Best Eaten Cold and Other Stories

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Y-yes,’ she stammered, ‘b-but the truth is… I don’t think I could do it. I-I rather liked her.’

  There was a long, stunned silence. A waitress came and started clearing the table next to theirs. She squirted the surface with something from a spray and wiped it clean. After she’d left Pawinski said: ‘So, it’s all off, is it? It was your idea, you know. You started all this.’

  ‘I know, and I’ve been thinking about it. What she did was still despicable, and we should go ahead, as planned, but I don’t think I could do it. I just don’t have the strength, or determination, or whatever it takes. What about the rest of you? What did you all come up with?’

  Pawinski cleared his throat and looked at the ketchup bottle, Sonia fidgeted with her handbag and Stubbs drummed his fingers on the Formica and inspected the legs of the retreating waitress.

  ‘Raoul?’ Artemesia invited, wondering how many minutes he spent each morning perfecting his moustache. ‘Did you have any luck?’

  He shuffled in his chair and pulled himself up to his full height. ‘No,’ he confessed. ‘I met certain difficulties. The current political climate makes it almost impossible to obtain the necessary precursors to manufacture a bomb. The security forces have techniques for listening to telephone traffic and picking out certain code words. Unfortunately I’m out of touch with all these new developments; things have changed since my day, and I may have inadvertently aroused their suspicions. I rang a few people – contacts from the old days – but they couldn’t help me. I’m fairly certain my phone is now being tapped, so I had to back off.’ He sagged into his chair again, happy to have impressed them, even if he had failed with his mission.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Artemesia said. ‘Do you think you will be all right?’

  ‘Ah! No problem.’ He dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. ‘What the heck,’ he said. ‘They can only stick burning matches down my fingernails.’

  She turned to Stubbs. ‘And what about you, Hillary? You were trying to obtain a gun, I believe.’

  ‘Ye-es.’ He was wearing a cravat under the collar of his checked shirt, and suddenly seemed to be finding it a little tight. He eased it with his fingers. ‘I’m afraid I came up with the same problem as Raoul. Things are tight, out there on the street. I spoke to some people but guns aren’t as easy to come by as you might imagine. I was promised one, at a fair price, but was let down at the last moment. By then, I too was probably arousing suspicion, so I had to abandon the attempt.’ The attempt had cost him £200. Had he produced a gun he’d have been happy to ask them to share the cost, but they wouldn’t give him £50 each for nothing, to pay for his stupidity. He’d given Lloyd the £200 and he’d gone off to fetch the weapon, with the other boy staying behind as security. After half an hour the youth suggested he go see what had happened to Lloyd, and Stubbs had no option other than to agree. That was the last he saw of either of them and the money. An hour later he went home, poorer and wiser, but he didn’t relate this part of the story to the other three.

  Raoul nodded his understanding and Artemesia thanked him for trying. She turned to Sonia Cribbage. ‘That just leaves you, Sonia,’ she said.

  Sonia took three deep breaths and launched herself into a blow-by-blow account – literally – of the great watermelon massacre that had taken place in her kitchen. It had taken her three days to clean up the mess and her home still smelled of over-ripe fruit juice. She asked them to imagine what it would be like if the stains on the walls, ceiling, floor and her clothing had been skin and bone, blood and tissue, brains and eyeballs and everything else that goes into the making of a human head. She shuddered at the thought and told them that no way could she countenance this way of ridding themselves of the plagiarising Jessica Fullerton.

  Secretly, they were all slightly relieved by the outcome, but none of them would admit it. Stubbs lifted the teapot, testing it, but it was empty. Pawinski wondered if the ring on Sonia Cribbage’s third finger, right hand, was a real diamond. He reckoned it was, and estimated it at about two carats. Sonia leaned slightly away from him, repulsed by his aftershave. The expression ‘snake oil’ sprang into her mind and she smiled inwardly.

  ‘So that’s it. We’ve failed,’ Artemesia told them, and they all nodded.

  ‘Perhaps it’s for the best,’ she added after a suitable silence. ‘I don’t think we’re cut out to be murderers.’ More nods of agreement.

