Fish Tale (Cliffhanger Book 2)

by T. J. Middleton

I dropped to my knees and felt for the loose bricks. Funny, I thought I’d know where they were right away, but it took me a minute or two to find them, took me another couple to work them loose again, but out they came eventually. And there it was, Robin’s little scrabble set, wrapped up in one of Mr Singh’s Curry House Saturday-night-in bags. I lifted it out, blew the dust off, laid it out on the car roof, and opened it up. It was all there, the propelling pencil, the leather bag with the tiles in, the four shelves, the board with the little brass hinges, all good as new, even the score pad and the pocket dictionary. The dictionary hadn’t been with him on the mountaintop, but clearing out the camper-van before taking it back, I’d come across it still on the shelf, put it in the bag with the rest. The complete set. I had it all. I took up the score sheet, flicked through the pages. They were still there, all the games we played that summer, Robin’s handwriting neat and fussy, his winning score underlined each time, that last game too, not only underlined but finished off with a row of dirty great exclamation marks Audrey had added. I’d forgotten about that too. Well sod her. And sod Carol too. Talk about ungrateful. It would have never have worked, Carol marrying a cheat like that. I’d done her a favour. Without me she would have never ended up with Malcolm the Marsupial, never known the wonders of stuffing the Christmas turkey wearing a bikini. True she wouldn’t have had her leg bitten off two inches above the knee either, but that’s life isn’t it. You never know when it’s going to throw a shark at you.

  I packed it all back in, took it inside. I’d won that game fair and square. If he hadn’t done me out of it, things might have been different, but he couldn’t help himself. OK, it was wrong to take the scrabble set off him, but these things happen in the heat of the moment. Now it was out again I was buggered if I was going to hide it away again, Carol or no Carol. It was a special set, like the Citroën, there to be used. Being in prison makes you realise the value of things like that. Blind Lionel might be up for a game. Mrs Blackstock even. A couple of spliffs, a vodka or two to get the brain cells moving, why not? Could be a great evening.

  5

  I belled her, but she wasn’t in. Either that or she was contorting about on her mat. I called the lawyer, Mr Pritchard. Sixty-five grand was the Crown’s offer for my time in the nick. He was all for sticking out for more, but me, I was in the mood to take it and have done with it. I didn’t fancy them digging around too much. No knowing what they’d find. Sixty-five and a clean bill of health would set me up nicely.

  The second call I made was to Rump himself. He wasn’t expecting me.

  ‘Mr Greenwood. What can I do for you? No problem with your release I hope?’ He was nervous. Considering he was responsible for me going down for four years it wasn’t surprising.

  ‘No worries there, Inspector,’ I told him. ‘Everything went as smooth as prison porridge. But I was wondering if I could come and see you sometime. Unofficial like.’ I could hear the air being sucked through his teeth.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s advisable Mr Greenwood. If you have grievances, it’s best to go through official channels, though if you want my advice you should try to move on, not dwell on the past, however painful. We were all acting in good faith, I hope you realise that, even though we got the wrong man. Or should I say woman.’ He gave a little nervous laugh. I’d have been nervous too.

  ‘Well,’ said I, ‘what’s a few years knocked off one man’s life in the general scheme of things. At least I had my koi for company. And that’s what I want to talk to you about. It’s early days yet, but given there’s not a stain on my character, I thought a renewal of my club membership might be in order, perhaps without the obligatory fee, considering the circumstances. I mean, I’d only just enrolled when you banged me up in choky. Hardly value for money, I think you’d agree.’

  ‘You got the newsletter every month.’

  ‘And very informative it was too. I read it to Torvill and Dean most evenings. Still, I thought we could meet up, discuss that and other fish related matters. I’m sure a lot has happened in the last four years.’

