Finding Milly

by Nathan Burrows

  ‘I got jumped,’ Jimmy replied. ‘Baseball bat, I think. One slap where you’re looking, another to the other side of my head, and a boot in the ribs while I was man down.’

  ‘Jesus wept,’ Robbie muttered as he looked closely at Jimmy’s head. ‘What is it with kids these days? Can no-one have a ruck without a weapon or a boot any more?’ Jimmy kept silent, figuring that it wasn’t a question that Robbie wanted answering. ‘What did they take?’

  ‘What did he take,’ Jimmy corrected his friend. ‘There was only one of them. Wallet, but there’s nothing in it apart from a bus ticket and bankcards. And a phone.’

  ‘Bastard,’ Joe replied, placing three tumblers on the table. Jimmy glanced at them and realised that they were almost full to the brim. ‘Do you know who it was?’

  ‘No,’ Jimmy said, wincing as Robbie prodded at his head. ‘I’ve got an idea, though.’

  ‘Any dizziness? Double vision? Nausea or vomiting?’

  ‘Yep, all three.’

  ‘He was puking his guts up when I arrived,’ Joe offered.

  ‘That’s because I’d just been booted in the guts,’ Jimmy said. ‘And you were thundering towards me like an obese Batman.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it next time,’ Joe replied with a wry grin.

  ‘Robbie, I’m fine. It’s only a cut to the head.’

  ‘That, and the brain thing,’ Joe continued. Robbie paused and looked at Jimmy.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s got a thing in his head. Terminal and everything.’

  ‘It’s called an aneurysm, Joe,’ Jimmy said. ‘A big one. Not treatable. When it goes, I go with it.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Jimmy,’ Robbie said, his eyes wide. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jimmy sighed. ‘I asked Joe not to say anything, but it turns out he can’t keep a secret.’

  ‘That’s why you’re off sick from the bins, then?’ Robbie asked.

  ‘Fuck me, Robbie,’ Joe laughed. ‘You’re wasted as a bin man. You should be a detective with a brain as sharp as that. Anyhow, Jimmy’s wrong. I can keep a secret.’

  ‘You bloody can’t,’ Jimmy retorted. ‘Not as long as I’ve known you.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something that I have kept a secret, Robbie.’

  ‘Go on, I’m listening,’ Robbie replied, turning his attention to Jimmy’s head.

  ‘I’ve done something that you’ve never done, and never will be able to.’ Jimmy started to smile, knowing what was coming.

  ‘What’s that then, Joe?’

  ‘Your sister.’

  ‘That’s not a secret,’ Robbie chuckled. ‘Your mum told me.’

  ‘When?’ Joe replied.

  ‘This morning. When she was leaving my flat.’

  Jimmy closed his eyes, enjoying the easy banter between two of his oldest friends. He knew exactly what they were doing, which was trying to make light of what he had told them. It wasn’t going to work—nothing could—but Jimmy loved the pair of them for at least trying. Rob stopped prodding Jimmy’s head and walked across the pub to get his holdall. When he opened it, Jimmy could see that he had a whole variety of bandages, salves, and lotions in there. Knowing Robbie, as Jimmy did well, they’d probably been in that bag since the day Robbie had left the Army at least ten years before.

  ‘Jimmy, this cut’s quite deep,’ Robbie murmured a few minutes later when he’d finished dabbing at Jimmy’s head with some saline soaked gauze. ‘I think it might need some stitches.’

  ‘Have you got any in your bag of tricks there?’ Jimmy asked, nodding at the holdall.

  ’No, mate,’ Robbie replied. ‘I couldn’t even sew a button on, let alone stitch up someone’s head.’

  ‘I’m not going to the hospital.’

  ‘Why not?’ Robbie asked. ‘That fit young nurse might be working?’

  ‘I’m not going,’ Jimmy replied. ‘I’m going to get a season ticket for the place before long.’

  ‘Joe?’ Robbie asked. Joe, sitting at the table staring into his whiskey, raised his head and his eyebrows. ‘Have you got any Superglue?’

  ‘Think so,’ Joe replied, lumbering to his feet. ‘You going to glue his mouth shut to stop him talking shite?’

  ‘Don’t tempt me,’ Robbie replied with a grin. ‘I can probably close this cut with it, though.’