  ‘And it’s been a learning experience for all of us,’ Sonia declared. This time Hillary Stubbs didn’t join in the nodding. The learning experience had cost him £200. He knew where he could have done a lot more learning for £200.

  ‘So what are we going to do, let her get away with it?’ Pawinski demanded. ‘Let’s not forget that she stole our stories.’

  ‘And probably lots of other people’s,’ Stubbs said. ‘We’re probably just the tip of the iceberg.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Sonia told them, and all eyes turned to her. ‘We could do what we do best,’ she explained.

  ‘Murder,’ Pawinski interjected. ‘We do murder best, and we’ve failed.’

  ‘No we don’t. We’re writers, not murderers. We should write about her.’

  ‘Write about her?’ the others repeated in unison.

  ‘Yes, write about her. A short story exposing her.’

  ‘We’d never get it published.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. We could try, but if nobody will touch it we just send it to her. Let her know that her little game is up.’

  ‘Mein Gott!’ Pawinski exclaimed. ‘It could be the answer.’

  ‘The pen is mightier than the sword,’ said Artemesia.

  ‘Let’s have some more tea and work through it,’ Stubbs suggested.

  He and Artemesia went to fetch the tea and while they were gone Pawinski told Sonia that her hair looked particularly nice today. She thanked him and placed her handbag on the floor between them.

  Stubbs returned, carrying a heavily laden tray and acted as mother, a role he fell into as easily as a student falls into bed. ‘Now,’ he said, his domestic duties concluded, ‘How do we handle this?’ Like the others, he was greatly relieved that murder was no longer on the agenda.

  Sonia cleared her throat and looked up from the shorthand pad on which she’d been making notes. ‘Well,’ she began, ‘I’d be happy to have a go at the story. Perhaps you could help me, Artemesia, as we don’t live too far apart?’

  Artemesia nodded her agreement with enthusiasm. Sonia Cribbage was much more successful than she was, and working with her might be an education. Suddenly, the whole project was looking worthwhile, not the dangerous adventure it had nearly become.

  ‘How long do you need?’ Stubbs asked. ‘We could all meet here again when you have a first draft ready.’

  Sonia looked at Artemesia, who was about to suggest a month when Sonia said: ‘Two weeks should be ample, don’t you think, Artemesia?’

  ‘Oh, er, yes, that should be more than ample,’ she replied.

  ‘That’s agreed then. We meet here two weeks today. Is that convenient for you, Raoul?’

  Pawinski shuffled in his seat, gave a terse little nod in answer to the question, then asked: ‘And what are we going to call this story? And whom are we going to say it is by? Don’t forget we have libel laws in this country and Ms Fullerton could probably afford to ruin us all.’

  ‘That’s a good point,’ Stubbs agreed. ‘In cases like this, having a big bank account is more useful than having right on your side.’

  ‘Oh dear, I don’t want to become involved in litigation,’ Artemesia said. ‘I had enough of that when… when… well, I just don’t.’

  ‘It won’t come to litigation,’ Stubbs assured her. ‘We’ll just have to be careful to keep our identities concealed.’

  ‘But we want to be able to demonstrate that it was us who wrote the story,’ Sonia declared. ‘Some time in the future we might want to say it was us who wrote it.’

  They nodded t
heir agreements. It would be a shame to write such a good story anonymously. One day they might want to claim the credit for it.

  ‘I know!’ Pawinski declared, banging his fist on the table and causing Sonia to spill her tea. ‘An anagram. Have the story be by someone whose name is an anagram of ours.’ He sat back with the satisfaction of a man who had just solved the riddle of dark matter.

  ‘It would have to be a long name,’ Stubbs commented. Finding an anagram that would have to include Polish names amongst the possibilities did not sound like a fruitful exercise. Pawinski threw him a glare.

  Sonia dabbed her notebook dry with a paper serviette. ‘It doesn’t have to be an anagram,’ she said. ‘Look. I’ve written our names down.’ She turned the notebook so the others could read it. ‘I’m sure we could make something out of them.’

