Sweetpea

by C. J. Skuse

  ‘Poor lass,’ said Bill.

  ‘Can’t imagine what she went through,’ said Carol.

  ‘I hope to God she didn’t suffer,’ said Paul. ‘What a bastard.’

  I managed a tear and Jeff rubbed my shoulder. Later on, Claudia asked me to go down to the hospital with Johnny and report on a charity abseil. It was all pretty pour-petrol-overme-and-strike-the-match stuff but at least The Act was intact.

  Linus was in a bad mood when he got back from the police press conference – he’d been pulled over by a policeman for the bumper sticker and he was spoiling for a fight with anyone who ass-grazed his desk. Me and AJ risked a mini high-five when he came over to ask me if he could borrow my Pritt Stick.

  I wish this feeling of contentment would last. I wonder how long it lasts for other people, if anyone else feels like this all the time – happy and fulfilled. For me, it’s like when you eat a Chinese meal – you feel satisfied for about twenty minutes until you start thinking about the weight you’ve just put on and the leftover prawn crackers in the bag. It took me six years to get back to relative normal after Priory Gardens. I got my voice back. I got my legs walking and (eventually) running again. But Happiness is the one thing that didn’t really come back. Anger came back twice as hard so maybe it ate all the Happy there was.

  Went round to Mum and Dad’s after work to cut up the bloody tarp in the garage and wash everything down. Julia’s blood had dried to sticky patches. I climbed over Henry’s fence and fed it in sections into his chimenea. Once I removed the steel eyes from the wall in the back bedroom, steam cleaned the carpet, Polycelled and painted over the holes and folded up the rope into my bag, there was no visible evidence that Julia had ever been there. When I was done, I sat on a deckchair in Henry’s back garden, sipping a little crystal glass of his cream sherry and watching the tarp melt away in the flames. I got out my phone and looked at Craig and Lana’s sex selfie. I didn’t feel so bad about it today. It was as though Julia had cleansed that feeling for me.

  Tink sat beside me on the grass, head resting on her paws, just looking up at me; for all the world like she was saying, ‘You’re so weird.’

  Thursday, 14 March

  1.Wheelchair woman who I held the door open for in Waterstones and who didn’t thank me. RUDE MUCH?

  2.Old couple who called Tink a ‘little rat’ when she barked at them outside Lidl. In Tink’s defence, they appeared from nowhere so they were in the wrong. Ninja grandparents + recently traumatised chihuahua = carnage

  3.The man who invented Henry vacuum cleaners – the hose is too short, the bag’s always full and they’re heavier than a 10-tonne truck. Thank God we only have carpet in the bedrooms

  Another novel rejection came today, this time from Salinger, Martyrs and Wady. I’d followed a couple of their agents on Twitter as it seemed like my style of writing would suit them. Not so. ‘You have a unique style, but sadly it’s not quite in keeping with our list. May I take this opportunity to wish you the best of blah blah…’ I don’t think I even care any more.

  I’m not Liking any more of their stupid cat memes, that’s for damn sure.

  Work was a turd on a turtle’s back and went twice as slow. Our resident anal twitch Linus Sixgill was preparing his copy on his follow-up piece, ‘The Riot Lovers: Unmasked’, Claudia was in a non-descript huff for most of the morning and had her prickles out for anyone who dared cast a shadow across her tits (i.e. Me) and I did the usual boring-assed stuff I always do. AJ’s back to flirting with me properly and making me peanut butter and banana toasties and completely ignoring Lana so there’s a silver lining.

  The Van Rapists are still on the loose. I’m going to look for them. Not yet, but soon. I’m going to take the cleaver. Been itching to try it out. I wonder if it’s brought down hard enough on a limb whether it will sever completely or just in half. Depends how much force is applied, I suppose. There are some things I remember from school science class.

  Also, Dan Wells’s mother, in conjunction with the police, has put up a £20,000 reward for information into the circumstances of his death (i.e. who cut his cock off). No one has come forward thus far but this is a trifle worrying. Not a full cause for concern yet but it has definitely put me back in the woods.

