Fish Tale (Cliffhanger Book 2)

by T. J. Middleton

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Don’t let any common or garden beach boy carry you away on a pedalo. That’s my job.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. Just you and me and the sea.’

  She didn’t say nothing. I could hear her breath, all quiet in her. Almost feel it on my cheek, like I used to, when she bent close in the art class, telling me about perspective and balance. Triangles, that’s what she went on about, how lots of pictures are made up of triangles, how it’s like an essential structure in the world’s make up. And she was right. Me and Audrey and Carol, that was a triangle. Me and Audrey and Michaela bloody Rump, that was another one. In fact everything that had happened to me was made up of triangles; me and Audrey and Miranda’s death, me pushing the unknown woman off the cliff instead of Audrey, Robin and Carol and Audrey ganging up on me over the scrabble match. Even Toblerones were made up of triangles, weren’t they? That’s what I’d do with my next fish. I’d make it triangular, make three of them, all fitting together like they sometimes do in the water, close and yet apart slipping in and out of each other. See what Emily was doing? I was thinking all these thoughts, and she wasn’t even there.

  ‘See you tomorrow then,’ I said.

  ‘Can’t wait.’

  ‘Good. Night, night, then.

  ‘It isn’t night Al. But I kind of wish it was. Night, night.’

  She put the phone down. I couldn’t believe it. I’d done it. I’d made a date with her, not some beer-fuelled chat-up line to some half pissed tart I was going to knock-off, but a proper date, treating like she was a person in her own right, like I was full of respect and wasn’t thinking blunt end at all. I felt like sending her some flowers or chocolates, something dead romantic to set the scene. If I hadn’t broken it charging up to the pimple I could have given her that giant Toblerone – though considering the story I’d told her on the beach she might put me down as a bit of a cheapskate, thinking it probably had come free with the job. And that’s one thing I’m not, a cheapskate, have never been, not even with Audrey. Nor Carol for that matter. Riding lessons, kick boxing, small bore rifle shooting, that little girl had everything she wanted. Maybe I’d get some chocolates in anyway, put some flowers in the spare en suite, just in case she decided to stay over, but didn’t want to go the whole way first time round. Some women are like that, you know. So what if she didn’t. I could handle that. She was coming over. That was the main thing. This was the start. I just knew it. Just knew it.

  Night, night I’d said, and I was right. I couldn’t wait for the day to end and the new one begin. I was exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. Carol and me went down to the Spread for an early meal but when we got back it was felt like it was half past one in the morning rather than a quarter to nine, I was that tired. I took one last look at the pond, to check if everything was all right, then turned in. Michaela’s light was on, her back door open most likely, but I wasn’t going there now, not in my condition. Six o’clock the following evening Emily was coming. Come the morning, I had things to do.

  That night I dreamt a dream that comes and goes to this day. We are on the swan pedalo, Emily and I. I had one of my wooden fish in the back and she was sketching Torvill and Dean while they leapt about the prow like they were a couple of porpoises. It’s dead calm the sea, hot with it, but every now and again, Michaela or Audrey or the man from the Compensation Committee come pedalling by starkers, buzzing around us like mosquitoes, disturbing our equilibrium, until the swan leans down and pecks their eyes out. A little later Alice B comes floating by on a li-lo made of Toblerone, and we all jump in the water and take bites out of it until it sinks. And then the three of us get back on board and pedal off into the sunset, waving these shoes goodbye.

  If only.

