EQMM, March-April 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I've seen folks’ wedding photos with Mr. French when he first came here. God, but he was handsome. You can still see it now even though he's definitely past his best. Back then, though, he looked like a cross between Robert Redford and the kind of pop star your granny would approve of. A thick mane of reddish blond hair, square jaw, broad shoulders, and a gleaming row of teeth that were a lot closer to perfection than you generally saw in the backwoods of Stirlingshire back then. The looks have faded, inevitably, though he'd still give most of the men round here a run for their money. What's more important is that he's still a brilliant preacher. At least half his congregation are agnostic—if not downright atheist—but we all still turn up on a Sunday for the pure pleasure of listening to him. It's better than anything you get on the telly, because it's rooted in our community. So imagine what a catch he was back when he started out, when he was good looking and he could preach. Obviously, his natural home would have been some showpiece congregation in Glasgow or Edinburgh. The man has ex-future Moderator of the Church of Scotland written all over him.

  Something obviously went badly wrong for him to end up here. Even its best friends would have to admit that Inverbiggin is one of the last stops on the road to nowhere. I don't know what it was that he did in the dim and distant past to blot his copybook, but it can't have been trivial for him to be sent this far into exile. Mind you, back when he arrived here thirty-odd years ago, the Church of Scotland was a lot closer to the Wee Frees than it is these days. So maybe all he did was have a hurl on the kids’ swings in the park on a Sunday when they should have been chained up. Whatever. One way or another, he must have really pissed somebody off.

  I don't know whether his wife knows the full story behind their exile, but she sure as hell knows she's been banished. There's no way this is her natural habitat either. She should be in some posh part of Glasgow or Edinburgh, hosting wee soirees to raise money for Darfur or Gaza. One time, and one time only, she unbent enough to speak to me at the summer fete when we got stuck together on the tombola. “He's a good man,” she said, her eye on Mr. French as he glad-handed his way round the stalls. She gave me a look sharp as Jessie Robertson's tongue. “He deserves to be among good people.” Her meaning was clear. And I couldn't find it in my heart to disagree with her.

  Her obvious bitterness is neutralised by the sweetness of her husband. Mr. French might have had high-flying ambitions, but having his dreams trashed hasn't left him resentful or frustrated. It's pretty amazing, really, but in exchange for the whisky, he's given us compassion and comprehension. Fuelled by a succession of drams, he seems to find a way to the heart of what we all need from him. It's not a one-way street either. The more he answers the challenge of meeting our needs, the finer the whisky that makes its way into his glass.

  When he first started making his rounds, folk would pour any old rubbish. Crappy bargain blends that provoked instant indigestion, brutal supermarket own-brands that ripped the tastebuds from your tongue, evil no-name rotgut provided by somebody's brother-in-law's best pal that made you think you were going blind. But gradually, his Good Samaritan acts spread through the community till there was hardly a household in Inverbiggin that hadn't been touched by them. Our way of saying thank you was to provide better drink. Quality blends, single malts, single-barrel vintages. You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours.

  See, we all find our own ways to cope with living in Inverbiggin. The minister and his wife aren't the only ones who started out with higher hopes. Maybe it's precisely because his own dreams were dashed that he handles our failures so well. He intervenes when other people would be too scared or too discouraged to get in the middle of things. Kids that are slipping through the cracks at school—John French grabs the bull by the horns and takes on the teachers as well as the parents. Carers doing stuff for parents and disabled kids that none of us can think about without shuddering—John French goes to bat for them and scores relief and respite.

  And then there was that business with Kirsty Black. Everybody knew things were far from right between her and her man. But she'd made her bed and we were all content to let her lie on it. At least if he was taking out his rage on her, William Black was leaving other folk alone.

  I must have been about twelve years old when I discovered why William Black was known as BB, a man notorious for his willingness to pick a fight with anybody about anything. “He thinks it stands for Big Bill,” my father told me after I'd had the misfortune to witness BB Black smash a man's face to pulp outside the chip shop. “But everybody else in Inverbiggin knows it stands for Bad Bastard.” My father was no angel either, but his darkness was more devious. I got the feeling he despised BB as much for his lack of subtlety as for the violence itself.

