A surge of adrenalin flows through him and he pedals faster. A member of the public rang in and explained that the front door of a house in their road has been open wide all night. He knows the area well. In fact, he is sure he’s been to that property before. A twinge of fear unsettles his stomach.
Turpin Street is always gloomy. The streetlamps flicker here and normal people rarely venture out after dark. It’s strange as the surrounding areas are lovely. Detective Constable Jordan told him that a rich sheikh owned many of the houses along here, but he’d disappeared a year ago in suspicious circumstances. The buildings were mortgage free though, so they remained unloved and empty. They were gradually going to ruin.
Mrs Jordan is a fantastic officer. Barry looks up to her. With luck, he will be a real policeman, not a plastic copper like the newspapers kept calling people such as him. Just think, he could work with professionals every day. It’s a shame he keeps failing the entrance tests.
The homeless took notice of the opportunity that the vacant dwellings provide. Like rats, they have swarmed into the buildings. Barry hates these bastards, but he also secretly admires them. He wished he had the balls to jack his job in and live off the grid. Maybe one day, but he needs a reference for his next police application, so there's no escape at the moment.
He arrives at his destination and props his push-bike again the wall. Music blares out of the window opposite. He recognises it as the place he came to last time. A female squatter said a man raped her. They arrested the person she described but the victim then disappeared and the case collapsed. Three youths walk into the small garden from the house facing him and jeer. They’ve made a fire in a bin and it lights them up like devils. The rapist is one of them. Barry can see his glinting, gold front tooth in his grinning mouth from where he stands.
When he becomes a real policeman, he will come back here and arrest them. The sweet stench of marijuana wafts over to him. That’s a reason right there for him to confront them. It’s a shame they aren’t given guns. In the meantime, he’ll take the bike inside or they’ll steal it. He knows he should wait for the other officer sent to join him, but hanging around outside with these idiots is unappealing. He wheels his bike through the small garden and up the steps. The door the neighbour said was open is almost closed, so he nudges it wide with his front tyre.
‘Police! Is anyone there?’
He hears the men behind him mimic his shout. There is no reply from inside. He leans the bike against the first closed door on the right. There is a light on in a room at the bottom of the corridor. It seems like a long way to the end of the house. They designed them narrow back when this was built. Barry wonders if it was a stupid idea then, too.
He isn't Judge Dredd anymore. His steps through the dusty surface feeling inadequate. Shards of glass tinkle on the tiled floor. The stairs lead up to total darkness. There’s no way he will go up there. Barry considers the glow from the far room. There shouldn’t be any lights working in here. All the services including electricity would have been disconnected long ago. As he gets closer, the light ahead draws him in. He doesn’t think he could stop even if he wanted to.
The galley kitchen is filthy. The surfaces appear to have had full bins emptied upon them. He tries the switch as the bulb is still present but only a click is his reward. It’s colder as he approaches the final half-open door. Again, he cries out. ‘Police, make yourself known.’
Barry hears nothing, there is only a build-up of pressure between his ears — an increasing roar that loosens his bowels.
Slow, deep breaths echo in the silence. Barry reminds himself, he is the law. If he can’t handle something as mundane as this, he isn’t worthy of the uniform. With a final sharp inhale, he draws his baton, and nudges the door back. There is no one there. The light is a big torch on a stool pointing at the ceiling. The only other thing in the room is an open freezer cabinet. There's a cable running to the window and a slight hum indicating it’s turned on.
Barry leans over the cabinet and notes the chill from within. There are lumps inside, covered in a thick layer of frost from the lid not having been shut for some time. A familiar item sticks up, he reaches in and pulls the piece of metal, and a pair of spectacles comes away. There are eight frozen masses in the freezer and Barry knows what they are. He decides he doesn’t want confirmation and backs out of the room.
