The Beautiful Dead

by Belinda Bauer

  Eve was starting to think she’d underestimated Guy Smith. He certainly was persistent and, for a reporter, that was half the battle.

  He leaned in close and lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘Listen, if you’re, y’know, gay or something, just let me know. I won’t tell.’

  He locked his lips and threw away the key.

  Eve gave him a look that would have withered a sequoia.

  It barely registered with Guy. ‘OK, listen,’ he said, as if they were in the middle of some kind of mutually beneficial negotiation. ‘Just say this Mike was a figment of your imagination. Then would you go out with me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’ he demanded.

  Eve almost softened the blow. But there was something about Guy Smith that sucked the milk of human kindness right out of her and spat it on the floor.

  So she just tugged open the crew-car door and said, ‘I imagine I could do better.’

  Eve fumed as they pulled away.

  ‘Did you hear that arsehole?’

  ‘I know!’ said Joe.

  ‘If I’m gay. It’s men like him who make me wish I was gay!’

  ‘I know!’ said Joe, and started laughing.

  ‘I know you know!’ she yelled and then started laughing too.

  That was true: Joe knew her better than anyone. They’d spent so many hours together over the past few years. In this car, or outside random buildings or in the edit suite, giggling at gore, cutting careful packages so people thought they’d seen blood, and putting aside the outtakes for the office Christmas party. The dismembered leg bobbing about Canary Wharf with a seagull on it; Guy Smith silently moving his lips while reading a press release. And Eve stupidly repeating the word ‘coroner’ to camera until it had been so emptied of meaning that it didn’t even sound like English any more.

  Now she grinned as the tension of the morning started to dissipate.

  ‘So what did Ross want?’

  ‘Nothing. Ross didn’t call. I just thought we should go before you smacked Guy.’

  ‘But we can’t go, Joe! We haven’t got the bag!’

  ‘But we have got the name and address of the victim.’

  Eve was suddenly interested. ‘Oh yeah?’

  He nodded. ‘Kevin Barr. And it’s close by, too, in Paddington.’

  ‘How did you get that?’

  ‘Ricky let it slip. The SOCOs have only just started here, so I thought we could go up there, do the family, pick up a picture, and still be back in time for the bag.’

  ‘Who’s Ricky?’ she frowned.

  ‘Guy’s cameraman.’ Joe rolled his eyes. ‘God, we really are just monkeys to you, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eve soothingly. ‘But you’re the king of the monkeys.’

  Her phone rang. It was Ross.

  ‘Did you get the bag yet?’

  No Hello. No How are you? No Thanks for the great eyewitness interview. Straight to the bag. That was Ross all over.

  ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘But how about that exclusive?’

  ‘Yeah, great,’ said Ross unenthusiastically – apparently because Stan the paramedic wasn’t hot or blonde.

  Or dead.

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘We’ve got a tip on the family of the victim. We’re going to do them and come back.’

  ‘OK,’ said Ross grudgingly. ‘But don’t miss the bag.’

  Eve hung up and turned to Joe. ‘How come Ricky’s suddenly sharing info with us?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘I guess we monkeys gotta stick together.’

  She smiled, then said, ‘So everyone knows I don’t have a boyfriend?’

  ‘Most people,’ said Joe.

  Eve nodded and bit her thumbnail. ‘You think everyone thinks I’m gay?’

  ‘Of course,’ he nodded cheerfully. ‘Everyone but me!’

  The address Ricky had given Joe was a flat above a burger bar off Praed Street. The smell took Eve back to her student days, when her diet had seemed to consist almost exclusively of salt and hot grease. Her mouth watered in remembrance.

  There was a panel beside the door with six push-button bells on it – each with a corresponding name-tag. The top one said ‘Barr’ in green ink.

  Eve took a deep breath. She’d been knocking on doors like this for too long now. Doors belonging to families who had started the day just like other families, but who had ended it as something else entirely. Something fractured and sad and unbearably changed.

