by C. J. Skuse
‘I said he should ask you himself. Do you like him?’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘He could come in useful somewhere.’
She shrieked at that, only it took me a while to realise she thought I meant that as a pun. I truly didn’t. ‘Watch out for Claudia though. She’ll be on the warpath if you’re found defiling her nephew. She keeps a pretty close eye on him.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m surprised she doesn’t make him work in a little cat basket under her desk.’
Cue another deafening shriek.
Talking of the Gulp Monster, Claudia wants me to do my own write up on the Up At the Crack interview – The Editorial Assistant’s Eye View – as opposed to the Editor’s Comment next week.
‘There’s a little moment in the sun for you, sweetpea,’ she said with a smile so patronising it could strip paint.
Whoopee Shit. It’ll be squeezed between a half-page advert for sixty years of Darlington Caravans and a story about a dead World War Two carrier pigeon someone found up their chimney. She can suck my mammaries till Michaelmas if she thinks I’m going to be grateful for that, gigantic bag of crabs that she is.
Joyless Joy slurped her tea all morning. The comment about my personal appearance today was ‘What’s the matter with your legs in those leggings? You couldn’t stop a pig in a passage.’ I still very hate her too.
There’s been a robbery at the One Stop, so the reporters were all over that this afternoon. Other than that, nothing else is making headlines. Same old, same old. There’s the upcoming fifty-year anniversary of the wildlife sanctuary and a hit-and-run on the retail park and they’re trying to get hold of the family of a teen who live-streamed her suicide on Periscope because she used to live in the area so, technically, she’s ours. No luck yet though.
Canal Bloke’s death isn’t worrying anyone much. I asked Linus about it, more as a decoy – AJ was replacing his lip gloss with a joke one. We have a little wager between us – who can prank him the best.
I made it through about a third of my emails when I noticed one from Curly Sue herself – Laila at Tanner & Walker, the estate agent who had once tried to sell Mum and Dad’s house and failed like a whale trying to shag a snail.
Tried to reach you on your landline but no answer. Could you give me a call first thing? Thanks.
I called straight away.
‘Rhiannon! Oh, great to finally reach you!’ she shrilled, so much fake she could bake a fake cake. ‘I was trying to get hold of you all day yesterday.’
‘I had my mobile on,’ I said.
‘Yeah, I tried it. There was still no answer.’
‘Oh.’ I frowned. So she was a bullshitter as well as a crap estate agent. Hmmm.
‘Anyway, we’ve had a new offer on your mum and dad’s place. Full asking price and no chain. How’s about that? It’s almost unheard of at this time of year.’
‘Uh, I took it off the market months ago,’ I said, heart quietly thumping away.
‘Yes, I know, but the couple who looked at it last August – the Pembrokes – have found nothing else they liked and they went back to have another look…’
‘When did they go back for another look?’
‘They were in the area last week and drove past.’
‘They had no right to.’ I flicked a couple of Vs down the phone. Childish? Yes, but I was panicking.
‘They didn’t go in or anything, just looked at the drive and the frontage.’
‘So they were sniffing around the property without permission, is that even legal?’
‘No, it wasn’t like that at all. They just happened to be in the area and swung by the place. They liked the idea of the woods at the back as they have four quite big dogs. They’d like another look inside if you’re still looking to sell?’
‘Well, I’m not. I’m not ready. Nowhere near ready.’
‘They’re pretty keen, Rhiannon. You’d be hard-pressed to find—’
‘No, it’s not happening. I took it off the market for the foreseeable future and I haven’t changed my mind about that.’ I grabbed my bottle of Gaviscon from my desk drawer. I swigged down two glugs and winced at the chalkiness.
‘But your sister—’
‘I don’t care about my sister,’ I shouted, garnering a couple of glances from the subs on the other side of the room. ‘She’s a billion miles away.’
‘Okaaay,’ said Laila. ‘But you’ll find that she has half…’
‘You’ve no right to even contact me any more.’
‘Rhiannon, I can assure you—’
I put the phone down without saying goodbye. Brutal.
I swigged again at the Gaviscon. Sodding, sodding, sodding ARSE. I mean, yes, half of £825,000 would come in handy. And yes, I knew it would ‘make a great family home or a wonderful rural retirement opportunity’ for two old codgers with a sit-on mower and nothing else to do but moan about the migrants.