  Seven o’clock and I was up, looking around the front room again, wondering what else I should do. It all looked a bit sparse. I had the pond and now the two fish sculptures for the outside, but apart from the shark in the conservatory, the interior was lacking in personality and talking points. I could borrow a few books off Blind Lionel, who thanks to his white stick had a mega collection of westerns, true murders and hospital romances. The trouble was they were all large print and had Wool Public Library stamped on the front page. Music was another thing that was missing. Audrey had thrown away my record collection, even sent me a Polaroid while I was in prison of all my LP’s tipped into a skip, Leonard C’s sticking out on top, his picture all defaced with horns sticking out of his head. Alice would lend me some of hers if I asked, only it’s always a bit tricky, trying to guess a bird’s taste in music. Very often it’s so dire, it puts you off the whole enterprise altogether. There was one I nearly had, daughter of a regular customer, twenty-two, lovely looker, white boots and hair all piled up on top of this vampire- biteable neck, who took me to the little flat mummy rented for her and started playing Joni Mitchell half way through manoeuvres. She might as well have run her fingernails down a blackboard. I was out of there in a minute. Sorry love, but I got to button up and go. Not that I thought Emily was necessarily of the Joni Mitchell persuasion, though it’s amazing the number of women who fall for that superior, hoity toity type of warbling. Put up a parking lot? Six months later and you’d be driving a Volvo onto it. I had one good idea though. I took out the Henry Moore Miss Prosser had given me off the shelf and laid it out on the magazine table, opened it up a quarter way through, like I was reading it. At that moment, Carol came in and started prowling around the room like a lion looking for its next lump of meat. I’d have to get her out the way after the introductions were made. Anyway she wouldn’t want to, would she, hang around here like a spare part?

  ‘What is it darling. Lost your voice?’

  ‘Robin’s tile Dad, the one that policeman gave me? I left it here on the table.’

  Yes and I’ve taken it away from the table and hidden it away hoping that by the time you go back you’d have forgotten about it and I could put it where it belongs, back in the box along with all the others. It’s part of a set Carol. Like the dictionary and the little propelling pencil. She’d put her bag down and was searching the Easy-slumber Sofabed again.

  ‘You haven’t done anything to it, have you?’ she said, throwing the cushions on the floor. ‘Chucked it out or something?’

  ‘Course I haven’t. I know how much it meant to you.’

  ‘We’ve got to find it. I was going to have it made into a pendant.’

  What a truly terrible idea. A bit of Robin hanging round her neck.

  ‘Are you sure Malcolm will like that?’ I asked. ‘The former fiancé’s home-made scrabble tile round his wife’s neck, staring at him every time he casts his loving eye in your direction? Pardon me for saying so darling, but this sounds like something your mother might have dreamt up. Lacking in what we humans call sensitivity. I mean why don’t you go the whole hog and have his name tattooed somewhere where he can see it every time you hop into bed?’

  She lowered her head.

  ‘You haven’t?’

  ‘Just a small one after he died. I got Blind Lionel to do it.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In his caravan. All he needed was a magnifying glass.’

  ‘Not that where. Whereabouts on you, your person? Or don’t I want to know.’

  ‘Nowhere special. Just around my left ankle. Lucky really the shark didn’t take that leg off.’

  ‘You think? Remember you telling me Malcolm always preferred stroking the right. Now we know the reason why.’

  ‘Well Malcolm can lump it. It’s not coming off.’

  I didn’t say it, but the way she stood, that tone of voice, she could have been Audrey after the armour plating had been welded on to her nightdress. Maybe I wouldn’t go to Australia with her after all. Still, it’s a big place. She bent down to pick up the cushions.

  ‘There it is Dad. Under the table. Right in the middle. Can you get it?’

  What! I looked down. I couldn’t believe
what I was seeing, one of Robin’s tile lying face down on the shag pile like a turd on a pillow. What the fuck! It couldn’t be the one she’d brought back. I’d put that in the Lady Diana Commemorative Wedding Mug, alongside Kim’s backdoor key, out of harm’s way. Which meant…it was another tile, one that must have dropped off when I was scooping them all back into the bag after I’d had them all out. Jesus Christ. Another tile with a different letter! Didn’t matter what. Once she saw it, she’d realise that I must have taken Robin’s set right from the start, that I’d been lying to her all along. She’d be onto the phone to Nigel Forster the moment she saw it. She’d stay here, watching me like a hawk until the police came. They’d search the bungalow, they’d find the set. They’d trawl through the case again, interview the walkers again. Maybe what Robin was wearing would be DNAed again. Christ knows what they’d find with all the new techniques they have now. With all this going on Michaela might even be minded to talk about the woman on the cliff. Her Dimpled Darling would like that.

  I stood there staring at it.

  ‘Are you sure it isn’t a bit of Toblerone?’ I said. ‘Perhaps Alice ate them here. She used to do that you know. Quite shameless she was.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t. Just get it will you.’