  Twenty minutes later, Jimmy was sitting at the table with a bandage wrapped around his head that covered what was almost an entire tube of Superglue over the top of the cut on his head. It turned out that Robbie was a bit out of practise. There’d been an amusing moment when Robbie had glued his finger to Jimmy’s ear, but eventually the ex-Army medic had declared the wound closed.

  ‘Right then, Jimmy,’ Joe said, looking at him with red-rimmed eyes. Unlike earlier that evening, it wasn’t from crying, but from whiskey. Jimmy thought that his eyes probably looked the same. He was tired—to the bone—but couldn’t go just yet. He knew from the look on Joe’s face that he wanted to talk business. So did Robbie, from the looks of him.

  ‘Right then, what?’ Jimmy replied.

  ‘This little scrote that rolled you over.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘You said you had an idea who he was?’

  ‘Not really, mate,’ Jimmy replied. ‘I bumped into him a few days ago, that was all. I think that’s probably why he came after me.’

  ‘How do you mean, “bumped into him”?’ Robbie asked, a sly smile on his face.

  ‘He had a pop at me,’ Jimmy explained. ‘Up at the cemetery. I’d gone up there to visit Hannah, make sure everything was tidy and so on. Just like I do every Saturday.’

  ‘Carry on,’ Robbie said, his smile broadening.

  ‘Him and one of his mates tried to do me over with a knife.’ Robbie’s smile faded as Jimmy said this. ‘So, I had a little word.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’ This was Joe.

  ‘Five foot seven, maybe? Hoodie, trousers half-way down his legs. Looks like a streak of piss.’

  ‘That describes most of the junkies on the estate, Jimmy,’ Joe said. ‘Has he got any distinctive features?’ Jimmy thought for a moment before replying.

  ‘He’s got a broken nose and a couple of black eyes.’ Both Joe and Robbie burst into laughter at Jimmy’s reply. Joe got to his feet and gathered the empty glasses from the table.

  ‘Not surprised he came after you with a baseball bat, mate,’ he said. ‘Good job for him it was only a little word. Same again?’ He looked at Jimmy and Robbie, his eyebrows raised. Jimmy didn’t really want another drink, but said nothing.

  ‘Fill ‘em up, Joe,’ Robbie said. As Joe left the two of them and disappeared behind the bar, Robbie leaned forward.

  ‘You should get terminal more often, mate,’ he whispered. ‘Big Joe’s never normally this generous with the good stuff.’

  By the time Joe returned with yet more whisky, Jimmy was feeling washed out. He had a banging headache, his chest hurt, and every few minutes his heart seemed to leap a few beats before settling back down. All he wanted was to go back home and go to bed, but at the same time, he was enjoying his friends’ company so much that he didn’t want to leave. It was almost as if him getting a kicking—and a diagnosis like the one he had—had brought them together. No doubt helped by Big Joe’s generosity with his whiskey.

  ‘I’ll put the word out,’ Joe said as he sat down. ‘I reckon that a little tosser with a bust nose and a brand-new phone will be fairly easy to find.’ He took a sip of his whiskey. ‘I’ve got a mate who’s got the whole nicked mobile thing in Norwich done up like a kipper.’

  ‘Who’s that, then?’ Robbie asked.

  ‘Tuckswood Kyle,’ Joe replied. Tuckswood was a council estate on the other side of Norwich. It was nowhere near the same level of shittiness as Piling Park, but still somewhere to be careful after dark if you weren’t local. Jimmy knew full well that in Tuckswood, if you weren’t from the estate, you weren’t local and therefore easy game for those that were. ‘He runs the
shops in Norwich that deal with secondhand phones. I’ll have a chat with him, see what’s what, and get him to keep an eye out for the little tosser.’

  ‘Thanks, Joe,’ Jimmy said. ‘But I don’t want your mate getting into any bother with whoever nicked the phone.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Joe chuckled. ‘Tuckswood Kyle doesn’t get into bother. He normally starts it and finishes it. To be honest, he’s a nasty little fucker. Wouldn’t think it to look at him, though. If your man tries to flog that phone anywhere in the city, Kyle’ll know. Which means we’ll know.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jimmy replied with a deep breath. He looked at the whisky glass in front of him, and then at the interior of Joe’s pub. Jimmy wasn’t sure if it was the smacks to the head he’d taken or the whisky he’d drunk, but everything was looking soft at the edges. ‘Would you speak to him for me, Joe?’

