Fish Tale (Cliffhanger Book 2)

by T. J. Middleton

  I’d been counting on that money. It would have given me a bit of time to sort myself out. First Audrey taking my mum’s bungalow away from me, and now this. It was beginning to slip through my fingers. Made Michaela’s scam a little more tempting, made my fish sculptures more important too.

  I’d been worried that seeing it again in broad daylight, it wouldn’t look as good as it had when we’d finished, sitting there, taking it all in, munching on vodka-tipped Toblerone, but you know what, when I got back and went outside, that fish looked even better. It was as if overnight it had become its real self, like one of those fairy tales my mum used to read me as a kiddie, everything coming to life when the house was all asleep. It was like my wooden koi had woken up, gone for a quick dip in the pond while no one was looking and was now back on its perch, all happy and contented, busy being a fish.

  Alice had told me not to put this one out on show, but frankly I couldn’t see why not. Why go to all the trouble of sculpting and painting something, if you weren’t going to flog it off for as much as possible? Testing the market, dipping your toe in and all that. I mean Damien didn’t hold back did he? Besides, it was a good fish, a talking point to put in anybody’s patio or dining room, that is if you had a table big enough. I pulled out the old portable barbecue, banged him on top, and wheeled them out, so that they stood on the left, just inside the front gate. Then I had a brainwave. I picked up Pat Fowler’s estate agency sign, blanked out all his Makes Yours A Happy Home rubbish with some left over white paint, wrote my own words over instead and stuck it in the grass behind the koi. The sign now read:

  For Sale

  One honestly priced fish

  £250

  I stood outside on the road, giving it the once over. He looked bloody good to my mind, full of oomph, despite his stomach, but it needed something else. Underneath the price I added in capitals ALL ARTISTS OWN WORK, just to call attention to the fact that unlike TH (Twerp Hirst) I didn’t have anybody else to do the job for me. I know, I know, old Alice helped me out with the patterns and that, but you get what I mean. I was back on the road, checking the spelling when this couple come towards me. Holidaymakers, two days in judging by their blotchy skin colour. She had baggy khaki shorts and a green top, thin shoulder straps over freckled shoulders. He was wearing one of those poncy pink yachting shirts, la-di-da white trousers, his hands in his pockets, like he was doing us all a big favour being here. He had a rolled up newspaper under his arm. She was carrying a book. I never understood the need for that, reading on the beach. For one thing beaches aren’t built for it. Either you’re on your back, holding the book above you, squinting at the sun, or you’re forced to lie on your stomach and prop yourself up on your elbows, both positions dead uncomfortable on the arms. You could hire a sun-lounger, and sit in a straight line along with all the other prats, looking like undressed golfers in a hospital ward, but then you might as well give up living altogether and go home and shoot yourself and make the world a better place for the rest of us to live in. What’s more you’re ignoring the three main reasons for being on the beach in the first place, namely: 1. Sleeping off the night before. 2. Getting a tan and 3. Eyeing up the talent on offer, who, like you, are firmly engaged in numbers one and two. Full time occupations I think you’ll agree.

  He came up alongside me, looked at it. He started nodding his head. The fish was speaking to him. I could hear him too.

  ‘It’s very true that,’ he said after a bit.

  ‘What is?’ He pointed to the notice.

  ‘That all artists own their own work. No matter what happens to it, they never really let go. It’s part of them. Are you the artist in question here?’

  I nearly said yes, but I caught him looking at me out of the corner of his eye, weighing me up. He didn’t think I would have it in me, being an artist, I could tell. Anything I did couldn’t be any good. He’d tip me well enough, if I was driving him every Thursday afternoon to knock off his fancy piece, but he wouldn’t hand over proper money for something like this. Not to me. I didn’t look the part, not by his account.

  ‘What me? Not on your life. I’m just his dealer. The artist’s name is Blind Lionel, formerly Wool’s foremost unisex barber. Remarkable isn’t it.’ The woman gave a little murmur of approval.

  ‘Is he completely blind?’

