Best Served Cold

by Limey Lady

  Fiercely and infinitely better . . .

  Vic smiled more warmly, her teeth flashing like a Colgate advert rather than snarling like a nervy wolf. Heather had set off early for Headingley. By now she would almost certainly have thrown Krista onto the bed.

  Lucky Krista! She’d agreed with indecent haste, even though she couldn’t begin to suspect what she was letting herself in for.

  And lucky Victoria; virtually seven man-less years really was too long.

  ‘Okay Graham,’ she murmured. ‘Here I come, ready or not.’

  Part Two

  I, Penelope Browning take you, Geoffrey Rodgers, for my lawful husband, to have and to hold,

  from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer,

  in sickness and in health, until death do us part.

  (Penelope Browning)

  Chapter Fifteen

  (Monday 7th July 2008)

  After thirteen weeks Penny could have done the trip to Ward 5 in her sleep. She knew all the nurses and care workers by name and even had a pass for the car park. Which was all very, very worrying. Right at the start of Geoff's stay she’d been told that, being principally “The Stroke Ward”, where a lot of patients were kept fairly long term, the nursing/patient relationship on 5 could grow particularly strong. In Geoff's case this seemed to have extended to the nursing/patient's spouse relationship already.

  And still no sign of any improvement.

  Geoff had been in the same bed in the men’s middle bay since the beginning of April. That was, of course, exactly where she found him on this her latest visit; propped up in bed with rock-hard pillows, idly staring out of the window, watching a squirrel playing in the sunshine on the lawn outside. It had been two months since he’d been strong enough to be sat out in a chair; two months since the physios had stopped calling for him because he’d got too weak to exercise.

  ‘Hi,’ she said brightly. ‘What's to do?’

  He turned his head from the window (not like Linda Blair, her mind insisted) and gave her a twisted smile. ‘Hi,’ he mumbled. ‘Get yourself a chair, I've some news.’

  When she was sitting as comfortably as she was ever going to get on the school-like, blue plastic visitor’s seat, he told her that Dr Strohl had the results of his latest nerve-conductivity test.

  ‘It's worse than last time. The immunoglobulin treatment hasn’t worked. And all the booster courses were a waste of effort. They don't seem to be able to stop it.’

  Penny had been in need of good news, not this. She still couldn’t believe this . . . this condition that she previously hadn’t even heard of could have hit them so badly.

  Or that it could have lasted for so long.

  Dr Strohl had vowed he would turn the tables on the condition in five days, and that a few weeks of physio would do the rest. But it hadn’t worked out like that. Oh no. Poor Geoff had spent those five days hooked up to what the nurses called a “bing-bong” pump and really had believed he’d been cured.

  Only to find the physio was getting harder and harder. Not because the physio team were sadistically pushing him, but because his body was still getting weaker. The neurologist had scratched his head and prescribed more exercise. He had also prescribed peak flow checks every two or three hours, just in case the weakness was progressing to his lungs.

  Futile; all of it had been futile.

  The first booster course of immunoglobulin had happened a month to the day after the end of the initial course. The second booster course (supposedly to do the trick good and proper) had happened a fortnight ago. In-between all this Geoff had had dozens of scans and tests, culminating in yet another nerve-conductivity examination.

  The one intended to measurably prove the corner had been turned.

  ‘Worse,’ Penny said, ‘how much worse?’

  ‘It’s a lot worse, according to the doc. He said he wasn’t giving up but maybe, just maybe we should start thinking less optimistically.’

  ‘You mean it might take even longer to get better?’

  ‘Penny . . . they can’t stop it. It’s still wrecking my nervous system. The bits that should be conducting simply aren’t.’

  ‘I know that. But the GBS will have to stop sometime, won’t it? And then you’ll get better.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Not according to Dr Strohl.’

  ‘Are you saying you might not recover?’

  ‘I think he was saying I might get a lot more poorly and then not recover.’

  Penny stared at him. His limbs were paralyzed and he’d lost over three stones in weight. She couldn't see his legs right then but the muscles on his arms had wasted away to nothing at all. Even his voice had become wasted and weak. He could move his head, a little, but that was the sum of his powers. When he had been first admitted he’d overdosed on novels and crosswords; those pastimes had all stopped along with the physio. As he’ had said himself, you need arms and hands that work to do books and puzzles.

  ‘Excuse me, darling, but how could you possibly get more poorly?’

  ‘That's what I said.’ Geoff chuckled thinly. ‘That's when the doc told me he was a long way from giving up. And I'm not giving up either. I'm going to beat this thing and walk out of here on my own two feet. Next stop the pub.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, blinking back tears and taking his hand. For the first few weeks “beer” and “the pub” had flavoured most of her husband’s conversation. After being mildly annoyed by that she had started to worry when he dropped the subject altogether. The nurses said he didn’t joke about drinking the alcohol hand rub anymore, and he’d stopped nagging them to take him across to the White Bear. She had feared these were signs of him giving up.

