by C. J. Skuse
I frowned. ‘Where has this come from, Claudia?’
She held her tongue between her teeth, as though afraid to say it. But then she did. ‘I don’t normally go rooting through bins but I found a pregnancy test in the ladies’ bathroom the other day, just after you’d been in there. I need to know if it was yours. And if you and him are…’
‘Yes, it was mine,’ I said. ‘My boyfriend and I are trying for a baby but I’d rather nobody knew about that, thank you very much.’
She seemed to wilt, until the sun came out on her face again. ‘Of course, of course. Good.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sorry to confront you with this, I just feel very protective of AJ and I need him to focus on what he’s doing and prepare for the next six months rather than tie himself down to anything.’
‘Well, I won’t be knotting any ropes for him, Claudia, I promise. If he does have a thing for me, it’s a one-way street. Now could I get back to my work, please?’
She nodded and apologised again, showing me out of the room. God, that woman is SO hung up on not being able to get pregnant she’s OBSESSED with anyone who could be. It’s quite sad.
Lana was in the staffroom, taking a long time folding tea towels when I went up on the afternoon coffee run. I was poised for some weak conversation starter about the weather. Instead, nothing. Not even a smile. Maybe Craig had dumped her for me. Maybe she was plotting to strangle me with a tea towel or pour the scalding coffees over me. It took me a while to notice but she was actually just crying silently. I stood in front of her. I put my hand on her forearm. I gave her forearm a rub.
‘Want to talk about it?’ I offered.
She shook her head.
‘Need a hug?’ I said.
She didn’t shake her head, so I enveloped her, like a spider gathering the fly in with its long black legs. ‘It’s all right. Whatever it is. It’ll be all right.’
She sobbed against me. I stroked her hair. She smelled of many things – Aussie Miracle Moist shampoo. Cigarettes. The ever-so-distant tang of Valentino Intense aftershave.
‘Don’t be nice to me, Rhee. I don’t deserve it.’
I rubbed her back like they do in the soaps. ‘Ssh, it’s all right, it’s all right.’ Rub rub rub.
We had quite a nice chat. She wouldn’t tell me anything about her and Craig of course but I learned some useful things. I’m going to bring her in some Rice Krispie cakes. They’re her favourites.
Oh, and I found out why Mike Heath’s been off work – tried to kill himself. Painkillers. We’re to pretend he’s ‘been on holiday’ and not to question him when he comes back. I want to know though. I want to know how close he got. If he saw the bright light, if Jesus took him by the hand or whatever.
I wonder if JoBerg’s at the hotel now. He’s going to HATE me. I want him to.
Saturday, 6 April
1.People who measure things using stupid measurements – e.g. man in a Weetabix factory on TV this morning. ‘If I stretched all the Weetabix made in this factory in one day end to end, they would stretch from here to Aberdeen and back again.’ SO?????
2.JoBerg
3.Wesley Parsons
4.Derek ‘Where Are You, You Bastard?’ Scudd
5.The Scout who packed my shopping today in Lidl, who puts eggs at the bottom of the bag and two bottles of bleach on top a tray of meringues?
The police have issued an appeal for the Blue Van Men again – this time with some information. Part of their number plate – BTY – and a fuller description. One of the men is gaunt-faced, was wearing a grey hoody and blue tracksuit bottoms and has a star tattoo on his right wrist. The other is black, aged between thirty and forty and answers to the name Ken or Kev. Excellent – *cue Mr Burns hands*
Googled Honey Cottage again today. Thoughts have started to collect and I can’t shake them off. What if I could buy it from my share of Mum and Dad’s place? I wouldn’t have enough, of course, but maybe I could get a mortgage. Be a bit daunting on my own but I’m used to daunting. I hold a knife to daunting’s throat. I bleed daunting out.
Cleo has posted in the Facebook group, Imelda’s Hen Weekend – The Toppan’s Masseeeeeve!!!, that she has started a hashtag on Twitter: #LetsGetGaryBarlowToMel’sWedding. She is trying to get us all to ‘retweet the shit out of it and get all your friends to as well’.
Uh… no.
I ventured a look inside the chat room to see if JoBerg had sent me any messages last night. And, yes, there were lots:
Friday, 20.30: Hey Sweetpea where are you???
