by Lynda Renham
‘Are you up? I thought I saw your light go on.’
This must be for someone else. I blink to see the name of the sender. Angie. Who the hell is Angie? More importantly, what is she doing texting my boyfriend at three in the morning? Even more importantly why has my boyfriend got an Angie in his phone contacts?
I rest my hand on the stupid telescope and push my eye against it expecting to see Pluto or Mars, or something astrological that Darren’s been gazing at, but instead my eyes feast on a big-busted redhead doing a slow striptease, and a bad one at that. Not quite the astrological vision I was expecting. Her eyes seem to lock onto mine and she winks seductively. I’m so shit-faced that it takes me a while to realise what’s going on. The two-timing shagging bastard. He’s at it again. I grab his phone and tap a return text.
‘Miss you,’ I type.
The response is immediate.
‘Miss you too. Even though it’s only been a couple of hours since I saw you. I can’t sleep. I’ve been cuddled up with one of your shits.’
God, there’s an image. I really hope she means shirts. I can’t believe it. How long has the sod been two-timing me, again? Tears prick my eyes as I watch her drop her sexy nightie. I swing the telescope away from her block angrily and find myself focused on another flat where two men seem to be having an argument. I try to focus the telescope better and then realise the blurriness is caused by my tears. Damn Darren. What the hell is wrong with him? Or more to the point what is wrong with me that he has to keep shagging around? One of the men is pacing up and down and waving his arms angrily, shaking a piece of paper he holds in one of them. I try to zoom in on his face but he’s moving around too much. The other has his back to the window. He’s wearing a dark jacket and a black, red and white striped scarf. This is ridiculous. I should be confronting Darren, not watching two strangers having an argument. I’m about to turn away when, oh my God, the man waving the paper throws himself at the man with the scarf and now has his hands around his throat. This is no lovers’ tiff. I can hardly bear to look. I stare horrified as the one with his back to the window breaks free and pulls something from his coat pocket. Jesus Christ, it’s a gun, and I’m not talking water pistol. I grip the telescope to keep myself upright. The other man sinks to his knees. He’s pointing at something but I can’t see what it is. There is a flash from the gun and I jump out of my skin. You’d think he’d shot me.
‘Oh God,’ I groan.
‘What are you doing Babe?’ mumbles Darren, scaring the life out of me. I spin around taking the telescope with me and almost concussing myself.
‘Someone’s got shot, in the flats over there …’
I am interrupted by his snoring. He has fallen back to sleep. I grab the telescope and try to find the flat again. Where the hell is it? Did I imagine it? I can’t even find stripping Angie. Did I imagine her too? But then I see him, the man with the gun. He’s standing by a painting of a Buddha. My heart races as I watch him look around, the gun still in his hand. Oh sod a dog, he’s only gone and killed the guy. I try to focus in on his face but my hands are shaking so much that I turn the thing out of focus instead. I finally get it back and then everything is too close. Damn it. I’m looking straight into someone’s eyes, blurry eyes admittedly, but eyes all the same. Oh shit. I let out a little scream but Darren continues to snore. My heart thumps in my chest. Did he see me? I wait a few seconds and hesitantly peek through it again. There is no sign of the man now. Oh Jesus, is he coming after me? I lift my head cautiously from the telescope and look over at the block and recognise it as Somerville Place. It’s impossible to see anything from this distance, but all the same, you probably can’t miss the window with the sodding telescope in it can you? That Buddha isn’t giving out much karma is it? I should phone the police, but then again, what do I tell them? Perhaps I shouldn’t get involved. The last thing I want is the police around here, what if they spot my tyres again? And after all, the neighbouring flats are sure to report the gunshot, and I don’t know the exact address. I’ll get done for wasting police time knowing my luck. To top it all, I’m half pissed, who’s going to believe me? And what if I report it and the murderer comes after me? He could be a drug baron, or a Mafia Godfather. I’ll be hunted down as a witness. I’ll probably end up on a witness protection programme and will never see Darren again. I’ll be given a false name and a new life. Actually, that doesn’t sound all bad does it? I don’t know what to do, I’ve had far too much to drink and I really can’t think clearly. I rush to check the door is locked. I’m being ridiculous. There is no way he’ll be able to work out where our apartment is. I need to talk to Sylvie. After all, she’s the expert on murder and all things criminal. Darren turns over in the bed. Tears prick my eyelids and run down my cheeks. How could he do this to me again? Once was painful enough but to do it twice. He’s lucky I don’t have a gun or there’d be two murders tonight. I creep back to bed and count the minutes to morning while re-running the murder scene in my head and keeping one ear cocked in case someone tries to break in.
Chapter Eight
I’m still in a state of shock the following morning. I wake early and the memory of Darren’s infidelity hits me like a hammer. Although of course, the hammering in my head could have more to do with my hangover. How could he? I feel as though my whole life has disintegrated in a matter of hours.