  ‘I mean it,’ he assured her now.

  ‘I know you do,’ she said bravely. ‘And I’ll be here when you leave. We are going to beat it together.’

  ‘Enough about me,’ Geoff resumed, breaking an awkward silence. ‘How are things at home?’

  ‘Everything’s fine. The girls ring to ask how you are every day. Becky's coming home at the weekend, so you will get to see her then. Sandy's still working silly hours, so you'll have to wait a while for her next visit. They both send their love.’

  ‘What about the man of the house? Is he behaving himself?’

  ‘Jamie’s being as good as gold. Or at least he seems to be. Our paths rarely cross with me coming on here twice a day. He said he'd call on Saturday afternoon, seeing there’s no rugby this time of year.’

  ‘Good. That’ll give me chance to review his finances.’

  ‘Don’t say you’re cutting back. He barely scrapes by as it is.’

  ‘He scrapes by because you sub him, Penelope.’ Geoff’s lips twitched in his best effort at a smile. ‘But don’t fret. I want to tidy things up so he’s not always cadging. I’m giving him a rise, not a reduction.

  ‘You’re giving him a rise?’ She managed a thin smile of her own. ‘Did Dr Strohl say anything about your judgment being affected?’

  ‘That’s not his field. He leaves that to my psychologist.’

  ‘What’s the latest from her, then?’

  ‘I’m not sure. She just makes notes and nods wisely. I think I confuse her.’

  ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Penny laughed sadly. ‘Never mind her anyway. Why are you really planning to give Jamie a rise?’

  ‘Because I know what an expensive time it‘s going to be in the sixth form.’

  ‘You didn't say that with Sandy and Becky.’

  ‘That's because girls are the expensive bit.’

  ‘Jamie and girls,’ Penny snorted. ‘He's got enough on with his rugby and Army training. He's no spare time for girls.’

  *****

  ‘I’ll have the same,’ said Waterman.

  Carlisle turned to the man behind the tiny bar: ‘Three pints of Dent Kamikaze, please.’

  ‘You don’t have to show off,’ Ayling put in. ‘Just because you’re out with the boys.’

&nbs
p; ‘I’m not showing off,’ Waterman replied. ‘If I was showing off, I’d have gone for the Old Peculier.’

  Carlisle passed them their drinks and suggested they went outside. And not just so they could smoke and chat in private. Fanny’s Ale House was only small; even though it was still early evening the place was absolutely rammed.

  ‘Hope no officious bizzy happens along,’ said Ayling. ‘Drinking in the street has to be illegal in Saltaire.’

  ‘I’ll keep my eyes peeled,’ said Carlisle, ‘just in case Sir Titus’s enforcers are about.’ He took the top two inches off his beer and sighed. ‘I needed that.’

  ‘He banned the police from his village,’ Ayling persisted. ‘Sir Titus, I mean, back in 1850-something. He probably did have enforcers too, to keep everyone in line.’

  ‘Enforcers and sneaks,’ Waterman agreed. ‘He had his workers all spying on each other. No pubs, no unions . . . He probably gave Stalin a lot of ideas.’

  ‘I wish someone would give me a few ideas.’ Carlisle swigged more beer. ‘The wheels have come off our investigation.’

  ‘Did you say our investigation?’ Ayling laughed. ‘I thought it was your investigation.’

  ‘It’s grounded anyway, whoever’s it is.’

  Waterman nodded. The investigation had stalled ages ago. New cases had come along. That initial, almost unlimited manpower had steadily been reassigned. Marsh and Wilkes had found better things to do. Her own workload was pressing her to spend less and less time thinking about Mr Bastard. Ditto for Ayling and Carlisle.

  ‘We need a break,’ said Carlisle.

  ‘We need more drinks,’ said Ayling. ‘I’ll get them.’

  Waterman waited until he’d gone inside before offering Carlisle a cig.

  ‘My research isn’t going anywhere,’ she said.

  ‘I know. I saw your report.’

  ‘I’ve kept at it since then.’

  ‘No progress at all?’

  ‘No. I’m going round in circles.’

  ‘Best not spend any more time on it. It was always a long shot.’

  ‘I know it was. That’s why I’ve been doing it at home . . . in my own time.’

  ‘My God, Waterman, your social life must be as crappy as mine.’

  ‘Maybe it is,’ she said demurely. ‘And maybe it’s become a special case to me too.’

  Carlisle gave her one of his searching looks. She tried to look back calmly, but calm wasn’t easy. It felt as though he was inside her head, reading her most secret thoughts. Thankfully Ayling came back with refills before she had to say anything else.

  And even more thankfully he arrived before her boss could actually order her to stop.

  *****

  Simone had made her opening move in a French lesson a couple of weeks ago. Up until then Jamie had hardly known her. She wasn't in any other classes with him and hadn't even crossed his path in French until that afternoon when, nearly a whole school year too late, the teacher had moved everyone around, trying to improve discipline.

