by C. J. Skuse
2.Every agent in the UK who has rejected my novel The Alibi Clock
3.All my friends
Went over Mum and Dad’s again to make sure Julia was set up for two days – water, food, toilet access etc. She was giving me the silent treatment again but her body language was screaming guilt. Then I found it – a hole in the carpet. She’d started a tunnel under the bed. It was so sad it was almost funny – a tunnel to the second floor bathroom, which I kept locked on the outside. I said, again, that escape wasn’t an option and that I had someone watching her kids if she tried to leave or summon help. All she had to do was sit tight.
It’s a nice area where we used to live, when I had such a thing as a family. A THANKFUL VILLAGE, the road sign says. Neighbours are few, every note of birdsong can be heard, front gardens are mown on a Sunday and Harvest Home posters go up on telegraph poles mid-June. I like it. Well, I like the silence. Especially the garden. Mum was obsessed with it – she used to say gardening kept her sane. I’ve always associated the sights and smells of a healthy garden with happiness. When I was a kid it was packed with colour and smell. The aroma of a different herb greeted you with every new gust of wind. Rosemary and oregano. Mint and curry plant. Lemon thyme and sage. Pale yellow daffodils as blonde as my sister popping up in the beds in spring. Then cornflowers, as blue as Joe’s eyes. The lavender in late summer was the same I’d put in the little pomander that Mum kept in her handbag. The trees were like Dad – strong and tall. The beds are all empty now but the trees remain.
An odd anomaly was that even though the house was (ostensibly) uninhabited, the grass in both the front and back gardens was always neatly trimmed. This was courtesy of a neighbour, Henry Cripps, who had a ride-on mower and had come up to me at Dad’s funeral and said it was the ‘least he could do’.
Henry’s old-fashioned. He was still passing through the Stone Age when Emily Davison was throwing herself under that horse. His late wife Dorothy had been the quintessential 1950s housewife. Cooking, cleaning, child-bearing. The arranger of flowers. The beater of rugs. Henry used to time Dorothy when she went shopping. Fairly sure she only had a stroke to get away from him.
He could be nice. When I was a kid, he would let me climb over his fence to feed dandelions to his ancient tortoise, Timothy. And he’d keep newspapers back for mine and Seren’s rabbit and guinea pig ‘but not if they’re going to thump in their hutch all night’.
I made myself a black coffee and sat out on a deckchair in the garden playing ball up the lawn with Tink.
‘I say,’ came a voice. A grey head appeared over the fence. Tink went ballistic up the trellis.
‘Hi, Henry, how are you?’ I asked him, quickly remembering the rules of engagement and struggling out of the deckchair. I picked up Tink but she continued to growl and snarl, full on toothily, just as she did with rogue pigeons on the balcony.
‘Hello, there, Rhee-ann-non [he always accentuates every syllable], lovely to see you again!’
‘You too, Henry.’
Thankfully, Henry was the only neighbour around, but he was all the neighbour you needed. He’d lend you anything, knew all the local gossip and would water your plants or mow your lawn diligently when you were away. He also had the neatest garage ever. All the paint pots were labels out and alphabetically shelved, his tools hanging on the back wall with pencil lines drawn around them. His three classic cars were shone to perfection – one was kept in our garage as prearranged with Dad.
I also noticed every one of his daffodils faced the same way. I think that’s what happens to people who have nothing else to think about – their mind has time to dwell on shit it doesn’t need to, like paint pots and daffodils.
‘I hope you don’t mind, Rhee-ann-non, but I had some geraniums left over so I’ve put a couple of beds in over there, just to start them off…’
‘No, that’s fine,’ I said, looking back to where he pointed.
‘. . . and some runner beans as well, up the end there. Did you want the car moving out of the garage yet? Only last time you were here you mentioned an estate agent coming to look round.’
‘No, I’ve taken it off the market, just for the time being.’
‘Oh, right,’ he said. ‘Why’s that?’
Tink was pushing on my boob for attention like she had a right answer on Catchphrase so I put her on the ground where she chased after a woodlouse. ‘Just not the right agent. Thought we could get a better deal with someone else.’