He walks, then runs down the corridor, slipping and sliding on the trash. A banana peel has him careering over, but he corrects himself and snatches at his bike. The door it was leaning against swings open, and there they are. Eight chairs in a circle. The bodies face each other — a blood stained chainsaw on a table at their centre. There’s no talking though, because they’re headless. Written in large red letters on the long mirror are the words ‘PARDONED’.
Chapter 9
Dan
At Café Bleu
Ian lowers himself into his seat in the same way a crane driver puts a fifty-ton block of concrete in place. I repeat the manoeuvre.
‘Man, we are getting old,’ I say.
‘You’re full of the joys of spring.’
‘It’s autumn, that’s why.’
‘Let me guess, job doing your pip in?’
Ian works for a top investment bank. Despite our years of travelling together, he still managed to pass his exams. He’s a natural, so companies ignore his flaky CV. He has a habit of jacking in his job, without giving notice, for any better offer — commercial or leisure. They disregard this. Therefore, his wage is immoral. That said, he insists on paying more than his fair share, and if I’m skint he’s happy to pay for everything. I often blame my destructive relationship with alcohol on him.
My salary of course sucks. It’s time to complain.
‘Yeah, it’s getting worse. We’re so short-staffed, I can’t cope, yet they expect us team leaders still to hit the ever-increasing targets. I’m so stressed by leaving time I’ve started having a beer on the train on the way home. That’s fine on a Friday, but you get odd looks on a Monday.’
I take two big gulps of my now lukewarm piss and grimace. ‘I’m worried I’m becoming a closet alky.’
‘You’re hiding it well.’
The barmaid distracts Ian by marching past to pick up an empty. I grin as she doesn’t smile at him either.
‘I don’t know where the years have gone. One minute I’m chasing chicks through nightclubs, now, given the choice, I’d rather watch someone else do the gruesome, tiring deed, than do it myself.’
Ian laughs. ‘No way. I’d still have a go myself.’
‘My metabolism is so slow, I only need to glimpse at a donut and my moobs expand a cup size.’
‘Rubbish, you’re still slim compared to most of our peers.’
For the record, Ian weighs much less than I do.
‘I’m so tired, the default expression on my face is similar to that dog, that famous one. Damn, what’s his name?’
‘K9.’
‘You tool, that’s a robot.’
‘Lassie.’
‘Jesus, why the hell would I look like Lassie?’
‘Droopy?’
‘Yes, that’s it. Hang-dog, that’s me.’
‘Well, you’ve got two young kids, so it’s not surprising.’
I examine Ian. He could pass for thirty-five. Not that his age concerns women if he’s able to slip his vulgar salary into the conversation. Not for the first time, I think his total antipathy towards having children was the right call.
‘Yeah, I suppose. I’m washed out.’
‘You’re only forty-two, you moaning old git. We could get some coke!’
Ian’s face opens up as though he’s discovered the cure for male pattern baldness, which is something else I’m too far gone for.
‘Yes, brilliant idea. That’s your solution for everything.’
Nevertheless, a treacherous growl echoes through my innards.
‘Well, it is the answer for tiredness.’
He has a
point, but there’s more than the price to pay.
‘I can do without the life-shortening paranoia that tomorrow would bring, thank you very much. That last stuff you got wasn’t even coke.’
‘That was good shit.’
‘No, it wasn’t. It was blatantly Chinese compound X. I spent the next week feeling like my neck was a metre long. Let’s just have a few beers. I said I was only popping out for a couple. I’m already in enough trouble.’
‘Missus still giving you earache?’
‘Yes, I can’t do anything right, no matter how hard I try.’
‘That’s women for you.’
‘I’m not entirely blameless. We both irritate each other.’
‘Well, I can imagine how you would infuriate someone. Olivia’s a great girl. What does she do that winds you up?’
I search the recesses of my battered brain for a suitable example. ‘I keep washing the old Chinese food tubs, and she keeps throwing random parts away. So, we have a drawer full of mismatched bottoms or lids. When I said why do you keep chucking them out, she said I didn’t know you wanted to keep them.’ I pause for dramatic effect, then deliver the coup de grâce. ‘Then, why the hell am I putting them in the dishwasher?’