  I nodded, unable to move.

  Carol snorted, took a step forward.

  ‘Bloody hell Dad. I’ll do it myself.’

  ‘No!’ I pushed her down onto the sofa, dropped down on my knees, put my head under. It was Robin’s tile all right. I could see the magnetic stud. Carol was sitting back up.

  ‘There was no need for that Dad. I’m quite mobile you know.’

  ‘I’m sure you are sweetheart but a Dad’s allowed to fuss over his one and only isn’t he? And it’s a bit tricky, getting under here, even with two legs.’

  I reached out, closed my fist over it, stood up, rattled it in my hand. Could I run into the kitchen, swap it over without her sensing something was up? How quick could I do it? Would she hear me take the cup down? I remembered hearing everything when that Bowles woman was fetching me that glass of gnat’s piss. Besides, the key would rattle against the tile. She’d be bound to hear that, know that I was up to something. And the more I did, the worse it would be if I was caught out. I rattled it in my hand again. She was staring at me. Was I staring at her? I suppose I must have been. There was a ringing in my head, I know that.

  ‘What’s the matter, Dad?’ Carol’s voice had gone all quiet.

  ‘Nothing. I was just thinking, how nice you look, nicer, don’t take this the wrong way darling, but nicer than I’ve ever seen you.’ She smoothed her hair back. She did look good as a matter of fact, less pinched.

  ‘I feel better, that’s why.’

  ‘You do?’

  Yes. I’m glad I came over, even if it was for the wrong reason. It’s like I’m seeing you for the first time, since, oh I don’t know when.’

  Neither of us moved. The scrabble tile was burning a hole in my hand. Any moment she was going to ask me to hand it over. One look at it and it would all be over. I wondered what the letter was going to be. M for murderer perhaps, L for liar? Maybe D for Dad, the dad who’s let her down big time. I felt like I was stuck to the floor. I was thinking, if I didn’t do anything, perhaps it would all go away. I could stand like this all night if need be. I just had to keep her away from the tile. Everything, my freedom, my relationship with her, even my chance with Emily Prosser, everything depended on it. If only there was someway I could get out of it. Act natural that was the key. Act natural when the rest of my life lay in the turn of a scrabble tile. A bold stroke, that’s what it needed.

  I waved my fist.

  ‘I’ll put it somewhere safe then shall I?’ Was my voice too light?

  ‘No. Just give it here. I’m going to Dorchester in a minute, spend the day shopping, have a night out. For real this time. The girls have been pestering me ever since I got back. You don’t mind do you, if I miss seeing this Emily for now. I thought I’d stay over and take it to a jewellers’ in the morning, have it made up. It’s a shame it isn’t an R. Then it would have really meant something.’ She was fussing around in her bag. I tried another tack.

  ‘Perhaps you should have one made up, just like this one, but with an R. Then as you say, it would be more appropriate. It would be like he never went away, that he’s always here, even when he isn’t. Persistent that’s what he was.’

  ‘That’s what his mum Eileen always said about him. He never let go. No, no, dad. I want this one, the one that belonged to him, that he made, not some stupid copy. Here!’ She chucked me her purse. ‘There’s a pocket inside. Stick in there.’

  I opened up the clasp. A few pound coins, a tenner in the folder at the back. There was the pocket. Was I going to slip it in or could I only pretend to? When I was a kiddie my mum had given me this magic kit. Alacazam! it was called, with a black cloak and a special wand and a handbook telling you how to do all the tricks you could think of. It was brilliant, and when it was raining I used to spend hours practising here in my bedroom and put on little shows for mum to watch; pulling hankies out of hat, fetching pennies from out behind her ear, making the wand turn into a bunch of flowers. She loved that one, would hold the bunch to her nose, sniffing it like they were roses, even though we both knew they were made out of paper. One of the things it taught you, was how hide things in the palm of your hand, squeezing whatever it was in the little fold of flesh between your thumb and forefinger. Keep the back of your hand out to your audience and they won’t spot a thing. If I could do it now, I could make a show of putting the tile in while putting the proper in later. The other alternative was just to bide my time, swap them over before she left, while she was changing or washing her hair.

  ‘When were you thinking of going?’ I said.

