It's Killing Jerry: A Comedy Thriller

by Sharn Hutton

  “Really? Would you? That would be great.” Brilliant.

  Adam shrugged. “Saving the universe, one person at a time.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  BY ELEVEN O’CLOCK MONDAY MORNING, Adam had already spent a full three hours at Solomon’s. A 10K run, his weights programme, a sauna and a long hot shower had eaten up the time, but he knew he was stretching it out. Truth was: he was bored.

  Sitting in the locker room, he fingered the slip of paper in his pocket on which Jerry had scrawled his address. The house was only a couple of miles from the gym, a half hour walk tops. He had nothing better to do and a bit of fresh air wouldn’t hurt.

  He left Solomon’s and kicked his way through the leaves that banked up against garden walls, wriggling his nose down into the scarf coiled at his neck. How had Jerry got him to volunteer for this? He didn’t even know his wife. Was she going to want to let him in?

  He marvelled at Jerry’s ability to get himself into a jam. At school he’d been the same. Why do things the normal way when there was a convoluted ‘easy’ route that wouldn’t work and always caused more trouble in the end?

  He smiled to himself. Funny. Jerry was such a screw up, but somehow he’d managed to get married, twice, and have a baby—a course of events that had so far eluded Adam entirely.

  Adam was supposed to be the successful one, but here he was, lost in his own life, desperately seeking what Jerry had just stumbled into. Jerry didn’t even appreciate what he’d got. What was he thinking pandering to Isabell? Jerry’s priorities were obvious. What could be more precious than his wife and new-born child?

  Adam rounded the corner of Heath Terrace and started counting off the houses.

  Where would he find her, his missing piece? His mind wandered back to the furniture shop and the girl on the sofa. Perhaps she had been it. Perhaps that striking resemblance to Grace had been the sign he’d needed to wake up and make the leap. Perhaps he had let her slip through his fingers and out of his life. His one true love.

  Adam mentally kicked himself—he should have gone over to her. He wished that he had now. He could have sat down beside her on that huge sofa and brushed the hair from her sun-kissed face, or maybe just struck up a conversation as she wandered through the store, instead of skulking in the shadows, afraid to be seen. He should have joined her at that dining table.

  Then Adam remembered her change of demeanour: how the happiness had fallen from her eyes. He could have taken her in his arms there and then. He could have comforted her. Instead, he’d never see her again.

  37, this was it. Adam scraped the uncooperative gate across the path, took a deep breath and rang the bell. When the door opened, he blinked with disbelief. There in the doorway, smiling out at him, it was her: the girl from the shop. Adam stared, open mouthed.

  “Can I help you?”

  Adam’s voice didn’t seem to be working. He’d found her. The girl. His girl. What were the chances? He couldn’t hold back the dopey grin.

  “Are you OK?” Rachel looked as if she might be about to close the door.

  Think. Think. Pull yourself together, Adam. “Adam,” he blurted. “I’m Adam, Jerry’s friend.” Jerry’s friend. Fuck, shit and bugger.

  “Oh, Adam. Right. Jerry said you might be dropping by.” She looked him up and down with undisguised scepticism. “Know much about babies, do you?”

  Adam just looked at her and smiled.

  “Well, you’d better come in.”

  Of all the shit luck: the one time in his life when he’d found a girl that could be someone to him and she was already Jerry’s wife. Great. Adam tried to push the furniture shop scenes from his head as he followed her into the kitchen. No billowing skirt today. She wore leggings and an oversized jumper. The jumper had slipped from her shoulder on one side to reveal soft alabaster skin and the delicate strap of an undergarment.

  She flicked on the kettle. “Tea?”

  “Sure.”

  Reaching up, she pulled clean cups from the wall cupboard. Adam admired her long smooth neck and the desire to run his fingers down it welled unbidden. Stop it. Jerry. Jerry. Jerry.

  “You have any children of your own?” Rachel asked.

  “No.” Adam felt like a fool. What help could he possibly be? “But I’d like to, one day.” He smiled into her eyes and Rachel seemed to fluster. She turned away from him to make the tea.

