Sweetpea

by C. J. Skuse

  ‘Kids are just easier, aren’t they, Derek? Takes no effort at all. Lazy, just lazy.’

  ‘Get out of my house!’

  ‘It’s not your house, the council pays for it. There’s better people than you on waiting lists as well. People with children. That turn you on, does it?’ I squeezed again and heard a snap.

  ‘Ahhh, you evil cow!’ he roared, and made to get up, grabbing again for his stick, but I beat him to it. I threw it across the room and grabbed the memory foam pillow from behind his head.

  ‘Sit down, you bastard, or I’ll snap your other one. I’ve been waiting for you.’

  I straddled his lap and clamped the pillow down onto his face. The force sent his armchair backwards with a loud thump. Then I had full purchase. I could press down as hard as my body weight could manage. And he slapped at me and punched me hard and for an old-timer with crap lungs, he did connect a few times. But I was just too strong. When the fight was almost out of him, I removed the pillow and watched him struggle for air but no way able to get up with me on top of him. I put the pillow back and pressed down hard again, and he kept hitting me and his legs were shaking underneath me.

  And I let it go, again.

  And put it back, again.

  And off.

  And back. Harder.

  And the more he struggled, the more it turned me on. And the more the memory of that last day at the hospital with Dad was washed away.

  I allowed it to fill me up, the thrill of it. The power of what I was doing – taking life.

  Promise me when it gets worse, you’ll be there. You’ll do it for me.

  You’re the only one I can trust, Rhiannon.

  I did it because he asked me to. I took Dad’s pain away. But the memory of that day was expunged with this one act – it was Derek Scudd’s face I would see beneath that pillow in my dreams now, not Dad.

  After five minutes of pushing and pressing and struggling and teasing, lying on top of him, straddling him in a hideous, sweaty embrace, the struggling stopped altogether. I removed his murderous muffler. His mouth and eyes were still open – bloodshot. Tears on his cheeks. Blood on the pillow – he had bitten right through his tongue. His arms and legs slack like a marionette’s. I righted the chair, put the pillow back behind his head, so he looked like he was sleeping.

  I placed the cigarette in his lap, waiting until the first crease in his jumper had caught ablaze. It was only when I was halfway back to my car that I realised the gusset of my underpants was soaked.

  I burnt the uniform in a bin at the back of Boots car park. The CCTV was always being vandalised there – I’d done the story on it last December when Linus couldn’t be bothered to cover it again – so I knew I was safe. And then I drove home singing at the top of my lungs through all the open windows. I don’t need dollar bills to have fun tonight – I got cheap thrills.

  Saturday, 27 April

  1.That Saturday-morning cookery programme – why do they never wash their hands after chopping meat?

  2.Conversational gazumpers – people who one-up you ALL THE TIME, e.g. Imelda. If I say anything remotely impressive, she’ll come back with ‘Jack’s taking us to Disneyland’ or ‘I’ve won ten grand on a scratch card’. The first time I saw the PICSOs after Mum’s death, she said, ‘There’s no pain like losing a child. You never get over that.’

  3.Any Kardashians who escaped the last cull

  A dreamless sleep last night, all good. But I woke up feeling incredibly down in the dumps. It was the same New Year’s Day-kind of feeling, where you know it’s Back to Work soon and all the trimmings have to start coming down. A Kirsty MacColl song came on the radio while Craig was out on the balcony with his joint texting Lana and I just started crying. I didn’t let him see me though, I took Tink out for a walk and cried it out behind my sunglasses.

  I couldn’t put a finger on it, why I was so damn miserable, so I googled it. It could be part of the ‘serial-killer cycle’. We can handle the inanities of our daily lives while we are killing but when the killing’s over, there comes a phase of depression. This phase can kick in at any time. For some serial killers, it’s instant. For some, they can go days and months on a high. Apparently, the inanities of my life – my dull friends, my insignificance at work, my errant boyf – are simply stop gaps in my ‘spree.’ We are living for the next one. I understand it better, but it doesn’t go any way to helping me overcome it.

  My dad once said something to me that I’ve never forgotten. We were talking about John Lennon – I think a song of his came on the radio when we were in his van. He said, ‘There are three ways to make your mark on the world. Do something ordinary, do something extraordinary or kill something extraordinary. You can be an average John, a John Lennon or the man who kills John Lennon.’

