More Careless Talk

by David Barry

  ‘It wasn’t that. It was my manager. Racist cow! We were doing my quarterly appraisals and she said I had bad communication skills, then said it was fairly typical of an ethnic minority person.’

  Alan frowned and shook his head. ‘She said that? If you’d stayed put and made a complaint...’

  Pran looked away guiltily and dropped his voice. ‘Well, she didn’t actually get as far as saying it. She stopped herself in time. Hypocritical bitch. But I knew what she was going to say.’

  Alan sighed deeply, picked up the remote control and switched off the television. ‘So now what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ll sort something out.’

  ‘Oh yes, having walked out of a job, they’re going to welcome you with open arms wherever you choose to work. And what about our trip this summer? Three weeks on the west coast of America. I suppose that’s out the window now.’

  Pran’s lip quivered and he dropped his head onto his chest. ‘Well I can’t afford it. You’ll have to go on your own.’

  Pran seemed to be revelling in his misery, which provoked Alan’s anger. ‘Thanks a bundle. I was looking forward to this holiday. It’s why I’ve been putting in extra hours at the hospital. And now...’

  Knowing it would inflame the situation, Pran stared confrontationally at his partner as he interrupted him. ‘You selfish bastard!’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You heard. That’s all you care about. “My holiday”. You’re pathetic.’

  Alan moved towards Pran, his fists clenched. His partner flinched and said, ‘Go on then: hit me, if it makes you feel better.’

  Alan stopped, controlling himself. ‘What? And give you more ammunition to play the self-pitying martyr. No way, mate.’

  He went to the door. Pran suddenly felt insecure, wanting to undo what he had just said. Wanting to apologise, tell Alan how much he loved him, and how sorry he was for any hurt he had caused him; but all he could think of saying was a feeble: ‘Where’re you going?’

  There was a sneering expression on Alan’s face as he stared back at him from the doorway. ‘It’s my turn to go to the pub and come home pissed. With a slight difference. I can afford it. Because I still have a job.’

  He turned and left. As the flat door slammed shut, Pran put his head in his hands and sobbed.

  ***

  After the performance, the cast assembled in the bar of the Victoria Hall. Josh, the stage manager, bushy-bearded in tatty denims, with an enormous bunch of keys dangling from his hip, cleared his throat loudly and made an announcement.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, and those of you who aren’t sure.’ - polite titters - ‘If I could just have your attention for one minute. As you all know, Jackie is getting spliced next week, and her betrothed has very kindly provided us with a case of champagne,’ - mutters of approval - ‘which I put in the fridge prior to the performance; so without any further ado, and with her fiancé’s permission,’ - ‘indulgent smile from Nigel - ‘I will get uncorking. And can I ask you all to wash up your own glasses afterwards?’

  After everyone had toasted the happy couple, the director, who seemed to have forgotten Nigel’s severe criticism of the rehearsal, asked him what he thought. Jackie looked up at her fiancé, nervously chewing her lip.

  ‘Best thing I’ve ever seen in a theatre,’ Nigel enthused loudly. ‘I thought it was wonderful. Terrific!’

  There was a slight hiatus, as everyone now thought he might be sending them up. Arnold, who hadn’t forgotten or forgiven Nigel’s comments took advantage of the silence to get his own back.

  ‘I thought you said this was champagne, Josh,’ he said to the stage manager, picking up a bottle and closely scrutinising the label. ‘This is sparkling white wine, my old son.’

  Twenty - Eight

  Craig cast his eyes around the wine bar, his lips moving silently as he counted. ‘Unlucky thirteen,’ he muttered.

  What are you on about?’ Maggie asked, struggling to uncork a bottle of house red.

  ‘Thirteen measly punters,’ Craig complained. ‘You’d think at least the free nosh would’ve attracted more than this.’

  ‘Customers,’ Maggie corrected him, ‘not punters. And we’ve talked about this. What did you expect for a Tuesday night?’

  ‘We should’ve opened at the weekend.’