  Hillary Stubbs reached for the book and studied the list. ‘Ye-es,’ he agreed, adding: ‘Look, if I go over one syllable in each of our names, like this…’ He took the list and worked on it for a few seconds, ‘…to make those letters bolder, and perhaps underline them for a bit more emphasis, so they look like this…’ He pushed the notebook back across the table for the others to consider.

  The list now read:

  Hillary Stubbs

  Artemesia Jones

  Raoul Pawinski

  Sonia Cribbage

  ‘It’s not much of a name,’ Sonia said.

  ‘It doesn’t roll off the tongue,’ Artemesia agreed. ‘And it’s not very memorable.’

  ‘No,’ Stubbs concurred, ‘but it fulfils our purpose.’

  Pawinski flapped a hand in approval, saying: ‘Its forgettable-ness is what makes it so suitable, and it would be impossible to link it to the four of us, which is the main intention,’ and the two ladies nodded.

  ‘Which just leaves a title,’ Stubbs said.

  Pawinski smiled and held his cupped hand out in front of him, like a great orator about to deliver the goods. ‘In Poland,’ he told them, ‘there is a saying: “Revenge is a dish that is…"’

  ‘Yes,’ Sonia Cribbage interrupted with a laugh. ‘We have the same saying here, Raoul. But I think you’ve given us our title.’

  Stubbs smiled in agreement and Artemesia sat back as a warm feeling of satisfaction engulfed her. She was among like minds, she thought. She belonged. And that was more important than anything else. She looked at her three new friends and three new stories popped into her head.

  ‘More tea, anybody?’ she asked.

  Ann Cleeves

  * * *

  Basic Skills

  * * *

  Maddy thought books could change lives. That was what she’d told Sylvia at the interview for the post of literacy tutor. Sylvia, who was in charge of access at MMU, had given a cynical little smile, but had given Maddy the job anyway. Perhaps there wasn’t much competition. Certainly the pay was dreadful. The project was an attempt to encourage local people to consider further education, to give them, Sylvia said, a fresh start. It was a fresh start for Maddy too. A return to confidence after the end of a long-term relationship. A change of career.

  Now, walking through Didsbury Park to her first class, Maddy felt the same excitement as she had as a child at the beginning of the school year. She loved the romance of autumn. The leaves were starting to turn and there was a freshness in the air after a long, humid summer. In her bag she carried a new pencil case and a file with all her students’ names. At the university she waited for her students in a room which smelled of worn gym kit and floor polish. In the street below, the lights came on.

  The students drifted in one at a time. She greeted them all, holding out her hand, repeating their names. Knew she was being too effusive as soon as she opened her mouth, felt the smile too wide, her voice a little too loud. She should have worn jeans. Her clothes were showy and seemed designed to set her apart. She wanted to tell her students that she’d got the garments at cost, that she’d been in the business once. Instead she grinned and made more unnecessary introductions.

  They sat at their little tables and stared at her. She marked them off the register, trying to memorise their names. Sophie was the thin one with the staring eyes. Alan had the nervous laugh. There were seven of them. One was missing – an eighteen-year-old called Anthony who lived in a probation hostel. Sylvia had said he might not turn up.

  They’re unpredictable, the hostel lads. We can’t force them after all.

  During her training Maddy had observed other literacy classes and thought how tedious they were. How patronising. She was passionate about reading. How could her students not respond?

  She was just starting on her prepared introduction when the missing student walked in. He had soft hair and sad brown eyes. His face was framed by the hood of his parka. He had an edgy tension which made her think he might be an addict.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, miss.’ As if he was still at school. He had a lovely smile.

  She started them reading first lines. Interesting first lines from her favourite writers. Margaret Atwood. Charlotte Brontë. Carol Shields. She’d printed the words very big on thick, white paper. Then she asked what might come next in the book.

  ‘Don’t you want to find out?’ she demanded. ‘Really, can you bear not to know?’

  The students smiled indulgently at her and looked at the clock. They’d been told there’d be a break halfway through the session. Free tea and biscuits.

  They came back late, licking chocolaty fingers and smelling of cigarettes.

