Fish Tale (Cliffhanger Book 2)

by T. J. Middleton

  ‘I don’t follow,’ he said.

  ‘Well, they’re both fish orientated crimes, aren’t they? Perhaps they have an unhealthy interest in fish.’

  ‘It’s difficult to have an unhealthy interest in fish, Al.’

  ‘Agreed, but maybe they’re obsessed with stealing fish, any sort of fish, like some people steal shoes or…or Toblerones.’ Why did I say that? He batted the suggestion away with a dismissive sniff.

  ‘Different modus operandi, Al. It’s a technical term, but what it means in layman’s terms is that different criminals tackle different crimes in the same ways – or is the same crime in different ways? I can’t remember. Anyway the point is, your fish are made out of wood, whereas my fish are made out of…well, fish. See? Besides, that’s not the picture of them I took away with me when I met them. They seemed very upright citizens, members of the Ramblers Association, that sort of thing. They were very insistent on pressing charges against you, which they would be unlikely if they were dyed-in-the-wool felons.’

  ‘It was just a thought. I don’t suppose, though, you can do anything about that. Make them see reason.’

  ‘Al, believe me, after what I’ve put you through this morning, if I could I would.’ He clicked his briefcase shut, got to his feet. ‘The only way would be if I could find something against them, get them to drop their complaint against you, in return for us dropping charges for whatever it is they’ve done.’

  ‘Well, if they’re as upright as you say they are, that’s not going to happen. I’ll just have to have my day in court, hope for the best.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ He clapped me on the back. ‘You know what Al. It always saddens me, to see an empty pond, no koi to bring it to life. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to give you a pair of mine, my way of saying sorry, for misjudging you. Come over one night, bring a cold store. You can choose whoever you want, apart from Mother of course, if I get her back. What you say?’

  What could I say? I said thank you and led him to the door, said thank you again as I walked him to his car and watched him snap on his safety belt. Would I take him up? I didn’t know. But I was certain of one thing. I’d get his fish back to him, quick as I could.

  There was no time to lose. I had, what, eight hours now before Emily turned up to kickstart my new life. Eight hours to get everything straight. I got out the cold store, walked down to the pond and filled it with water. I pulled the T-shirt over the nymph for the last time, and made the call. Mother Teresa was there in seconds, blowing bubbles at me through the water. She wasn’t my type really, but it was good to see her nevertheless. She was a koi after all.

  I sprinkled some pellets in, and while she was feeding, took her up in the net so gentle she hardly noticed. I swung her out of the water, held her there for a second, the light all wet, running up and down her back, making her colours flash like stabs of electricity. I could have lowered her in the box too, but I didn’t. I wanted to feel her, feel a fish slipping through my fingers again, feel the life ripple through her, all swift and sure. I dipped my hands under and raised the weight of her, the water running down my arms, her muscles twitching against my fingers. She turned her head and looked at me, stared at me, like knew, knew everything, then she turned away. She’d seen enough. I made her safe, then closed the lid.

  ‘Not long now,’ I told her. ‘Not long now.’

  I picked up the sign I’d torn down and stuck that, the cold box and the white hat in the back of the Citroën, then remembered one more thing, the newspaper cutting that Michaela had given me that first evening, still in my jacket. I was at Marbella Avenue in fifteen minutes. I parked a little way away from number 32 and walked down. It was a cheap, modern looking outfit, obviously an emergency stop for the Bowles until they found somewhere decent to rent; an un-weeded brick path, a frosted glass front door, and one of those garages shoved under the second bedroom, just to make sure downstairs felt good and cramped. It was getting towards noon– hot, everybody inside feeding or fucking or lying in the bath with their wrists slit. The Volvo was sat there, bonnet out. I could hear a radio playing in the back garden. They were eating al fresco, the dears, or maybe doing the other thing al fresco, who knows. Long as they were occupied for the next thirty minutes.