  Maggie yanked the last bit of cork out and sighed impatiently. ‘If we’d opened at the weekend, we wouldn’t have given ourselves a chance. It would’ve been baptism by fire. At least this a nice and easy way to open.’

  Craig looked unconvinced.

  ‘We’ve got to give it time for word of mouth to get around,’ said Maggie. ‘You wait! By Saturday you won’t be able to move in here. Then you’ll be complaining you’re overworked.’

  Craig tilted his head back, letting his eyes wander thoughtfully across the ceiling. ‘All this bric-a-brac. Must be worth a few bob. I s’pose if the worst comes to the worst...’

  Maggie cut in. ‘Don’t be such a pessimist. In a few years’ time we’ll be selling the whole caboodle, good will of business - everything - for a small fortune.’

  ‘That’s if you haven’t drunk away the profits.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, I’ve noticed, you ain’t half knocking back the brandy lately.’

  ‘Stop nagging. This is our opening night. It’s a special occasion.’

  Craig had stopped listening, distracted by two new customers entering. ‘Good evening,’ he said brightly as they approached the bar.

  Maggie, who had turned away to pour some wine, hadn’t seen them enter. When she turned back and saw Mike standing at the bar with Claire, she almost fainted from shock.

  ***

  Rice glared at the cell door as it slammed shut. Bastard screw! Bastard had been goading him. Giving him details of the Tonbridge robbery. Just a stone’s throw from his flat. How often he’d passed that building near Kwik-Fit, never given it a second look. And inside it was all that money. Over fifty million quid in banknotes. He almost got a hard-on thinking about it. Fifty-three fucking million! A staggering sum. The sort of heist he’d only ever dreamed about. Money to fucking burn. Years ago, he remembered reading about the Great Train Robbery, one of the few books he’d read in detail. There were still some blokes - three in all - who’d never been caught. Got clean away. But when he thought about that farm, where they set fire to pound notes to light their fags - Jesus! That was one he’d have like to have been in on. And the way that screw just now had rubbed his nose in it, telling him there were geezers who’d get clean away with the Tonbridge robbery, and how he was up on a murder charge for doing a shitty little working men’s club.

  That’s when his whole useless fucking life passed before him. That bastard screw was right. All he’d ever done was dream about those sorts of jobs. He’d lived in Tonbridge most of his life, and had never come near to getting a sniff of the sort of geezers who’d include him on that sort of heist. Class crime like that. The sort of jobs he could only ever think of in his fantasy. The writing on the wall spelled out what a useless small-time fucker he was. Small crimes and small people. And now he was facing a murder charge. And for what? Nicking some booze from a club.

  He stared at the pencil and paper. They’d allowed him that much. Couldn’t do any harm. Or could it? He could damn himself totally. Make a pact with the devil. Go out in a blaze of hatred. Revenge for all the pettiness he’d had to suffer. Revenge! The most evil act of all. The final nail in the coffin.

  ***

  Recovering quickly, Maggie threw Mike an exaggerated look of recognition. ‘Hi, Mike. How’ve you been?’ Then she looked at Claire and smiled. ‘It’s a small world.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ Claire answered cryptically.

  ‘Your husband used to c
ut my Gary’s hair.’

  Claire nodded seriously. ‘Yes, he’s already told me.’

  Maggie looked confused and began wiping the bar with a tea towel.

  ‘When Claire told me it was called Maggie’s Wine bar,’ Mike said hastily, ‘I guessed it might be you. I remember you and Gary talking about it.’

  Maggie laughed nervously. ‘You’ve got a good memory.’

  ‘He remembers what he wants to remember,’ said Claire. ‘D’you mind if we sit down, Mike?’

  Claire turned away abruptly and made for a table in a far corner of the bar. Maggie called after her: ‘Everything’s on the house. Order what you like from the menu on the blackboard.’

  She stared into Mike’s eyes, wondering if she still found him appealing. He seemed to have put on weight, and wasn’t looking too good, but she wondered if there was a spark, something left of what attracted her to him in the first place. Now that Claire was no longer standing next to him, he grinned confidently, almost cockily, sending her an obvious signal that he wanted her. And the look in his eyes spoke volumes.