But of course I had to deal with Julia.
After that, yeah sure, bring it on. I’ll bake an apple tart and we can have an open house. Let’s get the whole neighbourhood round for a coffee and a stroke of my curtains. Only just let me get rid of the woman tied up in the back bedroom first.
I swigged the Gaviscon again but it was empty.
Normally, I put up with stuff. Keep my mouth shut and moan inwardly or write it down. But today, something had shifted. I don’t know if it had been due to talking about Priory Gardens again or what but my anger was off the charts. I needed to go fishing again. I needed to get out. I needed to find Derek Scudd.
This town isn’t that big – he has to be somewhere, the maggot.
*
Lana went on lunch at 1.05. Today, I followed her.
I heard them as I snuck my way in through the front door and across the lounge. The bedroom door was ajar and I could see they were both naked. She was on all fours. He was at the end of the bed, thrusting against her. She was making a noise like a dying seal being repeatedly, well, fucked up the arse. He never put as much effort into it when we were doing it. He put more oomph into Artexing the kitchen.
I heard Tink then; an intermittent squeak coming from the bathroom. He’d locked her in so he could screw that bitch on my bed. OK, so Tink had a habit of getting in the way when me and Craig were having sex – I think she thought he was hurting me – but locking her in the bathroom? That’s just evil.
I couldn’t kill them both – that would be too quick and easy. And I couldn’t let Tink out of the bathroom either cos then they would know I’d been home.
So I went back to the office via the small chemist where my Pill prescription was and I loaded up on more Gaviscon. Next door was Granny Smiths the grocer’s – where I impulse-bought a bag of apples and some Conference pears. I needed something hard to crunch on while I thought about them doing it on my Tempur Sensation Deluxe mattress.
Lana reappeared in the office at 2.03 p.m., flushed of cheek, sex-hair brushed back – my boyfriend’s cum puddle cooling in the crotch of her knickers. I wondered if she’d been the one to lock my dog in my bathroom before presenting her slick behind to my boyfriend. I wonder if Craig had remembered to let Tink out before he went back to work, stinking of Avon perfume and Marlboro Lights.
I bumped into her in the staffroom around 3 p.m. when I went up to make the drinks for AJ, who was taking meeting minutes. She smiled at me, I smiled back and then we had a little staring competition. I won.
Linus finished the day with blue lips and had to go into the office for a meeting with Ron about the murders, which can’t have looked very professional. AJ and I laughed ourselves out of the building.
Tink scampered across the floor to greet me when I got in at 6 p.m. She seemed unscathed but desperate to lick my face and dog-tell me what Daddy had been up to in my absence. When I went in there, I noticed there was a small pile of treats that Craig had obviously left in an attempt to keep her quiet. Chihuahuas are loyal to their owners – she never eats until I’m home. He was mak
ing my favourite dinner – steak and peppercorn sauce, presumably so he could sizzle the smell of Lana’s ass out of the flat. Red meat? You think it’s a good idea to give me red meat tonight, boy?
‘Post for you,’ he said, looking up from the breakfast bar as he chopped green peppers. I could smell pot too – there were two joint dog-ends in the coffee table ashtray. One has the faintest tinge of hot pink at the end.
I checked my three letters – bank statement, circular, another agent rejection, this time from Thickett & Wump. Dear Madam, Thank you for allowing us to consider your novel, The Alibi Clock. Unfortunately…
Tink was still licking the epidermis from my cheek as I watched Craig tossing the salad and opening the Pinot Noir. He held it up for me to see the label.
‘Nice.’
‘Bit more expensive but it’s a good cut of meat so it deserves it. Good day?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ I said, picturing the perfect spot in the woods behind Mum and Dad’s house where I could bury him.
‘What you looking at me like that for?’ He smiled.
‘Oh, just thinking how much I love you, that’s all.’
And how I’d finally worked out what to do with Dan Wells’s severed cock.
