by Mark Timlin
Meanwhile Mark was looking forward to his date with Linda.
Looking forward to it more than he thought he should, especially as he knew he'd put Tubbs in harm's way. The day dragged by like a snail on downers. He kept checking that his phone was switched on, but he heard nothing from Tubbs, so when the appointed hour arrived, he arrived at the flat in Balham and rang the bell. Linda answered the door wearing a simple black dress and black nylons, with high heeled, strappy shoes. She'd curled her hair slightly, her eyes were mascaraed and her lips a deep shade of red. She looked wonderful. Mark stood in the doorway until she offered him her hand. 'Are you going to stay out there all night?' she asked.
'No,' he replied. 'I just can't believe how great you look.'
'Takes longer every year,' she said.
'I don't believe you,' he said. 'It's natural.'
'Tell that to Estee Lauder. Now are you coming in or not? It's getting chilly and I'm not dressed for it.'
'That's true.' 'But I'm dressed for something.'
'What?'
'Don't be naive. I went shopping this afternoon.'
'Where?'
'Soho.'
'Really?'
'Yes. A little shop I know called Agent Provocateur.'
'What do they sell?'
'You have been away for a long time,' she said, dragging him in, slamming the door and pulling up the hem of her skirt to show off stocking tops and pink, lacy suspenders. 'Underwear,' she said. 'The most outrageous in London. I blushed when I bought it.'
'For me?'
'No. For the milkman. Of course for you, silly.'
'I'm flattered.'
'You should be. They cost me an arm and a leg. Now get upstairs. And you go first. I don't want you looking at my bum.'
'Isn't that why you bought the underwear?'
'Maybe. But later. I've cooked.' They went upstairs, Mark in the lead. At the top he stopped and turned.
'Wait a minute,' he said. 'Now you're looking at my bum.'
'And why not?' she said. 'It always was your best feature.'
'Charming.'
'All the girls at school thought so, and it hasn't gone south - yet.' Mark smiled and went into the living room where the table was set for two and was full of warm odours from the kitchen next door.
'Hmm,' he said. 'Smells good.'
'So it should. I've been slaving over the oven for hours.' Mark suddenly felt a constriction in his chest and his eyes filled with tears. What a waste of all those years - we could've been together, he thought. Years we'll never have back. Years wasted.
'Are you all right?' asked Linda.
'Fine,' he replied. 'Never better in fact.' 'Then take off your jacket, sit down, have a drink. Anything. You look like you've seen a ghost.'
'No. Just thinking.'
'Well, don't think. It's bad for the brain. Just enjoy.'
'I'm sure I will. I'm starved.'
'Good. I'll open the wine.' She was as good as her word and produced an expensive bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge.
'I'll do it,' said Mark.
'I love a masterful man,' said Linda and kissed him, handing him the bottle. Her perfume was subtle but powerful and Mark's head swam as he inhaled it.
'Like it?' she asked, noticing his reaction.
'Love it. Smells even better than dinner.'
'Seventy quid an ounce,' she said. 'No rubbish here.'
'I know,' he said and made a grab for her, but she danced out of his reach.
'The wine,' she said. 'Quick, before it warms up.'
'Yes, OK, the temperature is rising.'
'So I noticed, big boy,' she said. 'And that ain't the only thing, is it?'
Mark reddened at her remark. 'Don't tease me,' he said.
'That's just what I intend to do. I've got a late pass tonight and I mean to.make the most of it.'
Mark felt for the switch on his mobile phone, then pulled his finger away guiltily. He had to stay in touch with the outside world, much as he would have liked to put it out of his mind. 'We will,' he said.
'We'd better. Now open that bottle whilst I check on the potatoes.'
Mark did as he was told and filled the glasses waiting on the table. He picked up his as Linda came back. 'About another fifteen minutes,' she said.
He reached for the other glass and handed it to her, that old, familiar electricity sparking as they touched. 'A toast,' he said. 'To us.'
'To us,' she echoed and they clinked their glasses and drank. Mark's mouth filled with the smoky taste of the wine.
'That's beautiful,' he said. 'Perfect. Just like you.'
'Thank you,' she replied. 'Now why don't you sit down,? You're making the place look untidy.'