  As time went on, a fourth option seemed the most interesting to me – I want to be the woman who kills John Lennon.

  I want to kill extraordinarily.

  Priory Gardens had taken away my chance of being ordinary and extraordinary always seemed so out of reach. I was destined to be a Mark David Chapman, a John Wilkes Booth, a Lee Harvey Oswald. Isn’t it funny how they’re all guys? All the major serial killers are guys too. And, yeah, there’s loads of reasons why guys do it more, but why aren’t there more Aileens? I wonder. Maybe there are and they’re just hiding it like I am. We’re supposed to be all equal now, but we’ll never be equal while those statistics remain. I’m just evening things out a bit.

  Had a text from Seren mid-afternoon:

  I can’t see Mum and Dad’s house on the Charles Burridge website. What’s happening please? – Seren

  I had to let it go. I had to put the past where it belonged. So, after Craig went to work, I drove over to the house to do one last clean down with my trusty Cillit Bang and boxed up the last of Dad’s stuff I wanted to keep. I told Henry it was going back on the market. He seemed disappointed. Of course, now he has to move his car, his runner beans and the rope ladder over his fence that reminded him of ‘the grandchildren he never had’. I gave him a baggy of pot to halt the inevitable tears.

  Tink came with me to the house. I wanted her to have a proper run in the garden and the woods at the back, one last time. She peed on the exact spot where me and Dad had buried Pete’s body. I wish she had more space to run about at home.

  Then we drove into town and walked into the offices of Redman & Finch – a new agency on the corner of the High Street (I didn’t like the way the lady looked at me on the reception desk at Charles Burridge – it was the way Claudia looked at me). Redman–Finch were brand-new to the area, a married couple called Dean and Jamie. Their colour scheme was a relaxing mixture of jade and chrome and they offered me Lady Grey and Jammie Dodgers and they had a little long-haired chihuahua under a desk, whom they called Mary-Kate and to whom Tink took a shine straight away.

  So I Facebooked my darling sister this afternoon with some good news:

  Valuation underway with Redman & Finch. Should be on their website tomorrow. That’s my tomorrow, not yours.

  Her message back was immediate: What happened to Charles Burridge?

  I typed back: He ‘accidentally’ stroked my boob while shaking hands. I didn’t feel comfortable going to the house on my own with him.

  She said: Ugh, what a creep. Fair enough. OK. Will check Redman & Who-Is-It? tomorrow then.

  ‘Will check’ meaning ‘I still don’t trust you and I still hate you’.

  Craig was out ‘at Eddie’s playing on his new pool table’ so I played with Tink and my doll’s house all evening while picking up some useful tips from Countdown to Murder.

  Bliss.

  Sunday, 28 April

  1.Craig – I ask him what he wants at the supermarket (salt-and-vinegar crisps, cheapo shower gel, Irn-Bru) and instead, he eats MY Kettle Chips, uses MY organic lime body wash and drinks MY elderflower pressé. Just when I think I hate him as much as I could, I find a staircase to new heights

  2.Men who wea
r man buns but are not attractive – surely it’s an insult to the glory of man buns. Should be a hate crime

  3.Jim and Elaine Wilkins – for conceiving Craig in the first place

  The car boot sale we were going to do over at the County Ground was called off, owing to a group of travellers who’d pitched up on the site, which meant we could go down to Jim and Elaine’s for Sunday lunch after all.

  Oh. Yay.

  So I had to play Lovely Girlfriend yet again while we walked down the Esplanade to this little cafe called The Porthole to have hot chocolate and toasted teacakes and listen to Elaine harp on about the minutiae of every single special offer at Lidl, followed by a detailed description of the next-door-but-one-neighbour’s-daughter’s wedding and subsequent honeymoon in Fuengirola. I could have drowned myself in my hot chocolate. Afterwards, we took Tink for a run on the beach, had lunch, then Jim showed me round their boring new conservatory while Elaine and Craig washed up with Lidl washing-up liquid – 39p a bottle.

  Then the cringe clouds descended.

  ‘Craig informs us you’re trying for a baby?’