  ‘That depends. When he’s cutting hair or lumps of wood like the one in front of you, he has this sixth sense, this spatial awareness in him which seems to guide him. He can see the shape of the fish, the shape of the head, even though he can’t. His hands just follow, like a laser beam. Chainsaw, pair of scissors, makes no difference. Otherwise, he’s as blind as his stick’s white.’

  ‘Fascinating. And is this the only sculpture on show?’

  ‘At the moment. It’s been difficult for him to meet the demand this season. But I’m confident he’ll have a couple more ready by the end of the week. He specialises in koi and sharks, but he’s very happy to sculpt other fish if you have a preference. Mullet, gudgeon, he knows them all. If you buy two he’ll throw in a free haircut as well.’

  I moved away. They muttered amongst themselves, thanked me, and walked off. Fucking peasants. Still, getting Blind Lionel to front it wasn’t such a bad idea. He’d be up for it, if it meant money in his pocket. There’s nothing he liked better than using his affliction to get the better of folk. Also, I might not have made a sale, but they were right about one thing. I should have more than just this one. I should have a collection. A shoal if you like.

  Alice wasn’t around, but I didn’t need her this time. I didn’t need anyone. I stood the next block of wood on the wall and started in, making sure this one was thinner, longer, more curves to her. I sanded her down too, gave her a smoother surface when you touched her, just in case one of the punters wanted to cop a feel. They do that sort of thing if they can, art lovers, have a bit of a fondle. Bumps, shafts, Henry Moore’s holes, they can’t keep their hands to themselves. The function of the tactile imperative, Miss Prosser called it, though I think we all know where they’re really coming from. Still, if that’s what they want, I thought I might as well make it as pleasurable for them as I could. Running my hands over that first one had been a bit like stroking Audrey’s legs without my driving gloves on. It took me into the afternoon to do it, but so what. By the end of it I had a possible five hundred quid’s worth of artwork under my belt. And that was just the beginning. Two of these a day at two hundred and fifty quid a throw, would mean three and a half grand a week, fourteen thousand a month, Christ knows how much a year. Fuck the Compensation Board. At that rate I’d make them one for free. I could see now why Hirst had a troupe of underlings belting them out. I mean if there was demand for it, it would be hard for one man to do it all, and crazy not to try and cash in. Maybe he weren’t such a twerp after all.

  It was as I was sweeping up the shavings that I saw the hire car pull in, Carol yakking away on her mobile. I went inside, had a quick wash, changed my shirt. By the time she walked in I was waiting for her in the living room, a bottle of white wine and a jumbo packet of curry-flavoured crisps out on the magazine table. I was determined to make a go of it, Carol and me.

  ‘Carol, sweetheart. I was wondering when you’d turn up. How did the evening go?’ She flung her bag down. There were rings round her eyes.

  ‘It didn’t.’

  ‘That’s a shame. What you done to the hat?’ Michaela’s pink pillbox had a green great stain on the front.

  ‘It fell in the soup.’

  ‘Jesus, she won’t like that.’

  ‘Who won’t like it? She glared at me. I had to watch it with her.

  ‘Mrs Bowles, the previous tenant. I had a phone call from her. Had I found a hat? Didn’t tell her you’d taken it on a girl’s night out. So, Dorchester a bit of a wash out then.’

  ‘I didn’t go to Dorchester, Dad. I went up north, to see Neville Forster. Remember him?’

  Christ, only a few days away from Malcolm the M
arsupial and she was already digging up old boyfriends. I mean wouldn’t it be better to get someone fresh? Neville Forster? It rang a bell.

  ‘Was he the bald Kiwi with the twelve toes poking out his sandals?’

  ‘No, Dad. He was the Detective Sergeant who interviewed you about Robin’s death. Remember him now? He remembers you. Very well.’

  I remembered him now. Noisy, short-haired little prick, reminded me of a Jack Russell, stunted and snappy and full of his own self-importance.

  ‘Apparently he was very interested in a bruise they found round Robin’s neck,’ Carol was saying. ‘He questioned you about it, nearly a whole day he said. You told us it was all the legal paperwork you had to go through that had kept you there.’

  ‘Paper, questions, it was a long time ago Carol.’

