It's Killing Jerry: A Comedy Thriller

by Sharn Hutton

  Jerry flopped down onto the sofa and put his head in his hands.

  “My parents will only be here for a month,” Isabell purred and sidled up to him.

  Jerry couldn’t bring himself to look at her. A tiny strangled scream escaped his throat.

  Isabell leant on his shoulder, her mouth close to his ear. “You could come in late from work some days. Maybe other days go up early to ‘bed’.” She hung quotation marks in the air. “It would no be so bad. Is nice and quiet. No crying baby. Think of the alternative. Financial ruin, Jerry. Nobody want that.”

  Could he manage it? There was no way he could afford to cough up any more money. Maybe he could put in an appearance, then lock himself away in the den to ‘work’ and slip out of the window. Or maybe wait for them to go to bed and then go home. They were old. They probably didn’t stay up late. He peeked at Isabell over his fingertips.

  “When does their flight land?”

  TWENTY-ONE

  JERRY’S FIAT BUCKED TO THE CURB AND STALLED. Well at least he’d made it home. He assessed his house: yellow light spilled around the lounge curtains. With a bit of luck that meant Rach was relaxing on the sofa and Peanut was asleep upstairs.

  He scraped the dilapidated gate across the path and let himself in. The lounge was empty and the house eerily quiet. He wandered into the kitchen to find the usual cacophony of bottles, cups and laundry at various levels of cleanliness, poised and abandoned.

  Rachel was slumped at the table, her head resting upon outstretched arms. Through audible breaths she mumbled something from the depths of a dream. Jerry bit at his lip; Isabell’s plan would not be well received.

  He poked her on the shoulder and Rachel pulled open her eyes. “Whuh?” She drew herself up “What time is it?”

  “It’s nine-thirty.”

  “What? How? Why didn’t you wake me?” She stretched out her back and frowned.

  “Just got in.”

  Rachel didn’t look in the mood for Isabell news.

  “Had to work late. Busy. So busy.” Isabell echoed in his head.

  Rachel eyed him impassively. “Nine-thirty. God, Peanut will be awake soon. She stood and padded over to the sink. “And the bottles aren’t done. Bloody hell,” she sighed and sorted through the mess. “This is a bit late for the office, isn’t it? Don’t they lock up at eight?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he stammered, “We’ve got this big pitch to work on so we locked up instead.” Rachel turned to look at him and Jerry dropped his eyes to the floor and shuffled backward, colliding with a chair. Here goes nothing. “Isabell asked if I could pick up her parents from the airport tomorrow.”

  Rachel huffed out a snort. “That woman has the cheek of the devil.”

  “Er yeah.”

  Rachel turned to glare at him. “Please tell me you said no. That would just be the icing on the cake. The last place you should be is running around after that manipulative bitch.”

  “Oh, right, yeah.” Maybe not then. “Exactly what I said. I’m, we’re, way too busy for that.” Jerry rested his hands on his hips and leaned back, like a jolly policeman. What now?

  Inspiration struck. “Actually, Rach, there’s a bit of problem with work.” He wasn’t going to tell her about this, but it could clear the way for some time spent with the ex-in laws. “Turns out they’re making people redundant.” Rachel dropped a bottle into the sink.

  “I’m not out. Not yet, but I’ve got to prove myself. Work that bit harder.” Jerry was getting into his stride now. Yes, this could work. “I’ll have to work a lot of evenings, Late every night, I shouldn’t wonder. Just until the redundancies get sorted, then we can all relax a bit.” It was true. Mostly true.

  Rachel was filling a bowl with soapy water, rinsing out the bottles. She shut off the tap, and the plumbing hammered through the house. She raised her eyebrows at Jerry and gave him her best sarcastic grimace.

  The unmistakable cries of a woken Peanut rolled down the stairs and Rachel bowed her head, dejected. “Great.” Her voice quavered.

  “I will help, Rach, but I have to focus on work right now. You don’t want me to lose my job, do you?” Ah, how easily it tripped off his tongue.

  “No. Course not.” Rachel loaded the steriliser, set it running, then trudged away and up the stairs.