  AJ wanted to go to The Basement for lunch, which is a student hang-out with a sticky floor, tub-thumping house music and where they serve smoothies, tuna melts and syphillis. I suggested The Roast House – an independent coffee shop in Periwinkle Lane, more befitting to my sensitive tastes. They play soft jazz, have comfy seat cushions and, if you can handle the constant gnashing of dentures on stale fruit cake, it’s a nice place to just sit and watch the world. They don’t have fancy barista machines so there isn’t the incessant clanking or pissing steam that you get in the chains. It was a nice day so we sat and had a coffee then grabbed some sausage and caramelised onion ‘sangers’, and took them over to the churchyard. I told him about the tramp who lived under the tree. His foot was sticking out between the low-lying branches and we attempted to hoop-la some onion rings on his big toe.

  ‘So how are you liking it round here?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yeah, it’s good. Colder than Straya but nah, everyone’s been beaut. Auntie Claudia said Ron’s quite impressed with my work so far.’

  ‘You and the mayor made friends then, have you?’ I winked.

  He laughed embarrassedly. ‘Yeah, she was cool. I blew it out of proportion, I always do. She was telling me about her son travelling all round the States. I’d love to go there.’

  ‘So are you still leaving in June then?’

  ‘Yeah. I haven’t seen anything of the UK yet so I just want to get some money under my belt then hit the road.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘Round the UK for a bit. Then Europe. I wanna see Russia too, and meet up with some mates in India, then back to Oz. I wanna go everywhere. Did you go travelling?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Never wanted to. Is Claudia OK with you going?’

  ‘Yeah. She said she’s never done anything like that so she wants me to go. She’s been great about putting me up but she’ll probably be glad to have her house back.’

  ‘I’ve got no desire to travel at all,’ I said. ‘Me and Craig went to Cyprus a few years ago. Couldn’t stand it. Too hot. Guess I’m a home bird.’

  ‘But wouldn’t you like to see more places before you die? India? Malaysia? Maybe Australia?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I just want some stability in my life. I want a house with four front windows and two hanging baskets and a garden where I can grow things. A bigger lawn for Tink. And a better job. And a book deal. It’s not too much to ask, is it?’

  A silence fell as we ate our sandwiches. I sensed he wanted to ask me something.

  ‘Do you want to go for a drink after work? The pub over the road looks…’

  ‘Like a shithole?’ I suggested.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘How about the one in the High Street?’

  ‘Weatherspoon’s?’ I laughed. ‘Yeah, if you like having your head kicked in and your food spat in.’

  ‘Ah forget it,’ he said, with a blush. ‘It was just a thought.’

  ‘I have a boyfriend, AJ.’

  ‘Oh, God, no, I didn’t mean on a date-like-thing, I just meant as a mate. A colleague. We can just talk and stuff.’

  ‘I’m a bit busy tonight after work. I have… Body Pump.’

  ‘Cool, cool. No worries at all.’

  It was awkward between us all afternoon after that. He only came over to my desk once, didn’t smile and he forgot my Canderel in my coffee. What have I done?! I’ve said actual no to that face, that ass, those hands on my breasts. How strong am I?

  You have no idea.

  I Facebook-searched Wesley Parsons to pass the time between WI write-ups and darts scores. I haven’t done this for a while as there are so many Wesley Parsons on Facebook it’s just not funny. I know his family lived in Bristol when we did but Parsons himself c
ould have gone anywhere when he came out of prison. Half of the avatars are non-specific sports cars, symbols or pictures of babies, few of an actual face, so I’ve reached a bit of a dead end there. I live in hope that one day he’ll make himself obvious.

  So too with Derek Scudd. It turns out that Mary Tolmarsh, the mother of one of the abused girls, is the one who lives in Windwhistle Court not him. I’d totally misread the situation, having stalked the fucking place for weeks. I saw her going into her house today when I swung by. I put a note through her letterbox.

  Craig greeted me with a bunch of beautiful guilt freesias when I got home. He’s out tonight – I can’t remember what the excuse was, either ‘a burst pipe’ somewhere or ‘round Eddie’s playing “FIFA”’. Either way he was with her. I was in the chat rooms. I wasn’t really in the mood. I was there trying to eat my jacket potato in front of MasterChef and my alerts kept bing-bonging away. My replies were all very half-hearted.

  Mmm mmm, baby, don’t stop, you’re getting me so hot.