  “I’m guessing you’ve got experience of tidying up though, right?”

  “Oh sure.” Adam thought about his bleak apartment. It was very tidy. There was nothing there.

  TWENTY-SIX

  SLIDING INTO HER SEAT AT THE TABLE, Rachel patted the chair to her left and Adam jumped to her side.

  “So I guess you can see the place is a bit of a state.” Rachel smiled, embarrassed. “Peanut just seems to take up all of my time.” She stared down into her tea cup, as if the answer might be floating there.

  “Peanut?”

  “Oh,” she laughed a little self-consciously and it made Adam smile. “We haven’t been able to decide on a name. She looked like a peanut on the first scan so we started calling her that and I guess it stuck.”

  “Makes perfect sense.” They smiled at each other.

  It was too easy, too comfortable. He couldn’t let himself relax around her, Adam knew where his easy charm could lead. He pulled himself back and got up from the table. “So, yep. I can tidy. Why don’t you go and have a nap?”

  “A nap? Do you mean it? Are you sure? That just seems so… decadent.”

  “No problem. Honestly. I am Jerry’s stand in.” Jerry’s stand in, Adam sighed.

  “OK. If you’re sure?” Rachel scraped out her chair and made for the door. She paused by Adam’s side. “Thank you,” she breathed and reaching up on tiptoe, brushed her lips against his cheek.

  That scent he’d first encountered in the furniture store swept up to him, swirled around his chest and brought every nerve ending to electrified life. Cinnamon and citrus. He closed his eyes and let it linger. When he opened them again, he was alone, Rachel’s footsteps on the stairs. He clenched his jaw and commanded his feet not to follow her.

  It was ridiculous of course. Jerry’s wife, hello. His old best friend, Jerry. Good old Jerry. Best buddy Jerry. Jerry, who he hadn’t seen for years until a month ago. Jerry, who was actually lying to Rachel so that he could spend time with his ex-wife. Jerry, who didn’t make any time for his own child. Jerry, who didn’t know a good thing when he had it. Jerry, who obviously didn’t deserve it.

  Adam shook his head to quiet the demons. Stop it. Let’s just tidy this up and get out of here. He zoned out and set his mind on the task at hand. Crockery and cutlery washed, dried and put away. He mopped the floor and wiped down the surfaces. He’d even folded some of the laundry, but had to abandon the task when several items of Rachel’s underwear came to the fore. A man has his limits.

  He was just getting ready to leave when she appeared holding Peanut. Her cheeks flushed pink and her hair falling in shaggy waves. She looked around the room in disbelief. “Oh my God. Look what you did.” She was smiling ear to ear. Adam couldn’t help but glow a little inside. He shrugged and pushed his hands down into his pockets to stop himself from pulling her into his arms. “Well, I’ve got to be going. See you another time.” It wasn’t safe to stay.

  Rachel stepped into the room toward him, but he barrelled past her out into the hall.

  “Bye then,” she called after him.

  He clicked the door shut behind himself and set off up the road at a run.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  JERRY READ TO THE END OF THE FINAL PARAGRAPH and flipped his proposal shut with a nod. Never at his best in the word processing package, he’d actually managed to produce an impressive document. Several more hours later than perhaps a more proficient typist but, a good day’s work none-the-less. Staccato keystrokes rattled his printer to life and sent the client copy spewing out into in a little grey tray on the edge of his desk.

 
From the doorway Gemma coughed and stuttered into speech. “Mr Adler, I’m so sorry I couldn’t help with your copying earlier. Mr Spink has me flat out.”

  “Hey, no problem, Gemma, really.” Jerry scraped his chair around to face her.

  “It’s just, um, I could try to help tomorrow…” she tailed off, unconvinced.

  She was just a kid. How could he expect her to stand up to Spink when it was tough enough for him? “Listen, thanks for the thought, but I can see you’ve got your hands full.” He eyed the huge stack of files in her arms with a single raised eyebrow. She cracked a shy smile. “OK, well, I’ll help if I can,” she mumbled and scuttled away.