  The first contact with a bereaved family was never easy, but every reporter just had to get on with it, or get out of the job.

  ‘I hate this,’ she said.

  ‘Me too,’ said Joe.

  ‘Yeah, but they don’t hate you,’ she said. ‘For some reason they never hate the camera guy. They only hate the reporter.’

  Joe nodded solemnly. ‘That’s because they know the monkey only dances to the organ-grinder’s tune.’

  Eve giggled, then glared at him furiously. ‘Don’t make me laugh! I’m serious, Joe! These people are grieving and you’re making me laugh!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Eve rang the bell for the top-floor flat. There was no response.

  ‘Come on, sad people,’ she said coldly, and rang it again, feeling that icy spike start to work its way between her heart and her head.

  There was a crackling sound and then a man’s voice said, ‘What?’

  ‘Hello, is that Mr Barr?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The father of Kevin Barr?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Mr Barr, I’m very sorry to trouble you, sir. This is Eve Singer from iWitness News. I wondered if we might have a word?’

  There was a brief buzzing pause and a whispered off-intercom exchange. Then Mr Barr said, ‘I’m coming down,’ and cut them off.

  Eve and Joe exchanged hopeful looks and waited.

  While they did, the snow started again.

  Eve loved snow in the suburbs, where it made everything silent and magical, but snow in central London was never the same. Here it seemed wet and depressed even as it fell – as if it knew what was waiting for it once it hit the ground and so wasn’t bothering to make an effort at any stage. Rightly so, as the snow here slowly met its miserable destiny of green plastic recycling bags piled up outside the row of shops.

  Footsteps approached beyond the door; the sound of locks and chains.

  Eve took a deep breath.

  The middle-aged man who opened the door was short, round, and wearing a red onesie that made him look like Yosemite Sam.

  ‘Mr Barr?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re terribly sorry to intrude—’

  Without warning, the man threw a bucket of water over them. ‘Fucking vultures!’ he said, then slammed the door.

  ‘Shit!’ hissed Joe. He turned away and frantically checked his camera, while Eve stood, open-mouthed, looking at the front of her soaked coat, feeling the icy water run between the buttons, under her breasts and down her stomach.

  ‘Camera’s screwed,’ said Joe. He looked at Eve. ‘You OK?’

  She nodded slowly. Then she muttered, ‘Bastard!’ and reached for the bell again.

  Joe’s hand stopped hers. ‘Leave it, Eve.’

  ‘Fuck that!’ She shook him off angrily and punched the bell with her forefinger.

  The door opened immediately.

  ‘He said you’d try again,’ said Mr Barr.

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘That ponce off the news,’ he said. ‘So—’

  The second bucket of water hit Eve square in the face.

  Eve perched on the corner of a desk and tried to dry her hair with an iWitness tea-towel.

  ‘Why don’t you just go out with Guy Smith?’ said Joe. ‘It would make life easier for both of us.’

  ‘Why don’t you just go out with him?’ she suggested. ‘That would make life easier for me.’

  Her clothing hung over several radiators in the bustling newsro
om, and she was dressed in the gym gear she always left at work and never used. Lycra leggings and a crop top, under Joe’s jumper.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Joe seriously. ‘I should’ve smelled a rat.’

  ‘That’s OK. I did smell a rat but I went along with it anyway. So who’s more stupid?’

  ‘You?’ Joe guessed.

  ‘Exactly,’ she nodded. ‘And you told me not to ring the bell again.’

  ‘I did,’ said Joe with a dramatic sigh. ‘Let that be a lesson to you.’

  ‘Yep,’ said Eve ruefully. ‘Total obedience from now on.’

  ‘You missed the fucking bag!’

  They both looked round. Ross was coming at them across the room, already furious.

  ‘The camera was waterlogged,’ said Joe.

  ‘Yes,’ said Eve. ‘And so were we. I had hypothermia.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit if you had Ebola! You’re paid to do a job and I expect that job to be done.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’ said Eve. ‘And we did do the job. We did a bloody good job! We got the only eyewitness interview! Exclusively.’