  When Kirsty lost her first baby in the fifth month of her pregnancy, we all knew by the next teatime that it had happened because BB Black had knocked her down and kicked her in the belly. We all knew because Betty McEwan, the midwife, heard it from one of the nurses at the infirmary, who apparently said you could see the mark of his boot on her belly. But Kirsty was adamant that she'd fallen getting out of the bath. So that was that. No point in calling in the police or the social services if Kirsty couldn't manage to stick up for herself.

  Wee towns like Inverbiggin are supposed to be all about community, all about looking out for each other. But we can turn a blind eye as surely as any block of flats in the big city. We all got extremely good at looking the other way when Kirsty walked by.

  All except John French. He saw the bruises, he saw how Kirsty flinched when anybody spoke to her, he saw the awkward way she held herself when her ribs were bruised and cracked. He tried to persuade her to leave her man, but she was too scared. She had no place to go and by then, she had two kids. The minister suggested a refuge, but Kirsty was almost as afraid of being cast adrift among strangers as she was of William Black himself. So then Mr. French said he would talk to the Bad Bastard, to put him on notice that somebody was on to him. But Kirsty pleaded with the minister to stay out of it and he eventually gave in to her wishes.

  I know all this because it came out at the trial. Kirsty wasn't able to give evidence herself. She was catatonic by that point. But Mr. French stood in the witness box and explained to the court that Kirsty had exhibited all the signs of a woman who had been reduced to a zombielike state by violence and terror. He told them she had been determined to protect her kids. That she'd been in fear for her own life and the lives of her children that Friday night when he'd come home roaring drunk and she'd picked up the kitchen knife and thrust it up into William Black's soft belly.

  You could see the jury loved John French. They'd have taken him home and sat him on the mantelpiece just for the sheer pleasure of listening to him and looking at him. He surfed the courtroom like a man riding on the crest of a wave of righteousness rather than a wave of whisky.

  The prosecution didn't stand a chance. The jury went for the “not proven” verdict on the culpable homicide charge and Kirsty walked out of the court a free woman. It took some more work from Mr. French, but eventually her lawyers got the kids back from Social Services and she moved back home. Everybody rallied round. I suppose ignoring what had happened to Kirsty kind of guilt-tripped us all into lending a helping hand. Better late than never, the minister pointed out one Sunday when he gave us his particular take on the Good Samaritan story. He was adamant that we should open our hearts and put our faith in God.

  But here's the thing about people like John French. Like his wife said, he does deserve to be among good people. Because being ready to think the best of folk leaves you wide open to the ones that can't wait to take advantage. And there's one or two like that in Inverbiggin.

  Take me, for example. I've been out of love with my husband for years. He's a coarse, uncouth, ignorant pig. He's never dared to lift a hand to me, but he disgusts me. Worse still, he bores the living daylights out of me. When he walks in a room, he sucks the life out of it. There is one positive thing about my
husband, though. His job comes with terrific death-in-service benefits. And then there's that lovely big insurance policy. Frankly, it'll be worth every penny I've spent on rare malts and excusive single-barrel vintages.

  Because I've been planting the seeds for a while now. I used to do amateur dramatics years ago. I can play my part well and I can paint a bonny set of bruises on my back and my ribs. Good enough to fool a man whose vocation would never let him examine a woman's injuries too closely. I even got him to take some photos on my mobile phone. If the police examine them later, they won't be able to make out too much detail, which suits me just fine. And after all, there's precedent now. Nobody would dare to doubt John French, not after the publicity Kirsty's case earned him.

  Never mind putting my faith in God. Me, I'm putting my faith in John French and the ministry of whisky.

