The sitting room was gloomy and dark. She felt her way across to the sideboard and turned on the heavy lamp with the floral lampshade. Then she turned on the television and stood in front of it, flicking from channel to channel. There was some news programme on two; politicians arguing about terrorism. She turned it off. She stood in the cold and half-lit room. Why couldn’t she sleep? What was wrong? On the sideboard, a wooden clock with gilt edging ticked surreptitiously. Next to it was an Easter card that had arrived early, written in her cousin Gilda’s spidery hand. On the front was a glowing golden cross. He died and rose again, said the inscription. Cousin Gilda had found God two years ago and sent them cards on every occasion which had a remotely religious significance. Funny that it’s called Good Friday, Joan thought. Why good, when something so bad is supposed to have happened? She shivered. No re-births for her or Alun – for any of them. No rising again. Just blackness. The end.
What is wrong with me? she thought again. She rose to her feet and went over to the sideboard. She picked up Cousin Gilda’s card. As she did, the bulb in the floral lampshade made a small pop-pink sound – and she was plunged into darkness.
In Benny’s dreams, the horses came galloping towards him across a wide open plain. The sound of their hooves was like water rushing in his ears and sometimes the large palomino at the front let out a wild, joyous braying sound. He would awake, then lie in the darkness, confused, listening to the steady hum of traffic on the Kennington Road and the dying fall of a passing police siren. Benny loved his dreams. Even the nightmares were better than the dead moment that came after he awoke and realised where he was: damp, cold, far away.
On that particular Wednesday night, he woke blearily, turning himself over onto his front with the sensation of having rolled over onto a small warm animal, a bit like a hamster. He rolled back and opened his eyes. The interior of his igloo was completely dark. Then he felt the slight dampness in his groin. He closed his eyes again and groaned. The last time he had had a wet dream was the night before the men had came and broken his brother’s legs. It was a bad omen.
He groped for the small, battery-powered torch which Arthur Robinson had given him and turned it on. A weak golden crescent flickered over the large dark loops of the car tyres which formed his home. Moon shadows hung around. Benny crossed himself.
The next day was Thursday, the day before Good Friday. Benny woke early and put his extra set of clothes on, on top of the ones he had slept in. It was time to go down to the little house and wait, again. It was nearly three weeks since Señor Robinson had told him what he wanted doing to the little house and Benny was beginning to doubt the opportunity would occur. He had seen the man go out, and the woman, but never together. Still, today maybe. He always went prepared. He slipped a hammer into the pocket of his jacket, before he pulled on his coat.
Outside, it was only just light. The yard was cold and empty. Benny was always up before the other workers arrived. He trotted across to a pile of lumber covered in tarpaulin which sat against one wall. He swung himself up on top of it, then reached up to grasp the top of the wall. Some time ago, he had chipped away the broken glass which was embedded in cement along the top, to make a space just big enough for him to clutch with both hands and haul himself over. That way, he could come and go as he pleased.
Pictures, pictures, this whole damn cottage is full of pictures of one sort or another. And what good do they do? What are they for? Mrs Hawthorne was standing in her bedroom in Rosewood Cottage, her nose a few inches from the Kandinsky print. What did it mean? That Bob – she blamed him. It didn’t come from her side of the family.
It was early evening. She had got up as soon as she had heard Bob and Joanna leave the house. She had watched them walk down Sutton Street and be swallowed up by the gloom at the end of the road, hand in hand like a couple of silly teenagers. She couldn’t believe her luck. It was ages since they had both gone out together and given her a bit of peace and quiet. They were always spying on her. Grown people; you’d think they’d have more important things to do. But now, at last, they had left her to her own devices for a whole evening. She was going to make the most of it. She was going to have a good nose around, each room systematically, one by one. She was going to find out what they were planning. They thought she was virtually immobile, helpless. They were wrong.
First she did the box room; nothing much there. Then the bathroom, and the cabinet she never got to look in because there was always someone fussing around when she wanted to go to the toilet. There wasn’t much she could make sense of: some bottles of pills and lotions and what looked like a large tube of toothpaste, but when she squeezed a little onto her finger, it was a clear substance.