  ‘The audience wants to see the body. It’s all they care about.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Eve.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ shouted Ross. ‘We had complaints.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘We had complaints,’ he insisted.

  ‘Who the hell calls up the TV news to complain about not seeing the body bag?’

  ‘I would!’ They both looked at Ross in surprise and he shrugged. ‘There’s something about a pretty girl and a body bag in the same shot. And obviously I’m not alone.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Eve sarcastically, ‘I didn’t realize I was here to satisfy your perverted needs.’

  ‘Well, check your contract,’ he snapped. ‘How’s the camera?’

  ‘In the air dryer,’ said Joe. ‘In bits.’

  ‘If it’s broken it’s coming out of your pay.’ He stomped away.

  Eve called after him, ‘So what do you want us to do about Kevin Barr’s family?’

  Ross turned again and kept walking, but backwards. ‘Fuck the family,’ he said. ‘Now I want the X-ray of the guy with the knife in his head. You know, like those ones of puppies that swallow arrows and shit.’

  He slammed through the double doors, and Eve and Joe exchanged long-suffering looks.

  ‘What a dick,’ she spat.

  ‘Massive,’ agreed Joe. ‘Massive dick on legs.’

  ‘What are we going to do about the X-ray then?’

  Joe waved a dismissive hand. ‘Ross is just whistling Dixie. Nobody’s going to get that.’

  Eve ventured, ‘Maybe Janey in the coroner’s office …?’

  Joe had taken Janey out a couple of times, but now he gave two thumbs-downs. ‘Not likely.’

  ‘No? What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. She’s just … thicker than she looks.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and patted his arm.

  ‘I’m not,’ he shrugged.

  ‘I got you some soup to warm you both up.’

  They turned to find Katie Merino holding out two paper cups of coffee-machine soup.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Eve.

  ‘I have a sweater you can borrow if you like,’ said Katie sweetly, even though she was plainly two sizes smaller than Eve.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Joe, ‘but I don’t think it would fit me.’

  Katie laughed and squeezed his bicep and said, ‘No, probably not.’

  She went back to her desk.

  ‘That was nice of her,’ said Joe.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Eve darkly.

  They turned as the six o’clock bulletins came on across the wall of screens.

  ‘Every other fucker’s got the fucking bag!’ Ross shouted through the open door of his office.

  Eve sighed and felt her clothes. They were still damp. She turned them over to dry the other side. ‘I hate this bloody job,’ she said with feeling.

  Joe eyed her carefully. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘really. We’ve missed shit before. What’s wrong?’

  Eve shook her head silently. She trusted Joe, but she couldn’t tell him all the things that were wrong with her life. It would make her sound pathetic and needy, and there was nothing anyone could do about any of it anyway, so what was the point? Nothing bad lasted for ever, everything would be OK in the end, and other assorted optimistic bullshit.

  She’d just keep going.

  She put her hand on her damp coat. ‘This stuff’s nearly dry. I’m going home.’

  ‘Not in rush hour!’ said Joe in mock horror. They rarely went home on time, and rush hour was a joke that they laughed at to keep from feeling gypped about it – a mythical thing that they’d heard tell of, but never seen with their own eyes.

  Eve gave a wan smile.

  ‘Don’t go home,’ Joe went on. ‘Come out to dinner with me.’

  ‘Dinner?’ She was surprised. She and Joe ate together all the time – street-corner sandwiches and crew-car takeaways – but they’d never deliberately gone out to eat together.

  ‘Why not?’ said Joe. ‘We’ve had a crap day and I feel like a nice meal and a bottle of wine, don’t you?’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘Thanks, but I –’

  – have to wash my hair.

  ‘– I have to start my Christmas shopping.’

  She didn’t know why she was lying to Joe. He had no idea about her father’s illness. Nobody did, apart from the doctor and Mrs Solomon. It was stupid, really, but telling people that Duncan Singer was losing his mind would have felt like a throwaway excuse, when the truth was so complex and horribly real.