  Copyright © 2008 Val McDermid

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Passport to Crime: MONOPOLY by Judith Merchant

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Translated from the German by Mary W. Tannert

  Judith Merchant was born in Bonn, Germany, in 1976 and currently lives in Konigswinter. She studied German Literature and now works as a lecturer in adult education at the University of Bonn. She wrote her first short stories during a writing block she experienced while working on her doctoral dissertation. Her first story appeared in 2008. The second, “Monopoly,” won the 2009 Friedrich Glauser Prize for best short story. She told EQMM that she is at work on her first crime novel.

  * * * *

  Everything in life has its price.

  It's not always clearly marked, or even fair, but you have to pay it sooner or later. Somewhere up there is the games master; he's keeping track, making sure everything adds up right.

  People get along best if they agree on the price for the things they give each other.

  Let someone copy your homework and you'll get an invitation to his birthday party. A red sports car for your wife buys you a guilt-free trip to Majorca with your mistress. You may be bored at the breakfast table till death do you part, but you'll never have to watch TV alone.

  Sometimes you have to pay even when you thought it was a gift.

  And sometimes you give somebody a gift, and he tries to pay for it.

  That can be deadly.

  * * * *

  3:09 p.m.

  I'm not thinking of murder and mayhem that Friday while I'm waiting for my turn at the cash register, I'm much too busy with my new coat: cherry red and nipped in tight at the waist, it reaches nearly all the way to my boots. I look dangerously good in that coat and I'm crazy about it; to be honest, it's too expensive, but I've earned it: It's my thirtieth birthday.

  You ready? asks the saleswoman with the shiny eye makeup, and that's when I notice it's my turn.

  I'll wear it home, I say, and with my fingertips I hand her the strip of cherry-red wool with the metal security tag.

  Ninety-nine euros, she mumbles, removes the price tag, takes my debit card, pulls it through the slot of her card reader, waits, wrinkles her brow, and tries it again. Something's wrong, she says, handing me the card. Either your account's empty or your card's been blocked.

  That's impossible, I say, and the flush I feel climbing up into my face is rage, not embarrassment, but I know people can't tell that just by looking, and it makes me mad. I've got enough money in my account, I know that for a fact.

  She shrugs her shoulders, looks pointedly at the line of people waiting behind me, and purses her lips. Then you'll just have to pay cash, she says.

  I open my wallet even though I know there's nothing in it; ever since I stopped getting a paycheck I only withdraw fifty euros at a time. The saleswoman's impatience harangues me; I poke around in my change purse demonstratively and reach into my handbag, searching; my fingers find a wad of stiff pieces of paper, folded twice. The size is about right, but I still don't believe it until I pull them out and stare in disbelief: three hundred-euro banknotes.

  Y'see, you had it all the time, said the saleswoman, pulling one of the banknotes from my hand. She has to bend across the counter to get it; she's shaking her head as she roots around in her cash drawer.

  I walk slowly out of the store, the remaining two banknotes in my hand. The plastic bag holding my old things is cutting a crease into my wrist, it's so heavy. How did that money get into my handbag, I'm thinking, it wasn't there last night. I remember spending my last ten euros and besides, I never carry that much money, somebody must have slipped it in there.

  I stop, suddenly.

  Then I go back to the saleswoman, cut right into the line of people waiting, just push them out of the way.

  Give me back that banknote.

  At that moment I'm already thinking: People are going to die, somebody won't survive this, that money shouldn't have been in my handbag, but first I've got another problem to solve.

  If you want your money back, you'll have to take off the coat, she says bitchily.

  But I'm not taking off the coat, no way, how could I, I've got nothing on underneath but bare skin and a couple of love bites.

  * * * *

  Two hours earlier

  If the telephone hadn't rung, I might not even have woken up.

  The room begins to spin just a little when I open my eyes, so I close them again.

  The telephone rings even louder, it's the kind of ringing that multiplies exponentially when you try to ignore it, so I roll out of bed and pick up the receiver.

  Were you still asleep? my father asks.

  Yes, I say.

  At one in the afternoon? he asks.

  I'm unemployed, I say. Surely you've noticed.