Then I had to hear about his latest piano investment – he had four of them now, which took up two reception rooms in the ground floor of his house. He used to invite me and Seren round to listen to them. The pianos played themselves. It was unusual and interesting for about the first minutes. After a while, we were both looking round for the nearest gallows.
Still, I have to keep Henry sweet. Very sweet.
‘You came back last week, didn’t you? Thought I saw your car on the drive.’
‘Yeah, got to keep an eye on the you-know-what,’ I said, tapping my nose. He nodded. ‘And I’m just starting to clear a few things away for when it goes up for sale again.’ I chanced a desultory peep to the top of the house. It’s annoying when your body does that, isn’t it? Gives off little hints to the atrocities you’ve committed.
‘Ah, I thought I heard someone in there the other day.’
‘My assistant. Someone’s got to keep an eye on them when I can’t be here.’
‘Well as long as you’re all right. Just give me a shout if you need anything. I told your dad I’d keep an eye on you.’
‘Yep, I’m all right for everything, Henry, you don’t need to worry about me.’
He smiled, showing a line of neat yellow baby teeth, but was still standing there, as though waiting for something. Then I realised he was.
‘Oh, sorry, Henry, I completely forgot.’ I scurried over to my tote on the back of the deckchair and fished out the baggy of pot. I handed it to him over the fence.
‘Golly. This lot will keep me going for a few months!’ he chuckled, tucking it away inside his V-neck. ‘Much thanks.’
‘No problem, just let me know when you need more.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want paying for all this, Rhee-annnon? It seems like an awful lot. Terribly generous of you.’
‘No way. You were a good friend to my dad, Henry. It’s the least I can do. Got tonnes of the stuff growing up there. Mum’s the word though, OK?’
He tapped his nose and we left it at that. He practically skipped back down his symmetrical path, despite the rheumatoid arthritis in his joints.
Julia, on the other hand, didn’t seem quite so keen for me to leave this time.
‘But what if something happens to you in London and nobody knows I’m here? I could die of starvation.’
‘There are worse ways to lose weight, Julia. Try Davina’s Super Body Workout.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Just ration your food and drink and you’ll be fine. I’ve brought you some more magazines and a Puzzler. No need to thank me.’
She did the banshee impression again so I tied her back up and shut the door on her.
‘Jeez, chill out, woman I’ll bring the Sudoku next time.’
I decided against cutting off another finger to punish her for the tunnel attempt. I didn’t feel the need and I didn’t have any of Tink’s poo bags on me anyway.
Julia was only at my secondary school for a year, but in that year she’d done her level best to ruin what Priory Gardens had left of me. The morning I saw her in the precinct before Christmas, taking her kids to school as I walked towards work, I froze. I got that same feeling I had as an eleven-year-old every morning, when she’d walk into assembly and make a beeline for the chair next to me – the chair I HAD to save. I followed her home. I saw her junkyard of a front garden. Smelled her cigarette smoke wafting over her fence. Heard her shouting down the phone to someone.
One morning, I followed her again, this time prepared. I
did the old ‘Hey, is that you, Julia? It’s me, Rhiannon!’ routine. I drove her out to the house and we’d had a nice chat over some tea and a Lyons Victoria Sponge. She worked as a hairdresser; her partner, Terry, was a removals man.
Then I beat her unconscious and tied her up using climbing ropes from Mountain Warehouse and some strong steel eyes from Dad’s toolbox, screwed and bolted into the back bedroom wall.
I only saw Dad do it once, get rid of a body. I hope it’s not too difficult when the time comes. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried. Maybe it’s because she’s a woman. Or because she has kids – fairly ugly kids as kids go, but still kids and, therefore, innocents. They all have their mother’s genes though – her freckles, her twisted teeth. They’re better off without her. She’s holding them back. Like she once held me back. Julia the Puppet Master.
Julia the Sly who’d pinch me when the teacher wasn’t looking because I hadn’t answered her question ‘Am I your best friend?’
Julia the Scribbler who’d written ‘Rhiannon Fatty Fat Face’ in the front of my Bible and scrawled ‘Mary Sucks Cocks’ over eight pages of my New Testament.