  First, the Volvo. They have locks these cars, but nothing that four years in a cell with Vic the car-wringer can’t handle. One jiggle from the plastic rod I’d brought and bingo. I stuck the cold store in the boot, slung the white hat on the back seat, and tucked Michaela’s newspaper cutting in the dashboard locker, sprinkling a little fish meal on the carpet underneath for good measure. Then came the sign: One Reasonably Priced Fish it said, and indeed, it told the truth there. I stuck that smack by the front door, so they wouldn’t see it, even if they looked out the window. I stood back for a minute, to admire the view. This was fun.

  I made the phone call driving over to Wareham, 999, told the police that I was a carp enthusiast, that I’d been directed to 32 Marbella Avenue, where a bloke was selling carp on the cheap, told them that I recognised one of the fish he had, recognised it from its picture in the newspaper, that it belonged to one of their own, Detective Inspector Adam Rump and if they wanted to get in his good books, they better get there quick, as, if I didn’t come back to him within the hour, this Bowles character was going to flog it to someone else. I’d call Rump later, see if it’d be agreeable for him to drop charges in return for them dropping charges against me. He’d do it all right. One carp fancier to another.

  In Wareham I did my shopping. Live lobsters, proper fancy-labelled wine, chocolates, flowers, even a new toothbrush, just in case. I was back by two. Four hours to go. I put the lobster and wine in the fridge, the flowers in a vase and the chocolates on the bed on the spare en suite. Then I took the scrabble set out, did what I had to do and made the call. For the last time.

  ‘Michaela. I thought we might spend the afternoon having that game of scrabble. Calm our nerves before we make the call.’

  ‘My nerves don’t need calming.’

  ‘Excite our nerve endings then. Finish what we started.’ There was a pause.

  ‘What about Carol?’

  ‘Carol’s gone for the day. The evening too. If you wear that pink outfit again, you’ll even get your hat back. I’ve washed it, stuck it on the line to dry. You can pick it up on your way over.’

  ‘I’m to sneak in the back way am I?’

  ‘Back way, front way, you can come whichever way you want.’

  Took her twenty minutes. She had it on her head like it had never left her.

  ‘You came the back way then?’

  ‘I wasn’t going to lose it again.’

  ‘Well, don’t take it off this time.’

  ‘What, under any circumstances?’

  ‘None that I can think of.

  ‘Get me a drink. Then we’ll see.’

  When I returned she had the board and two shelves set out. She wanted a game all right. Like she said, she was a player. I’d pulled one of the dining room chairs over and was going to sit opposite her, the magazine table between us. I’d be looking down on her. It’s how I liked doing business with a woman. Puts everything into perspective. I know, I know. With Emily it would be different. But this, this had to be played by the old rules.

  ‘Before we start,’ I said, handing her a glass, ‘you were going to tell me her name, the woman on the cliff, remember.’

  ‘Was I?’ She took a sip, place the glass on the table.

  ‘Just before Carol burst in.’

  ‘Is that why I’m here?’

  ‘Not completely. But the time has come Michaela. The scrabble match, your husband’s fish, that woman’s name.’

  ‘In that order?’

  ‘If you like. Here.’ I dropped the score sheet in front of her. ‘Write her name on that. I won’t look at it until you’ve left. How about that?’

  ‘You don’t know when I’m going to leave.’

  ‘Exactly.
First things first. Scrabble, hubby’s fish. That’s fair isn’t it?’

  She looked up at me, her eyes wide like I was a fool.

  ‘Well, step away then,’ she said. I did as I was told. She pulled the pad closer, one hand shielding it from my view as she wrote. She folded the sheet in half, held it out.

  ‘No peeking.’

  ‘As if.’ I slipped it in my shirt top pocket. She fiddled with her bra. It’s impossible not to look, you know, when women do that.

  ‘How do you know I’ve told you the truth?’ she said.

  ‘How do you know I’m going to let you out?’ She laughed.

  ‘Let’s play,’ she said, and pushed the board into the centre. I picked up the bag, gave it a shake.

  ‘The last time I played scrabble,’ I said, ‘was with Bernie the screw. Intra-prison championship, me and Bernie number one in our respective teams.’

  ‘Who won?’

  ‘Who do you think?’