  ‘You’re telling me. For instance, there have been some remarkable developments in the treatment of goitre lately. As for the membership– I’m sure when I put it to the committee…’

  He agreed to meet up the next day when he was off duty, at the Water Gardens outside Dorchester. There were some tropical ponds he wanted to look at, ‘get inspiration’ he said. Same old Rump. I went round to Alice Blackstock’s, dropped a cheque through her door, post dated for next month, with ‘fancy a game of scrabble?’ scribbled on the front of the envelope. She hadn’t asked for any money for the Citroën, but she was getting it anyway, fifteen grand. The car was worth probably four times that. Still, better fifteen grand and on the road, than mouldering away in some rat-infested lock-up and not getting a brass farthing. I gave it a wash and polish, soaping the roof and back, then the long sloping bonnet, my hand dropping down to the floor. I was trying not to think about it, but even that, my head looking down, arm and body following, it was like a message where I had to go, face the demon one more time. Four years it had been. It seemed like a lifetime.

  I only had the suit from prison but I went in it anyway, even though the day was already too hot for it. I took the short way round the back, like I did that afternoon. The rain had stopped and everything was wet and close, steam coming off the leaves and branches, like I was in some tropical Turkish bath. The path was less used that I remembered, slippery on the shoes too. There were times when I had to push my way through, the hedges were that overgrown, wet branches slapping me in the face, the front of my trousers looking like I’d just pissed myself. Seemed like no one had walked there since I’d done it last. Then I was over the stile, past the disused cattle troughs, and onto the steep run up to the pimple. The sky was clearing by then and as I reached the top the sun broke through, full and strong. I’d never been much for wittering on about how great it is living next to the sea. People who live and work there don’t, they just get on with it, but the closer I got, I could feel it, tearing into my gut like an ache that had been drugged to sleep, but was awake again. You don’t get that anywhere else save being near the sea, that cut in the air, that slap in the face, that pull on your bones. It almost hurt to breathe.

  Then I was there, looking down over that fresh green slope and the rolling mass beyond and the hole of empty sky in between. I took my jacket off, slung it over my shoulder. It was blue, the sea, more blue than I’d ever known it, deep and stirring slowly, like it was in bed and had just woken too. This was how it is, the sea, how it always is, waiting for someone, to wake them, take them in its arms. That’s how it was that Sunday afternoon, waiting for me, waiting for her, waiting for the little play to begin. That’s how it was now. Only it wasn’t quite the same as it had been. I suddenly realised the gorse bush was missing, the one I’d hid behind waiting for Audrey to show. Save for a tuft of thick grass it was like it had never been there. I started to laugh. If it been like this back then, all this would never have happened; not me, not Miranda, not Torvill, not Dean, not Audrey, and not the poor soul who fetched up here in her place.

  I moved down the edge, the rush of air coming up the cliff, hitting me in the face. I’d done this once before and it had nearly killed me. But I had to do it again, look down at what I’d done. The rocks hadn’t changed, though to the left of me part of the chalk had come away. Somewhere down there lay the bones of a woman I’d killed, not there exactly, but somewhere down the coast, for sure. Usually, the current drags them a few miles before they pop up in amongst the holidaymakers Durdle Door way, but not this baby. She’d stayed down on the sea floor, only crabs and lobsters for company. Up top, no one had missed her, like she’d never existed. I think that’s why I had to know. It didn’t seem right, that.

  I walked back to where the gorse bush had stood, crouched down, tried to picture it. Memory is a funny thing. They say if you want to remember something don’t think about it. It’ll jump back i
n your head when you least expect it. Well I’d been inside not thinking about it as best I could and nothing had jumped into my head. But now, standing there, I began to feel it again, that moment of waiting, me crouching down, hardly daring to look, seeing her loom into view, the yellow of her coat wavery through the rain and her head held up, screeching. I closed my eyes, trying to feel that mass of yellow, tried to feel it as I felt it that day, running up to her, that sound coming from her mouth – and yes, I could hear it a bit, buried somewhere deep inside. It wasn’t an ordinary cry, though what with the wind and the rain, that’s what I’d taken it for, no, it was more of a sound, like a name, or a chant, something that meant something to her. That’s why she had her arms out, ‘cause she was calling to it. But I couldn’t hear it yet. I just knew it was there. Perhaps it would jump into my head after all.