  Jerry wrestled the fat proposal into an envelope and sloped around to Reception to put it in the post. Margi, the receptionist, had her back to him, pumping a great stack of envelopes through the franking machine.

  “Can we send this one first class please, Margi?”

  She turned to look at him, lost her rhythm and jammed a couple of envelopes in the rollers. “Sure, sure,” she sighed, “Just got to get this mail shot out for Donald.” Jerry’s eyes prickled with tiredness. Mail shot? He scanned the heap of letters on the floor—about eighty or so at a guess. He weighed the solitary envelope in his hand with dismay.

  Margi took it from him. “Don’t worry, it’ll go today.” Jerry pressed his lips together in a tight smile of thanks then beat a sullen retreat to his office. Behind the closed door he flopped into his chair and slumped over the desk.

  Immediately the phone rang and he clutched the handset to his ear, eyes closed. “Adler.”

  “No forget, Jerry, flight IB7462 landing eight-ten tonight. Mama is very excite to see you.”

  Jerry doubted that. Mama was not Jerry’s biggest fan, although it was difficult to deduce exactly what she thought. Past communication had consisted of clipped translations via Isabell’s father and a fantastic quantity of tuts, sneers and vigorous arm waving. Jerry sank a little into his mental quagmire. “OK, yes.”

  “We will have family dinner together or they will wondering why.”

  Jerry grimaced. And so it began.

  “Jerry?”

  “Yes, Isabell. Yes.”

  She hung up.

  The window frame rattled and the cold breath of autumn brushed across his knuckles in the already freezing office. Outside a persistent wind whipped around the grey car park and vexed the last limp leaves from defeated trees. He kicked the heater under his desk for old time’s sake, pulled out his mobile and rattled off a text:

  HI RACH. STILL IN MTG. TAKING CLIENT TO DINNER. DON’T WAIT UP. JX

  Ah, texting—the fraudster’s friend. Jerry spun the phone on his desk, awaiting the reply. When it beeped he snatched it up and scanned the message for signs of suspicion.

  LUCKY YOU. TRY NOT TO WAKE US UP WHEN YOU COME IN. RX.

  Lucky you? A touch of testiness there, but not disbelief. Seemed about right. Good, she’d bought it.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ISABELL SWIRLED HER FINGERS ON THE BED’S SATIN QUILT and appraised the contents of her walnut armoire. The array of men’s charity shop clothes, now laundered, pressed and hung, made a persuasive wardrobe for her ‘husband’, Jerry. Yes, it would serve her purpose nicely. She closed the doors and swept away to the bathroom to lay out items at the sink.

  A daub of shaving foam smeared by the tap would lend a little authenticity. A plastic razor, popped from its pack also took its place in her charade. She slid away the protective cover and overhead halogens glinted on the blades. Isabell ran her fingertip along their biting edge.

  A scarlet bead dropped to the cold enamel and Isabell sucked in a slow breath. She let the razor fall from her hand and squeezed out another drop and then another. The woman in the mirror shook out her long black mane, down over an arched back. There was no need to make a drama, but the sting felt sweet. Jerry was coming, coming to rescue her. She allowed herself a little smile then washed the blood away.

  The razor landed, clinking, into a glass by the sink, followed by a toothbrush torn from its wrapper. Lastly, his aftershave. Isabell held the new bottle of Paco Rabanne in her hand—an old brand, but Jerry still wore it. He was a creature of habit. She snapped off the lid and returned to the armoire to spritz its contents and breathed in the memories of Marsaskala and their honeymoon. Romantic days spent exploring the hot dry landscape with passionate nights in their freshly made marital bed, exploring each other.

  Of course, it couldn’t last. Jerry was a pussycat, all fluff and belly rubs. He’d been overwhelmed and eventually cowered from her claws, instead of facing her down like the predator she’d wanted. But his domesticity fell in her favour now: Jerry would do what he was told.