Ian shakes his head and gets another round of drinks. He realises he’s in for a moaning session that might not make any sense. He plonks my drink in front of me, and says, ‘Carry on. It’s good to get your feelings off your chest.’
I continue because I’ve got more. ‘She drove home with a flat. Knackered the tyre and the wheel. She said she thought something felt wrong. Why the heck didn’t she stop and check?’
‘You aren’t getting on well, your girlfriend has no common sense, and your drawers are full of useless plastic. Why don’t you leave?’
I pause to contemplate this. It isn’t as though the thought hasn't crossed my mind on a continuous loop lately. ‘It’s the kids.’
‘You can’t stay together for the kids.’
‘Why not? My parents did.’
‘Yes, and look what a rounded fellow you’ve turned out to be.’
I snort lager through my nose.
‘Would you be together if you had no kids?’
‘No way. I’d be free.’
‘There you go then.’
I take a large sip of my latest drink and am pleased to find it has fizz in it on this occasion. Maybe she does like him more. I consider his words as Ian plays the devil’s advocate well.
If we didn’t have kids would we argue? It’s parent-related shit that causes problems. The never having enough sleep. The fact they can be insanely irrational, and hassling until you explode. We have so little time for each other now, when we’re not arguing about fast food containers. When you have children, it often appears as though the other person is taking advantage. The reality of it is you’re both having a crap time. Might we be fine if we were childless?
‘So, what are you going to do?’ His inquiry drags my mind back from those pointless questions.
‘I’ll suck it up until the good times roll.’
He gives me an exasperated look. ‘I thought you were getting married?’
‘Yeah, we are. We were. I’ve since realised that marriage is what you do before you have children to stop you splitting up when they arrive. Then when you want to bale, it’s much more inconvenient. After you have kids, you struggle to be nice to each other for any length of time without having a barney. That’s not conducive to planning a white wedding. Besides, she isn’t bothered either.’
‘You reckon? I remember when you first met. It was sickening. Like being with a pair of teenagers, slobbering over each other.’
‘It was brilliant. I impressed her with my witty repartee. Although, we were different people back then. I must say, it was a surprise when she said she was pregnant.’
‘You chose to move to London afterwards. You could have told her you weren’t interested. There’s no point moaning now. You need to get on and make the most of it. Remember somebody somewhere is praying for the things you take for granted.’
Oh God, he must be drunk. It’s horrible to hear sensible reason from my dearest friend. The shock on my face makes him smile.
‘You sure you don’t want any cocaine?’
I give him the finger and check to see if they’ve put any crisps out yet. If I get there first, they’ll still be okay.
Much later, I skip home — pleased I’ve resisted my evil pal’s illegal thoughts. My stomach rumbles and I wonder if Olivia wants a burger.
Chapter 10
Olivia
The doorbell sounds and I let my closest friend Rachel in. She’s keen to enter and beams at me.
‘Who’s the beefcake next door?’
‘Nice to see you too.’
‘Priorities over pleasantries. Is he single?’
‘Mike? I’m not sure. Dan thinks he’s a dangerous pervert.’
‘Takes one to know one.’
I’d gone travelling with Rachel when I met Dan. She never warmed to him. It’s a shame as I feel stuck between them. The first time I had a proper conversation with Dan was in a bar in Saigon called The Heart of Darkness. Rachel and I had decided to spend three months backpacking around Asia as a fond farewell to our thirties. We were both single, childless, and had spent our whole lives concentrating on our careers. We both wanted kids, but suspected it was too late.
It’s possible Rachel is jealous. Although I don’t believe that’s the case. I’m sure she wants the best for me. We’re both forty-seven now so her motherhood ship has sailed and sunk. She is godmother to both our kids. When she moved to California last year with work, I lost a good friend and a brilliant babysitter. I think those “couple-nights” she freed up for Dan and me, kept us together in the early days.