  Mmmm, I’m loving it. You’re such a big boy.

  I love watching you strike your big fat clock.

  Etcetera etcetera. I was too focused on the semi-finals and whether or not the roast venison with parsnip and vanilla purée was going to impress the food critics. I wanted Josephine to win. She had a dog that looked like Tink.

  Friday, 15 March

  1.People who walk in groups along the pavement so no one else can get past, like they’re fucking in Reservoir Dogs

  2.Middle-class people who believe it’s their God-given right to bring their babies into restaurants and allow them to squawk all through a meal

  3.Interrupters – have you any idea how hard it is to get a thought train moving again when you’re psychologically disturbed, LUCILLE?

  4.Millionaire celebrities asking the general public for money – I know there’s no water in Africa, Ewan McGregor, and I know little Malaika needs an eye operation or she’ll go blind, Simon Pegg, and that Lucas drinks dirty water all day long while looking after his twenty-six siblings, Michael Sheen, so why don’t you dip your hand in your pocket if you’re so concerned?

  5.‘Dillon’ on the checkout in Lidl – I know that look, boy. Don’t think we’re friends now just because you know what brand of tampon goes up my hoop

  My tits are sore, I woke up feeling more tired than I was when I went to bed and I have a HUUUUGE craving for sour-apple MAOAMs. Going to run out in a minute before work and see if they have any over Lidl on my lunch break.

  *

  Am back from Lidl. They didn’t have any sour-apple MAOAMS. Also, I feel a bit sick sick. I’m praying it’s not pregnancy-related. No, it can’t be. My pill’s never let me down before.

  But what if it is? I can just hear the PICSOs now, delighted I’m finally officially one of the Mummy Club…

  ‘Oh, congratulations, babe! You’ll be showing on my wedding day!’

  ‘Your whole life will change. Most important job a woman can do.’

  ‘You’ll be such an amazing mummy, Rhiannon!’

  These are all things I’d heard them say to each other at various stages of pregnancy. And I won’t be an ‘amazing mummy’ at all. Look at the state of me. I’m selfish, unspeakably angry with every aspect of the world and I’ve killed a man for wanting a blow job. Throw a baby into the mix and you’ve got yourself a nightmare of Daily Mail proportions.

  It’ll be hanging off my tits for months. I won’t get a wink of sleep. What if my nightmares return? Craig’ll be no help. I’ll have to take it to that horrible nursery in town, the one where the mournful howls and shrieks follow you all the way up the street. Ugh, no, I can’t bear it.

  And there’s no way it’s playing with my Sylvanians doll’s house. Nobody plays with my doll’s house but me.

  *

  I’ve calmed down now. Bought a preggo test at lunch and it was only one line that equalled negative. Thank fuck for that. God bless you, little pill. God bless you, Marie Stopes, whoever the hell you are.

  *

  I’m at work and I’m bored. Just googled Honey Cottage, my nanny and granddad’s old place in Wales. I haven’t done that for ages, maybe a year but, amazingly, it’s still up for sale and the asking price has come down again by almost £7,000. The inside hasn’t changed a bit – still the same large wooden beams and eaves, still the peeling pink wallpaper in the master bedroom, still the damp patch on the kitchen ceiling – and the gardens are just as I remember. The vegetable patches. The chicken coop. The greenhouse. The river with the mountains in the background. Everything was so simple then. So quiet. There wasn’t such a cacophony of thoughts in my head all hours of the day.

  In a fit of curiosity, I dialled the agent’s number. I hung up just as someone answered.

  AJ had plonked a copy of this week’s edition before me on top of my keyboard – this week’s cover star was Julia Kidner.

  LOCAL WOMAN’S BODY FOUND IN QUARRY – POLICE SAY IT’S MURDER

  THE BODY of 28-year-old Julia Kidner was discovered on Monday morning by staff at Chipchase Quarry in the hills.

  A source has said that Ms Kidner left her marital home just before Christmas last year with no explanation. Ms Kidner’s partner, Lloyd Fletcher, 36, is being questioned by police who believe he may have had some communication with her since then.

  Ms Kidner’s three children, Scott, 12, Ciara, 9 and Tyler, 5 are currently in the care of Social Services.

