when she was angry. Some things never change.

  ‘Jesus Al, four years in prison and you’re still bleating on about fish. I don’t know. It’s not at the top of my agenda surprisingly enough, Rump’s personal life. He’s still at Dorchester nick though, thoroughly pissed off by all accounts. Thinks he never got the promotion he deserved.’

  Now it was my turn to snort.

  ‘That because he doesn’t deserve any,’ I said. ‘He’s the reason I’m here, apart from you. It’s one thing to take the rap for something you’ve done, it’s quite another to…God, Audrey you got a nerve.’ I choked to a stop. I could feel it welling up inside of me. Audrey held up her hand.

  ‘Enough of that. I’m putting things to right Al. I’ve had four years of freedom, underserved I know, though I can’t pretend I haven’t enjoyed every single minute of it.’ She looked over. The young Farrow put her hand on Audrey’s thigh, gave it a squeeze. I’d only been allowed to do that on a Friday night, after a session at Mr Singh’s curry house. But then I never painted my nails bright green and orange.

  ‘You mean…’ I couldn’t finish the words. Audrey raised her face to me. There were tears in her eyes. Miss Farrow ran a finger inside her notebook.

  ‘Miss Cutlass is willing to make a full confession; the car ride, the unfortunate contretemps, the accidental demise of Miss Grogan, how…’ she paused.

  ‘How I got rid of the body…’Audrey added. Her companion held up her hand.

  ‘Audrey please.’ She ploughed on. ‘How she diverted attention onto you, when her mental faculties were distorted by the pressure of what she had inadvertently done.’

  ‘Inadvertently? She bashed her head in with a rock.’

  ‘A stationary rock Mr Greenwood, a rock that was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The point is…’

  ‘The point is she killed her and I didn’t.’

  ‘The point is, after her confession, if all goes to plan, you should be out of here in approximately two months, without a visible stain on your character.’ She sniffed. ‘Quite an achievement, considering your past behaviour.’

  She sat back, drummed her fingers on her notebook. If I’d had a notebook I’d have drummed my fingers too. There was quite a lot to drum about.

  Here’s the thing.

  Four years ago I’d been living in this fishing village in darkest Dorset; pretty as a picture yet colonized by as mean a bunch of rustics as you’d find anywhere south of Wormwood Scrubs. I ran the local taxi outfit. It had been Audrey’s dad’s, but on his death I took it over. Married the daughter, inherited the business. Well, it made sense at the time. It was a good little business, what with the nearby gunnery range and the summer tourist trade. The Vanden Plas we had was a lovely car, all walnut and real leather and a feel to it that made you want to wave to people outside, like you was a King. Even so, there’s only so much mindless chatter a man can take, however good the upholstery. I grew restless. I wanted more out of life. Audrey was getting on my nerves too – how she walked into a roo
m, how she ate her food, her habit of sitting in the conservatory every afternoon flipping through her magazines as if there was nothing there, either on the page or between her ears; it was all getting on top of me, like there was no room for me to breathe. Maybe it was where we lived. I mean bungalows can do that to a man, but it was more than that. The whole village was like that, small and pointless and going nowhere. It was like sucking on a boiled sweet that never finished. Whatever you did, however hard you might try, it was always there, cluttering up your mouth. It was like that nightmare I used to have as a kiddie, when the bed blanket would rise up and roll slowly towards me, wave after wave, trying to suffocate me. I used to wake up screaming, and Mum would have to rush into my room and stroke my head till I calmed down. Only Mum had long gone, and the blanket had been replaced by a duvet and all the screaming I did was in my head. But I was being smothered, no mistake. I had to get out, out of the business, out of my marriage, out of my poxy, boxy life. It was that or end up a dead man. So first things first; get rid of Audrey, sell up Vanden Plas and up sticks to pastures new. Here was the plan:

  1. Have irreconcilable argument with Audrey, thus ensuring…

  2. Audrey storms off to vent her feelings up on the three hundred-foot high cliffs half a mile away, while I…

  3. Scuttle unseen round back path and…

  4. Hide behind strategically placed gorse bush up at cliff-top edge, before…

  5. Pushing Audrey off cliff when she finally arrives, thus ensuring…

  6. Exultant return to bungalow and a resultant stress-free rest of life.

  Sounded OK to me. Probably sounds OK to you. Here’s what happened.