I lift the knocker of Sylvie’s little rented terrace. Don’t tell me she’s still in bed. Mind you, it is only eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. I’d also left two-timing Darren snoring in bed. I didn’t sleep a wink and when I did I just dreamt of Angie’s tits and the murder. Over and over again and trust me no one should have to see Angie’s tits over and over again.
‘Sylvie, it’s me Roxie. Open the door.’
Not even a curtain twitches. Well, that’s not strictly true. They do, it’s just not Sylvie’s. This is all I need. The morning after the night before is usually bad enough. But the morning after the night before where you witnessed a murder and your boyfriend’s mistress stripping is ten times worse. My head thumps unmercifully.
‘Sylvie, please open the door, I need to talk to you,’ I call, hitting the knocker and hammering on the door.
‘Where’s the fire?’ calls a man from an upstairs window of the house next door. ‘It’s Sunday morning. Ever heard of a lie in?’
What I wouldn’t do for one of those.
‘Sorry, I’m just trying to wake someone.’
‘And you’ve succeeded,’ he snaps, slamming the window closed.
I tap on the door again.
‘Sylvie, please open up.’
The door swings open and I come face to face with Sylvie’s flatmate, Felix.
‘Darling,’ he says calmly, ‘from Monday to Friday my body is a temple. From Saturday to Sunday, a ruin, so why are you making it worse?’
‘You do look a bit rough,’ I say.
‘And you look like death sweetie, is it Versace? I must say the look suits you.’
Gay men, they can be so cutting can’t they?
‘Is Sylvie here? I really need to talk to her about something. We were out for Hal’s do last night and when I got home there …’
Felix holds his hand up.
‘You don’t have to give me War and Peace love, a novella will do. She’s still asleep, or at least was. We all were until you came hammering on the door like the bloody drug squad.’
‘Jesus wept Roxie, do you know what the time is?’ Sylvie asks as she pops her sleepy head around the door. ‘The wedding isn’t until three o’clock …’
‘Blimey, does it take you that long to beautify yourself,’ mocks Felix.
‘I … Oh Sylvie,’ I begin and then burst into tears.
‘Don’t stand at the door love, it looks common,’ says Felix as he drags me in.
‘What the hell is going on Rox? You look like shit,’ adds Sylvie.
‘I feel like I’m falling apart Sylvie. Darren is shagging some redhead from Eastlea Tow
ers, although between you and me if that’s her true colour then I’m Joan Collins, not that I could give a flying duck. About her hair colour I mean. I do give a fuck about her shagging my boyfriend and to top it all, I think I saw a murder last night when looking through Darren’s telescope.’
Her mouth gapes open.
‘Shit, no wonder you’re upset. What did the police say?’ Sylvie asks.
‘I don’t think the police would be interested in my love life,’ I say miserably.
‘What did the police say about the murder?’
‘Jesus peanuts, you actually saw a murder?’ gasps Felix. ‘Was it a crime of passion?’
I wish they’d stop going on about the murder. Doesn’t anyone care that Darren has been unfaithful again?
‘I haven’t told the police,’ I say, ignoring Felix.
They gape at me.
‘But …’ begins Felix.
‘What do you mean, you haven’t told them? That’s the first thing you do when you witness a murder isn’t it?’
‘It seems you bang on your best friend’s door,’ says Felix.
‘The thing is, I didn’t actually see the murder as such. Anyway, if I go to the police now they might be suspicious of me, for leaving it so late. Do you have any aspirin? My head is killing me.’
‘You said you saw the murder through Darren’s telescope,’ Sylvie reminds me.
‘I saw two men having an argument and then one of them gripped the other around the throat. At first I thought it was a lovers’ tiff …’
‘An easy mistake to make,’ scoffs Felix. ‘After all, lovers are always throttling each other aren’t they?’
Sylvie glares at him.
‘Then they pulled apart and the other man was waving a gun around. He had his back to me and …’ I hesitate as I struggle to remember what I saw. Felix stands frozen at the sink, his ‘Gay as Fuck’ mug overflowing with soapy water. Sylvie nods at me encouragingly.
‘The other man was pointing at something but I couldn’t see what it was. Then there was a flash. I presumed it was from the gun …’
‘Did you hear it go off?’ says Sylvie excitedly.
‘She hasn’t got bionic ears has she?’ Felix says, rolling his eyes.
Sylvie groans.
‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking, go on, what happened next?’
‘I’m not sure. I panicked and my hands slipped from the telescope and …’
‘I wouldn’t like to be you under cross-examination,’ says Felix. ‘Denzel Washington would make mincemeat out of you.’
‘Jesus wept Felix, can you shut up for five minutes.’
I drop my head onto the table. I can’t believe this is happening. My life was normal yesterday. Okay, not completely normal. Parents into long sex sessions, a boyfriend who watches other women strip through a telescope and fantasising about my boss isn’t exactly normal is it? But you know what I mean. It was far more normal than today is turning out to be.
‘Go on,’ encourages Sylvie.
‘When I turned back the other guy had gone. The one with the gun was still there but … but … well the other guy must have been on the floor, right?’
Felix’s mouth moves but nothing comes out of it.
