by JL Merrow
I called up Gary on my way back into town and begged him to meet me up the Dyke. For one thing, I was starving, and if I tried cooking with all this on my mind, I’d probably end up burning the house down. For another, I couldn’t face going home alone, where I’d just sit on the sofa and obsess about the god-awful bloody failure of my date with Phil. I needed distracting, and Gary was nothing if not that.
Of course, I hadn’t realised that these days, Gary was a buy-one-get-one-free offer. When I got to the Dyke, an ache starting in my head to match the one in my hip, he was curled up in a corner seat gazing at a certain market trader like the sun shone out of his proverbial. I got myself a pint, gave Flossie a pat in passing, and joined them, trying not to let my smile curdle on my lips. “All right, Gary? Darren?”
Gary was his usual effusive self, bless him. “Tommy! Sit down and tell Uncle Gary all about it. What did the nasty man do to you?”
“Did he rest his pint glass on the top of your head, that sort of thing?” Darren asked. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to be sympathetic or just taking the piss. Although my money was on him taking the piss.
“Sorry, Gary, I’m not sure I really want to talk about it,” I began, with a glance in Darren’s direction.
Gary tsked. “Darling, don’t be silly! Darren and I have no secrets from one another, so you might as well tell us both.”
Right now I wasn’t sure I wanted to spill the beans to either of them, but they had come out specially to cheer me up. “It just got a bit weird, that’s all. You know that accident I had when I was seventeen, right?” I found I was rubbing my hip, and picked up my pint instead.
Annoyingly, they both nodded.
“Well, it sort of happened when I was running away from Phil and his gang—we didn’t exactly get on, back then. Turns out he’s been feeling bad about it all these years. Guilty. And he, you know, kept newspaper clippings and photos of me and stuff.”
“Oh. My. God.” Gary looked like he was worried his face was going to fall off, and he was trying to hold it on with both hands. “Tommy! You’ve got your very own stalker!”
“No, I haven’t! Come off it, Phil’s not like that.” I took a gulp of beer to steady myself.
“Oh? After all these years, he comes in search of you—”
“He came in search of Melanie Porter, actually.”
“—finds he can’t stay away from you—”
“He asked me to help him out a couple of times, that’s all.”
“—finally, he entices you into his secluded lair—”
“It’s a bloody loft conversion on London Road!”
“—and confesses his obsession.”
“He didn’t confess, I . . .” I glanced at Darren. He stared back, poker-faced. “I found the stuff he’d kept, that’s all.” Except that wasn’t all, was it? I put my pint down. “He said he hated me.”
“He didn’t!” Gary cried.
“Yes, he bloody did. He said he hated me, back when we were at school, because I made him fancy me.” God, I was going soft. I’d started to wish they hadn’t left Julian at home, so he could put his head on my knee, soak me in slobber, and make me feel better.
Instead of a wobbly pair of jowls, a small but meaty hand landed on my leg. Darren’s hand. “Course he hated you. Always bleedin’ do, don’t they? Sodding closet cases. Don’t like the message, shoot the fucking messenger. You’re better off without that tosspot, ain’t he, Pumpkin?”
Pumpkin?
Gary nodded and didn’t even blush. Then again, I’m not sure he even knows how. “Absolutely, Sweetie Pie.”
Not the least bit embarrassed either, Darren leaned forward. “Tell you what, I’ve got a mate out Hemel way—well, ex-colleague, if you know what I mean. Him and his partner are looking for a third. Say the word and I’ll give ’em your number.”
“Um, thanks,” I managed. “I’ll let you know. Want another drink?” I was only halfway through my pint, but I was pretty sure I’d be needing another.
I left Pumpkin and Sweetie Pie cooing over one another and escaped to the bar, where Harry herself was serving. I’d have preferred one of the harem—they’re a bit less intimidating, as a rule. She raised a bushy eyebrow at me.
“Two pints of best and a dry martini, please,” I asked politely.