  1. Had irreconcilable argument with Audrey, thus ensuring…

  2. Audrey stormed off to vent her feelings up on the three hundred-foot high cliffs half a mile away, while I…

  3. Scuttled unseen round back path and…

  4. Hid behind strategically placed gorse bush up at cliff-top edge before…

  5. Pushing Audrey off cliff when she finally arrives, thus ensuring…

  6. Exultant return to bungalow only to find Audrey sitting by fire three- quarters naked, drying her hair, with a couple of hot toddies and bottle of bubbly by her side.

  ‘There you are,’ she’d said. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to. Get those wet things off of you. Stretch out.’

  At first I thought she might be a ghost, Audrey come back to haunt me, the way her dressing gown fell open, her flesh all hot and splotchy underneath, that horrible grin on her face, but ghosts don’t do what Audrey did, not three times in twenty eight minutes, and then some. Something had gone horribly wrong.

  I’ll tell you what it was. It had been filthy weather that weekend and Audrey had gone out wearing one of those bright yellow oilskins like what the coastguards wear. Nothing wrong with that. That’s what she had, hanging up by the front door. That’s what half the village had, hanging up by the front door. Well they would wouldn’t they, being a fishing community. Fishing communities wear oilskins, northerners wear flat caps and the Welsh hop around in clogs. Needless to say that the woman who turned up at the cliff top had been wearing a bright yellow oilskin too. Consequently it must have been Audrey. That was my first mistake. Seemed everyone was out modelling yellow oilskins that day. I’d pushed off the wrong woman.

  It got worse. I had two daughters, one legit, name of Carol, who’d fucked off to Australia at the earliest opportunity with Malcolm the Marsupial, and another, of the illicit variety, who lived with her ‘dad’ not a quarter of a mile away from us, who I saw nearly every day. Miranda was her name, Miranda, the best thing that never happened to me. I’d known she was mine the moment I clapped eyes on her, her mother did too, but we’d kept the lid on that particular can of sperm from day one. We was responsible, see, doing what was best for her, what was best for all of us. Didn’t half hurt though, seeing Miranda grow up, turning into the beauty she was. Only small towns can produce women like Miranda, only small towns are desperate enough, sparrows trying to hold down a swan. She was like me, see, full of it, wanting more. She felt trapped like me, wanted to spread those wings, fly away. Anyway the day after I tried to push Audrey off the cliff, I found out that Miranda had gone missing that very same afternoon, and yes, she’d been wearing a yellow oilskin too. And I knew, as soon as I was told, that I’d done it, killed my own daughter, the only woman apart from mum I’d ever loved, pushed her off a cliff, her life tumbling out before her. How terrible is that? That her own dad should have done such a thing.

  I had, what, three weeks of it, me acting strange, Audrey acting stranger, my whole world going belly-up. And yet the funny thing was, despite it all, Audrey and me started getting on for the first time in years. It was almost as if we was sharing something that neither of us could quite put our finger on, but it was in everything we did. The heavens were caving in and Audrey and I were breaking free. There was something out there, lying just out of reach. If we could get hold of it…

  And then, the heavens did cave in, more than I ever thought possible. I didn’t push Miranda off the cliff, I couldn’t have. For while I was up on the cliff, hiding behind the holly bush, waiting for Audrey to turn up, Audrey had been behind the wheel of the Vanden Plas taking Miranda to the railway station. Miranda was going to start a new life with this army dentist she’d been having a fling with, run off with him, leave it all behind and sod the lot of us. Only she never got there, for not a mile down the road Audrey had hauled her out the car and smashed her head in with a rock, smashed her head in and dumped her body out on the army firing range, where it was blown to pieces by the tanks, blown to pieces while Audrey and me were at it like knives on that rug by the fire.