  When I got back, the bungalow felt really weird, hollow like it was a shell and I was loose inside it; empty fridge, empty larder, empty wardrobe, not even a pile of old newspapers or some crumpled beer cans to give it a bit of life. I fired up the Citroën and drove over to Dorchester. It was lovely, driving on my own, having that power in your hands once again. That’s what freedom is all about – to go anywhere, just like that. It was a different sort of motor from the Vanden Plas. The Vanden Plas was a business car, for people with plums in their mouth to sit in the back and look down their noses at what they saw outside. The Citroën liked people. It wanted to give you a good time. It had more heart, more pep, more spunk. Alice was right about it. As soon as you switched the engine on and watched its head come up, you knew what it wanted to do. You wanted to do it too.

  I parked up in the town centre, went shopping. It was just as well Audrey had thrown all my old stuff out. None of it would have fitted, I was that much thinner. I bought a couple of suits, one dark, one light and a black wool jacket. I got a pile of shirts, (white mostly) short sleeves, long sleeves, and half a dozen white T-shirts. I felt like wearing white, like I was a virgin bride, all young and fresh, looking at the world anew. I bought a smart pair of shoes too, casual with tassels, sneakers too. I could feel the bounce in me. I popped into a travel agents, took an armful of brochures, cruises in the main. I’d be able to afford one soon, first class cabin, place at the captain’s table, all that crumpet waiting to be buttered. On the way back I pulled into the all night supermarket, filled the trolley up like it was Christmas, proper butter, proper coffee, proper thick-cut marmalade, things I hadn’t tasted in years. I was never going to eat crap again.

  Back in the bungalow I set it all out. It was a good feeling, stocking up the cupboards, hanging the clothes in the walk-in. I stripped, chucked the suit I’d been released in into the waste bin, took a long soak in the bath, looking down at myself, proud and free. I shaved with the new shaving brush and razor I’d bought, slapped on the aftershave. I tore off the cellophane, pulled on a fresh pair of white socks, wandered about like that just for the feel of it, wriggling my toes. I felt fabulous, like I was young and hard again, ready to fuck for England. I pulled on the matching boxers and opened up a can of tinned peaches. I sat down on the sofabed, put my feet on the table and drank the juice. The scrabble set lay on the table. Torvill was watching me.

  ‘Well,’ I told her, ‘if Alice doesn’t call, I’ll guess I’ll have to play with myself,’ and opened up the box. I pulled my hand in the bag, let the tiles run through my fingers. They sounded like pebbles on a beach. I thought about taking my trunks off, play a game in the nude, toss myself off. I could do that now, walk around the place with nothing on, jerk off over the carpet. I could pack a bag, drive all night to the Peak District, jerk off there if I wanted. I could do anything I wanted to. The doorbell rang. I put the bag down, went to the door. I could see the shape all squiggly through the glass. No one I could recognise. For a moment I thought it might be Alice Blackstock come to take me up on my offer. All the years I’d known her I’d hardly ever spoken to over the phone. I don’t think she liked them. I opened the door. It wasn’t Alice Blackstock.

  ‘Mrs Rump. This is an unexpected provocation. I suppose you want to come in.’

  ‘You might want to put on some clothes.’

  ‘Might I?’

  I stood aside.

  She walked in. She was wearing a blue-green two piece, a white hat, a white handbag and an attitude, like she was inspecting an army barracks. She had white gloves on too. It’s unusual in a woman, that sort of get-up, this neck of the woods. I half expected her to run her finger along the windowsill to check for dirt. Kitchen, conservatory, master bedroom, she went through them all without saying a word, me following like a mongrel tail on a pedigree dog. There was pleasure in it though, following those taut legs on patrol. For her too, I thought. We ended up in the living room. I left for a minute, slipped on some clothes. When I came back she was standing by the mantelpiece. Her suit matched the colour of Torvill’s highlights. She brushed her hands together.

  ‘So this is the infamous bungalow,’ she said. ‘Where it all happened.’

  ‘Where what all happened?’

  ‘You and Audrey, Mr Greenwood. Without you, without this bungalow, there would not be the Audrey who broke into my life. You two have a lot to answer for.’