Their bedroom also proved to be something of a disappointment. Mrs Hawthorne inspected the sheets, but the light from the stairs wasn’t bright enough to see properly and she didn’t want to turn on any more in case they came back unexpectedly and caught her at it. In the corner was Bob’s desk, where he did all his silly jigsaws and suchlike. She groped her way over. By the thin landing light she could just see, in the middle of the desk, his new picture, the one he had been telling her about. She picked it up. Then, grasping it as if for support, she made her way over to the door, to take a proper look.
She was standing at the top of the stairs peering at it when she heard the noise. It came from downstairs, from the kitchen. She froze. Then it came again. It sounded like the slow, harsh scrape of a sash window being lifted.
The first game was over by seven and Bob was the clear winner. He had managed to rid himself of all seven letters and scored the extra fifty. His word had been ablative. After that, the others had lost heart.
Jill rose from the table, good-humouredly considering she had been in the lead until Bob’s unexpected coup, and offered to fix another drink. ‘Shall we put the news on?’ she asked over her shoulder as she went across to their well-stocked booze cabinet. ‘We haven’t heard it yet today.’
‘Nah . . .’ her husband Tom replied. ‘To hell with that old rubbish, I want to beat this bastard at something.’
Bob stretched out his hands and rubbed them together, grinning. ‘You’ll have a fight on your hands mate, I’m on form tonight.’
‘Listen to him,’ said Joanna. ‘I think we should bring him down a peg or two.’ Tom rose from the table to help his wife. Joanna turned to Bob. ‘Don’t get too big for your boots sunshine, or you’ll have me to deal with when we get home.’
Bob smiled and put a hand on top of her head. ‘Isn’t it great to have an evening out?’
‘Not half.’
In another life, Benny might perhaps have been a lawyer, or a brain surgeon. He had intelligence and he had guts. He had instinct. Thus it was that, when something came hurtling at him through the half-gloom of the Appleton’s small kitchen, he knew that he had got it badly wrong and that the cottage was not empty after all. Strangely, he saw horses – paper horses, their heads hanging from an indistinct rectangle. He turned to one side and tried to duck but even as he did his heart caved in and he resigned himself to darkness. Benny knew a nemesis when he saw one.
Mrs Hawthorne had not always been a barmy old lady. She had once been a single mother, a widow, a capable woman with a young child called Joanna. One day, the small Joanna had tripped and landed on her head. Mrs Hawthorne had taken her to the local doctor who had said, ‘As long as she fell on her forehead she’ll be fine. Back of the head or behind the ear, that’s when we’ll worry.’
So it was that as Mrs Hawthorne stood stock still just inside the kitchen door, the picture in one hand and a cast iron saucepan in the other, she knew exactly what she was going to do. She waited as Benny eased himself over the windowsill. The picture first, to make him duck down, then the saucepan. Behind the ear, the doctor had told her, and she thought it strange that she had not realised all those years ago how useful that information would one day be.
Bob and Joanna stood in the kitchen for a full three minute
s before either of them spoke. They had taken in the situation but stood in silence still, taking it in some more. The window was open. A hammer lay beneath it. Face down on the floor beside the hammer was a small dark man in scruffy clothing with blood seeping from the back of his head. He was dead. The blood had spread in a puddle and was leaking down into the cracks in their speckled linoleum. On the other side of the corpse lay Bob’s new découpage picture: the Horses of the Apocalypse they had indeed proved to be.
On a kitchen chair next to Benny sat Mrs Hawthorne, clutching the handle of a cast iron saucepan. She was gibbering. Her eyes were glassy and spittle ran down her chin. Her pink hair-net was hanging from one ear. ‘Half a farthing . . .’ she burbled. ‘Half a farthing, threepence ha’penny for a twist. Twist, you used to get. Paper bags. They used to stick together. Jam or biscuit, not both. We chose each night, jam or biscuit.’
‘What are we going to do?’ said Bob, eventually. Joanna glanced across at her mother, then at Benny’s corpse. ‘Bury him in the wasteground?’ she suggested.
‘Joanna!’