  ‘If you were to write your own story, where would you start?’ Maddy asked. ‘Give me a first line! Don’t worry about the spelling, just get the words down.’

  She wasn’t sure if Anthony had heard her. He stared in front of him, features rigid. Then he leaned very close to his paper and started to write. The point of his tongue was clamped between his lips in concentration.

  ‘Who shall we start with?’ Maddy asked brightly. ‘Anthony, what about you?’ Already she was fascinated by him.

  He looked up at her and she thought he might refuse to read his work. She decided she wouldn’t make a big deal of it. Then he spoke.

  ‘The buckle shaped like a ship on the belt my father beat me with,’ he said. ‘That’s what I’d start with.’

  He spoke slowly, rhythmically. Like a poet, making every word count. She was moved almost to tears.

  ‘Anthony, that’s a stunning piece of writing.’

  He became her star student. He brought her scraps of verse and ideas for stories. Most of his writing was sentimental and childish, but there were pieces so powerful that they took her breath away.

  On the third week he asked about her favourite book.

  ‘The Catcher in the Rye,’ she said immediately. ‘You should try it. Really, it’s only short. You could manage it. Come back with me now and you can borrow it.’ She was swept away by the idea that he would love the book too.

  He waited while she packed away her papers and tucked her glass-es in their case and they walked slowly through the fallen leaves.

  ‘What’s it like in the hostel?’ she asked.

  ‘Not so bad.’ He was standing under a light and she caught a quick, bleak smile. ‘I’m hoping to get a place of my own soon.’

  She didn’t ask why he was living there. She felt it would be bad manners to pry.

  In the flat, she poured him a glass of Rioja, because that was what she would have done with any of her friends. He sat opposite her, sipping the wine as if it was medicine. He told her his father was dead now. ‘Cancer, poor bastard, but he went out fighting as always.’ Then he left, with the book in his pocket. From her window on the first floor, she watched him go. He stopped once to look back.

  Her friends were horrified by her folly in letting him know where she lived.

  ‘Are you crazy? You don’t even know why he’s caught up with the probation service. He could be violent.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’

  It was early October, a bright c
lear day. They were sitting outside Tilly’s Café & Bar in Chorlton, drinking cappuccino. A Saturday morning ritual. She looked at their shocked faces and saw that perhaps she had been foolish. How could she have been so naïve?

  She began to distance herself from Anthony. In class she picked skeletal Sophie or serious Maz to read first. She looked at Anthony’s poems and stories when everyone else was there, read into them a suppressed violence which she hadn’t previously noticed. What previously she had considered powerful, now she read as disturbed. After class, she rushed off immediately, claiming meetings, dinner with a boyfriend who didn’t exist. Anthony sat at the front and looked at her.

  One evening in her flat, after she’d eaten, she poured herself a second glass of wine and stood with it looking into the street. There was a fine drizzle which looked like mist. Halfway along the road, leaning against a tree, was a dark figure with a hood pulled over his head. Anthony. She let the curtain fall, felt her pulse quicken, saw that the surface of the wine was trembling, realised her hand must be shaking. When she found the courage to look out again, he’d gone.

  The next day she had the locks on her flat changed. She’d lost her spare key some time ago and hadn’t thought much of it. She had never been very tidy – one of the sources of discontent with Des. Now she tried to remember if she’d seen it since Anthony’s visit. It tormented her that a kind and spontaneous invitation could lead to this unease. She knew it was her fault but she blamed Anthony. Whenever she thought of him now she was taken over by a sense of dread. In class she could hardly look at him.

  The certainty that she was being followed developed over several days. There was nothing she could pin down. Nothing rational. A figure disappearing into thick fog when she left home early one morning to buy milk. A shadow thrown across the pavement when she walked back from college. Once she definitely saw him, huddled against a cold east wind, hands in pockets, head bent. He was walking along the street behind her. She sensed him or heard his footsteps, turned suddenly and caught his eye. He looked defiant but rather pitiful. She hurried on, could hear him behind her, running, but not quite catching her before she turned into her flat.