She comes over and kisses me, with a worried expression in her eyes. ‘You look tired.’
‘I am.’
‘Dan not pulling his weight again?’
I hate mouthing off to her as I know there are two sides to every argument. But I can sense the pressure building in my head over our struggles. If I don’t release it soon, a pair of horns will burst out of my forehead.
‘He tries.’
Rachel chuckles.
‘They all do. You come and have a glass of wine with Auntie Rach and tell her his shortcomings.’
‘Okay, but alcohol always makes me fall asleep next to Grace when she reads me her story.’
‘Go on, live a little.’
Rachel is from Dublin, and has thick, sexy, long, black hair. She likes a few glasses of wine. She says she finds it hard to lose weight, seemingly unaware that alcohol is full of sugar.
We settle on the sofa and I vent. ‘He’s so messy. He can walk into a room which a tornado has ripped through, step around the debris, and sit and read in the middle of it. I finish work and come home to two hours of housework.’
‘Give him the talk.’
‘I’d love to, but we aren’t getting on well, so I don’t want to pester him. He’s trying and he will do the jobs if I ask him, but I have to be specific: empty the washing machine before lunch, hang it out properly, fill the dishwasher, press the button to turn it on, remove when finished, pick up children. Like a robot giving orders. If I don’t, he doesn’t do it, or says he’ll do it later.’
We’re interrupted by my son coming out of the lounge. He’s grinning.
‘Mummy, I’ve done a poo in my big boy pants.’
I put him to bed and tonight I read to Grace to keep me awake. There’s no rush as I hear Rachel doing the washing-up downstairs. I leave Grace snuggled up and content. My daughter insists on having the light on after Dan made a Gremlins in the wardrobe joke. I don’t mind so much. I love that she falls asleep so fast and then I can see her dreaming. Young children have such perfect skin. Even now, I still check for her rising chest.
‘Isn’t he a bit big for shitting himself?’
‘What a charming phrase. You’re right tho
ugh. He’s okay for number ones but reckons he can’t tell when the nasty business is arriving. He farts like a sailor too. The male of the species is a filthy beast.’
‘Here, listen. These men never grow out of it. I have a funny but horrible story for you.’
‘I don’t want to hear a sordid tale full of sex. It’ll remind me of what I’m missing.’
‘No, it’s worse than that. You’ve got to hear this. I met Graham through Internet dating. He seemed fantastic. He was wealthy, bright, and fit. We had a few meals and things progressed so he came around my house to watch a movie, and I made a curry. I wasn’t sure he was ready for Rachel’s Ass Scorcher, but I thought if it’s meant to be, he’ll cope. You know I enjoy a small kick.’
What Rachel means by small kick is a sizzling hellfire blast that will leave you dabbing your rear end with wet cotton wool for twenty-four hours afterwards.
‘Anyway, after the meal, we were getting down and dirty on the carpet when he leaps up and says he needs to use the bathroom. He’s in there for ages, so he is. I’d finished the wine and was almost asleep by the time he came out, said he had to go, and left like he’d found a ticking package. I’d heard him flushing the toilet many times, so I wandered in there.’
She laughs and snot comes out of her nose. I join in. She’s so much fun.
‘It stinks to hell. I lift the lid and there’s a huge ball of toilet paper in the pan. Every flush spins it around as though it has a heavy nucleus. So, I prod it with a pen and it’s weighty. Like a hedgehog has fallen in. Two days later it’s still there.’
I stop myself analysing why someone would leave it there for that long.
‘Did you have to ring a plumber?’
‘I wasn’t going to call for one of those thieving feckers.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I crushed it with my hands. Broke it up that way. I imagined it was his head.’
‘Gross! Why not scoop it up and whack it in a bin bag?’
ABEL'S REVENGE Page 3