  He’d been a persistent little tyke, walking round me in the interview room, asking me questions from all angles, sniffing me out, barking into my ear, like I was going to jump up on the chair and tell all. The bruise wasn’t the only thing. Apparently the three walkers that had overtaken us that afternoon had sensed an ‘atmosphere’ between me and Robin straight away. One of them, the woman natch, had told him that as they passed us going up one of the steepest parts, in reply to her call to ‘break a leg,’ a form of jocular encouragement she insisted, she had heard me mutter, ‘why not a bleeding neck while you’re at it?’ What did I mean by it, Forster kept asking. I’d shrugged my shoulders. Did I say that? Not that I remembered. I might have thought it, but I’d have hardly said it out loud, would I?

  Carol hadn’t finished.

  ‘The thing about the bruise, he said, was that it wasn’t like a bruise from a blow, but a band of broken blood vessels, running from the right hand side of the back of his neck round to his Adam’s apple. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought Robin might have been in some sort of headlock.’

  I nodded. Made sense to me.

  ‘Well perhaps he had.’

  ‘What, is this something else you forgot to tell me about, that you were strolling along, the two of you, all sweetness and light, and then decided to have a friendly spot of wrestling when you got to the top?’

  ‘I mean there’s headlocks and headlocks, Carol. You were quite frisky the night before, pardon me for saying. We could hear it at the other end, like it was in Dolby stereo, you more than him I’m sorry to say. Ask your mother on your first prison visit if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting.’

  ‘I’m not. What you did on the other side of the curtain is your business. All I’m saying is I’m not the only one who might have had intimate congress with Robin’s neck the previous twenty-four hours.’

  ‘So you might have then?’

  ‘Might have what.’

  ‘Had him in a headlock.’

  ‘Why would I have had Robin in a headlock?’

  ‘Because you were going to run him off the edge.’

  ‘Here we go again. How many more times have I got to tell you. I didn’t lay a finger on him. Is that all this Forster chappy had to say. Cause if it was, you had a wasted trip sweetheart.’

  ‘It wasn’t all, no. He told me something none of us knew, something they held back. They do that as a matter of course apparently, to see if anybody knows something they shouldn’t.’ She had that look on her face, all triumphant, just like Audrey had that time she’d checked the mileage on the Vanden Plas and found out that I hadn’t driven to Bristol and back that particular evening at all.

  ‘What was that then?’

  ‘Actually he didn’t just tell me something, Dad. He showed me something, something Robin had on him. You’ll never guess what.’

  ‘Carol. I’m tired of all this.’

  ‘Go on try.’

  ‘I don’t know. What? His mobile phone? Another bloody letter to his mother?’

  Carol opened up her palm. A little mahogany square with a metal stud in the middle lay tucked inside, no bigger than my thumbnail. I recognised it right away.

  ‘They found it clenched in his hand. You know what it is, don’t you?’ I peered at it, heart thumping so hard I was certain she must have heard it.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Of course you do. It’s a scrabble tile, you know, one from Robin’s travelling set. Guess what letter it is?’

  ‘Carol. I’ve had enough of this.’

  ‘A. The letter A.’

  She turned it over. I couldn’t believe it. All this time and I’d been playing his poxy set with one letter short. It may not sound much but that sort of thing matters to us scrabble players. A scrabble bag contains the correct amount of each letter that the game requires. There are nine A’s in English scrabble, and the reason for that is to play a decent well balanced game that reflects the indigenous to and fro of our language, you need nine A’s and not eight. Nine A’s, six N’s, four D’s two W’s and so on and so forth. Most people may not be aware of it, but different countries have different scrabble letter distributions. For instance, Germany has fifteen E’s to our twelve, and only four M’s to our six. Italy has fifteen O’s, which isn’t surprising considering the way they jabber on all day, while Wales has no K’s, Q’s V’s X’s or Z. God gave us twenty-six letters in our alphabet to play around and the Welsh haven’t quite worked out how to use them all yet.

  Linoleum 10 – Language 0. I rest my case.

  ‘How come you’ve got it now?’

  ‘They tested it last year for DNA, but found nothing. So Inspector Forster gave it to me. The case is closed now.’ She passed it over and over, one hand to the other. ‘Why would Robin do that, do you think, hide this A like that in his hand?’