  Isabell padded out of the bedroom and made for the kitchen. She would need to be ready by nine to provide her family with an evening meal. Jerry would be on his way to Heathrow by now. Doing what he was told.

  On her way down the stairs, Isabell noticed their wedding photo listed at an angle on the hallway wall. She blew its dusty top clean and set it straight. She’d have to have a word with the cleaner about attention to detail, especially now that she’d be so busy, looking after her family.

  The kitchen was primed: her ingredients already gathered together in an organised line up. It took no more than a minute to stab the chicken, over and over with the stubby vegetable knife, making holes to ease in slivers of garlic. A quick rub over with herbed butter and the bird was ready for the hot hell of the oven.

  Drawing out a long chef’s knife from the block, she glimpsed a flash of herself in its surface. Olive skin. Dark hair. She adjusted the hair extension clipped in at the back of her scalp and undid another button at her bosom. If she could persuade Jerry to stay tonight, so much the better.

  With long sweeps she carved the peppers into tender strips; and sliced spring onion to the same even dimensions. Both were added to the baby leaf green salad and a dressing whisked up in a jug to be added later.

  Red fingernails drummed the granite, impatient for the game to begin. She was ready.

  TWENTY-NINE

  JERRY SQUIRMED ON THE METAL BENCH, switching his weight from left to right buttock. The Iberia 7912 still hadn’t made an appearance and he was getting restless. Not that he was in any great hurry to see Isabell’s parents again, but time was marching on and he didn’t want to be too late getting home.

  Jerry shared the Arrivals Hall with a sprinkling of other unfortunates, who either leaned against pillars or patrolled the shiny concrete floor with slow sweeping footsteps, their hands pushed deep into their pockets. He’d watched their progress, pacing like fellow caged animals, but was only able to maintain so much interest in other people’s boredom. He took a slurp of bitter coffee and considered Remi’s progress.

  The hilltop retreat just outside of Avignon made a perfect meeting place for the philanthropic investors of the Crusaders of Justice. A picturesque stone built citadel set high in the hills provided lofty solitude for men gathered to contemplate the welfare of the world, men whose investments would bring equality for the persecuted and the poor. Or so they thought. Maximus Pink had chosen the location carefully: a place where his targets would feel the privilege of their existence and be even more compelled to help the third world peoples the COJ purported to assist.

  Maximus Pink stood before the enormous limestone fireplace that stretched eight feet across the far wall of the central state room. A fire crackled in its hearth. The evocative click and spit of burning wood enhanced his stage with reminders of comfort and home. Its warm glow back-lit Pink in an angelic halo. He cupped a large glass of cognac in his left palm and swirled it slowly. Remi watched his expression warm with recognition as a balding man in his late fifties crossed the room to greet him. To the unsuspecting, Pink gave a great show of philanthropy, but Remi knew the truth.

  Attending the meeting as Charles Bamford-Irons, Remi was taking a chance. His timely exit from the blackjack game at the Bellagio had been the perf
ect end to his charade, but now he had his work cut out to gain the trust of the group.

  Maximus chinked lightly on the cognac glass with his emerald pinkie ring and the room fell silent. “Gentlemen and loyal supporters. Thank you all for taking the time out from your schedules to attend our little gathering, here in the beautiful hills of southern France. Now that our dinner has concluded, I have exciting developments to share with you. Please, collect a digestif from our hostesses and follow me down to the presentation.”

  Waitresses in high-buttoned shirts with dove grey ties and waistcoats held loaded trays either side of now open double doors, and the small crowd started its slow transfer to the next location in Maximus Pink’s production. His audience looked to be mostly European well-heeled men in sober suits, ages ranging from middle age to long past retirement, men with money to spend.

  With the brush of feet on the sumptuous carpet came the return of conversation, rising volume punctuated with good-natured enthusiasm and champagne-fuelled laughter. Remi took his place amongst them: Charles Bamford-Irons in full flow.

  “Fabulous meal, wouldn’t you say? These fellows really know how to look after you, don’t they?” Remi smiled congenially at the businessman strolling casually by his side.