Julia the Beater who’d failed her English test and taken out her frustration on me – a selective mute with brain damage.
Julia the Firestarter who’d burnt a hole in my tunic with the Bunsen burner.
Julia the Killer who’d stamped on the frog I’d befriended beside the pond because I hadn’t said, ‘You’re my best friend.’
Julia the Demanding who would stare at me with her evil eyes and stab my hand with her fountain pen in French if I didn’t help her with her verbs.
Julia the Cutter who would sneak scissors from the Art cupboard and cut off pieces of my hair.
Julia the Rapist who’d pinned me down behind the school science lab and tried to rape me with a stick because I hadn’t said, ‘You’re my best friend.’
I prayed for her death every night. But every morning, my heart would sink as the big fat-footed girl with the ginger hair, wonky parting and the trash-can breath appeared in the doorway of the assembly hall.
I used to dream about life without Julia – a full night’s sleep, no more racing heartbeat, sitting beside whoever I wanted in class, playing with who I wanted at break-time. Getting better grades and delivering more than just a piss-poor performance as Wing Attack to impress the teachers. No more bruises. When she left, it got better. My grades went up, my voice came back stronger. I even made some friends for a while. But the hate inside me had already started to multiply. Priory Gardens had turned on the tap but Julia kept it running.
No one ever helped me. To the other kids, Rhiannon and Julia were BFFs and no one was going to come between them, as much as I would silently scream for them to do so. I was a prisoner in Julia’s fist and it was reducing me to dust.
So yeah, BuzzFeed, I was always in trouble at school and I was a bully do not apply to this psychopath. In fact, I was a model pupil – silent, studious, obliging. Allowing any bitch to slap me or spit in my face cos she thought it was funny.
But now that bitch was my prisoner. My dust.
Sunday, 4 February
1.Woman sitting next to me on the train who has no concept of personal space (cue elbow digs), coughs without putting her hand over her mouth and has just eaten an egg-andmayonnaise sandwich. If I’d had a gun, I’d have shot that fucking sandwich right out of her hands
2.Plug hogs on trains. Woman next to me is also one of these
3.Pass ag ticket inspector who huffed when I showed him my seat reservation instead of my ticket, then lingered, making small talk with the nineteen-year-old blonde student nurse behind me
4.Man in Lycra shorts who barged past me to the last seat on the Tube
5.Everyone who lives or works in London
Had my usual Dad dream. Woke up with the shakes. I told Craig I was just cold. Am on the train now, travelling to London for tomorrow’s Up At the Crack interview. The OK! magazine I bought at the station is a veritable cavalcade of fake-titted reality stars and women too fat or too thin, according to what’s in fashion, so I’ve given up. I’m now enjoying watching the people who get on board whenever the train stops at a station. I like how they look around when they alight, sizing up the competition.
Hmm, who is the least threatening person to sit next to, they think.
Will it be the group of young men sitting around the table covered with empty beer bottles at 9.29 a.m.? No, definitely not.
How about the oily old gent with the carrier bag on his lap who looks like Robin Williams in One Hour Photo? Not, not him either.
How about the four ginger kids whose tablets are all on full volume? Or the two old women incessantly nattering – one who looks like Helen Mirren, the other like Helen Mirren’s less successful brunette sister who works in Aldi?
No. They all make a beeline for me, of course. Because I’m the woman alone. Sweet and unthreatening. Friendly faced. Quiet.
Craig had suggested a B&B for me a couple of streets away from the TV studios, one he’d stayed in when him and Stuart went up to watch QPR play Middlesbrough and his train home was cancelled. He said the fry-up was ‘beyond the beyond’.
A man rubbed up against me on the Tube out of Paddington. He must have been thirty-something. Bit of a quiff going on, highly polished shoes, iPhone clutched in one hand, latte in the other, cock against my arse. The train wasn’t that packed. He could have moved away but he chose not to. I don’t mean just brushed against me either – this isn’t me getting all hoity-toity-Calm-Down-Dear about it. He was dry-humping me. I was in a good mood so I handled it as calmly as I could. I turned to him, so we were cock to front on and I said veeeery quietly in a voice only he could hear
‘You carry on doing that, I will slit your fucking throat.’