  Audrey was clever with it too. Made it look like I’d killed her, left Miranda’s oilskin in the boot of the Vanden Plas, stuffed one of her shoes under the bed, planted Miranda’s best bra behind the cupboard where I kept the fish meal. And I thought I was meant to be the piece of work.

  She was clever, but it wasn’t foolproof, that is not until Rump turned up in search of her. He was the detective in charge, only being something of a fish fancier, he was more interested in the carp in my pond than finding out what had happened to my girl. Wonderful they were, my two Asagis, blue and lovely, moved together like a floating dream. After Miranda, those fish meant more to me than anything in the world, and unlike Miranda I could see them, talk to them, touch them even, any time I wanted. Torvill and Dean were their names and they deserved a gold medal every time they flipped their fins. Rump couldn’t take his eyes off them, which was all right when it came to pulling the wool over his eyes as far as yours truly was concerned and what I’d done up on the cliff, but far from all right when it came to nailing Audrey for killing Miranda. And it wasn’t just the fish. Rump was extra unhinged on account of his wife had just run out on him. She’d left him a note on the mantelpiece saying that as he loved his fish more than her, she was high-tailing it back to South Africa. How inconsiderate was that? As he said, leading me away to the police car, who’d be there to feed the fish when he was at work? Told me another thing as well. That she’d been up on the cliff-top that same Sunday when I was hiding up there, saying goodbye to it, and yes, you’ve guessed it, she’d been wearing a yellow oilskin too.

  Saying goodbye to it all? He didn’t know the half of it. I’d pushed a copper’s wife off the cliff instead of my own. Village life eh? You can’t beat it.

  It was a relief in a way, knowing who I’d killed. It gave me what they now call closure. And the beauty of it was, no one knew I’d done it. I had got away with it, albeit with the wrong woman. The trouble was I facing trial, for killing my own daughter. What defence could I have? I didn’t have one. I just sat there, hoping against hope, that the jury would see by my face, that I couldn’t have done what they said I’d did, that Audrey had done it. God, I shouted it out enough times, but they took not a blind bit of notice. I got sent down for twenty-five years and Audrey got the t
axi business and twenty grand from selling her story to the papers. Twenty-five years, fifteen if I behaved myself. I thought I could take it but I couldn’t. Banged up in prison it just got to me. Audrey was getting away with it, getting away with killing the one person I’d really loved. So about a year in I asked to see the police again. I told them everything, that I couldn’t have killed Miranda ‘cause I was up on the Beacon pushing off Mrs Rump, laid it in the interview room for all to see, the meat, the two veg and the lumpy gravy, but no one would believe me, least of all Inspector Rump. As far as he was concerned his wife was still living ex-communicado somewhere over the rainbow nation, and that was that. ‘I never want to hear from you ever again’ she had writ, and that was good enough for him.

  It made life hard inside, everyone thinking I’d done in my own daughter. It’s not a popular thing to do amongst the criminal fraternity. It didn’t do any good telling them I hadn’t done it. They didn’t want to know either. I’d have never harmed Miranda, not in a million years. She was magic. But she was dead, and the woman who had killed her was sitting in front of me. One of the reasons why I didn’t like her much.

  ‘Forgive me for asking, but why now?’ I said. Audrey brushed the front of her jacket, head down. She couldn’t look at me.

  ‘She had an epiphany,’ Miss Farrow said. She caught my look. ‘A moment.’

  ‘A moment?’

  ‘Bungee jumping.’

  ‘Bungee jumping?’

  She clucked her tongue.

  ‘There’s no need to repeat everything I say, Mr Greenwood. If you’d just listen.’ Audrey reached across, touched young Farrow’s arm.

  ‘It’s all right Michaela. I’ll tell him.’ She put her hand back on the table. Michaela eh? Now where had I heard that name before?

  ‘We were doing a bungee jump, me and Michaela here, off this suspension bridge over this gorge. You went right down, touched the water with your hand and zoomed back up. You know I have always had a head for heights. Those walks I used to do up on the cliff remember? It looked so wonderful, the water gushing below, the cliffs, the huge space. Standing on those cliffs back home, I always had that urge, you know to jump, to feel what it must be like, and then, with Michaela there with me, I had the chance.’