  ‘Of course, I will,’ Joe replied. ‘Consider it done.’

  There was a silence between the three men for a few moments. Jimmy wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just unusual. It was Robbie who broke it.

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘This aneurysm thing.’ Jimmy looked at his friend, but Robbie was engrossed in his glass. He was swilling the ambler liquid in it round and round in lazy circles. ‘It’s properly bad, is it? You’re not just milking it?’ Jimmy paused for a few seconds before replying.

  ‘Yep. About as bad as it gets, mate.’ He raised his own glass to his lips and took a large sip, enjoying the burning sensation it caused as it made its way down his throat. That was the thing about good whisky, and the main reason he didn’t drink it that often. The more you drank, the better it tasted. ‘Months, apparently. If I’m lucky.’

  ‘Jesus wept,’ Robbie mumbled under his breath. He looked at Jimmy. ‘How’s Milly taking it?’

  ‘She doesn’t know.’

  ‘How come? She’s your daughter?’ Jimmy picked up his glass again to buy some time before he had to answer Robbie’s question. He drained it, and thought for a moment about asking Big Joe for a refill, but he decided against it. Jimmy had drunk more that evening than he had done in years.

  ‘I’m going to head away, boys,’ he said, trying to put a note of finality in his voice. ‘Been a long evening. I think I’ll get a cab home, though.’

  ‘Do you want me to call one for you?’ Joe asked. ‘Even though you live about three hundred yards away?’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ Jimmy replied, fishing in his pocket for his own phone. He pulled it out and squinted at the screen. It wasn’t as sharp as it normally was. He found the number he was looking for and, watched by Jimmy and Robbie, ordered himself a taxi. ‘Ten minutes,’ he said to the pair of them as he hung up the phone. They were both staring at him. Joe went first.

  ‘I thought the little bastard took your phone?’

  ‘It wasn’t my phone. It was Milly’s,’ Jimmy replied.

  ‘Why did you have her phone? Most kids have them glued to their fingers these days.’ Jimmy stared at Joe, not saying a word. ‘Jimmy? What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing, it’s all good,’ Jimmy replied. He was feeling nauseated.

  ‘Jimmy?’ It was Robbie’s turn.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where is Milly?’

  Jimmy closed his eyes and tried to ignore the swimming sensation in his head. He gave it a few seconds and then opened them again when it was clear that the strange feeling wasn’t going to go away. He flicked his eyes between his two oldest friends before replying.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Chapter 20

  Jimmy wasn’t sure exactly what the cause of his splitting headache was, deciding to ignore for the moment the fact it might be the aneurysm deep within his brain. Was it being clattered round the head with a baseball bat last night? Was it one too many whiskies with Big Joe and Robbie? Or was it the bright sunlight streaming in through the chink in his bedroom curtains? Deciding it was probably a combination of all three, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat for a moment to wait for the world to stop spinning.

  He got to his feet, wishing that he’d had the presence of mind when he’d got in last night to put a glass of water by the bed, and padded into the small bathroom that adjoined his bedroom. An estate agent would probably describe it as a bijou en-suite, but to Jimmy it was a toilet and a sink, nothing more. He relieved himself, filled a glass from the tap so he could take some painkillers for the throbbing in his head, and regarded himself in the mirror.

  ‘You’re getting old, mate,’ he said to his reflection. Jimmy turned his head slowly from side to side, examining the lumps on both sides. Robbie’s drunkenly applied bandage hadn’t lasted the night and now lay balled up on Jimmy’s bedroom floor.

  The cut above his left ear was the worst, and the liberal amount of superglue that Robbie had used to close it had made it look far worse than it probably was. Jimmy lifted his t-shirt and looked at the purple bruising that had developed over his ribcage overnight from the kick to the ribs. ‘Little bastard,’ he muttered under his breath.

  Jimmy walked into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on for his morning cup of tea. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he thought about the day ahead. It was a Sunday, which had always been his favourite day. Milly rarely worked on Sundays, and they always tried to do something together, even if it was only nipping to the pub for a meal. He drummed his fingers on the counter, wondering how he could fill the day productively.