  ‘Oh. Yeah. Didn’t realise we were telling people. Yes, we are.’

  ‘How long has that been then?’

  ‘Only a few weeks.’

  ‘We were trying for seventeen months before we fell pregnant with Craig. And another five years before Kirsty. You want to get yourselves tested if you don’t crack the case soon, love.’

  ‘Yeah, we will.’

  ‘I’ve got a low count, you see. Weren’t Elaine’s doing.’

  ‘Oh, right. Maybe it’s hereditary then.’

  ‘No, it’s not hereditary,’ he said. ‘Does Craig use any of that marijuana stuff?’

  ‘Umm . . no,’ I lied. ‘He vapes now and again.’

  ‘Yeah but does he vape the marijuana stuff is what I’m asking.’

  ‘No. He doesn’t.’

  ‘Good, cos that’s another thing that kills off sperms. And stress. You’ve got to try not to get yourselves stressed. And buy our Craig some loose underpants, so his sac can get a bit of a draught going.’

  If squirming were an Olympic event, I’d be crying as my flag went up the pole right about… now.

  ‘Craig normally buys his own underpants, Jim.’ Cue shy giggle and extended cringe.

  ‘Well, you tell him from me that should be number one on the shopping list. Looser pants. Elaine gets mine from Marks. And it’s never too soon for you to start taking folic acid either.’

  ‘Loose pants, folic acid, no stress,’ I repeated. I had felt a bit sick all that morning in fact but I didn’t dare tell him that. He’d have made me march down to the village pharmacy tout de suite, and piss on the stick on the walk back.

  I hated who I was in their company. This simpering, opinionless, overly feminine meat sack of giggles who feigned interest in anything from antiques to golf, just to keep The Act intact.

  ‘And plenty of sex of course, hahaha,’ he guffawed. ‘Every day. Twice a day if you can manage it.’

  ‘Golly,’ I laughed, praying for the clouds above us to piss down with rain so we could go inside and be around other humans.

  All afternoon he was flitting around me with tips, telling me to put a cushion under my hips during sex, how yoga helped his niece, how he and Elaine did it five times a night in Malta and still couldn’t ‘hit the bullseye’. Believe it or not, this is not the most awkward I’ve ever been around Jim and Elaine. I had food poisoning at their house one Christmas – I was up all night in their bathroom, Jackson Pollock-ing the ceramic and letting off excruciatingly loud farts. At one point Jim came in and asked me if I wanted a cup of tea. My mouth tried to answer but my arsehole beat him to it.

  I’ll spare you any further details of my impregnation interrogation. Suffice to say that during one sitting of Countryfile, I’d been lectured to about my weight, height, stress levels, sexual prowess, workload, the height of my bed and the frequency with which I pluck my chin (a sure sign of polycystic ovaries).

  On the way home, I said to Craig, ‘If you don’t kill your parents, I will.’

  He just laughed. Idiot.

  Monday, 29 April

  1.People who tell you in minute detail about their dreams

  2.People who tag you in photos on your own Facebook Wall on nights out when you thought you were looking actually pretty attractive, only to find you actually look like you a walrus having a stroke

  3.People who email you with ‘Hope you’re OK’ before launching into the favour they want, meaning they don’t actually care if you’re OK or not

  4.The Blue Van Men

  5.Wesley Parsons

  6.Derek Scudd

  All the reporters were clucking about Scudd first thing – he’s top of the agenda. Normally, the kind of inane chit-chat you hear buzzing around an office first thing on a Monday morning is enough to make Marie Antoinette want to erect her own guillotine. Usually it’s all Did you have a nice weekend? and the responses are always Yeah, it was good thanks. How about you? Nobody ever says anything different. Nobody ever tells the truth. I want to shout it from my desktop…

  HOW CAN YOU HAVE HAD A GOOD WEEKEND? YOU TRIED TO KILL YOURSELF! YOUR WIFE HATES YOU! YOUR HUSBAND’S LEFT YOU! YOU HAVE CHRONIC SCIATICA! YOUR KIDS ALL HAVE ASPERGER’S! YOUR TEST RESULTS CAME BACK POSITIVE! AND YOU’RE IN DEBT UP TO YOUR EYEBALLS!