Once again, he did as he was told, sitting on the sofa whilst Linda took one of the dining chairs. 'Sit by me,' he said.
She shook her head. 'Not now. The way I feel the dinner might burn.'
'Would it matter? There's plenty of takeaways in the street.'
'Don't be so bloody cheeky, Mark,' she said. 'I've not worked my fingers to the bone all afternoon for us to have lamb korma out of a foil container. There's starters, roast lamb with green beans, and a pudding.'
'You're the only pudding I need,' he said.
'You bad boy. Just remember that everything comes to him who waits,' and she crossed her legs provocatively, once again showing her stocking tops and the soft white thighs above.
'It is getting warmer in here,' said Mark. 'Do you think we could open a window.?'
She blew him a kiss, put down her glass and went back into the kitchen, swinging her backside as she walked, and Mark wondered whether his appetite was greater for the food or for her.
Dinner was a great success. A simple smoked salmon terrine followed by noisettes of lamb with new potatoes and mange tout with a light rosemary jus, then tart tatine with cream.
'You've outdone yourself,' said Mark as he cleared his pudding plate.
'I'm glad you like it. Delia helped.'
'Who's Delia?' asked Mark mystified.
'I keep forgetting you've been away so long,' said Linda. 'She's a TV cook.'
None the wiser, Mark helped her stack the dishes in the sink before they returned to the living room. This time Linda sat on the sofa next to him. She'd already poured them a large brandy each. 'Coffee?' she asked.
'Maybe later. After.'
'After what?'
He put his brandy glass on the coffee table then took hers and put it next to his 'After this,' he said, gathering her into his arms and kissing her.
She wriggled around in his arms, her skirt riding up her thighs and he put his hand between her legs which she clamped tight. 'Gotcha,' she said. And then from inside his jacket he heard his phone ring. 'Leave it,' whispered Linda. 'I can't' 'You can.'
The phone chirped on and he removed his hand, stood up and recovered it from his pocket. He checked the display, it said TUBBS and he pressed the receive button. 'Shit,' said Linda.
'Hello,' said Mark. 'This better be important.'
'I got a call from Beretta,' said Tubbs above the sound of traffic.
'He wants a meet.'
'When?'
'Now. As soon as possible. And he wants money.' 'How much?'
'Ten grand he said. He wants to do a deal.' 'Shit,' said Mark to himself. 'I'm busy.'
'He said if not tonight, not ever,' said Tubbs. 'Come on, Mark, this is what we've been waiting for. How busy can you be?'
'Enough,' said Mark, pulling a 'I'm sorry' face at Linda. 'Where's the meet?'
'Outside Brixton Town Hall. I've got to call him when I've got the dough.'
'I'm not with it,' said Mark. 'I'll have to go home and get it.'
'How soon?'
'Where are you?'
'With Eddie in Stockwell.'
'Meet me at John's place. You remember where it is don't you?' 'Sure I do. That big old house in Tulse Hill.' 'That's the one. I'll be there in half an hour.'
'Me too.'
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'Wait a minute. He's got security outside. They may not be too pleased to see you.'
'Shoot first and ask questions after?'
'That's about it. Park up the hill. I'll drive down and you can flash me.'
'I might get arrested.'
'Fuck off Tubbs, I'm not in the mood for your jokes. You know what I mean.'
'Chill man. Sure I do.'
'So look out for me. You know my motor.'
'Yeah.'
'See ya,' said Mark and he clicked off the phone.
'You're going,' said Linda, her face pink with anger.
'I've got to.'
'Always. You always go.'
'This is important.'
'And this isn't.' The sweep of her hand took in the whole room and herself.
'Of course it is.'
'But not more important than a phone call.'
'You don't understand.'
'I understand only too well. I've made every effort for you, Mark. New knickers, food. What more do you want?'
'I'm sorry.'
'Always sorry. Always disappearing. Always leaving people who care for you hanging out to dry…'
'It's not like that,' he interrupted. 'There's something I have to do for John…'.
'And always John,' she spat. 'Bloody John Jenner. He's your god, isn't he? When John calls, Mark goes running. You even left your mother for him.'