  I just wanted to wish you a happy thirtieth, he says. And many happy returns of the day. We won't be able to come, but I've already wired you your present, it ought to be credited to your account by now. Buy yourself something nice.

  I'll do that, I say, and then I hang up and push the conversation mentally to one side. It wasn't news, the money's been in my account for a week now. He wrote BIRTHDAY on the memo line, he was always short on talk, my father.

  Birthday. Obviously I'd already celebrated pretty hard, my head's spinning, yesterday evening is a black hole in my memory, but slowly, very slowly, an image surfaces, first just a smoothly shaven male face, and then the absolutely divine body attached to it.

  I go into the bathroom, pull off my dirty clothes, and throw them in a pile. I turn on the shower, step under the rush of water, and reach for the shower gel.

  Under the foam, the red marks on my body start to bloom like a wonderful birthday bouquet of red roses. I run my hand over them, first lightly, then firmly, to see whether they hurt. The warm water brings back memories, I have to smile.

  He's not the kind of guy to send me flowers, I'm thinking. No bouquets, no perfume, but what I'll get the next time I see him is better than any rose. I let my fingers dance up and down my arms and stand there happily as the water beats down on me.

  So what do you do, I asked him. I didn't really mean professionally, but I couldn't think of any other question, he could have talked about his pets or his elementary school, I just wanted to sit next to him at the bar and listen to him, the guy in the much too expensive suit who happened to sit down next to me. He looked like someone who wasn't in a hurry to get home, maybe newly single or something similar; like a guy you'd let buy you a drink because he takes things easy and doesn't pressure you, later on. His suit was much nicer than my jeans, and his precise haircut contrasted badly with my shaggy mop. Strange that we even started talking to each other, or that I even happened to be at this pub. Romantic people would call it fate, but I put it down to Sonja's canceling at the last minute and when she did I just didn't feel like staying home alone on my birthday and smoking one cigarette after another until the place was blue with smoke.

  Construction, he says.

  And what do you do in construction, I asked, and he grinned and said, I bu
ild things, houses, hotels, whatever gets built. I thought of Monopoly and felt the way I used to when the others all had Boardwalk and Park Avenue and all the moolah and I just had debts, but then he said, I didn't come here to talk about work, and I said, okay, then let's go to my place, no, wait a minute, I didn't say that until hours later, first we sat there at the bar for a long time, drinking, and I don't really remember what happened afterward, but as I stand under the shower and look down at myself, a few things come back to me, good things.

  I could tell from the very first kiss that he was a certain kind of guy, the kind that smelled untamed—of hard physical labor, motor oil, and soap, in spite of the expensive aftershave, the kind of guy who wears a suit and looks really good in it, and when you take it off you find the honest body of a young construction worker, all muscles and sunburn. When guys like that climb the career ladder, they don't just screw girls they meet in pubs, they screw their secretaries, too, I knew that right away, but last night at the pub I didn't care. I even said that to him. Stop thinking in clichés, he said, and he said it again when I remarked on his suit and his expensive mobile phone, and then he smelled my hair, smelled it for minutes, just like that, as if he'd never smelled anything so wonderful, and the whole time I was afraid to breathe.

  I put on clean underwear, pull on yesterday's jeans, and leave the apartment to go buy myself a birthday present, something great for tonight; I'm sure I'll see him again, it's my birthday, yippee!

  I go into the Kaufhof department store and slalom through all the racks of stupid clothes until I see the coat.

  It's the perfect coat for me. Calf-length, cherry red, hugs me like it will never let go, a single gleaming zipper divides me into two symmetrical halves; I look fabulous—and it's even on sale.

  I feel different, somehow, more adult, a little more serious, but still sexy; I should have bought a coat like this a long time ago, who knows, maybe my life would have turned out differently, maybe the severe cut of the coat would have worked on the person inside it and made her more self-disciplined. Never mind: I've spent thirty years of my life without this coat, but starting today it's part of my life, for nearly as long as the man from last night.