  ‘Bloody fish tank,’ Jimmy mumbled. The stock had all gone—marine livestock was notoriously expensive, and someone had answered his advert on the forum within minutes. One of the forum members had taken almost everything in one go, which Jimmy was pleased as punch about. At least his fish would stay together, not split apart. It was stupid, really. They were fish, and Jimmy doubted they formed relationships with each other like humans, but at least he didn’t have to worry about whether they did. The tank was still sitting in his lounge, full of water and equipment, so if he emptied it today then he could get rid of the kit at some point and ultimately, the tank itself.

  Humming under his breath, Jimmy made his cup of tea and walked into the lounge. He picked up a notepad and started to make a list of things he needed to get done. By the time he had finished his tea, the list was spread over two-and-a-half pages. There were only so many things that he could do on a Sunday though, and he wasn’t planning on doing anything until his headache had gone, or at least retreated. Worst case, he could take some of the painkillers that the hospital had given him. It just seemed a bit extreme to take them for a mostly self-induced headache, that was all.

  Two hours later, Jimmy was sitting in his lounge with the television on in the background, a copy of the Sunday Times spread across his coffee table. He was feeling relatively normal, probably helped by the fresh air from when he had gone to get the paper. He’d enjoyed the walk to the newsagents—it was freezing cold, but the skies were as blue as the summer even though it was November. There was a football match on the television later that he could watch, and he had decided to carry on his and Milly’s normal Sunday routine with a pizza that evening. Even if she wasn’t there, she could come back that evening knowing that it was pizza night, so Jimmy wasn’t going to take any chances. He would order a vegetable supreme with extra mozzarella—Milly’s favourite—and if she didn’t come home, then he might have a couple of slices himself. He would have to pick the mushrooms off first, though. He couldn’t stand mushrooms.

  Jimmy folded the newspaper up ready for the recycling bin and turned his attention to the fish tank. In his shed were the water barrels—large, opaque things that held twenty-five litres apiece and were a bastard to carry at the best of times. Tucked in the cupboard under the tank was a length of hosepipe. He smiled as he remembered trying to teach Milly how to start a syphon for a water change with the hose a few years ago. She’d ended up with a mouthful of dirty fish tank water and had never so much as touched the hosepipe a
gain.

  He fetched the barrels from the shed and lined them up on the lounge floor and was about to get started when the doorbell rang. Surprised, Jimmy looked at his watch. It was just before eight on a Sunday morning. Not a normal time for visitors.

  When he opened the door, Jimmy saw Detective Superintendent Griffiths standing on the doorstep. Jimmy’s heart leapt in his chest at the thought there might be some news, but a quick shake of the policeman’s head dispelled the feeling as quickly as it had arrived.

  ‘Malcolm,’ Jimmy said. ‘Morning.’

  ‘Sorry to turn up so early, Mr Tucker,’ Malcolm replied. ‘But I saw you out walking a little while ago, so knew that you were up and about.’ Jimmy thought back to his walk to the newsagent, and couldn’t remember seeing another living soul apart from an old woman who lived four doors down from him who was walking a mutt that looked more like a rat than a dog. Jimmy had said ‘Good Morning’ to her and ignored her dog as it sniffed at his ankles, but apart from her he had seen no one.

  ‘Come on in,’ Jimmy said, stepping back and opening the door. ‘Kettle’s not long boiled.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Malcolm said as he walked past Jimmy and into the house.

  A few moments later, each with a fresh mug of tea, the two men were sitting in the lounge. In the background, the television played quietly and as they watched the replay of Match of the Day from the night before, Chelsea went one-nil up against Manchester City. Jimmy knew the scores already as he’d read them in the newspaper, but from the look on Malcom’s face, he didn’t.

  ‘Blimey, that was some goal, that was,’ Malcolm said in an easy tone.

  ‘Who do you follow?’ Jimmy asked.

  ‘I don’t really,’ Malcolm replied. ‘I mean, I keep an eye on how Norwich are getting on, but that’s about it.’ Jimmy tried to think of another conversation opener before they got down to business—Malcolm hadn’t turned up at Jimmy’s house at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning without good reason—but there were niceties to get out of the way first. In the end, Malcolm beat him to it. ‘What’s with the fish tank?’ he asked. ‘Not many fish in it, are there?’