Friday, 20.34: I’m at the bar, in case you can’t find me, babe.
Friday, 20.46: I’m giving it another ten and I’m off.
Friday, 21.02: Knew you’d wimp out on me, you fucker
Friday, 21.04: You there? Answer me. Please.
Friday, 21.15: You’re a fucking pricktease. Why say you’re gonna show up if you ain’t?
Friday, 21.37: At least have the decency to answer my messages.
Friday, 21.39: So that’s it is it? All the hours we’ve spoke the last few months and you’re just gonna disappear? I’ll tell everyone in the chat room not to talk to you. See how you like being the fucking fool.
Friday, 21.55: You know what? I’m glad I didn’t fuck you. I bet you do this ALL THE TIME. And I bet you’re fat. Your ass is disgusting.
Friday, 21.57: I didn’t wank over your dick pix, I lied. Ha aha ha.
Friday, 22:07: I’m gonna pick up a whore and think about you when I’m ducking her. I’m gonna hurt her. I ducking hate you.
Saturday, 08.38: Babe, just answer please, just tell me to fuck off or something? Please?
Saturday, 08.40: I’m so done with you. So fucking done.
Saturday, 8.59: Can you delete my pix please and delete my number from your phone.
Suffice to say, I don’t think JoBerg and me gonna be skipping through any meadows together any time soon.
I messaged Biggus Dickus and MrSizzler48, to see if they were still talking to me or if JoBerg had nobbled them.
Both responded almost instantly with pictures of their erect penii.
Blossom on the trees, you know how I feel.
Monday, 8 April
1.Derek ‘Man of Mystery’ Scudd
2.Wesley Parsons
3.Coupon collectors – cos they’re not annoying at all at checkouts
4.Chuggers – you’re not going to go away are you, little Amnesty International man who waits for me outside Boots. One more ‘Good morning, madam’ and I’m going to slice your head clean off with that clipboard
5.Anyone on Geordie Shore, TOWIE or Made in Chelsea. STOP ELEVATING ILLITERATES!
Mike Heath is back, one race whiter and twice as silent. I asked AJ if he wanted to make a bet as to how long it would be till his next suicide attempt but he frowned at me and said, ‘That’s pretty sick, dude. We’re all fighting our own little wars.’ He’s such a good person, I often wonder if I sliced him across his abdomen whether lemon curd would ooze out.
We walked into town at lunchtime on a mission to get something else to wind Linus up with from the joke shop but all we could find were fake winning scratch cards. Not too original, but we bought one anyway as Linus has been known to do the Lottery, though he never talked about it – he likes people to believe he’s loaded, but he’s not – I’ve opened his credit card statements.
There was no sign of Our Mutual Fiend, Derek Scudd, at the library. I’ll keep the faith for now but I’ve passed by a few times with no luck. I may have to take a day off soon and just set up camp there like a fan girl.
‘So, Claudia’s warned me away from you,’ I said to him as he matched my stride. ‘Said I shouldn’t encourage you.’
‘What?’ he cried. ‘She had no right to… ugh, that bloody woman! I told her to stay out of it.’
‘She’s just protecting you. You’re living under her roof…’
‘. . . so I have to play by her rules, yeah, I get it. Two more months and I am out of there, man, I’m tellin
g you. What with this and the fucking adoption thing, she’s driving me psycho.’
‘What adoption thing?’
‘Oh, she’s trying to adopt this kid from China. She’s seen it on some website, I don’t know. I’m sick of hearing about it.’
‘Oh. I didn’t know.’
‘Don’t tell her I told you. She doesn’t want anyone to know. But, yeah, she’s tried everything else. Surrogacy thing fell through, then a woman in Russia let her down and shafted her for thousands on a phoney insemination. At home, she doesn’t talk about anything else, it’s chronic. Can’t wait to get out of there.’
‘Where will you go when you leave?’
‘Up country. I’ve got an extended visa for a few months so I’m going to go up and see some friends in Manchester, and Liverpool, then maybe Scotland. Maybe around some of the islands.’
‘Cool. So, in other news, I hear you fancy me,’ I said.