  TWENTY-TWO

  DRAGGED UP THROUGH THE STICKY SYRUP OF CONSCIOUSNESS, sucking pseudopodia of sleep held Rachel immobile. A baby’s cry. She willed it away and clung instead to the cocoon that enveloped her reticent form. It had been low at first, but the pitch was rising, kitten-soft mews growing more insistent, more shrill. The bonds of slumber snapped and cracked. Responsibility raised an eyebrow to begin the slow peeling away of her first eyelid and then the other. Her body heavy and weary, she crawled out of bed and shivered into a shabby dressing gown. She’d need the warmth: this would take a while.

  Head buzzing with the cries from the nursery, Rachel picked her way through the darkness of the house. Even on sleepy autopilot she could navigate without light. Kitchen, fridge, milk, microwave, yawn, ping. Pulled back up the stairs on a visceral cord.

  She scooped Peanut from the cot and laid her in the familiar crook of her arm. Bottle in. Hungry sucks and slurps replaced the cries in an otherwise silent night, but it wasn’t so easy. It never was. A minute or so in and Peanut paused to cough. She adjusted the position, let her settle and they were off again. It seemed OK, but then another cough, this time accompanied by a whimper of distress.

  Rachel was wide awake now, all vestiges of sleep fallen from her, but the heavy weariness remained. Every three hours the ritual with Peanut began again. Another attempt to get it right. Another failure. She stared blindly into the darkness and monsters rose: her insecurity; her loneliness; her fate.

  Jerry slept on: oblivious and uncaring. Rachel gritted her teeth and dislodged a tear from brimming eyes. She could see the series of mistakes she’d made now. How could anyone be so stupid? A pang of regret constricted her chest and she forced in a long deep breath.

  People liked to complain about work: the boss and the politics; the internal memo and the petty power struggle. She’d done it herself. At the time it had been so important and consuming. Viewed from the outside now, Rachel could see that it didn’t matter at all. At least at work you were your own person: making decisions; conversing with adults; achieving a goal. You had purpose and worth. You were significant. Now she was no-one. Trapped in a life she’d never imagined, with a baby she couldn’t care for and a husband who was never home—a husband who was probably having an affair. She was fading away and could do nothing to stop it. All hope had turned to despair.

  Grandma Ray’s clock ticked out in the hall. She let her eyes lose focus and lost herself in the metallic drum beat, marking her passage through misery.

  Isabell, bloody Isabell. It was obvious Jerry had been lying earlier about not helping her and she’d gone through his pockets once he’d fallen asleep. His jacket had offered up little to confirm her suspicions: sweet wrappers and tissue grit didn’t make a philanderer. She’d checked his shirt collar for signs of Isabell’s make-up and, of course, he wasn’t that stupid, but it smelt of her. Something indefinable but familiar all the same. She’d lingered over it, analysing the aroma again and again, but couldn’t be sure, that was the trouble. She was so tired. Her hormones were all over the place. There was no proof in the ghost of a smell.

  The long black hair she’d found clinging to the back of Jerry’s shirt felt like more solid evidence, however. Her own hair: much shorter and brown; Jerry’s, shorter still. It had to be Isabell’s. Would it be wrong to assume the worst?

  Why couldn’t Jerry have just blown her off? He’d chosen to marry her, Rachel. He’d chosen to bring a child into their world, encouraged Rachel to give up her career. But he hadn’t given up anything at all. Not even his first wife. Always off to do something more pressing. “You know how she is,” Jerry would say. Yeah, Rachel knew. Knew only too well.

&nbs
p; She ground her teeth. Peanut whimpered and Rachel realised she was holding her too tight. She loosened her grip, but Peanut squirmed and coughed out a cry. Rachel looked down through the gloom at the infant in her arms and steeled herself.

  No point fretting nor patting. No good would come from walking around the house, shushing and cooing. Hold her to the left, to the right, on her shoulder, at her waist. It was all the same. Rachel sat back in the nursery chair. If her baby was crying she wasn’t choking. She was the best that she could be, until it passed.

  Inside her mind Rachel backed away to a place with no sound where she wouldn’t hear the anguish nor register the pain. If there was nothing she could do for Peanut then she had to do it for herself. Shut it out, before it destroyed her.