Monday, 12 February
1.Creepy Ed Sheeran in Lidl’s car park, who today jumped out of the bushes in front of my car wearing a Bazinga T-shirt
2.People who wear Bazinga T-shirts
3.Woman with the two brown spaniels who always attack Tink and are never on leads – though today she said good morning for the first time when I accidentally made eye contact
Nothing more’s been said about Canal Man. There’s not been any teary-eyed relatives in the office, having tea and sympathy with Ron and Linus or even a public appeal to find his penis. It’s most odd. I asked around.
‘Have the police found out anything about that guy in the canal, Claudia?’
‘No,’ she sighed. ‘Most grisly. They still haven’t found it.’ She looked up. ‘Why, did you know him? I know your other half is some sort of electrician, isn’t he?’
‘He’s a builder. Actually, by trade he’s a—’
‘Oh, Johnny, great, have you got those run-outs for me?’ she interjected.
Johnny, one of the photographers, had appeared behind me, camera as big as my head around his neck. They chatted and it took me a minute to realise that my part in this conversation, if I’d ever had one, was over.
I didn’t like any of the photographers at the Gazette – Stuart, Brian and Johnny. They were all arrogant tit flannels, swanning around the place like rock stars, fat in the knowledge that the party don’t start till they walk in.
I asked Bogdan the receptionist if he’d received an obituary from Daniel Wells’ parents. All the reporters were now calling him ‘Dan’, like they knew him. Like they liked him. Like they’d had barbecues in his garden or he’d installed Sky TV for them at a knock-down price. I even heard Edmund say, ‘Golly, poor chap.’ No obituary yet though. Bogdan doesn’t flirt with me any more I’ve noticed. Obviously his asylum application came through and he’s allowed to stay.
Dan Dan, the Dickless Man, as henceforth, he shall be known.
Left work early so I could take Tink to the park to play ball. I felt I’d been neglecting her of late and she’s such a good dog, she deserves more attention. Tried to teach her Shake a Paw for the millionth time, to no avail. Then we snuggled on the sofa and to watch The Simpsons on Sky.
Craig invited round the usual suspects tonight – Eddie, Gary and Nigel – for a gourmet evening of Call of Duty, lager and live football. Fridays used to be my Pilates nights but I gave that up a few months back when I realised spending an hour in a room full impossibly thin women stretching and farting along to Enya wasn’t a good use of my time. On football nights, I’d sit at the dining table, eating Revels and ‘working on my novel’. More often than not, I was on Facebook or in the chat rooms.
The chat rooms are where weirdos congregate like frog spawn and feminism died with a boot in its neck. I call myself Sweetpea and play the part of the confident slut. There’s never a shortage of takers for my filthy bravado and I’ve been known to bring men to climax with just a few choice words. Of course, the men were all the lowest specimens of the gene pool – sad, hunched-over beardy types who would ask for photos when their wives were out of the room and send me short video clips of the moment they tugged themselves to ecstasy over my pics. It’s a cheap thrill. I get them where I can.
Tonight I tried something I’d never done – I pretended to be a guy. I sent them some of Craig’s nakes off my phone. They couldn’t get enough of me. It was a whole new experience and, I have to say, I had fun. Almost wish I had a penis. One of my own, I mean.
Meanwhile, four other penises congregated on my sofa. Eddie O’Connell was a failed professional footballer, now a trainee solicitor, and is distantly related to Raheem Sterling (he says). He can speak five languages. Including English, unlike Gary.
Gary fancies me, which is unfortunate because he has a face like a smashed egg. He’ll drop hints like, ‘I love your dress, Rhiannon,’ and [when watching Saw 3], ‘You’re so brave – I don’t know how you can watch this without wincing.’ Yes, I am curiously sangfroid when it comes to others experiencing pain. Well, it’s not happening to me, is it? Why would I wince? Thanks for noticing anyway, you patronising, mouse-dicked mother-humper from Sodom. He also says I’m funny, ‘which is so unusual for a girl’. I say Gary’s a twat, ‘which is not so unusual for a boy’. He has a window sticker in his motorhome that says NO JAFFA CAKES KEPT IN THIS VEHICLE OVERNIGHT. I’m just going to leave that one hanging, like Gary should be.
Nigel Yardley looks like a large ball of Play-Doh with a smaller ball of Play-Doh stuck on top. Just looking at his beach-ball stomach had me taping down my Revels for another night. He has a decorating business and his own van – NYPD EMERGENCY it says on the side. Who needs something decorated in an emergency? ‘Help! Someone! Please! My wallpaper’s come unstuck and my dado’s crooked!’ And don’t get me started on the apostrophe in ‘Fascias’.