  ‘It’s just a bungalow.’

  ‘We have bungalows in South Africa, but they’re much freer than this, open plan living, spacious patios, covered timber areas merging into the trees outdoors. They are more symbiotic with nature.’

  ‘I’m a four wall man myself. Four walls, double glazing and a door with a combination deadlock on it. I’m thinking of taking a leaf out of Audrey’s book too, wiring the doorbell up to the mains, electrifying the fence. I like to keep stuff out. ’

  ‘I know that. I knew that the moment I set eyes on you. You’re one big bag of working class repression Mr Greenwood, with the string drawn tight. What’s that?’

  She pointed down. I should have left it where it was. Too late now.

  ‘It’s a travelling scrabble set.’

  ‘I’d have never put you down as a scrabble fanatic.’

  ‘Four years inside, you take all the distractions you can get. As a matter of fact, I’m quite good at it.’

  ‘And you made this little set. Quite the handyman.’

  ‘Yes, well, it passed the time.’

  Her fingers brushed lightly against the box. It was almost indecent, her touching it like that.

  ‘I like a good game myself,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you might.’

  ‘Threesomes, foursomes, head to heads set against the clock. Have you ever played filthy scrabble?’

  ‘How do you play that?’

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious. When you can, you use swear words, rude words, anything that you wouldn’t say in polite society. You can use ordinary when there’s no obscenity available, but then you only get ordinary points. Smut and you get double the score. Audrey and I used to play it all the time. Lent a bit of spice to the evening.’

  We stared at the set. I could imagine some of those words lined up already.

  ‘Well, this is all very interesting, but what do you want? I’m a busy man. I’ve lawyers to consult, guard dogs to buy…’

  ‘Games to play.’

  ‘Very possibly. I’m thinking of becoming an artist, did you know? I have a natural talent for form and spatial awareness. You still haven’t answered my question. What do you want?’

  ‘It’s not exactly a question of what I want Mr Greenwood. It’s more a question of what we both want. You want something. I want something.’

  ‘Oh? And what do I want, apart from the obvious?’ She put her hands together like she was praying.

  ‘You want to know who you pushed off the cliff that Sunday afternoon. All this business of telling everyone it was me you pushed off. It wasn’t all nonsense was it?’

  She stood there, staring at me hard, her eyes open, fixed on mine, like a dare. I strayed to her mouth, wondering what else
was inside.

  ‘Of course it was. I was in prison for something I didn’t do. I was just trying to get your husband to take notice of me, trying to get him to take another look at Audrey. If your husband thought I’d been busy killing you, I couldn’t very well have killed Miranda too, could I? I knew Audrey had done it, but no one would believe me.’

  She walked to the window. It’s funny sometimes, how you can tell what someone’s going to say by the way they hold themselves. She turned, twisting the upper half of her torso back to me, like the answer to a question mark. She had it all choreographed.

  ‘Yes, that’s what you say now, now you’re out of prison. But you know what? That’s exactly what you thought had happened. I think you were convinced you had pushed me off.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘From the way you looked at me that first time we met. It wasn’t just surprise on your face, Mr Greenwood. It was absolute shock, shock at four years of solid certainty being blown away. I could see it all. You were thinking, either she’s a very good swimmer, which by the way I am, or it hadn’t been her after all. You suddenly realised you’d pushed off someone else. And now, as a free man, you want to know who.’

  ‘Why would I want that?’

  ‘Because man is an inquisitive animal and contrary to what Audrey says, you’re human.’

  She sat down, crossed her legs, put a hand on the armrest, looked up at me with that smile again. Her lipstick was the colour of dried blood. It felt like mine. I didn’t know how to play this one. Deny it? Play along with it? Was this her doing or could I detect the dead hand of the ex at the back of it?

  ‘You said I wanted something and you wanted something. I haven’t heard what you want yet.’

  ‘Later. First I want dinner, Mr Greenwood, a drink now and a decent piece of meat to follow. We could talk here but I’d prefer to continue our discussion somewhere a little more public. After all, I might not be safe here.’