  So real she might cry.

  ‘But thanks,’ she went on hurriedly. ‘Can I take a raincheck?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘And, you know, we don’t have to have dinner. We can talk any time.’

  She smiled and shrugged on her coat. ‘Thanks, Joe. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Night,’ he said, and leaned down and kissed her.

  Only on the cheek, but it was a surprise, nonetheless.

  On the swaying Tube to Isleworth, Eve turned the kiss over and over in her mind. It was a peck on the cheek, and Joe was a friend, and far too young for her. But she hadn’t been kissed by a man for years – even on the cheek – and that friendly peck allowed her to imagine asking Joe – or anyone – back to hers for a nightcap for the first time in a long, long time.

  She was so out of practice! Where would she start? Alcohol would probably be a sensible place. A nice bottle of wine to complement … What? Her default aphrodisiac of baked beans on toast? Then after dinner, she and her date could push her father up the stairs together, before relaxing in front of the TV to watch how to make oven gloves, all to music left over from Debbie Does Dallas.

  Eve smiled wryly at her reflection in the tunnel-black window and decided not to overthink the kiss.

  Then she overthought it all the way home.

  11

  7 December

  ‘WE’RE GOING CHRISTMAS shopping!’

  Duncan Singer frowned up at her from the sofa. ‘I’m busy,’ he said, pointing at the TV, where How It’s Made was on. ‘Have you watched this?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘I haven’t,’ he said. ‘It’s very good. They make all kinds of things.’

  Today they were making umbrellas, pocket knives and cowboy saddles. Eve had seen this episode at least ten times just in passing, and knew there was a lot of work in a cowboy saddle. Tinplate and rivets and each layer of thick leather had to be shaved cleverly around the edges to make sure everything was smooth. In a process known as skiving, she thought, in time to the voiceover.

  ‘Come on, Dad,’ she said. ‘It’ll be fun.’

  Duncan looked up at her as if for the first time.

  ‘What will be fun?’

  ‘Christmas shopping.’

/>   ‘Fun for you, maybe,’ he said. ‘But what’s in it for me?’

  ‘Loads. There’ll be lights and presents and we’re going to meet Charlotte for a Christmas coffee, like an eggnog latte or something, and a mince pie, and there’ll be carols in all the shops. You love carols.’

  ‘Who’s Carol?’ he said suspiciously.

  Eve giggled. ‘Not Carol the person, carol the song,’ she said, and she started to sing ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’.

  He joined in and they finished together. He knew all the words, and still had a good baritone.

  ‘So,’ laughed Eve, ‘you want to go and hear the carols?’

  ‘Who’s Carol?’ he said suspiciously.

  ‘I’ll get your coat,’ she said.

  She got it from the hall cupboard. It was thick grey wool and very old and weighed a ton. Her father seemed to have had it all her life.

  She took it into the front room and held it out for him.

  ‘Is that my coat?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Put it on.’

  He did put it on. His shoulders bowed a little under its weight.

  ‘It’s very warm.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But outside it’s really cold.’

  ‘Well, we should go outside then,’ he said, and she laughed again.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ he told her irritably. ‘It’s logical.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Eve. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Together they stood behind the front door while Eve put on her own coat and gloves and a woollen hat with matching scarf, then picked up her bag and checked for money and keys and phone. Then she opened the door in a widening slice of dazzling white.

  ‘Snow!’ he blinked.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Eve. Another few inches had fallen overnight and everything was smooth and rounded under a bright-blue sky. ‘Careful on the path.’

  Gingerly Duncan put one foot on to the path, then quickly withdrew it, leaving a four-inch-deep boot-shaped hole in the white, criss-crossed at the bottom with tread.

  ‘I don’t want to lose my foot,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Oh you won’t,’ she said. ‘Here, hold on to my arm.’

  He held on to her arm and she started up the path, but he didn’t budge.

  ‘Come on, Dad …’

  But Duncan Singer looked around at the perfectly smooth, white garden.