Ship Ahoy! (A Cliffhanger Novel Book 3)

by T. J. Middleton

  She licked her lips and gave me a look. She’d had a quick belter before she’d called us in, I could tell. I sat down in the white leather lounger opposite, Em in the La-Z-Boy next to her. Em had wanted to get rid of my seating arrangements, said they was naff, but as I pointed out, they might be naff, but they were dead comfy and made for screwing on. Game set and match I believe.

  It wasn’t right, but I couldn’t help it, comparing them, Audrey in flaming red, looking big and bold and wicked, and Em in one of her faded flowery numbers, like she’d just come in from milking the cows or making a daisy chain. I mean I know who was the better looking, who was younger, straighter, better natured, who hadn’t murdered anyone, but seeing them there, side by side, I couldn’t help but remember, the things Audrey and I had done, how we had done them, no quarter given. Em was a girl in a million, don’t get me wrong, but she was safe, stable, easy to handle, while Audrey, Audrey was about as stable as a sweaty stick of dynamite, one moment nice as pie the next KERBOOM! OK, Emily had put one over on me regarding the letter, but it was nothing to what Audrey could dream up. I mean, Emily had kept the letter for four years and done sod all with it while Audrey hadn’t had it for four hours and already she’d turned it radioactive. That was the thing see, the unpredictability of it all. That’s what had made it last. I admit, I’d tried to get rid of her, but even that didn’t work out as planned. Nothing ever did with Audrey. You never knew when it was going to kick off. Or even better, sometimes you did. Sometimes we planned it, like the football hooligans do, go out for the night and stir it up. There’s nothing we liked better than some prat coming up, telling us to keep our voices down, or that I should treat her with more respect. It was like that vicar who got in between a lion and his missus. They got chewed to bits. I took long sip, trying not to think about it. That was another thing in her favour. She knew how to fix a decent drink. This one would have got Buzz Aldrin to the moon and back.

  ‘I had a borrow of your best lipstick, Emily dear,’ Audrey said. ‘I know I should have asked, but I couldn’t resist it. They make you wear such drab stuff in prison.’

  ‘Em knows that too, don’t you Em?’ I said, ‘all that visiting you did. You always dressed drab in prison didn’t you, in case it set us off. First thing I did when I got out, bought me some flash gear. Audrey felt the same.’

  ‘Didn’t they have any other colours in stock?’ Emily asked. Audrey shifted her rear, wriggled her skirt down a bit.

  ‘Red suits me. It’s my favourite, isn’t Al?’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You should know. I wore it often enough. He didn’t do too badly out of it either Emily, if you get my meaning. Isn’t that right Al?’

  ‘Audrey!’

  ‘Well we’re all grownups here, aren’t we? It’s not as if I’m after whatever you have to offer these days. What’s past is past.’ She raised her glass. ‘Bali Ha’i.’

  She took a long draught. Me too. Torvill was perched on the mantelpiece staring over at me. To think she’d had my letter up her rear end for the last three years. I thought she looked a bit uncomfortable sometimes, but it never occurred to me that my confessional might have been the cause. I just thought she was missing the water. She should have told me.

  ‘Should have told me what?’ Did I say that out loud? Audrey was looking at me.

  ‘Should have told ne you were coming,’ I said. ‘I’d have baked a cake.’

  ‘Poisoned one more like. And hidden that picture above the bed.’ She sucked on the swizzle stick. ‘Tell me Emily, did all the prisoners get painted like that?’

  ‘Audrey! Behave!’

  ‘Don’t be so protective Al. She can look after herself, can’t you dear.’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Em spoke calm, but I could tell, there was a lot of stuff churning on inside. I’d found her out and my ex was back in the bungalow, throwing her weight around, threatening to get us both into trouble. She was sitting in between two killers who’d been a part of each other like she could never be, man and wife for over twenty-five years, and done some of the worst things a man and wife could do. The worst thing Emily had ever done was make Tonto look like he had an allergy to peanuts. Audrey stirred her glass.

  ‘Course you can. We have to, us women, with men like Al about. He’s a reptile basically, you know, like one of those alligators they have down in Florida, floating in the swamp water with that smile that looks like it’s been cut out with a bread knife, just waiting to go snap, snap, snap, as soon as you get too near. But that’s what attracted you to him in the first place, wasn’t it, what gets you going, that smile, that snap, snap, snap. Bet it makes you all tingly just thinking about it.’ She crossed her legs. ‘Where’s that curry Al? You finish it all by yourself?’