“Stirred, not shaken?” Harry queried in that gravelly voice that always makes me fancy a cigarette, even though I gave up smoking a dozen years ago, which was around two weeks after I’d started.
“That’s the one. Kitchen still open?” I asked, suddenly catching sight of a packet of pork scratchings and remembering I was starving.
She nodded. “Pie’s good tonight.”
“Ah, but isn’t it always?” I smiled. “All right, you’ve sold me on it. Pie and chips, please, and whatever veg is going. Got to keep up my vitamins.”
She nodded, bellowed my food order to Marnie in the kitchen and got busy pulling pints.
I handed over twenty quid, thinking I really needed to make time for a bit more actual paid work in the near future. And maybe take up running, to burn off all this beer and pub grub. Harry gave me a tray to take the drinks over—it’s easy enough carrying three pint glasses in your hands, but you try it with two pints and one of Gary’s dinky little cocktail glasses. He’d have been well pissed off if I’d dropped his olive.
“Lovely, sweetie,” Gary said when I plonked them on the table. He and Darren had fallen silent when I’d got back.
“Talking about me, were you?” I asked, sitting down.
Gary shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with being the centre of attention, I’ve always thought. Anyway, you can get your revenge by talking about me now while I pop to the little girls’ room.”
Once Gary was out of earshot, Darren leaned over the table, fixing me with what’s usually described as a gimlet stare, although I wasn’t too sure what it had in common with Philip Marlowe’s cocktail of choice. “He talks a lot about you, my Gary does.” There was a definite emphasis on the my. “I hope this bust-up with the closet case don’t mean you’re going to start looking nearer to home. You ever lay a finger on my Gary, I’ll nut you in the nadgers.” He cocked his head to one side, giving me a speculative look. “Actually, in your case, I reckon I could knee you in the nadgers.”
“Whoa!” I threw up my hands. “Gary and me are just mates. Cross my heart and hope to . . . get kneed in the nadgers. Anyway, haven’t you noticed he’s about this far from getting your name tattooed on his arm?” I gave Darren my own hard stare, one I’d copied off Harry from that time she caught someone making homophobic jokes in her bar. “So make sure you treat him right.”
“Or what?” he taunted, in a you-and-whose-army sort of voice, but he was smiling.
“Or I’ll come round in the night and fix it so your sewer backs up in your kitchen sink.”
Darren burst into hearty cackles. “You’re all right, aintcha?” He took a long swig of his beer. “Did Gary tell you I used to be in films?”
I toasted him with my pint. “What do you reckon? Think Gary would keep quiet about something like that?”
“Bless ’im. Have you seen any of them?”
“Well, none that I remember . . . But then again, I probably wouldn’t have been looking at your face.” It seemed a bit more tactful than just saying Sorry, mate, I don’t watch dwarf porn. “What was your stage name?”
“Ever see the Man from U.N.C.L.E.?”
I nodded, wondering where this was going.
“You’re looking at the one and only Napoleon So Low.” He leered as he said it, and I spluttered into my pint.
“So have you given Gary a private showing?” I asked.
“Depends what you’re talking about, don’t it?” Darren put down his pint, just as Gary returned.
“Ooh, what have I missed? I hope you two haven’t been talking about me.” He was lying through his teeth. Gary loves people talking about him.
“Would we?” I said, just as Darren chipped in
with, “Only the good stuff.” Then his face softened. “Course, that’s all there is, innit?”
“Aw, bless him!” Gary cooed, looking worryingly moist around the eyes. “Isn’t he adorable?”
“Darren was just telling me about his career in films,” I went on quickly, before any of us could drown in the slushy stuff. I turned to the man in question. “So how come you gave it all up? The acting, I mean,” I clarified before he could come up with some ripe innuendo on the subject of giving it up.
He made a face. “Had to, din’t I? Industrial accident.” He shook his head sadly, and Gary joined in.
Call me a coward, but I really didn’t dare ask. Good thing my pie turned up at that point.