  Sniffer dogs and officers combed forests and roadsides close to the quarry yesterday as well as the location where Ms Kidner’s body was found, nearly 40 miles from her home address. Investigations are ongoing.

  Met Lucille for a coffee at the Apple Blossom Café – she had some ideas about Imelda’s scrapbook that she wanted to share with me ‘because I have an Art A level and I know how to make it all neat and stuff’. She’s still on the 5:2 but, handily, today was a 2 day so she stuffed her face with a triple chocolate brownie and a mocha with whipped cream. I had a hot water with lemon and a chia seed protein bomb, just to claim the high ground.

  AJ brought me back a Creme Egg from lunch. ‘Just for the hell of it.’ His smile twinkled. He’s still on crutches so he’d carried it in his pocket all the way back from town. It was still slightly warm from being next to his groin.

  Craig treated me to a guilt-fuelled steak at Cote de Sirène tonight, the place I went with the PICSOs at New Year. I put the knife I’d severed Dan Wells’ choad with back where it came from.

  Don’t look so shocked, I washed it first.

  Sunday, 17 March

  Me and Craig and Tink had a run out to the country to a little farm shop where I bought some herbs for the balcony – basil, mint, sage, rosemary, oregano, lemon thyme and parsley. I potted them this afternoon and they smell DIVINE. I also bought a little strawberry plant because it reminded me of the strawberries Granddad used to grow in his greenhouse. I do enjoy that feeling – dry soil beneath your toes. I spread some out over the balcony and just walked through it. Tink didn’t know what to make of it and stood inside the flat giving me bug-eyes. There was dirt all over the flat. Craig thinks I’m crazy too. I think he’s a twat.

  Our afternoon delights lasted all of six minutes twenty-eight seconds. Then I made some lemon drizzle cake while he crashed out on the sofa in front of Countryfile. His phone went earlier; now he’s ‘popped out to grab his tool belt from the van’. I watched him through the stairwell window. Lana was waiting in the shadows.

  Tuesday, 19 March

  1.People at the Gazette who think it’s all right to bring smelly food back to their desks and eat it of a lunchtime. Today’s example: Inept Plunket and her Brie-and-apricot sandwich and close-quarters conversationing

  2.Shop assistants who chat to their colleagues on the next till about their hip operation when they’re meant to be serving you

  3.That Scottish comedian who shouts

  4.That old chef who is always bemoaning the state of the British farming indust
ry – yeah, we get it, you’re really fucked over on milk prices. Move on.

  5.Man in the silver Honda (formerly blue Qashqai) – waved at me this morning as I crossed the road with Tink. Must have upped his meds. Still don’t trust him

  Daisy Chan is still trying to have normal conversations with me. I don’t mind her as much as I do Inept or Joyless Joy – at least I can get some editorial gossip out of her – but I can’t look at her for very long – she’s so excruciatingly thin. We’re talking clothes prop. Ladder rung. And I don’t know for sure where she gets her clothes from but I’m certain I’ve seen the frilly top she wears in Marks and Spencer’s children’s section. Today, she minced over to talk about an interesting theory she had.

  ‘Rhiannon, could you look at something for me?’

  ‘Yeah, one sec,’ I said, finishing typing up my report on last year’s Welly Wanging champion who has just become a father (yes, this counts as news around here, I shit you not). ‘What is it?’

  She sat down on the rickety vacant swivel chair next to mine, normally occupied by Jeff or AJ. ‘I’ve run this by the others at the editorial meeting this morning and got laughed out of the room.’

  ‘I’m never invited to the editorials.’ I shrugged.

  ‘You’re not missing much, believe me,’ she said with a roll of eye as she lay four torn-out sheets from past editions across my keyboard – the first was dated Friday, 10 October, nine years ago. A university student – Jonas Petchey from Vienna – had been stabbed to death in Wrayburn Park in the town. The second page was from Friday, 24 November, four years later – another student, Billy Ryall stabbed down by the canal. Both unsolved. The other two were front pages – Canal Man and Park Man.

  ‘Now,’ she said, shuffling closer so I could take in the full aromas her body had to offer – cheap nostril-burning perfume, coffee breath, some sort of chocolate and toothpaste, ‘do you see a pattern here?’