  ‘You’re a competitive creature, aren’t you, Al? I like that in a man.’

  ‘That’s what Alan Ladd said in Shane,’ I told her. ‘That’s what he says to Little Joey, after Little Joey’s hid behind the reeds, watching him approach. “I like that in a man.”’

  ‘You men and your westerns.’ She reached up, squeezed the front of my trousers. ‘I bet Little Joey didn’t do that.’

  ‘Shane would have fallen of his horse if he had. Normal rules?’ She waved a finger at me.

  ‘Recreational smut. It’s a constant theme with you isn’t it. Shall we start?’

  I put my hand in, jiggled it all about, made a play of pulling out the letter, then held the bag out for her. She felt the outside first, real dirty, weighing the sack like she was touching me up again, then dipped her hand in, eyes steady on me. So many things were being said, so many words to get out in the open. This was good.

  ‘You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.’ She liked saying it. It was going to be that sort of game. She hoped.

  I opened my palm. Z.

  ‘Looks like Lady Luck is with me tonight,’ I joked. ‘You’re on first. What you get, just for interest sake.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter now Al.’

  ‘Just for interest sake.’

  She opened up her palm.

  A.

  ‘First goes are always important, don’t you think,’ she said. ‘Sets the tone of the game.’ She dropped it back in.

  This was brilliant. I mean, she must have cheated too. I wanted her to go first, wanted her to get ahead, feel that she was in control, but I never thought… How had she done it? Her arms were bare, though hadn’t she just rearranged her cleavage? Had she plonked it in there when I’d gone out to get the drinks? And how many more letters did have down there, and what were they? A blank? A couple of S’s? One letter was one thing, but this was my game after all. I leant forward, tried to take a look.

  ‘Eyes on the board Al,’ she said. ‘You can worry about that later.’

  Off we went. SPAYED was her first word, cheeky cow. I could have used them then, the letters I had up my sleeve, but there would have been no fun in that. This wasn’t about winning scrabble. This was about winning the whole shooting match. It amused me to let her run with it, for me to put down feeble three-letter no-hopers to her five and six letter corkers. To her SPAYED I put down MUD. To her double word score NEOLITH I put down GOAT, which made her laugh for about three minutes solid. On and on it went, the board getting fuller, my chances of turning the tables on her getting slimmer by the minute. I did get in some beauties. BIDET to her EVINCE for instance, but it was her show, no doubt about it. Only I didn’t care, wasn’t worried. I don’t know why but I knew when the time came I knew I’d be able to put down what I planned. I felt invincible. I was invincible. I’d beaten Rump, knocked the Bowles sideways and even Carol couldn’t lay a finger on me. I could do anything I wanted and what I wanted for a while was to sit and watch Michaela fuck me all over the board, wriggling her rear on the sofa every time she hit the spot.

  ‘I seem to be winning,’ she said.

  ‘It would appear that way.’

  ‘You don’t seem to mind.’

  ‘Well it’s all relative, winning, isn’t it? Depends what you’re winning at. A poxy game of scrabble or something a bit bigger. Your go I think.’

  And then she did it. Gave me the word I wanted, gave it to me with the board three quarters way full and me on the losing ticket.

  ‘I don’t think I know that word,’ I said.

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me at all,’ she said. ‘Do you want to check it out?’

  ‘No, no. If it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me. Ending in I though. That’s pretty impressive.’

  ‘I am pretty impressive,’ she said, and played with her front again.

  I shuffled my letters around, managing to drop one of the floor. By that time I’d had the lot in my hand. It was quick work to drop them into my pocket and let their replacements slide into my hand. They were out on the rack before she’d sorted her new lot out. I D M E D P L. Alacazam! had taught me well after all.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I give up. Talk about a losing streak. I mean look at this– two D’s and a P and an M and an L and only one vowel.’

  ‘Please Al. You shouldn’t tell me what you got. You should let me find out.’

  ‘But you’re so much quicker than me. I thought I was OK but your range of words, phenomenal. That last word for instance, KAURI, go on, tell me, what is it?’