‘Oh why not?’ grumbled Joanna. ‘Look at him. It’s obvious what’s gone on. He’s a burglar. And a tramp. Just look at him. Probably thought we were easy pickings. Now my mum’s going to get done for murder.’
‘He’s still a person love.’ said Bob. ‘Poor little sod.’
‘Oh, I know.’ Joanna folded her arms. ‘Do you know what they do, the tramps, or at least what Tom said they do? I don’t know if it’s true. He said they steal dogs, to use as hot water bottles. They cuddle up to them at night, then when the dogs die and get cold they go out and get another one.’
‘Maybe that’s why he wanted your mum.’
‘Well he got more than he bargained for,’ said Joanna. ‘Here, pass me that tea-towel. Let’s see if we can soak up some of this blood before it ruins the linoleum.’
‘Odd grapes,’ gibbered Mrs Hawthorne, ‘from Surrey Docks. Half an hour, you could have a bag. Jam or biscuit.’
‘Oh shut up you mad old bat,’ said Joanna.
Bob put his coat back on and went to ring for the emergency services. ‘Which one do I ask for?’ he said to Joanna, stopping at the door on his way out. ‘I’ve never done it before.’
‘The one that deals with violent, psychotic old ladies,’ said Joanna, tying his scarf round his neck for him. ‘They probably have a specialist service for that these days.’
After he had gone, Joanna went back into the kitchen and gazed down at Benny. He had fallen on his front but his head was turned sideways. His eyes were open and his face wore a resigned expression. He had dirty, stubbled cheeks, as if there wasn’t enough nutrition in them to grow a proper beard – a face like a wasteground, Joanna thought. Bob’s right, you are a poor sod. I wonder what your name was. I wonder if there is anyone who’ll even notice you’ve gone, let alone care. She sighed. The sash window was still open and there was a cold breeze blowing in. It was only when she turned to close it that she realised that Mrs Hawthorne was now stiff and silent on the kitchen chair. Joanna stopped and stared. Then she said, out loud but softly, as her lower lip gave the faintest tremble, ‘Oh, Mum . . .’ She leaned over and prised the bloodied saucepan from her mother’s rigid fingers.
The heart that had withstood a world war, widowhood, a hysterectomy, the amputation of a finger and the loss of her beloved dog Pip – had finally given out. Mrs Hawthorne’s last words had been, ‘Cake. Fruit cake. More absorbent than Victoria sponge.’ But Joanna and Bob had been in the hallway so there had been no one there to hear.
When Bob returned, they made a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table to wait. Bob sat in his usual place, near the window. Close to his feet was Benny. Joanna had covered him with the old rug from the hall cupboard, the one they had bought in Walton on the Wolds. Joanna sat opposite her husband, sipping her drink, while her mother’s rapidly cooling corpse sat at the end of the table, sagging slightly in its chair.
‘Another cup of tea Mum?’ said Joanna.
‘Joanna!’ scolded Bob.
Eventually, the police arrived. Bob let them in. Two young officers followed him into the kitchen, regarded Mrs Hawthorne and nodded sympathetically at Joanna, who was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
‘I thought the ambulance would be here first,’ Bob remarked, neutrally. ‘Thing is, the old lady’s copped it too in the meantime.’
One of the policemen went over to Benny and lifted the rug to peer underneath it. He winced.
The other police officer removed his peaked hat to smooth his hair back over his head. ‘I’m afraid the ambulance service is a bit stretched tonight sir,’ he said. ‘They’re mostly up at Victoria.’
Joanna lowered her tissue and looked at him. ‘Victoria?’
‘Middle of the rush hour, day before Easter.’ The policeman was shaking his head.
Joanna looked at Bob. ‘Oh God . . .’ she said.
The last day before a bank holiday always had an end of term feel, but to William that Thursday afternoon on the second floor of the Capital Transport Authority’s Victoria offices felt more like the end of the world. All the other surveyors seemed to be out on visits. Even Raymond, who was mostly office-based, had disappeared after lunch wearing a self-important smile. It was towards the end of the afternoon that Richard came out of his office and beckoned him over. William was a little startled. Richard had been so quiet that he hadn’t even realised he was in the building.