  Sitting beside him, without any prior warning, she'd turned her seductive blue eyes in his direction and casually suggested he took her to see “that golden oldie French sex film, Emmanuelle” in Bradford. Jamie had been utterly skint, as usual. He’d also been taken completely by surprise. He’d felt like a total buffoon as he’d clumsily declined.

  The next French class took place three days later. By then he'd found out a bit about Simone.

  Apparently she was the most desirable girl in school but risky to know, not least because she had a nineteen-year-old biker boyfriend . . . one who she had been known to cheat on. Rumour had it she never kept anything secret and that her boyfriend was both insanely jealous and gratuitously violent.

  But so what? Jamie wasn't afraid of any biker. More to the point, he’d persuaded Mum to bring his funds up to date and wasn't utterly skint anymore. When he re-raised the suggestion, however, he was disappointed.

  ‘Too late,’ she’d said airily. ‘Chain took me. I've already tried everything I saw in the film with him. You will have to think of something else that might turn me on.’

  At that stage Jamie had fancied Simone very much, but not enough to be messed around while she played Wind-up-my-Biker. He ignored her for the rest of the lesson and had almost forgotten about her altogether by the time the next came around. He’d just grunted at her cheery “Bonjour” and would have carried on ignoring her . . . if she hadn't kept touching his leg under the table. As she’d left the classroom she pressed a folded piece of paper into his hand. Unsigned and written in bold block capitals, it read:

  UNLESS TU ES GAY YOU MUST

  WANT TO GO OUT WITH MOI AS

  MUCH AS JE WANT TO GO OUT

  WITH TU.

  SO WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO

  DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT?

  He’d brooded a while. Most of Mum’s money had gone across the rugby club bar over the weekend. In fact virtually all of it had; he didn’t have enough left to buy a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. He had, however, agreed to do some major redecorating for his granddad over the coming weekend, which would make him temporarily solvent again. He tore a page out of his jotter and, using the same unsigned block capitals format, wrote:

  YOU'LL SOON KNOW FOR A FACT

  THAT I'M NOT GAY.

  I'M GOING TO PROVE IT TO YOU.

  BE PATIENT.

  He then used his position of cock of the walk to intimidate a lad called Craig to hand-deliver the note on his behalf. Craig caught up with him at lunchtime and gave him the reply before scooting off, obviously not enthused with the role of go-between. Simone's reply said:

  I DON'T NORMALLY DO

  PATIENT BUT FOR YOU

  I'LL MAKE AN EXCEPTION.

  The touching continued in the final French lesson of the week. Jamie did his best to look absorbed in the teacher's last-ditch efforts to teach them the lingo while Simone deliberately provoked him. This time her note said:

  DEFINITELY NOT GAY.

  WHEN FOR DIEU'S SAKE?

  To which he’d replied:

  LUNDI SOIR. WITHOUT FAIL.

  *****

  Solvent as anticipated, Jamie had taken Simone by taxi to the Busfeild for drinks and something to eat. She had been impressed by the casual way he sauntered in there with her on his arm. Then again, she wasn't to know that Uncle Rick had taught him to always remember the 7 Ps.

  Prior Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance.

  He had planned and prepared on this occasion by taking his weekend “tea breaks” from decorating in the pub. After half a dozen visits, confident he would get served without question, he had booked tonight's table via the friendly landlord himself.

  The pub trip went like a dream and Simone turned out to be excellent company. She also turned out to be pleasantly independent, insisting on buying her rounds and splitting the cost of the meal and taxis.

  They also had a very intriguing snog outside her garden gate.

  ‘Not gay at all,’ she concluded with a saucy grin. ‘Are we going to do it again sometime soon?’

  As if anyone would say non!

  Chapter Sixteen

  (Wednesday 20th August 2008)

  Jonjo sat in silence as the hulking figure approached. He wasn't at all intimidated by Kyle Cassidy but he was wary of him, the way he'd have been wary of a snarling dog. Kyle opened the passenger-side door and got in, making the car sink on its springs as he sat.

  ‘You still up for it?’ Jonjo asked.

  ‘Yeah, I've got everything arranged.’

  Jonjo was a past master at keeping a poker face. Hiding his inner satisfaction, he just grunted before saying: ‘Dwyer doesn't know about this, right?’

  ‘Not a thing. I take it Harry still doesn't know?’

  ‘He knows nothing,’ Jonjo lied. ‘Are you cool with the price and everything?’

  ‘Yeah; I’m cool with the whole deal.’

  ‘Not got cold feet about the merchandise, D
wyer being so saintly and that?’

  ‘I never get cold feet.’ Kyle grinned unpleasantly. ‘Dwyer wants to sort his own house out before he starts on me, anyway. He’s not so fucking saintly.’

  ‘You mean he's been dealing all along?’