The food was lovely, bless Marnie’s nimble fingers, although I had to edge around the table a bit to protect the chicken filling from Flossie’s hungry gaze. She stayed on the alert for a moment longer, ears pricked and nose twitching in my direction, then settled back down on her well with a reproachful air. I didn’t feel guilty. I knew for a fact Harry fed her two square meals a day, plus all the rowdy drunks she could chew on.
I’d no sooner set my fork down for the last time than Sweetie Pie and Pumpkin were making their excuses.
“Sorry, Tommy.” Gary pouted. “Darren and I need to get an early night. I need to be up bright and early tomorrow morning to ring in the faithful.”
Darren leered and nudged me painfully in the ribs. “And after that, he’ll be coming home and ringing my bell.”
Gary shrieked with laughter and pretended to slap Darren. “Sweetie Pie! You are terrible!”
As far as I could see, the only good thing about that evening was getting home to find a chatty, friendly email from Patricia Treadgood, attaching both her shortbread recipe and one for gingersnaps.
Sunday morning, I woke up way too early for someone who had neither bells to ring nor a boyfriend to shag. Granted, it hadn’t been a particularly late night, but this was my chance to have a decent lie-in, and I hated to waste it. Still, once you’re properly awake, there’s no point fighting it. It was either get up or lie in bed having a lonely, maudlin wank over Phil Morrison. I got up.
I had some part-baked croissants in the freezer, so I bunged them in the oven, made a cafetière of coffee, and sat down on the sofa with the cats, warbling a little Édith Piaf as I went. A perfect lazy Sunday morning. At least, that was the intention, but the cats buggered off because they hate my singing and the words didn’t fit anyway, seeing as I was regretting a bloody sight more than rien. I thought, sod this for a lark, so I had a shave, put on something respectable, and went to church.
No, I hadn’t suddenly got religion. It’d just occurred to me that everyone mixed up with Melanie’s case was also mixed up with Brock’s Hollow parish church. Apart from Graham, obviously, but I was trying not to treat him as a suspect. And all right, Robin East and his wife probably weren’t much into the God-bothering business either, but the rest of them were. I didn’t really have a plan in mind, but I thought it couldn’t hurt to see them all together, watch how they acted with one another.
I felt a bit bad about turning up on the Rev’s doorstep like the proverbial bad penny, but then again, maybe it’d reassure him if I went along and didn’t do anything to out him?
When they built St. Anthony’s Church, Brock’s Hollow, which, according to the signs was sometime in the thirteenth century, for some reason they didn’t think to put in a car park. I ended up parking next to the Four Candles and hurrying breathlessly into church just after the service had started. My shoes clattered like hob-nailed boots on the flagstones, and the Rev faltered in the notices he was reading out. I mouthed, Sorry, in his general direction, hoping the rest of the congregation would get the message too, and looked around for a spare pew. It wasn’t as easy as you’d think. For all the talk in the papers about declining church attendances, this place was pretty well stocked with worshippers. Looked like the better schools in the area still had a church-attendance requirement to get your kids a place.
“This way—there are some seats in the Lady Chapel,” a reedy voice whispered in my ear, and I turned to find a wiry old dear, so bent over with age she had to peer up sideways at me, offering me a chirpy smile and a hymn book.
I beamed back at her, relieved to see a friendly face. “Thanks,” I whispered, following her doll-like steps around the side of the main pews and up towards the front. The church was built in the shape of a cross, and I ended up in one of the arms, staring at the side of the Rev’s head. A family of four obligingly shuffled their bums over to make room for me on the end of their pew, and I sat down as quickly and as quietly as I could. “Thanks,” I whispered again. The old lady beamed and toddled off.
Across the way, I was surprised to see Robin East was here after all. No sign of Samantha. Maybe Sunday morning was her time for bathing in the blood of freshly squeezed virgins.