  ‘Curry?’ Emily looked at me. Audrey leant back, put her arm over the back of the sofa. Bare arm, bare shoulder, thin red strap. I could feel my fingers running down, taking the strain, testing the weight of it.

  ‘Al went and bought me a curry last night, bought us both one as a matter of fact, all our old favourites, but when he got back, all I was ready for was bed. You didn’t throw it out did you, Al, the curry?’

  ‘Course I didn’t. It’s in the usual place.’

  ‘You have a usual place for left-over curry?’ Emily was getting edgy. Her own home and she didn’t know the half of it.

  ‘The airing cupboard,’ I explained. ‘Keeps it nice and warm overnight. You stick it in a fridge and everything tastes of vindaloo. The airing cupboard keeps it all ticking over a treat.’

  ‘Ready for breakfast if you fancy it,’ Audrey put in. ‘Not your cup of tea though I hear. Al told me you and him don’t go in for curry much.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He had this far-away look in his eyes, like a thirsty man in a desert. Once a week we’d have it in the early days, twice when we were in the mood. It doesn’t do to keep men thirsty Emily when they’re in the mood, ‘specially someone like Al here.’

  Em smiled.

  ‘Al eats all sorts of things now thanks to me, fruit, salads, nut roasts, raised his energy level quite considerably, which is always important where the younger woman is concerned. It’s also helped to stimulate other organs, like his brain, which I have to say was quite slack when we first met.’

  She sat back, popped a peanut into her mouth. There. Not such a walk-over as you thought. I was impressed.

  ‘He was in prison when you first met,’ Audrey reminded her. ‘And it was me who sprung him, not you.’ She leant over, pulled the jug towards her. I poked my glass in her direction too.

  ‘And what about you Audrey. How do you imagine we’re going to spring you?’

  Audrey poured slowly, first hers, then mine. Emily had hardly touched hers.

  ‘I’d have thought it was obvious,’ she said. ‘You work together on this cruise liner, don’t you? Smuggle me aboard. Get me to a port, somewhere I can sail from. There must be a spare cabin you could hide me in, even your own. Where are you next sailing to?’

  ‘Greek Islands. Five days time. You’re asking a lot Audrey. Our livelihood’s at stake here.’

  ‘If you still have one,’ Em said, ‘after what happened last time.’

  ‘That too. I’m not in the best of odour, management wise. And you’ll never guess Em, who’s turned up at the Bindon. Only Mrs Durand-bloody-Deacon. She’s Sheila’s sister, can you believe it, staying there while she gets over the shock. I had a shock enough when I saw her wading ashore, I can tell you. If anyone needs the rest it’s me.’

  ‘Did she see you?’

  ‘Course she saw me. I’m carving out her shark right now. You might have to chip in too, with a portrait. She’s playing hard to get.’

  ‘Mrs Durand-Deacon.’ Audrey blew the name into the air. ‘Everywhere I go I hear the name Durand-Deacon. I’m sick to death of it.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Come on, fish it out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The curry Al. Chop,
chop.’

  I went to the airing cupboard, brought out the bags. Don’t know what it is about Mr Singh’s little boxes but they still had the heat in them. I took them to the table, brought out more glasses, brought the beer in from the fridge. I laid out three plates, popped the cans, and peeled back the lids. The poppadums were no good, but that was to be expected. Everything else was prima, warm, just like blood. I loaded up a heap of the mutton vindaloo and a couple of chilli king prawns and a piece of fish and handed it to Audrey. I started to do the same for Em, but she took the plate from me and helped herself. Pitiful really what ended up on that plate; one prawn, one onion bhaji and a spoonful of rice. Torvill could have managed better. Me, I piled it on. It smelt so good.

  ‘God,’ said Audrey, scooping up a forkful, ‘It’s worth breaking out of prison just for this. Pass me the pickle.’

  She tore of a slab of naan, spread out the pickle, took a mouthful, and rolled it round her tongue. Jesus, talk about fire down below. Em was poking her king prawn about her plate like she was teaching it to swim.