  She gave him a sexy, meaningful smile. ‘Would you like red or white wine?’

  ‘Well, Claire only drinks white wine.’

  ‘White wine it is then.’

  As Maggie watched him retreating to the corner of the bar to join his wife, Craig muttered under his breath, ‘His missus was a barrel of laughs. Miserable cow.’

  Maggie felt the effects of the last brandy had long since worn off, leaving her feeling jaded. As there was a bottle in the kitchen, she said to her brother, ‘I’m going to have a word with Martin. Will you get Mike and his wife their wine and take their order?’

  From the corner of his eye, Mike saw Maggie disappearing through the door behind the bar. As Claire was watching him carefully, he tilted his head back, looking up at the ceiling.

  ‘They must have gone round every antique and junk shop in Kent for this lot.’ Claire just stared at him, which he found unnerving, and added with false brightness, ‘Still, it’s quite effective.’

  Claire sniffed disdainfully. ‘It’s a bit over the top, if you ask me. But then again, that Maggie looked over the top. And all this junk attached to the ceiling, it’s been done before. That pub in High Brooms, where I went that time with Sally ... talk about unoriginal.’

  Suddenly, without warning, tears filled her eyes. She hurriedly rummaged in her handbag, brought out a tissue and dabbed her cheeks.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Mike asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. I wish we hadn’t come here. I thought it would help. But somehow it’s even more depressing than being at home. And that Maggie. That didn’t help.’

  Mike frowned. ‘How d’you mean?’

  She stared into his eyes, a look filled with venom. ‘You tell me, Mike. You tell me.’

  His mouth suddenly felt dry. ‘I’m not sure ... what the hell are you talking about?’

  She looked down at her handbag, and snapped it shut, closing the conversation, but showing a mysterious threat in her attitude. ‘It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter.’

  ***

  When they opened Rice’s cell door in the morning, they found he’d cut both wrists and had bled to death. They never did discover how he’d managed to get hold of the small razor blade. He’d left a suicide note, abandoned on the floor as far away from the bed as possible. Presumably, so that it wouldn’t get covered in blood.

  The note was Rice’s final, evil act. The pact with the devil. It said:

  I never killed old Alex. It was Geordie Pete who killed him. But I was there, so I was responsible. But I swear it’s the truth. It was Pete Coleman who killed him.

  Twenty - Nine

  ‘Mum!’ Thomas complained. ‘Simon pushed me on purpose.’

  Simon jabbed his younger brother with a finger. ‘Wally!’ he sneered.

  ‘Stop it! Both of you,’ Mary said, her voice tired, drained of emotion, as she struggled to fit the key into the front door.

  It had been one hell of a journey from Blackpool, due to engineering works. The children hadn’t stopped complaining that they were bored or tired or hungry. Never again would she travel by rail on a Sunday.

  She eased open the door, the bottom of it scuffing against a pile of letters and leaflets on the mat. Bills no doubt. Mary sighed and stooped to pick them up as the children barged past, their hostilities forgotten now they were home.

  ‘Have we got any biscuits?’ said Thomas, racing towards the kitchen, dumping his backpack in the middle of the hall.

  ‘Don’t eat the last one, else I’ll kill you,’ said Simon, following his brother.

  Mary closed the front door and breathed a sigh of relief as she put her suitcase down. She took the bundle of letters through to the kitchen. They were all addressed to Dave, and she was right - they were mostly bills. As she dropped them onto the table, she noticed a blank audio cassette tape, propped against the salt cellar, which she didn’t remember leaving before she left. She remembered the last minute check to see that everything was switched off, but she couldn’t recall seeing the tape on the table. She knew Dave often used audio tapes to record and learn musical numbers, which he played on the cheap portable radio and cassette player in the kitchen, but there was something alarming about the way this tape had been left on the table, like a message, as if it had some sort of meaning. She picked it up slowly, frowning, wondering if it had some significance, or if she was being paranoid.

  ‘What’s that?’ Thomas asked through a mouthful of biscuit.