‘Roooooaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrggggghhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!’ came the cheers from Sofa Land as some winger landed a diving header, sending Tink flying off my lap, barking her little apple head off. They all squawked with laughter.
I checked the news pages for updates on Daniel Wells’ watery end. No witnesses yet, the missing tallywhacker hasn’t turned up and a third man they brought in for questioning has been released without charge. The police don’t seem to have a clue. Dear dear dear.
‘Roooooaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrggggghhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!’
‘Caw bloody hell, he left it wide open!’
‘Plays like a bloody girl.’
‘Referee needs a chuffing guide dog, that was well offside, that!’
Now I may have mentioned before that I don’t like loud noises. Not loud noises, not raucous football enthusiasm, not fireworks. Or when someone drops a plate. My nerves just start frying beneath my skin. When I couldn’t take any more of their armchair punditry, I adorned Craig’s DMs and announced I was taking Tink for a long walk. By this point they were all pretty drunk and I don’t think Craig even heard me.
It was quiet out. I passed Mrs Whittaker in the bin shed, throwing various black bin bags into their correct holes. We traded ‘Evening’s’ and ‘Isn’t it warm outs?’s and for once she didn’t try to nick anything from me.
I checked my phone at 9.43 p.m., as I reached the traffic lights by the supermarket. All seemed oh-so quiet. Half an hour passed and nothing, nobody about.
But soon I sensed a tug on the end of my line – someone was following me. I got out a poo bag and bent down to pick up Tink’s offering in the grass, lingering as I did, watching him. Definitely a Him. He stopped by the bus stop, lit up a cigarette. He was about average height but stocky – at least sixteen stone. Could be a tricky one. I pushed the poo bag in a litter bin, and carried on walking, breathless.
He st
arted walking too, lit cigarette in hand. He wore a black beanie and his coat collar was pulled up around his neck, like it was cold out, which it wasn’t. I only had a hoody and tracky bottoms on but I was boiling. It crossed my mind that he might not be following me – that my sense of self-preservation was too strong – but my suspicions were confirmed as I crossed the road towards the park. There was a shady bit with trees. A cycle path. No kids out, smoking in the bandstand or on skateboards. I was all alone and breathless with anticipation.
I could feel it about to happen. My body tingled and my lungs heaved with the expectation of it. I dropped Tink’s lead and she wandered off to sniff a lamppost.
And then it did happen – he pounced on me from behind, grabbing my chin with one strong hand and my waist with the other. Tink barked right on cue.
‘Don’t scream or I’ll kill your dog.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me.’
He dragged me backwards towards the bushes. Tink yapped and growled her loudest but he wasn’t paying her any attention. My heart was racing and that was pushing the adrenalin around, getting me going. My knickers were already soaking.
He had an accent. ‘Stop wriggling. Let it ’appen and you won’t get ’urt.’
Tink growled and gnashed her tiny teeth at his ankle hems. That was helping me too. I was so alive with the sensation of what he wanted to do to me – the feeling of his huge rough hands on my breasts – my knees almost gave out, but I had to stay standing. Tink snarled and yapped and I knew what he was going to do next and it wasn’t until he did it that I reacted.
He kicked her. He kicked my dog.
More a Get off, you’re annoying me kick than one truly intended to hurt her. But she yelped and rolled squeaking into the long grass. And that was what it took to wake up the monster within me.
I pulled the wallpaper scissors from my hoody and thrust the blades deep into his neck – one, two, three times, right up to the hilt. The kinetic energy of my sexual thrill ignited into pure focused wrath. Blood spurted and sprayed across my face in hot dabs. He gulped and he gulped and stepped back from me, eyes bulging out and hands loosening their grip on me. I pulled the scissors out and the blood ran down his neck, down into the blackness of his coat. My hand was covered in it. The scissors were covered too. I stepped back and allowed him to stagger, falling to the footpath. I wanted to mount him. I wanted to straddle him as he lay dying, put his dying hands on my breasts and have him hold me there but I knew I couldn’t go near him now. There couldn’t be anything on him that would lead back to me.
