Cross Check: The second Posh Hits story

by Caron Allan

  The clock was about twenty seconds ahead of the time displayed on my phone. I couldn’t tear my eyes away as the seconds trickled past. I found myself getting tense about the change to the next minute. I felt a tightening in my stomach as the seconds ticked by and the number changed first on the clock and then on my phone. I began to anticipate the time and to count the seconds under my breath, the song I had been humming now completely forgotten. I tried to calculate how much time had to pass for the clock and my phone to synchronise if the clock lost half a second every two days. But then I realised they had probably just been set differently to start with and if so, they would never synchronise, they would always do this to me: change, count down - 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7,6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, change. It was boring but stressful at the same time.

  Sid had told me to stick it out for at least eight or nine minutes, because he said sometimes people could still be revived after that amount of time, so that was the minimum, more if I could manage it. Again, how does he know that? Sid! Sid, you enigma.

  Five minutes forty five. My wrists and elbows ached. My nose was itchy. The small of my back was really hurting. What if I was damaging my baby, standing here like this? Maybe I was putting a strain on vital muscles or tendons or something??? I tried to lean forward and slightly to one side to lessen the ache.

  Six minutes twenty seconds. And I had missed both minute changes. And I needed the loo. I crossed my legs and tried to think of something else. I glanced down at his eyes. Still closed. Thank God.

  Six mins forty. It would be a bit awkward if he woke up now, after all this time. What if his eyes suddenly snapped open and he just lay there staring at me? Seven minutes. What would I do?

  Probably scream, I thought. I leaned forward a little and put a bit more weight on the cushion. I jiggled up and down. I was busting now. I’d have to use the loo here, I’d never manage the drive all the way home. But that just made me terrified I’d somehow leave a trace of myself behind and give myself away.

  Seven minutes twenty seconds. I sighed. I do hope he’s dead, I thought. Otherwise all this effort has been for nothing. I tried to relax my elbows, to move my shoulders about a bit to loosen up the knotted muscles. I have never been so bored in all my life. These few minutes had felt like an hour. Or more. Why does time slow down when you need it to pass more quickly?

  Seven mins forty five. Now my foot was itchy. And I was pretty sure my nose was going to drip unless I managed to get a tissue to it in time. I wondered how many nanoseconds it would take to wipe my nose and if that would mean starting the eight or nine minutes all over again. If I let go of the cushion for that brief time would it permit a vital draft of air into Simon Meesham’s lungs and revive him? I couldn’t face the thought of that, so I just continued to wait, jiggling from foot to foot and counting the seconds under my breath and willing the eight and a half minute mark to arrive. If my nose dripped, could the police get a DNA profile from that?

  I wondered where Simon Meesham’s lady friend was. Why wasn’t she here by his side? It seemed a bit much that he was all alone when he died but then I had to concede the snoring was likely to have been an issue! Maybe she had her own place? Or was she still married and waiting for a divorce to come through? If so she was cutting it a bit fine. Or was she visiting her mother?

  Hoorah! Nine minutes! I’d decided to try to make it to ten minutes before leaving. I only hoped Sid knew of a local all-night lav – clean and decent of course – as I didn’t think I’d be able to make it very far in the direction of home before I had to attend to this requirement, and I was too scared to use the one here, in case I accidentally wafted a pube onto the floor and it was found by some over-enthusiastic CSI-type chappie in a white paper overall (or whatever colour it is? Blue?). I could picture him waving it triumphantly, clamped between the prongs of a pair of stainless-steel tweezers. This image was enough to make me keep my legs firmly crossed.

  This was when I noticed the tallboy opposite the bed. An interesting array of doilies was spread out, and arranged on top of them were a number of framed photos, mainly of groups of middle-aged chaps with large fish - not the kind of thing any woman wants in her bedroom, even if she is a fifty year old bimbo. Casually I glanced back down at the eyes. Mercifully they were still shut but now I had a sense of having been away with the fairies and lost more time than I realised. I checked the time. My phone showed it had been eleven minutes and ten seconds. Phew! It was over! Thank God!