  ‘A coniferous tree native to New Zealand.’

  ‘Exactly. I mean, I’ve never heard of it, a Kauri. Big is it. Like a giant hobbit would get real lost in thick Kauri forest.’

  ‘I think you mean elves, Al. It’s a contradiction in terms, a giant hobbit.’

  ‘Elves then. You put a party of elves in this kauri jungle and you wouldn’t see them for the leaves. Until the autumn of course.’

  ‘They’re coniferous Al. They don’t shed their leaves.’

  ‘Bit like you then. You haven’t shed much since you’ve been here, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘I do mind.’

  ‘Well, I wish you’d help me shed these letters. What am I going to do with two Ds? No, no, don’t tell. I’ll think of something. What’s the score again?’

  ‘Ninety eight to me, thirty one to you.’

  ‘Embarrassing, isn’t it. Aren’t you embarrassed? I am. Hang on though. That Kauri of yours. Just given me an idea. Could it be…’

  I closed my eyes, moved my lips around, like I was trying to spell.

  ‘D…P…D…’

  ‘Oh get on with it Al.’

  ‘Yes, I do believe I’ve seen the word for the trees, ha ha. Would you believe it? Look at that.’

  And I laid them out, down along the edge.

  D I M P L E D

  ‘DIMPLED’ I said. ‘And thanks to you, I still got my I.’ She was looking at the board.

  ‘Audrey had dimples you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Audrey. Dimples here, dimples there, she had dimples everywhere. Sounds like a song doesn’t it. Do you know what I’d call her? My dimpled darling.’

  ‘You bastard.’

  ‘What, you too? Well, flush my fork! What about gala nights at Sydney Opera House? How many did you attend of those? Those big production numbers, people lying and cheating and stabbing each other in the back, all in the name of love. Me, I revel in it, all that dirty underhand stuff. You must too. I mean who’s idea was it first, to steal Rump’s fish. I thought it might be yours at first, but actually this has Audrey written all over it. Something for her to lie in bed and stroke at night. You just added the finishing touches, the T-shirt, the swan, the neat camera tucked away in the all-seeing Buddha. Oh yes, I know all about that.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’

  ‘Yes you do. You’re planning for me to get caught. What I don’t understand though is why you don’t think I�
��d drag you in it too. You were there, after all.’

  ‘Was I? Who jumped over the fence Al? Who carried the fish from the beach to the your pond? Who left the note, drove the car?’ She smoothed her dress down, posture recovered. ‘I just thought I was going on a picnic.’

  ‘What, his estranged wife, who parted on not the best of terms, who wrote rude things about his fish in your very last letter to him, and you knew nothing about it? They’ll believe that?’

  ‘That’s why you seduced me Al. To wheedle the information out of me, while my defences were down. I had no idea what you had planned. Your accusations are pure conjecture. You stole the fish. It’s there in your pond.’

  ‘You sure about that? You see me put one there? You see me take it out of your husband’s pond and put it in here. Did you?’

  ‘I didn’t need to. I heard it splash about.’

  ‘Water splashes about Michaela, surely the indoor diving champion of South Africa knows that. Go on, take a look if you don’t believe me. See if you can see a fish there. It’s a bit like a big bar of Toblerone out there. Looks full, but in fact, it’s completely empty.’

  I didn’t mind her slapping me three of four times round the face, didn’t mind grabbing her by the arm and hustling her out, didn’t even mind the sound of the frame splintering as she spent the next fifteen minutes trying to kick the door in. I’d done it. All was calm. Two hours time and Emily was coming. She’d arrive all bright and slightly shy and we’d walk out into the garden and I’d explain everything to her, what I was going to do with my sculptures, what I was going to do with my pond, how my life had changed, how it was still changing, thanks to her. Then I’d spike the lobsters in the back of the head and stick them over the charcoal, and a little later we’d eat them in the living room, or maybe in conservatory with the shark with the axe in his head looking down on us, and I’d pour her the up-market wine I’d bought, make sure she saw the label, and the evening would grow dark and we, we’d just get brighter and brighter, until we lit up the room.