He didn’t answer, just sort of cleared his throat and pretended to be very interested in a sign about an interest-only mortgage in the building-society window.
‘I fancy you too, you know.’
He still wouldn’t look at me, scuffed his foot on the pavement and nodded.
‘But your auntie Claudia says we mustn’t do anything, so I guess we should abide by her rules, right?’
I smiled at him until he caught my eye. And then we both started laughing, uncontrollably, like two little kids.
Called the hospice about clearing out the furniture at Mum and Dad’s. They’re coming at the end of the month to clear away the last of my childhood, so that’ll be fun to oversee – the bed that me and Seren were conceived in, the wardrobes the skins of all our years hung in, the fridge with all our magnets and Good Work stickers on, all pushed into a van under scratchy dust sheets and bound for strange lands.
Lana liked her Rice Krispie cakes. She cried again.
‘You’re such a sweet person, Rhee.’
‘It’s only cakes, Lana. It took five minutes.’
‘No, really. It means a lot.’
‘Well, we’re friends aren’t we?’
‘Yeah, definitely.’
She made up some counterfeit story about her ex-boyfriend wanting custody of their cats and them having a furious argument about it. That was why she’d been crying. That was why she’d threatened to take sleeping pills. That was why she’s started seeing her therapist again. Dear oh dear oh dear. The woman was unstitching at the seams. It wouldn’t take much at all to tear her in two.
Wednesday, 10 April
1.Those parents you see on TV with 20+ kids – I don’t CARE if you buy 60 pints of milks a week, I don’t CARE if you fry 108 sausages for dinner. I don’t CARE that your back garden can’t cope with any more play equipment. Keep your fertile loins out of my cornflakes you selfish breeding bastards
2.Man in the paper who beat his Staffordshire bull terrier to death with a baseball bat – suspended sentence. Pah! I’ll suspend his sentence. Give me a rope and a nice strong bannister
3.Shops that don’t allow tiny dogs to be carried in even if they’re being good as gold and not peeing at all– aka, our town library
4.Derek Scudd
5.Wesley Parsons
Linus won the Fake Lottery this morning – he was briefly ecstatic, before Paul Spurdog pointed out he’d been diddled. And with that he went on a MAJOR rant about workplace bullying and weeding out the culprit. He’s started threatening lawyers and everything. AJ is panic-stricken – I had to hide behind the monkey puzzle in case my smile gave me away.
Later we were told to attend a hastily called meeting where Ron announced that Jeff Thresher has announced his decision to retire. Didn’t tell me privately or anything. I always thought we were mates. Fucker.
Mrs Whittaker couldn’t have Tink today – she had some old person bus trip to Scarborough to eat whelks – so I asked Claudia if I could leave early for a doctor’s appointment. I mentioned the word ‘cervix’ and she let me, no more questions asked. She knows what it’s like with womb issues – apparently, hers fell out during a game of badminton.
I don’t think I’ll be able to get a mortgage for Honey Cottage on my own, not without Craig’s money as well and his immaculate credit score. I’d also need a job waiting for me in Wales. I need that place. I think it needs me. We could be happy there, me and Tink. Just us, breathing in that clean air. The scent of the yellow roses. Tending to our vegetables, growing our herbs.
It’s a fucking pipe dream though, isn’t it? I’m not destined for Happy so I may as well piss that idea up the wall right now.
No sign of the Scudd Missile yet again outside the library. I got bored waiting so I ventured into the chat rooms. Mr Sizzler48 needed a quick talking-to but Biggus Dickus wasn’t around. Sizzler wants to meet up now in some sex dungeon in Soho. He says I’m the ‘sexiest guy he’s ever met in a chat room’ and wants to do me in a swing. These guys just crack me up.
I’m going out tonight, I’ve decided. I miss the feel of a knife in my coat pocket. I’m gonna find me some Blue Van Men and I’m not coming back until I’ve got their blood on me.
*
I’m on Old Road in one of the three lay-bys, the one nearest Copperton Lane. This was the scene of the first rape. I’m parked up and pretending to look at a map. It’s precisely 10.23 p.m. I’ve been here nearly half an hour but I’m not giving up yet. They will come tonight, I know they will. And it will be me they come for this time. I’ve never been more ready. For both of them.