‘Christ,’ says Sylvie finally.
‘I think he saw me,’ I say, my voice trembling. ‘The murderer was looking right at me. I could see his eyes. It was all blurry but …’
‘He couldn’t have seen you,’ she says with conviction.
‘Really?’
Well, Sylvie is the expert isn’t she?
‘You can surely see a telescope sitting in our window,’ I say worriedly.
‘Not from that distance I wouldn’t have thought,’ Sylvie assures me.
‘I’ll make us all a cup of sweet tea. That’s supposed to be good for shock,’ says Felix.
‘We haven’t had a shock,’ says Sylvie tiredly.
‘You speak for yourself love.’
‘Would you recognise the guy with the gun if you saw him again?’ asks Sylvie, sounding like DCI Stella Gibson.
‘Only by his scarf, it had red, white and black stripes like a Where’s Wally scarf,’ I say. ‘I never actually saw his face properly. Oh, he had dark brown hair. How can I go to the police with that? They’ll laugh in my face. We did drink a lot last night.’
‘At least a Where’s Wally scarf should be easy to spot in a crowd,’ Felix quips. He places three mugs of tea onto the table and adds sugar to them.
‘Do you know what block of flats it was and what floor?’ asks Sylvie.
I sigh.
‘It was Somerville Place I think but I’m not sure. I remember the curtains were red though.’
‘With blood?’ gasps Felix.
‘No, you plonker,’ says Sylvie. ‘And anyway, believe it or not when someone is shot there isn’t a lot of blood. Not once they’re dead anyway. The blood starts to clot. I read that in one of Patricia Cornwell’s books. Fascinating. Did you know that …?’
‘That’s about all I want to know,’ says Felix, turning white.
‘We have to go there,’ I say. ‘I’ve thought it all through. We can go to all the flats facing south. We can tell them we’re a new cleaning agency and offering a free trial. That way we can get into the flat and …’
Sylvie holds up a hand.
‘Hang on, are you suggesting we give these people an hour of free cleaning?’
I shrug.
‘How else do we get in?’
‘I can see how you’ve thought it through,’ chips in Felix.
‘We can work out what floor by how high or low you had the telescope. If it was level with your flat then it will be the tenth floor won’t it? If it was lower it’s likely to be one or two floors below and obviously if higher then the eleventh or twelfth floor,’ she says.
I give her an impressed nod.
‘Watching CSI hasn’t been a total waste of your time has it?’ says Felix.
‘It was definitely pointing down, round about the seventh floor I would guess,’ I say.
‘Chances are the police are all over it. Someone must have heard the gunshot,’ says Sylvie thoughtfully.
‘I’d be a lot happier if we went over there,’ I say.
‘Absolutely,’ agrees Sylvie. ‘It’ll take me and Felix ten minutes to get ready.’
‘What?’ says a shocked Felix. ‘I’m not going. I tend to avoid men who throttle me.’
‘No one is going to throttle you and anyway, there’s safety in numbers.’
‘That’s news to me. I always thought two’s company and three’s a crowd.’
‘Felix, if Roxie and I need to investigate then we will need a lookout, and that’s going to be you,’ she snaps.
‘We could get shot,’ he protests. ‘You have no idea what kind of people live in those flats. I think Darren should go. After all, if he gets shot at least he would have deserved it.’
I feel tears begin to well up again. I’m trying really hard not to think about Darren. Five minutes later and we’re ready to go. Sylvie throws a rucksack over her shoulders and Felix and I look at it suspiciously.
‘What’s in there?’ I ask.
‘Everything we need to investigate a crime scene,’ she says confidently. ‘Don’t worry I have disposable gloves and masks for everyone.’
‘Darling, I don’t need either. I’m not touching anything,’ says Felix.
‘That Great Zehilda was pretty useless if she didn’t see this coming,’ says Sylvie, heading to the door.
I freeze as I remember Great Zehilda’s words: You know something. You will know something. You’ve seen something haven’t you? Or you will see something. She was on the ball there wasn’t she? I saw a lot of things, not least of all Busty Redhead’s breasts. I’ll kill Darren when I get home.
Chapter Nine
The three of us stare at Somerville Place. A group of lads kick a football at the entrance and occasionally stare at us.
‘We now need to
work out which flat it was,’ she says thoughtfully.
I struggle to remember whether I moved the telescope down or up after seeing Angie doing her striptease. After all, I was in shock. If Angie’s tits weren’t enough, I then went on to see the murder. It’s no surprise my brain has shut down.
‘I don’t think I moved the telescope at all,’ I say, ‘I think I just swivelled.’
‘So the flat is on the seventh floor,’ she says excitedly, rummaging through her rucksack and pulling out a pair of binoculars. What is she doing? Isn’t it enough that we’re loitering in an old Fiesta with bald tyres and a dodgy exhaust, not to mention the cracked windscreen, without Sylvie watching the flats with a pair of binoculars. We’ll be accused of being perverts next. Mind you, Felix doesn’t look far off one with his black overcoat, fedora hat, and multicoloured silk scarf.