  She started to hum and the vibrations filled her head. She focused on the buzz it made behind her teeth and counted the seconds she could make one breath last. The metallic tick and tock of Grandma Ray’s clock gave structure. She focused on those sounds and nothing else and rocked side to side in the nursery chair. Side to side until it was over.

  TWENTY-THREE

  SPORTING BRIGHT YELLOW WASHING UP GLOVES and a peg on his nose, Jerry fumbled at the playsuit poppers without success. Bloody hell, he was going to have to take the gloves off.

  He’d bundled Rachel off for a ‘nice relaxing bath’ and was taking charge of all things baby. So far, Peanut had been her usual insubordinate self, complaining and thrashing about in her Moses basket, and rumbles during the feed now led Jerry to believe that a nappy change was in order. They’d relocated to the nursery on Mission Diaper.

  Pop, pop, pop. Peanut kicked her podgy legs free from the babygro and the scale of his assignment became clear. The pneumatic nappy oozed poo at its elasticated frills, out onto Peanut’s legs and the inside of her sleep suit. Jerry gingerly peeled back the tapes, flopped the bulging packet forward and gagged. The peg meant breathing through his mouth—it didn’t seem so smart now. He took it off and gagged anew as the smell assaulted his nostrils.

  “Christ on a bike, Peanut. What has Mummy been feeding you?” Peanut waved her feet then stamped in the open nappy, spattering Jerry’s shirt. He froze, cringing and scanned the room for inspiration. A smug Bilbo Bunny spectated from the safety of the cot.

  A considerable range of baby equipment lined up on the shelves by the mat. Jerry pulled down a bag of cotton wool balls, grabbed a handful and hurled them into the nappy to prevent further poo stomping. Peanut paused to watch. Jerry grabbed another handful and attempted to wipe her down. The balls broke free and rolled gunk up onto his fingers. He stared at them in horror and then smeared his fingers on the mat. Lifting Peanut by the ankles with his free hand, he jammed the used balls beneath her—at least they couldn’t roll away from there. He wasn’t getting very far with the clean-up though.

  Shifting Peanut to one side and then the other, he manoeuvred the noxious nappy out. Folding it up, he trapped most of the cotton wool inside then dumped it into a bag. Next, he pulled the ravaged babygro away and tossed it to the floor. Baby wipes pushed the poo around on her skin but didn’t seem get it off. Curious. Tissues, more wipes: the pile of debris grew. At least Peanut was amused—she’d stopped crying and was watching Jerry flounder.

  He managed to slap on a new nappy but, ignorant as to where fresh clothes were kept, he decided to defy convention and wind her up in a blanket from the cot instead. He was just sat relaxing with the baby sausage in his arms when Rachel appeared at the door.

  She glanced from Peanut to Jerry, to the mess on the changing table and to the poo-smeared sleep suit flung on the carpet. She looked back at Jerry, frowning. “What are you doing?”

  Jerry smiled, pretty pleased with himself. “Nappy change.”

  “No shit.”

  “No, plenty of shit. Really incredible.”

  “Why is she in a blanket?”

  “Couldn’t find any clothes.”

  “Did you try the wardrobe?”

  Jerry shrugged.

  Rachel scooped Peanut up, laid her in the cot, unfurled the bundle and transferred her to the mat. Jerry saw the orange-brown globs which framed a lone squelching cotton wool ball lingering on the blanket.

  Rachel scowled at it and then him. She examined Peanut, the sticky brown-orange poop smeared up her back.

  “For the love of God, Jerry. You have to clean her. You can’t just pull off the nappy and fling on another.”

  “I did. I did.” Up the back—wow, who’d have thought that?

  Peanut kicked at the pile of spent wipes and tissues, sending it flopping to the floor. A suspect cotton wool ball rolled under the cot.

  “For Christ’s sake, Jerry, you can’t just leave this stuff lying around. Tidy up after yourself. It’s disgusting.”

  “I tried.”

  “No. You didn’t try, Jerry. You made a half arsed attempt and then left it for me to sort out, just like always. There’s crap on the carpet. Crap on the cot blanket. Crap up her back, on the mat. It’s everywhere, Jerry.” Rachel’s voice was becoming thin and shrill. Rigid arms pointed clenched fists at the floor.