And I gave him a flash of my knife. And it stopped. Instantly. And the next time the train reached a station, he got off.
I got off and pootled around Covent Garden for a bit to waste some time before I could check in. I got some more money out of Julia’s bank account and bought some warm cookies in a little French bakery just off the main square. Found a kitchen shop which had the most astonishing array of Sabatier knives in the window, the display created to look like a starburst of weapons. I stared at them for ages, imagining which handle would look best with my fingers around it. They were all better than my crappy little steak knife. Might go back there tomorrow. We need a new tin opener as well. Mrs Whittaker has nicked ours.
I couldn’t live in London but I like to inject myself with it every now and then. It’s quite nice when it’s not raining or being bombed.
*
Just logged back in to report that the B&B is a shithole and my mattress is covered in piss patches. I’m sleeping on my bath towel tonight.
In other news, I’m getting bored of the chat rooms. Took me ages to cum tonight, though I do generally find it hard to climax when I’m on a mattress that was around during the Renaissance.
Monday, 5 February
1.People who design hotels – why in God’s name can’t you put the mother-loving plug sockets by the bed?
The fry-up at the B&B was beyond disgusting, but I kind of knew it would be because a) Craig recommended it and b) I never have luck with hotels. There’s always a pube, always a stain, and always a shag-a-thon or a troupe of horses doing dressage in the next room at 3 a.m.
Up at the Crack’s runner Jemimah Double-Barrelled met me at the back entrance of TV Central. She was wearing trainers with neon laces, which irked me beyond socially acceptable levels, and her hands appeared glued to the edges of an iPad. In the lift upstairs, she told me I was to be on air between a segment about a botched hysterectomy and a recipe for a three-cheese quiche.
‘So we’ll take you in to make-up and get you all sorted and do your hair and then you can have a quick meet with the presenters.’ Her fingertips went back to the mole cluster on her neck and picked at it like she was selecting the thicke
st Malteser.
‘Who, John and Carolyn?’ I said, sending a tiny bubble of hope into the universe that the Biggest Wanger in Town, Tony Tompkinson, was ill or on holiday or something, so I wouldn’t have to spend the whole interview staring down at the massive bulge in his trousers.
‘No, it’s Tony and Carolyn on today. John does it with Carolyn every other day and then it’s Melinda and Tristan on Fridays.’
Tristan was the black presenter they chucked in on a Friday with the gay weather girl to even things up a bit, diversity-wise. The weekend sister show Chatterday they gave to the blonde in the wheelchair.
The hair and make-up women went to town on my face, and by town I mean Slutsville. Whilst doing me, I overheard them bitching about Carolyn’s demands for a dressing room of her own, some boy-bander’s request for no-carb toast and Tony Tompkinson’s latest bust-up with his agent.
Apparently, he was shagging her.
Apparently, Tony is shagging everyone.
Well, when you’ve got that much hot dog it’s silly to put it in just the one roll.
The woman in the make-up chair to my right was an actress in some crime thing. To my left was a bloke whose pug had just got through to the semi-finals of Pets Who Can Sing and Dance. I didn’t feel like conversating with either to be honest but I tried my best. Well, my head was nodding and my mouth was all ‘How interesting’ but really I was thinking about bleeding Julia out over the bathtub at Mum and Dad’s.
Then Tony and Carolyn swept in for a pre-show ‘touch up’ before they went live. It looked to me like they’d been touched up quite a bit already.
‘Tony, Carolyn, this is Rhiannon Lewis, today’s Woman of the Century shortlister.’ Jemimah had reappeared behind me, sans iPad, avec protein ball.
‘Well, no need to introduce you, Rhiannon, your reputation goes before you,’ Tony chuckled. ‘How you doing?’ Cue unauthorised body contact #1 – shoulder rub.
‘Yeah, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘It’s so lovely to meet you, Rhiannon,’ said Carolyn, smiling like a grand piano. Her face was caked in foundation but there were bumps all over it. ‘What do you prefer to be called?’