The remark nailed Mark's heart like the bolt from a crossbow. 'Don't say that,' he said.
'It's true, Mark, and look what happened to her.'
'Please, Linda.'
'No,' she said, getting up from the couch. 'Go on, Mark, piss off. But just remember what you're missing,' and she pulled her dress over her head revealing froths of pink lace around her hips and breasts, showing off her figure so beautifully that Mark's eyes goggled. 'And this was your last chance, I promise,' and she threw the dress to the floor and slammed out of the room.
Mark put on his jacket and left. Standing on the landing he could hear her sobs echoing through the building. 'Shit,' he whispered to himself, but instead of going upstairs he went down and out into the cold street with what she'd said about his mother ringing in his head. Mum, he thought. Jesus, Mum, I'm so sorry.
The last time Mark Farrow had seen his mother alive was on April 9, 1989, a date he'd never forget. It was also the first day he saw her dead. He was paying one of his rare visits after she'd called him up on the phone the day before. She'd sounded awful when they'd spoken. Things were going from bad to worse, she told him. She was drunk. Nothing new there: by then she was drunk most of the time. She begged him to come round, so he told her he'd be there the next day about seven, as long as Bobby Thomas wasn't at home. He wouldn't be, she told him. He hardly ever was these days, pubbing it mostly, or with some old slapper he'd pulled in one of the boozers he went to.
The next evening, Mark drove to the house in East Dulwich where Thomas and his mother rented their flat. Or at least his mother rented the flat and Thomas stayed there, rent free. It was a dump, but it was all she could afford. The top floor of a three-storey terraced house just off Lordship Lane, lined with pizza and fried chicken and hamburger take-outs. Mark sent money and would've sent more, but he knew it just got spent at the off licence and in betting shops.
Mark was on his way to a restaurant up west, where some dodgy mates were throwing a birthday party for another dodgy mate. Mark couldn't remember any of their names now, but he could remember exactly what he was wearing. An Armani suit, Hugo Boss shirt and tie combo, Calvin Klein underwear and shoes by Church. He was a real little gentleman, as some old Dickensian character might have remarked. Under those smart clothes beat a heart of solid stone, or so he thought. But even stone can sometimes shatter when tapped from an unexpected direction. And, as tough as Mark might think he was, he would never be the same again after that dreadful night.
The front, party door was open when he arrived at the house. He shook his head and walked up the six dusty flights of uncarpeted stairs that led to his mother's flat, past bicycles, a roll of carpet and mail that had gathered and seemingly multiplied with time, addressed to tenants old and new, present and departed. The door to her flat was open too. It was still light outside, but dismal indoors, and the bare bulb in the short hallway of the apartment glowed dimly. Mark gently pushed open the door, as if he expected an ambush. 'Mum,' he called, but all was quiet, except for the reverberation of reggae music from somewhere nearby. 'Mum,' he called again, walking down the hall. 'You there?'
Still no answer. The kitchen was empty, so was the living room. Mark knocked on the bedroom door. He hated the thought of his mother and Bobby Thomas sleeping in there together, but when his knock went unheeded, he opened it and peeped inside. Empty too. He wondered if she had gone out for cigarettes or booze and forgotten he was coming. That left only the bathroom. The light was off and the door was ajar, but Mark pushed it open anyway and reached for the switch.
Afterwards, he wondered if he'd realised in the split second between the connection being made and the fluorescent fixture springing to life what he was about to find. He'd never know, but as his eyes adjusted to the light he saw the terrible truth. The bath was full of what looked at first sight like thin tomato juice and what he could see of his mother's naked body lay in the mixture of blood and water, her white skin streaked with gore. Her head was tilted back, her eyes shut, and one arm hung over the edge of the porcelain, the wrist cut from palm to elbow in one vertical line - there was no hesitation marks. Blood had dripped on to the floor, making a sticky pool that had run over as far as the toilet bowl, but now it was clotting and hung like red strings from her fingertips. Water was still dribbling out of one of the taps, and the bath was almost full. His mother appeared to be floating, the water lapping around her chin and mouth, bubbling slightly when she breathed.