The Rev finished droning on—something about an extension project, and the forthcoming Advent Carol service—and announced a hymn. Everyone opened their hymn books, and I flicked around frantically in mine trying to find the right page as the organist started up.
“Tom, how lovely to see you here.”
I looked up, startled, into Patricia Treadgood’s face. She was in the pew in front, next to her husband. The glare Lionel shot me over a ramrod-straight shoulder left me in no doubt how lovely he thought it was to see me. I smiled at Patricia, mostly because I was glad to see her, but also because it’d annoy him. “Hey, you too. I didn’t see you there. Thanks for your email.”
“My pleasure.” She turned back to the front just as the organ intro finished and everyone launched into the first verse. Everyone except me, of course, as I was still trying to find the bloody thing. Maybe this was what I’d missed out on after they’d kicked me out of Sunday school: advanced hymn-finding. I hunted on, trying not to curse, until a small hand tugged at my sleeve. The little girl next to me shoved her hymnbook under my nose, one grubby, nail-bitten finger pointing out the place they’d got to.
“Thanks,” I whispered yet again, and did my best to join in the tune. By the time we’d got through seven verses, I had an aching back and a crick in my neck from leaning down awkwardly to share the book with her. I’d also remembered I was tone-deaf, and by the appalled and/or amused faces around me, quite a few people were now in on that little secret. Maybe I’d just lip-sync from now on.
Then again, the row in front had shifted slightly and Lionel Treadgood was right in front of me. I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d rather torture with my off-key attempt at religious worship. I needed something to amuse me, because frankly, I was disappointed. I’d come here for a game of spot-the-suspect, and I’d clocked half of them in the first five minutes. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to keep my eyes peeled and check out the rest of the congregation.
As the Rev droned on some more, I let my gaze wander around the church. It was pretty big, and all bare, pale greyish stone—no interior paint to brighten the place up, although someone had got their sewing kit out and made some bright felt banners to hang here and there. Nice flowers too. Hefty pillars blocked the sight lines in several directions, but I was able to spot Pip sitting between a tired, worried-looking woman and a scowling Mr. Pip. I was fairly sure he wasn’t thinking pious thoughts as he glared at me. Pip herself kept her eyes fixed on her knees.
Everyone seemed very white, although I suppose most places in Hertfordshire would be a bit like that after Fleetville. There were quite a lot of old dears, most of them in hats, but then it was a bit nippy. There seemed to be some kind of under-pew heating system, which meant my bum was nice and warm but the rest of me was shivering even in my padded jacket. I couldn’t see half as many men as women, and most of them were old too, their liver-spotted heads peeking through wisps of white hair. There were just a few young, male heads—and oh shit. One of them was Phil’s. He glanced up just at the wrong time too, and I got a jolt in my chest as our eyes met.
I dropped my gaze hurriedly, just as everyone around me shuffled a bit and bowed their heads. Time for the serious God-bothering, I guessed. I tried to pretend I was as into it as they all were. At least it gave me an excuse not to look at Phil anymore.
We didn’t have to kneel, which was a relief. There were hassocks or cassocks or whatever it is you call those cross-stitched kneelers hanging from hooks on the back of the pew in front, but nobody seemed to be using them. Unless you counted the little girl who’d shared her hymn book with me, who was playing a game with them with her brother, swinging them together like conkers.
I felt like a right fraud, pretending to pray. Luckily, they gave you all the words, rather than make you sit there like a lemon and think up your own. There was a bit where they prayed for people who’d died, and I thought of poor Melanie Porter. It felt weird to think she might be up in heaven now, gazing down on all this. If you believed all that stuff, anyway. Then I started thinking, if there was a God, why didn’t he just send down a thunderbolt on the bastard who’d killed her, and save me and Phil the trouble?
It occurred to me about then, though, that depending on your views about the whole thing, God (if he was there) might not look too kindly on blokes like me and Phil, and might think we were pretty good candidates for the thunderbolt treatment ourselves, so I decided maybe I’d just keep my head down in here and not draw attention to myself.