I don’t think a single car has passed in ten minutes.
‘Blurred Lines’ has just come on the radio – shamefully, I know every word.
*
It’s 10.47. I’m now in the lay-by nearest the Old School Hall at the junction to Long Lane. Still no sign. The windows keep steaming up and it’s annoying me.
Maybe they won’t do another one this soon after the last. But they might, there’s still that agonising hope. Always the hope. I’m here. Look for me, look for me. Find me.
My knives are spread out on the front passenger seat. The blades are freezing. They just want to be touched.
*
11.07 p.m. – I’m at the third lay-by. No landmarks nearby. Craig’s texted me to ask where the new Radio Times is – I’ve told him I’m staying at Pidge’s tonight for her birthday sleepover. A pretty weak excuse but it’s the kind of birthday celebration Pidge would have so it’s not technically a lie. It’s just that her birthday’s in December. Cars have passed, no one’s stopped or pulled in for a moment. A few vans have passed too, but none of them blue. There are puddles in the road – that’s about the only interesting thing I can think to comment on. Starting to nod off. I’m going to give it another ten minutes then I’m going home. Well, to Mum and Dads’ ex-house anyway.
*
It’s twenty-five minutes after I wrote that. Still nothing. Think I just heard that owl again. Tried to google the hoot. Can’t get any signal out here. Another five then I’m definitely off. Maybe.
*
HOLY FUCKING SHIT, IT’S ALL KICKING OFF! UPDATE LATER.
*
Well THAT didn’t go according to plan. Jesus Christ! I’m back at Mum and Dads’ now and my hands have stopped shaking long enough to be able to record this but holy motherhumping HELL that was stressful. You go out of your way to help the poor and unfortunate and you get nothing but GRIEF!
The Blue Van Rapists are both dead, don’t worry about that; that at least was a piece of cake. But I’ve left SO many loose ends tonight and I’m SO annoyed with myself that an eventuality happened that I didn’t plan for – I got seen.
So I’m heading back along Old Road, thinking any minute now I’m going to give up and drive home when I spot it – Lay-by Number 1, the original spot on the bend near Copperton Lane. I very nearly drove straight past when I caught a flash of something from the corner of my eye – a lemon-yellow flash. A scarf. A woman’s scarf, around a woman’s neck, as she was being bu
ndled into the back of a van – a midnight blue Transit van. Licence plate: WD64 something something something…
BTY? Well, let’s see, I thought.
Then I realised – shit. This sting was meant for me. I never dreamed I’d catch them in the act with someone else. She’s stolen my thunder! So I pull in on the mud track of a field about 200 yards down from it, grab my stuff off the front seat and run back to the lay-by where the van is parked, still, no lights on, no sounds at all. Except it is the right van – BTY is indeed the second part of the plate.
And I know they’re in there.
And I know she’s in there.
I creep around outside the van and I have no idea what to do – I’m flying blind, which I hate doing, but I know this is my chance with them so I just have to swim with the fish I’m with. So I get my two biggest knives from my rucksack, pull up my face scarf and stand at the back of the van, waiting, preparing to knock.
Then ding!, a bright idea emerges in my head and I put the knives away. By this point I can hear them – banging about inside. Arguing with each other. I can’t hear her though – I wonder if she’s gagged.
Then the banging about stops and I hear one of them say he ‘heard something’.
And my heart is racing and I’m sweating and breathing heavy and all that fucking shit and it crosses my mind that I should just run back to my car or call the cops, but the thought is fleeting and I am AMPED so I have to go with it.
I grab Julia’s climbing rope out of my bag and I thread it through the door handle, wrapping it right around the outside of the van, encircling it twice like I’m dancing around a frigging maypole, tying it off at the back. It’s extra tight. They’re trapped inside, all three of them. The rapers and the rapee.
‘The fuck’s that?’ I hear one of them again, the other one, louder this time. The woman screams; a Julia scream. So they haven’t gagged her. It’s then I spot the open driver’s window and the keys in the ignition. I get in and turn the keys and pull out of the lay-by before the reasonable side of my brain can catch up with me and yell, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?