  But today, Scudd is the man of the moment. The Blue Van Men are yesterday’s news for now. No one’s mentioned a serial killer for Scudd’s death – as far as all the facts are pointing, it’s just a house fire – but he’s a local celeb so everyone wants a piece of him. Of course I’m not allowed in on the impromptu editorial meeting when it’s called – Daisy told me all about it outside the conference room though.

  ‘A neighbour called the fire brigade out Saturday night. Whole building went up. They found him in his chair. He was a heavy smoker so the first indications are that it was a cigarette. Apparently there was a round of applause when they announced it in the pub on the corner last night. No one round here will grieve for Derek Scudd, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Do you think he’s a victim of The Reaper?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Doesn’t look like it. It’s odd though, isn’t it? Another sex offender in the parish and another death.’ I could practically see the cogs whirring in her mind. ‘Might look into that though, good call, Rhee.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Good to know that the cigarette is getting most of the blame. I’m not in the clear yet though. There’s not been any mention of the secondary fire at the back of Boots. Or Scudd’s missing lighter, which I stuffed inside one of Tink’s poo bags early this morning. You’re only out of the woods when there are no more trees.

  AJ dropped a small white bag on my desk at lunchtime – inside was a packet of Hot Toothpicks from the joke shop. He replaced some of Linus’s Interdens with them when all the reporters were in their meeting upstairs. I feigned a smile as best I could but, to be honest, the whole thing’s getting a bit tired and I’m doing what I can to reduce my conversation time with him. I’m blaming Claudia’s watchful eye but, really, I just can’t summon up the enthusiasm for an affair – I’ve got enough on my plate right now.

  In other news – my breasts are still sore all over and I am officially worried again about a mini Craig growing in my Judas of a womb.

  And Jeff Thresher retired today. AJ did the petty cash raid last week to buy him a card and mug and some engraved thing which I didn’t take much notice of. I didn’t even stay for the presentation after work. Why should I? They’ve replaced his desk with a brand-spanking new one already. Ergonomic, new swivel chair, no coffee stains. Like he was never there at all.

  Oh, yeah, and it’s my birthday. They all forgot at work what with all the ‘Goodbye, Jeff’ hullabaloo and I didn’t remind them. I didn’t fancy all the smiling that would have to accompany the hastily bought bouquet of flowers and scrappily written card, nor did I want to
waste money buying doughnuts for nearly twenty people, at least two of whom actually despise me. Craig got me a Waterstones voucher, a no!no! hair remover and a bottle of perfume that brings me out in a rash. I bought myself some flowers – a huge bunch of yellow roses that smelled exactly like the ones my granddad used to grow at Honey Cottage. Every time I inhale them, I get a hit of happiness that I don’t want to let go.

  There was a card in our mailbox from Mrs Whittaker. So she remembers my birthday but she doesn’t remember me calling her an old cunt and threatening to gut her like a pig? She must have levelled up on the Alzheimer’s. She’s not having her key back, that’s for damn sure.

  Didn’t get anything from Seren. Never do.

  We got a pizza and watched Ferris Bueller’s Day Off – my choice. Craig’s parents sent me a Sylvanian Families caravan with hedgehog family figures. Craig must have mentioned it to them. I actually like them about 20 per cent more than I did, despite the personal questions and casual racism. There’s a little horse that pulls the caravan too. I’ve called him Albert.

  Wednesday, 1 May

  There are bluebells everywhere and the weather has got a lot warmer, which means the majority of my colleagues have taken to wearing loose-fitting clothes and flip-flops. I have four MASSIVE problems with flip-flops:

  1.We’re not in Lloret De Mar – we’re in a small town newspaper office in the West Country and most of the time the bosses won’t let us have the heating on so we’re freezing to death;

  2.Laziness – wearing flip-flops makes a person lazy. Don’t ask me how the science works, it just does. Wearing a flat, floppy shoe makes you bone idle;

  3.The noise – slap slap slap goes my hand against the faces of all those who wear flip-flops;

  4.The view – I don’t like feet. Any feet. When a person digs out their flip-flops, what they’re also digging out is a pair of human trotters which haven’t seen the light of day for a year so I have to look down upon fusty, yellowing, scabby, misshapen hooves which they have seen fit to display to the world.