  I dropped my stiff arms and straightened my back. Next I removed the cushion and felt his wrist. It was still warm, obviously, but now there was no pulse – at least I couldn’t find one, it’s not the easiest thing to find when you’re a bit stressed. But I took it as a good sign. I had done everything I came to do.

  He was dead. Time to leave.

  I went back downstairs, returned the cushion to the sofa and silently let myself out the front door, closing it with a tiny click behind me.

  Outside it was already much lighter. I felt guiltily aware of myself. I had to resist the urge to run, to give in to panic, and I made myself walk calmly but quickly through the paling shadows to the car.

  Sid was watching for me and started her up even as I opened the door. We left the neighbourhood immediately, going back the way we came, using all the minor roads.

  “Any problems?” Sid asked.

  “None.” I said, peeling off the disposable gloves and shoving them in my handbag. My hands were dusty and smelly-sweaty from the latex.

  And that was it. We said no more. We didn’t stop. By the time we got home again it was a quarter to six and a glorious sun shone down on a bright, new day.

  I peed like a racehorse and went to bed.

  And that was it. Another one crossed off the list.

  Matt still sulking!

  Am expecting to hear from Henrietta, or even Mavis herself might phone at almost any moment to give me the good news. They won’t be able to believe their luck!

  Monday 21 July – 8.45am

  Breakfast in bed! Feel fine, just tired. Have one child, one teddy and one cat on either side of me. The Paddy-Mr Growly-Bingley cohort managed to separate me from a piece of buttery toast, whilst the Billy-Pinkie-Darcy contingent shared some of my bacon.

  Matt and I and Paddy are off to the school this afternoon to meet the Head and have a little look around the school. I hope it’s nice, not just because it’s local and therefore convenient but because it will be nice for Paddy to have make friends with the local children, and for them to be nearby, so they can play together. And after everything else, it’s important to both of us that he is happy, so a nice school is a Must.

  Ooh, Matt has come in to sit on the bed as well. He has snaffled my orange juice. It’s wonderful! We’re a family!

  Same day – later – 4.25pm

  Didn’t mention how frustrated I am at having heard absolutely nothing about Simon Meesham.

  Nothing in the news, nothing on the grapevine. No teary thank yous from Henrietta, ditto Mavis, no phone calls, no texts enquiring “how on earth can we ever thank you enough …?” Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Nichts. Feeling a bit pissed off and rather unappreciated to be honest. They never tell you the toughest part of being a cold assassin is the lack of timely feedback.

  School visit was good, though. Very reassuring. The school is lovely – bright, welcoming, fun. All sorts of exciting stuff on the walls. And a little library in the middle of the widened-out corridor, with a big area for story-time and four little classrooms leading off like the spokes of a wheel. Paddy wanted to stay, which was deffo a good sign!

  And the Headteacher – what a breath of fresh air! As different from Nadina Cooper as it’s possible to be. She was all practical good sense and humour. Not to mention a couple of tattoos and some piercings – I do think it’s nice for children to mix with people who are a bit ‘different’ and not afraid to express themselves. Paddy took to her immediately. I loved the way she spoke to hi
m as to any other adult, and not in the least patronising in her manner. And no soppy baby-talk! She is just what the doctor ordered.

  Ms Perkins took us on a tour, introduced Paddy to the young chap (clearly as gay as anything, but his class obviously adored him) who will be Paddy’s first teacher. And I was amazed that all twenty of the children were sitting down nicely on the carpet at the teacher’s feet (have forgotten his name already!) and were hanging on his every word as he read a story to them, holding up the book to show them the pictures. I love that infant-school teachers can always read upside down! The children’s eyes were as big as saucers as he did all the different voices and sound effects. Was even more amazed when Paddy agreed to stay and listen with the other children whilst we sloped off to have a chat with Ms Perkins in the hall. He is daily growing more confident, it’s wonderful.