  ‘Try the mutton dearest, if that doesn’t suit.’ I told her. ‘It’s only too hot if you think it’s too hot. It’s all in the head, curry. Isn’t that right Audrey. Mind over intestine.’

  Audrey wiped the sweat off her forehead and popped an onion bhaji into her mouth, whole. An old party trick. She passed it from cheek to cheek then swallowed it down, like a snake does an egg. People used to leave restaurants after she did that a couple of times. Me, I always rather proud of her. She banged her chest to get the wind out, her eyes fixed on Emily and her lack of appetite. It was getting to her as well.

  ‘If I’d had a match I could have lit that burp,’ I told her.

  ‘It would have taken Emily’s eyelashes off if you had.’ She wiped her mouth with her frilly sleeve ‘Pass the fish.’

  I passed the fish. She swept half of it on her plate with the rest of the naan, spooned a mouthful in and sucked her fingers. That was the thing about Audrey. Once she started there was no holding her back.

  ‘I bet that hit the spot,’ I said.

  ‘Right where it matters.’ She turned her eyes on Em. ‘You’re not really a curry person, are you dear?’

  I couldn’t let that pass.

  ‘Emily’s more continental than the mysteries of the East,’ I put in. ‘Frog dishes. Spanish. She makes a great paella.’

  Actually her paella was bloody awful, but I was trying my best. We carried on eating for a bit. For quite a time actually. Curries do that. Hog the limelight.

  ‘We went to Spain once, didn’t we Al?’ Audrey said, breaking the silence. ‘Fuengirola.’

  ‘We went to a lot of places once.’ I reminded her. “Never again” was your motto.’

  ‘It’s very overrated, holidaying abroad.’

  She walked into that one.

  ‘Pity you’re going to be living there then for the rest of your days.’

  ‘It’ll be quite different. One, it won’t be a holiday, and two, I’ll be with someone who truly cares for me.’ She pushed her plate aside. Clean as a whistle. ‘Well. Can you do it? It doesn’t have to be far. I’ve been thinking. I can wire Michaela when I’m somewhere safer. She can take it from there. All you have to do is to get me out of here. Then you’ll never have to see me again.’

  Her saying that made my stomach turn over. Never have to see her again? Wasn’t that what I always wanted? Course it was. They were both watching me.

  ‘What if you get caught?’

  ‘I’ll try not to drop you in it. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

  ‘And the letter?’

  ‘I’ll give it to Emily once I’m on board. It’s her letter. She can do what she wants with it. You’re not married to him yet are you, by any unhappy chance.’ Em shifted in her seat.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’

  ‘You’re not me.’

  ‘Ain't that the truth.’ She filled up her glass again, stood up. ‘Right. I’m off to bed. the first guest in your new bed-and-breakfast en suite, though not I’m afraid a paying one. But first.’ She stood up, and filled her vodka glass up again, ‘I’m going to take another long soak. You’ve no idea how much I missed them.’

  I did have as a matter of fact. You can get most things in prison if you know the right people, drink, drugs, even a quick bunk up with whoever, if you pay the screws enough to look the other way, but a nice long soak, with the drink of your choice? In your dreams.

  She left. I cleared up. Em was in bed when I got there, stony face staring up. I slipped in beside her, ran my hand up and down her, the way she liked it, but she was frozen solid.

  ‘It won’t be long Em, I promise. We’ll just get shot of her and then, we’ll get back to normal. Just you and me.’ I put my hand out again, but she pushed it away.

  ‘Couldn’t take your eyes off her,’ she said. ‘All evening. She was the same. You and your fucking curries. Go to her then, if it means so much to you. I won’t stop you.’

  She pulled the duvet round her shoulders, turned her back on me.

  ‘Em. Don’t be silly. Why would I want her, when I got you? Who’s made me happy eh, you or her? Who do I trust, have I trusted these last years? Audrey likes mixing it, she always has. But I don’t want that Em. Why would I?’

  Cause I’d just eaten a curry, that’s why. Back in the old days I’d lie on top of her, feel the curry heat burning up through her skin, her eyes all hot on me like lumps of coal. I could almost feel it there and then, that curry heat, seeping through the walls, infecting the air, almost see her lying there, waiting for me, flat on her back, the duvet thrust aside.

  ‘Em!’ I said again, ‘Why would I?’ But it was no use.