Richard had a little job for him. William sighed inwardly, glancing out of the office window at the light rain which speckled the glass with white and silver.
‘Richard, I’m not sure anyone will be there. There isn’t a site phone so I can’t check. Can’t it wait until Tuesday?’
Richard looked at William coolly. A word came into William’s head. Blank. Richard’s face was completely blank. ‘I need it done this afternoon. I know it’s late. I’d like you to go now.’
Annette was also thinking about the bank holiday weekend. It was not going to be easy. Holidays never were. She would sit at home and picture William buying a chocolate egg for his young son. How they must draw parents together, those small acts of giving, the mutual treats. Very bonding, they must be. She had no plans. It would be like four days in the wilderness but perhaps, at the end, she would emerge whole: redeemed. At least, for four days, she would not be sitting at a desk wondering whether or not William was about to walk around the corner.
William walked around the corner. ‘I’ve got to go out on site,’ he said. ‘I’ve put my phone through.’
Joan was sitting at her desk, opposite Annette. She looked up. ‘Have a good Easter, if you don’t come back.’
‘Thanks, you too,’ William said. ‘Bye Annette.’
‘Bye.’
After he had gone, Joan picked up her handbag and said, ‘I’ve just got to nip over the road and get a pint of milk. I won’t be a minute.’
‘Take your coat, it’s raining,’ said Annette.
Annette pushed herself back from her desk. Less than an hour to go. The phone rang. It was Reception. The third floor was empty and everyone in Finance had gone as well. Their department was the only one with people left in the building. They were going to lock up and close the front door. After she put down the phone, Annette realised Joan would have to use the code to get back in. She began to tidy up her desk, put her stapler and holepunch away, gather up scattered biros and drop them into the red plastic carton next to her computer. Half-way through, she remembered that she had borrowed a calculator from Dennis round the corner. She took it round but their section had all gone home. Their offices were deserted. They had turned the lights off. She took the calculator back to her desk and locked it in her drawer.
The telephone rang again. Annette answered. ‘Good afternoon, building section.’
The woman’s voice on the other end of the phone sounded strained, slightly distant. ‘I’m trying to get through to William Bennett.’ Automatically, Annett
e reached out for a biro. ‘I’m sorry, he’s out on site at the moment. Can I take a message?’
‘When will he be back?’
The tone of the question – anxious, alert – froze Annette’s hand, the biro poised above her notepad. ‘I don’t know, I’m not sure whether he’s coming back this afternoon.’ She allowed a slight pause then repeated, with an edge of insistence in her voice, ‘May I take a message?’
The pause was echoed on the other end of the line. ‘It’s his wife.’
I know, thought Annette. I know who you are. And what’s more, you know who I am too.
‘I’m sorry . . .’ Alison said, then there was a scratching sound as she placed a hand over a mouthpiece. In the background, there were muffled male voices. Then the high-pitched tones of a child. The hand was removed. ‘I’m sorry,’ repeated Alison, ‘but I have to get hold of my husband. Now, as soon as possible. Is it possible to contact him on site?’
Annette thought her own voice sounded unnaturally normal. ‘He’s got a bleeper. I could try paging him. You can’t send a message though, it just bleeps and he rings in to the office. I don’t know if he’ll have it turned on.’ She allowed herself a moment of pleasure at her superior knowledge of William’s habits. ‘He forgets sometimes.’
‘Will there be a phone where he’s going? Can you tell him to ring me straightaway?’
‘It depends. If he’s on the tube it won’t go off until he gets above ground. If he’s still on route he might just turn round and come back to the office.’
‘Well, when he does,’ Alison’s voice had become very measured, ‘tell him to ring home immediately. It’s an emergency. Tell him it isn’t Paul. He’s fine. We’re both fine. But it’s an emergency.’ She paused, then added, as if she was afraid that Annette would not believe her, ‘The police are here. Tell him to ring home straightaway.’
‘Yes. Of course.’
There was a pause. Annette waited. Then she heard movement in the background. Alison said briskly. ‘Thank you,’ and hung up.
Crazy Paving Page 23