  Well it was obvious wasn’t it. So he could put one over on me. Starting first gives you a points advantage, everybody knows that, and the way you choose who starts is by each player dipping his hand in the bag and selecting a letter. The one that’s nearest the beginning of the alphabet wins. I’d been right all along. He hadn’t played straight with me. I didn’t like to say it though.

  ‘Perhaps it was a spare he made,’ I suggested. She shook her head.

  ‘Nice try Dad but how about this – A is the first letter of your name. A stands for Al. He might have been dead but he was pointing the finger at you.’ And she shot me with her fingers. It was ridiculous, but I had to think of something.

  ‘Carol. Remember I told you when he stepped back he had his hand in his pocket, looking for his mobile? Well maybe he found the scrabble tile then. Maybe that’s what surprised him, to find it loose like that. You only need to forget where you are for a second on a mountaintop like that, and whoops, it’s over, you’re gone. I mean, I said there was a look of surprise on his face didn’t I? Now I always remembered it as coming just after he’d taken the step back. But it could have been just before, when he discovered the tile, or at the same time. I mean it’s so hard to remember these things in their exact order isn’t it? But finding it then, think what it would have meant to him, the things that would have been flipping through his mind. How long had it been there? An hour? A day? A week? I mean he carried that set with him everywhere he went, didn’t he? It would have meant that without the proper number of letters, the tournament we played would have been null and void, that he’d won illegally. Think what that would have meant to a man of Robin’s character. Been like a slap in the face with a wet fish.’

  ‘He did take scrabble very seriously. Sometimes I thought too seriously.’

  ‘He was a serious man Carol. Mensa, digging up our pimple, scrabble, it was all from the same book wasn’t it? It would have hit him hard, the implications of finding that A. I mean integrity was his middle name. Am I right or am I right?’ She nodded, looking down at the letter. Eight A’s, the phoney bearded pillock.

  ‘You don’t think…’

  ‘What darling?’

  ‘That if he thought that we’d think he’d won those games, that tournament, on false pretences he might have…’ She couldn’t finish the sentence. Th
is was brilliant. Fucking brilliant.

  ‘No. He didn’t do it deliberate Carol. I can vouch for that. But it must have put him off his guard. Lets me off the hook a bit too, if you don’t mind me saying so. I’ve been carrying that little dance the two of us did up there for over ten years now, blaming myself for what happened, knowing what it did to you, his family. It’s a relief to know it might not have been my fault after all. Who’d have thought it, Detective Sergeant Neville Forster has done me a service.’

  ‘Oh Dad. If only I could believe you.’ There were tears in her eyes. My daughter, tears in her eyes. Over me? Over Robin? It was hard to tell. Perhaps a bit of both.

  ‘I know. I haven’t done much in the past to warrant it. But, knowing what we know now, I think we might finally be able to lay this one to rest, don’t you?’ She nodded again, laid the tile on the table between us, face down. A good sign I thought.

  She left the room. I could hear drawers being pulled in the spare bedroom. I’d told a good story, but I didn’t quite believe myself. How did that A get in his hand? Did he have his hands in his pockets before I got to him? I don’t think so. And surely, when I had him in the headlock, his arms and fists were thrashing about all over the place. And when I twisted him round and pushed him off, didn’t his arms flap in the air like a couple of broken wings, his hands clutching at nothing? Or had I just remembered it wrong, imagined how it should have been, rather than how it was. But how else could it have been? He wouldn’t have had time to do all that on the way down, to get the box out of his pocket, find the right letter, close the box, stuff it back in his pocket and hide the tile in his hand before smacking his head on the rock, and surely, lying there with his skull caved in, he’d have too much of a headache to think straight, wouldn’t he? I know he had twenty minutes or so before I got down to him, but even so, he couldn’t have been that devious could he, lying dead as I bent over him, with the first letter of my name clutched in his crafty little mitt. He’d have liked to have done it, I’m sure of that but, no, it was above and beyond. No. He must have had it in his hand all the time, tucked into his sleeve or something, dropped it into his palm when he suggested having a game. He was trying to cheat, plain and simple. I’d been right all along.