  ‘Tape, stupid,’ said Simon. ‘Can we use it to record on, Mum, with Uncle Dave’s recorder?’

  Mary opened the cassette box. ‘I don’t remember this being here before we left.’

  ‘I expect it’s Uncle Dave’s,’ said Thomas casually, who was more interested in rummaging through the biscuit tin and anything else he could find in the food cupboard.

  Simon snatched the tape out of his mother’s hand. ‘Why don’t we play it and find out?’

  While he slotted it into the tape player, Mary went to the sink and filled the kettle. As soon as the tape began playing, Simon noticed the tension in his mother’s back, just as if she had received an electric shock. She slammed the kettle onto the work surface and spun round.

  ‘Turn it off!’

  Simon was confused. He could tell his mother was upset, the way her voice was hoarse and strained, but it was, after all, only some guitar playing something he didn’t recognise.

  ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ he said.

  ‘I just don’t like this song, that’s all. Please - there’s a good boy - switch it off.’

  Sensitive to his mother’s genuine distress, Simon shrugged and clicked the off switch, just as Eric Clapton began singing.

  Mary tried to control her fear, but cold clammy hands made a ghostly assault on her body, sending shock waves through her skull.

  ‘Wonderful Tonight’ was their song. Ronnie used to play it when they first went out together. She knew that somehow or other he had managed to get into the house while they were away.

  ***

  Nigel tugged the Windsor knot on his tie and spoke to Jackie’s reflection in his hall mirror. ‘It’ll make a change from the morning service.’

  ‘I only wanted us to go to the morning service because I don’t like to think of you working so hard.’

  ‘I had to get off some urgent quotations before we fly off into the sunset.’

  Jackie tittered shyly like a young girl. ‘Our flight is mid morning.’

  ‘Metaphorically speaking,’ said Nigel, turning to face Jackie. He held her hands. ‘We get married on Wednesday, fly off on Thursday, which only gives me two days to finish off a mountain of work.’

  Jackie shook her head dis
approvingly. ‘You’ll have a nervous breakdown if you carry on like this.’

  Nigel smirked. ‘Won’t be the first time.’

  ‘It’s nothing to be proud of.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve got a living to make. And it doesn’t get any easier.’

  ‘But you’ve had quite a good year haven’t you?’

  Nigel looked up at the ceiling, deliberating. ‘Hmm. Not really. Only forty-five K profit last year.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound bad to me.’

  ‘I can do a lot better. It should be double that. There’s still a great killing to be made out there.’

  ‘It all sounds a bit...’

  Nigel sensed her disapproval, and irritation slipped into his tone. ‘What?’ he demanded.

  ‘Well, a bit thrusting.’

  Nigel frowned deeply. ‘Thrusting? What on earth d’you mean, thrusting? Unless it’s something you’ve got in mind for the honeymoon.’

  She smacked his arm playfully, frowning to indicate that she was serious. ‘You can be very obtuse when you want to be. I just mean that we mustn’t get too greedy. Too materialistic.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with trying to carve out a decent living.’

  ‘I’m not saying there is.’ She picked up her handbag from the hall table. ‘We’d better go. We’ll be late.’

  Nigel pulled a face, his lips puckering, as if there was a bad smell under his nose. ‘I mean, you wouldn’t want me to end up like that Arnold creature.’

  Jackie smiled sadly. ‘Poor chap.’

  Nigel almost exploded. ‘Poor chap! He’s downright ignorant.’

  ‘I must admit that business about the sparkling wine was terrible behaviour.’

  ‘Intolerable!’ said Nigel, then added: ‘And the sparkling wine I selected is as good as champagne. You couldn’t tell the difference. In this test they did with wine experts....’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Jackie impatiently, glancing at her watch. ‘There was nothing wrong with the champagne. I was really disappointed in Arnold. He showed himself in his true colours. But don’t you see, darling, he was jealous of you. Apart from his amateur dramatics, he’s got very little in his life. Fifty years old, and he still works at the counter selling motor car parts. We really ought to be tolerant and pray for him tonight.’