  “The door will be open, Patrick, and we will be right outside. If you want to, you can come out to sit with us, that will be fine, or you can stay and listen to the story.” She said. And he just nodded happily and settled down to listen to the story. Matt and I couldn’t believe it. Told Matt later that I believe Paddy may be a child-genius.

  We gave her a heavily edited version of recent events and told her about our current expectant situation. She was suitably appalled to hear of Tracey and Mick’s life-and-demise-style, and congratulated us on the expected mini-beast.

  I liked her. I think Paddy will be happy at the school, which is more than I ever was at any school I attended. And we can have little tea-parties with his pals, it will be so sweet.

  Same day – later still – 10.45pm

  Still not a dickey-bird. He is dead, isn’t he? Am beginning to wonder. I mean, I know I gave him the requisite amount of time and then a bit extra. But it’s the only explanation that makes any sense. Otherwise, I just can’t understand it. Sid nabbed me in the hall away from the others and said briefly, “heard anything?”

  But I just shook my head. Think it was clear from my manner that I was more than a little concerned by the lack of feedback. It didn’t help my self-doubt that he seemed surprised too.

  “Hmm.” He said, and stumped off. Very helpful.

  Stressed now. Scan tomorrow – reminded Matt about it, but could tell from his face he hadn’t forgotten. That’s something, I suppose. Even so, am still nervous as hell. Won’t be able to sleep.

  Tuesday 22 July – 11.20pm

  A lovely, lovely day! Am so happy and can’t stop looking at the fuzzy little photo of the bambino. And yes, it is bambino. I’m – I mean - we’re having a boy!

  “No doubt about it, duck.” Said the midwife who doubled as ultrasound engineer-techie person.

  She was lovely. Very mumsy, set me at ease straight away. And a bit of banter with Matt soon set him at ease too, yet showed me that she was a smart cookie. She had noticed what I – selfish cow that I am – had failed to see: Matt was nervous too! I must remember to consider his feelings more.

  When I’ve said goodbye to Thomas, I will ask Matt to marry me. I want him to know how much he – and his whole family – mean to me, just I’m not quite ready to tell him, to commit myself to him whole-heartedly, not until I go up to Scotland next month. Or well, in about three weeks I suppose. Oh God, what if he says no? He won’t, will he? Will he?

  But back to the baby – all limbs present and correct, all organs, everything developing properly and perfect for the baby’s age, 13 weeks. Eyes, heart beating away, spine perfectly formed and just as it should be, and of course, his little bits which were so noticeable due to the baby’s position that there was no chance of either keeping the gender a secret or of making a mistake about what the gender was! It’s a boy!

  Anyway, clean bill of health! Presented with fab fuzzy pic of bambino which is now my most prized possession, hasty dabbing of the eyes with tissue supplied by lovely mumsy midwife.

  Then Matt took me to lunch at some lovely little pub by a lake – ducks, swans, sparrows, flowers, trees, it was a beautiful spot. Just a pot of tea and some sandwiches but we spent a whole hour just talking. And being all soppy and weepy.

  Because …

  “What shall we call him?” Matt said, looking at me with those gorgeous eyes. I just looked back, trying to act cool, replaying my conversation with myself about Les or Pat and tattoos and van driving. I didn’t really know what to say.

  He leaned forward, covered my hand with his and looked into my eyes again. Mr Sincere, the heart-breaker.

  “Thomas is a nice name,” he said. I cried for five whole minutes! So much for Ms Cool.

  We’ve settled on Thomas Sidney Hopkins. Haven’t told Matt he will be a married man by the time little Thomas comes along, but I think he realised what I was implying when I slipped up a couple of times and had to correct myself not very neatly.

  On the way home he said, “so how did it go with your little ‘project’ the other day?”

  I told him glumly that I hadn’t a clue, I hadn’t heard a thing.

  “No news is good news,” he said. I said, maybe, but I’d still rather hear something definite. It would be nice to be certain.

  Got home and showed Lill and Sid the photo, announced gender and name. Lill all daft and teary as predicted, and Sid not a lot better, puffed up with manly pride to hear he gets a mention in the baby’s name. What a lovely family I have! Really when you think about it, does anything else matter?