She was still breathing, that was all that Mark could think of. 'Mum,' he said, his mouth so dry it hurt to speak. 'Oh Christ, Mum. What the hell have you done?'
The room seemed to contract: the walls and ceiling bearing down on him as if he was in a coffin.
He knelt beside the bath, the blood soaking the knees of his trousers. He tried to pull her upright and keep the water out of her nose and mouth. He wanted to get her out of the bath but she was a dead weight and he could feel panic growing inside him. Phone, he thought, he had to phone.
He left her and ran into the living room. Please God, don't let it be cut off, he thought, then remembered that she'd called him the night before and felt blessed relief when he heard a dialling tone when he picked up the receiver. He dialled three nines with a shaking hand and said aloud, 'Come on, come on,' as it rang. It seemed like hours, but they picked up on the fourth ring.
'Emergency. Which service do-'
'Ambulance,' he interrupted. 'An ambulance, quick.'
'Your number and address please, sir,' said the voice.
Mark told the operator, and added, 'It's my mother. She… she's cut her wrist.'
'An ambulance will be with you as soon as possible,' said the voice, but Mark had already dropped the handset on to the floor and raced back to the bathroom.
Nothing much had changed. His mother was lying in the bath, still breathing - just - and blood ran slowly from her wrist.
Mark grabbed a hand towel and wrapped it around the wound on her right arm, then stuck his hand into the pink gruel in which she lay and pulled out her other wrist. That too was cut and Mark hastily wrapped a towel around it, knotting it tightly. He didn't know if he was doing the right thing or the wrong thing, but at least he was doing something. Something to help.
He looked at his watch, its face stained with blood, and reckoned it was three minutes since he'd called 999. Three minutes that might have been three years, so slowly was time passing. 'Come on,' he said again, squeezing his mother in his arms.
And then, just as he did hear the klaxon getting closer, she opened her eyes and looked straight into his.
&n
bsp; 'Blue eyes,' she said. 'Such beautiful blue eyes… Mark, promise me you'll take care of everything…' She stiffened, he heard a rattle in the back of her throat and she closed her eyes for the last time. He felt her spirit leave with her last exhalation of breath, and she died in his arms.
'Mum,' he cried, not believing what he saw. 'Mum! Don't go. Oh, Christ, why did you do it?' He let her body drop and walked up and down the bathroom floor, trailing blood and water in his wake.
He raised his arms and lowered, his head. 'Why?' he kept saying. 'Why? Why? Why?' He wanted to cry but no tears came. He stamped and wailed and beat his arms on his head, but still no tears came.
The ambulance men arrived, a minute or so late, thundering up the stairs, shouting as they came. But they were too late.
The paramedics did their best to revive Susan Thomas, but to no avail. Mark went with her in the ambulance, but it was hopeless, and they turned off their siren for the trip to Kings College Hospital.
An hour later, Mark was sitting outside the Accident and Emergency department in his damp, bloodstained clothes when John Jenner, Chas and Hazel arrived.
Hazel took him in her arms and held him tightly. 'Mark,' she said. 'I'm so sorry.'
'She waited for me before she died,' whispered the boy. 'She told me to take care of everything. How could she?' and he sobbed into the collar of Hazel's jacket.
'It was all too much for her,' Hazel said back. 'She couldn't cope.'
'But to do that…' said Mark.
'Have the police been?' asked John Jenner.
Mark nodded. 'There's one somewhere. I didn't say much.'
'Good,' said Hazel.
'Has anybody seen Thomas?' asked John Jenner.
Mark looked up at him and shook his head. 'He wasn't there. I said I wouldn't go round if he was…' Once again he couldn't finish the sentence.
It was then that Bobby Thomas arrived through the doors of AE. He was pissed and belligerent. Mark had left a message with the neighbours downstairs, who'd come out to see what all the fuss was about. 'Where is she?' he demanded in a voice slurred from alcohol and God knew what else. 'Where's my little Susie?'
Mark lost it. He pulled away from Hazel, and before anyone could stop him, his blue eyes dark and wild, he pulled back his tight fist and hit Bobby Thomas full in the face. Thomas's nose burst and more blood speckled Mark's suit jacket. He went down hard and curled himself up into a ball and stayed there.