  ‘Right away. I thought I might go to the gym first. It needs regular exercise, this leg. I’ll go to the gym, have a shower, a change of clothes, then off. You don’t mind do you?’

  I shook my head, closed the purse, put it on the table. It wasn’t going to work.

  ‘Tell you what darling. Why don’t you let me do it, as a present.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘This pendant.’ I shook my hand again. ‘I’ll go to the jewellers. My treat. What do you say?’ She pulled a face.

  ‘What do you know about pendants Dad? You’ll get the chain all wrong, that or the setting. It’s a nice idea, but best if I do it. I’ve got to wear it after all.’

  ‘I’ll get something suitable promise, gold, silver, whatever you want. I’d like to do it. It would be my way of saying sorry.’

  ‘You’ve already said sorry. This is very personal to me, Dad. He was my fiancé. I had to sit with his body in the back of the camper van all the way down to Bristol, hear him bumping from side to side. Then I had to watch him turn into ashes, which his mother insisted on keeping. It’s all I have of him, that one tile.’

  ‘And the slippers. You got the slippers.’

  ‘I can’t wear the slippers round my neck every day. I can this. I will too.’

  I stood my ground. I had to

  ‘Let me do this one thing,’ I pleaded. ‘I’ll do it all elaborate, have his name underneath, like he’s writing his name on you. Wouldn’t you like that? Wouldn’t that do him justice?

  ‘I don’t know Dad. Not elaborate, no. I want it simple.’

  ‘That’s what I meant. Simple but deep. He was a member of Mensa after all. I know, the letter on one side and a little picture of him and his beard on the other, like a locket. If you don’t like it, you can take it back.’

  ‘I don’t want to take it back, Dad. I don’t want you to take it to the jewellers. I need to do it myself. Please.’

  She’d got up and taken a step towards me and I’d taken a step back. I hadn’t meant to, but I had. You do when you’re under attack. You either strike back or retreat, run for cover. She’d noticed it too.

  ‘What’s the matter with
you, Dad? Why won’t you give it to me, eh? What’s going on?’

  We were staring at each other, but not like we had been. This was like the old days, finding things out about each other that fathers and daughters oughtn’t to. Then it dawned on her. You could see it almost flipping through brain like a fish turning in water, see the ripples washing over, her eyes swimming with it.

  She took a step closer.

  ‘Give it here Dad. Give it me. Right now.’

  She clasped one hand tight round my wrist. This was it. Hadn’t lasted long, our new beginning, my freedom. As for Emily, it had never even got started.

  I uncurled my fingers. There it was, Robin’s tile, lying face out in the palm of my hand, shining like a beacon into the murky sea. I blinked. I’d never seen anything so bright, so dazzling, so fucking unbelievable. It was an A, a fucking A. Only seven A’s left and one had dropped from heaven and saved my soul. It was like a signal, a sign, like the burning bush or that sea parting. I was free, free to do whatever I wanted. It was going to be all right, her, me, Emily everything. What else could it mean?

  I swept her up in my arms, span her round. There were tears in her eyes. She wouldn’t say what she’d been thinking. She was ashamed. My Carol.

  ‘Don’t cry darling. You take it, of course you take it. Do whatever you like with it. But let me pay eh? Look.’ I put her down, fumbled in my back pocket.‘ Here’s a hundred. Get the best you can. You’re right. Fuck Malcolm. It’s your fucking neck isn’t it?’

  She nodded, smiling through her tears.

  ‘Damn right it is and it’ll be his if he causes any rumpus over it. Right?’

  She nodded again, hardly daring to speak.

  ‘Off you go then. Paint the town seven shades of puce. Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  She gave me a kiss, and hugged me this time, hugged me close. How long had it been since I’d had something like that from her. Ten years? More like twenty.

  I waved to her through the window as she drove off. Her face was all alight, like there were candles lit. I went into the kitchen, cut up a couple of oranges, and took them out to the pond. It was like she was waiting for me, started nudging them across the water with her nose, a breakfast to remember. She was in playful mood. I stayed with her for ten minutes or so, swishing my hand in the water, letting her run near. She might be Mother Teresa, but she was young too, loved the feel of youth, like youth does.