  We tried to explain to the little ones, don’t think they got it, but Paddy went around all afternoon with Mr Growly shoved up his t-shirt, and even went to bed that way. And of course Billy did the same with Pinkie Bear, but she was just copying Paddy really. It was all so sweet.

  Then. Finally! More good news …

  Got a phone call at about eight o’clock this evening from Henrietta. I was almost too scared to ask, seeing that I’d already half-convinced myself it hadn’t worked, but she immediately said, “Mavis’s husband is dead!” And she sounded so excited. I almost blurted out, “about bloody time”, but managed to hold it back and sound suitably surprised.

  “Yes,” she said, “choked to death in his sleep, lusting over salacious images whilst his lady friend was visiting her mother.”

  So that’s where she had been!

  I made a few apt remarks, again I had this feeling there was yet more she wanted to say. In the end she came out with it.

  “I’m so relieved, but I feel so terrible about all those things I said about him …”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself.” I interposed, in what I fondly imagined was a soothing, caring voice.

  “… although he deserved everything I said about him, the bastard,” she continued, “I would never have wanted any actual harm to come to him.”

  Which wasn’t strictly true, as I had heard her say exactly that on a number of occasions. Plus she had asked me to recommend an assassin. Twice. Still, water under the bridge …

  “At least that’s the end of Mavis’s worries, she can relax now. You both can.” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, but still she sounded doubtful, hesitant. For God’s sake, why didn’t she just say what was on her mind and stop beating about that particular bush? Then she said, “but it’s just that – well, I said some awful things. But I didn’t really mean them. I want you to know I would never – act – on anything I said. I was simply letting off steam.”

  Now what was she getting at?

  “Of course, Henrietta, what …?”

  “If the police contact you, you won’t tell them what I said, will you? I mean, you won’t tell them I talked about hiring someone to kill him. Will you? Because I didn’t do it! I wouldn’t!”

  Finally.

  “No, of course not.” I said. “You were just upset. I know you would never really do any such thing. In any case, if he died in his sleep, then it’s not suspicious circumstances, so the police won’t need to speak to either of you anyway.” I heard her let out a rush of breath, as if she had been holding it in, waiting to hear what
I was going to say. At her age, it’s a good thing I didn’t keep her waiting.

  “No indeed.” She said. There was a moment’s silence. I pressed the receiver closer to my ear, as if it would help me hear what she was thinking. When she didn’t say anything else, I asked,

  “Are the police likely to be asking questions? I thought you said he choked to death in his sleep?”

  “Yes, yes, I did. In fact the funeral is already set for Thursday, so everything is obviously satisfactory from their point of view. I’m just worried about what I said a few days ago. I’m worried it might be misunderstood.”

  “By whom?” I asked. Again the long pause, then, her voice betraying little impatience, as if I was being particularly thick, she said,

  “By you, Cressida, by you!”

  I almost laughed.

  “Don’t worry yourself for a second longer, Henrietta. I know you’d never do anything to harm anyone. Have you been worrying about this since Friday?”

  “Friday? You mean Saturday? When the police rang Mavis with the news?”

  Dammit! I quickly said, “yes, sorry, I meant Saturday. Did I say Friday? Tip of the slung, sorry Poppet.”

  She asked after everyone’s health then that was the end of the call.

  Anyway. So that’s all right now. All sorted. Another one about to be safely buried. Another one off my little list. Phew!

  Am going to bed early tonight to make up for all the recent stress and sleeplessness.

  Feel light and happy! Picture of Thomas Sidney under my pillow. I kissed my fingers and touched the picture cool surface. I patted my belly.

  Nighty night, Bambino. Sleep tight.

  Wednesday 23 July – 9.15pm

  Woke this morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Put pic of Thomas Sidney in handbag immediately then showered, (baby belly even bigger now, in fact, I’m sure it’s grown bigger just since yesterday!), dressed, make-up, hair, etc etc singing a happy little song to myself.