  “It’s just so hard to get off. I couldn’t do it,” Jerry mumbled.

  “You’re the adult, Jerry, you have to do it. She can’t—it’s up to you. Were you just going to leave her like that? Covered in crap? Because you can’t DEAL with it?” She was pretty much screeching now.

  Jerry examined the seam of the chair with a twitchy finger. The clock marked time in the hallway. He risked a glance at Rachel: she was glaring at him in furious silence.

  The clock struck one. Time for Jerry to be off. “I’ll just pop down to the kitchen to tidy up a bit then, shall I?” and he was out of his seat and heading down the stairs. Even at the bottom he could still hear Rachel ranting on about being better off on her own.

  Downstairs the usual jumble of baby detritus mingled with day to day living. Jerry cleared the breakfast things from the table and dumped them into the sink. He gathered mugs from shelves and poured away half a dozen abandoned cups of tea. He gathered up newspapers and added them to the pile by the back door. Most of the table surface was visible now; only yesterday’s post remained, unopened.

  He sat down and tore at the envelopes. Phone bill—red. Council Tax direct debit form—urgent reminder. Jerry rubbed at his temples. The final envelope was from Legal & General and contained a confirmation of the change of details to Jerry’s life insurance policy. Since the arrival of Peanut, they’d decided to increase their cover to a pay out of five hundred thousand pounds should Jerry shuffle off this mortal coil prematurely. Rachel had remembered to post back the form.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT,” said Adam, stabbing at the treadmill controls to increase his stride to a jog. Jerry slunk onto his machine and set it to a stroll. “I could do without this today. Everyone wants a piece of me,” he grumbled. “I was looking forward to some quality time at the Dog and Duck.”

  Adam reached over and increased the speed of Jerry’s machine until he was tripping over himself to keep up and pumping his arms. “It’s not that I can’t do it,” he said, “It’s just another thing on the list.”

  “U-huh.” Adam was in his stride. Jerry took his machine down a notch and shot a warning glance at Adam, who smirked and looked away.

  “You wouldn’t believe Spink,” said Jerry. “Since Locksley put us into competition he’s become an unscrupulous maniac. He’s stolen my five biggest clients and I’ve spent the last week in serious damage control, talking to everyone I can manage so they don’t defect to the little shit when I’m not looking.” Jerry puffed along at his moderate pace. “Two hundred K straight off my bottom line already.”

  “So put in some hours. Get some new deals. Have you got any leads?” Adam was nonchalant.

  “Put in some time?” Jerry whined, “Time is what I don’t have. Crown Princess Pain-in-the-arse wants me to pretend we’re still married to her mum and dad so she doesn�
�t lose her allowance.”

  “To hell with that. Let her get on with it.”

  “No allowance, no mortgage payments. Negative equity. Major pain in the arse. Can’t afford it,” Jerry panted.

  “Jeez. She’s still got you by the balls, hasn’t she?”

  Jerry grimaced. “I’ll have to go there after work and then sneak out when no-one is looking.”

  “And what does the mother of your child think about this?”

  Jerry snorted. “Yeah, like I’d tell her. You know nothing.”

  Adam shook his head, eyebrows raised. “Don’t you think she’ll notice that you’re never home?”

  “I’ll have to work extra to keep up with Spink anyway, I’ll just exaggerate. I’m more worried about Princess Pain-in-the-arse than Rach. There was candlelight, Adam. She was offering no-strings sex and making up stuff to get me to stay. I think she might have gone a little la-la.”

  “She was la-la when I knew her years ago.”

  Jerry frowned and slowed his treadmill a bit more. That was true.

  “So, you’re turning absent father to run around after the nutcase. Very paternal.”

  “Yeah, I’m feeling a bit bad about it. Peanut’s hard work. Rach is having a tough time. I guess I’m leaving her in the lurch a bit.” Jerry bit at his lip. “It would be reassuring to know someone was looking in on her from time to time.” Jerry focused on Adam, but he wouldn’t look at him. A silent minute passed, then Adam sighed, “Do you want me to check on her?”