  We lay awake that night, Em and me, but it was like we were in different rooms. I could hear her awake and she could hear me. I could hear her thoughts tumbling about inside her head just like she could hear mine, both thinking about the same thing, the woman snoring her head off in the next room. Her physique might have changed but her tubes were much the same.

  Bali Ha’i.

  SIX

  I woke early. Em wasn’t there, wasn’t in the bungalow either. All her painting stuff had gone from the conservatory, plus clothes from the walk-in as well. I checked outside. Her horrible multi-coloured Japanese runabout was no longer in the drive, no loss in itself, but a bad sign nevertheless. She’d never done that before, buggered off out of it, but then, we’d never rowed like that before. I didn’t like it to tell the truth. Felt like a mooring had been pulled loose, and I didn’t know quite where I was. Audrey and me, we’d rowed all the time, but with Em I’d thought all that carry-on was a thing of the past. But here I was, back in the doghouse again. And what had got me there? Audrey. Some things never change.

  Outside the railway sleeper stood untouched on the pair of trestles. I’d neglected it, and it’s one thing I’ve learnt over the years, when you got a shape waiting in front of you, it doesn’t do to neglect it. It wants you to get on with it, turn it into what it’s going to be. You might think that it’s sitting there not giving a toss either way, but you’d be wrong. It’s impatience. It wants you to get going. Mrs B says that everything transmits a sort of energy of what it is, waves if you like, just like that radar they have on ships and planes. A chair apparently transmits chair-waves, a table, table-waves. According to her everything’s busy bombarding you with what they are. I used to think it was a load of bollocks. I mean vodka throwing out vodka-waves, fair enough. Bored twenty-eight year old barmaids beaming me silly with bored-twenty-eight-year-old-barmaid waves, Christ, I could relate to that. But a chair? Give me a break. Once it was a tree then along came Mr and Mrs Axe and now it’s a chair. End of story. But since I’ve become an artist, things have started to look different. I can see what she means now. Take my chainsaw for instance, that throws out chainsaw waves all the time, and not just itsy bitsy ones like you find down in the cove. They’re big bu
ggers, crashing over me like the sea on Chesil Beach. I can hear them me every time I get close. ‘Start me up you lazy bastard and let me loose,’ it’s shouting. ‘I want to chop something rigid.’ Now, looking at that block of wood, I suddenly knew what I should do with it. Ever since that conversation with Mrs B about St Ives, I hadn’t been able to get a picture of one of mum’s Cornish Pasties out of my mind. I quite fancied sculpting one of those, a six foot Cornish Pasty, gleaming golden brown in the sun. Who wouldn’t want one of those? I could start right away. That wouldn’t half wake Audrey up, and if there was one thing she hated above all, it was being woken up unnecessarily from her beauty sleep. Of course, when I used to wake her up, it was for very necessary reasons indeed, but she never saw it that way. And besides, if Em should come back while I was doing it, she’d see what I was concentrating on, not Audrey but us, our future together, man and woman, painter and sculptor.

  I went up close. To be fair, the railway sleeper wasn’t really the right shape for a Cornish Pasty. It was long enough, but didn’t have the width, and one thing proper Cornish Pasties need is body. They’re like stomachs really, Cornish Pasties, stomachs in pastry, full to the brim with chopped up bits of grub. If I sawed this one in two, I could make two small ones, His-and-Hers Cornish Pasties, as you would have, if you was a couple on holiday looking for something tasty to eat for lunch, but it wouldn’t make the same sort of statement as a big fucker, and as Em never stops telling me, making a statement is what art is all about these days. It doesn’t matter what the statement is, as long as it’s there, shouting in your lughole like a Saturday night piss-head waiting for his fish and chips.

  I turned to find Audrey standing by the conservatory door, watching me close. She had a bath towel wrapped round her, one of the corners folded in neat at the top. Whenever I try to do that, it always falls off the moment I breathe in, but women seem to be able tuck them in and dance the fandango in them, and still they stay on. It must be something to do with what they have up top, but I can’t think why those should help. I mean, it should be the other way round. They should make it worse. Correct me if I’m wrong but there’s more to slip off isn’t there, more to wobble about, make it all unsteady? There’s a slope there too, sometimes quite a steep one. Doesn’t make any sense, but then, where women are concerned, things like the laws of gravity and buying the right type of marmalade go out the fucking window.