Hot to Kill

by Linda Coles

  “Now it’s your turn to tell – what’s that mischievous grin for?”

  So, even though her tale wasn’t nearly so exciting as Rebecca and Todd’s antics, Madeline spilled the whole silly story, first of being wound up by a man in a cloth cap, and then the iced buns and the naughty finger.

  “You did what?” Rebecca spluttered. “That’s so wicked, Maddy. It’s a wonder no one saw you. Do you know her?” She seemed a little surprised at the actions of her otherwise sane friend, and Madeline, as she spoke the words aloud, was a little surprised too.

  “No. Never seen her before in my life, but I just felt so wound up, like I could have exploded, and after that slow bugger in the car that wouldn’t move over… Then she made me wait while she went for a sodding box of Milk Tray. I mean, Milk Tray – had she no taste? I was gunning for a fight someplace. I just chose her iced buns.” The vision of two iced buns duelling out in a forest surrounded by green fields sprang into her mind and she smiled despite herself. “Not quite as exciting as your week, but excitement nonetheless. Do you think bad of me?”

  “Of course not, silly. I totally understand when the anger rages come. It’s the hot flushes I can’t bear, that sticky heat that bursts from nowhere, though I get less of them now with these tablets the doc’s got me on. You should try them.”

  Here we go again.

  “I call them temperature tantrums,” Madeline said, “because they sort of stamp their feet as they fire up, and make me so damn hot and flustered. I’m bloody fed up with them – and before you mention chemicals again, no.”

  “Temperature tantrums, eh? That’s a great name for them.” Rebecca threw her beautiful head back as she laughed, causing a couple of heads to turn and look.

  Madeline bit into her toastie, melted cheese squeezing out the sides as she did so. “Oh, bliss. There’s something about melted cheese, all the grease that makes it taste so good.” She grabbed another fry, dunked it in ketchup and bit into it.

  “Oh, and the digger has finally been delivered. Just need the landscaper now. Only been waiting sodding weeks, but it looks a bit more promising now, like the pond will finally get dug and I can sit and admire it for the rest of the summer. The digger’s sat in the back garden ready to go, sort of taunting me that it’s there but not actually doing anything as yet. I’m tempted to climb up and have a go myself.”

  “Now that I’d like to see. Do you think you could? Would you know what to do?”

  “How the hell would I know? I can barely drive a food processor. Any more than two knobs or dials and that’s me done.” They both laughed. “No,” she went on, “I expect I could if I really had to but I’ll wait for him to do it.”

  “Can’t Gordon have a go, then? Seems silly it just sitting there.”

  Madeline thought of Gordon. The closest he got to dirt was if there was a bit of mud on the path from her boots or the wheelbarrow. Or the hallowed ground at Crystal Palace. “I’ve a better idea: why don’t you come over and have a go if you think it’s going to be easy?”

  Rebecca picked up another fry and nibbled it like the last one. Mutely she shook her head.

  “No, I didn’t think so,” said Madeline resignedly. “Anyway, it’s not terribly important. He’ll come soon enough.” Thinking, twitching both eyebrows up and down, she added, “Maybe he’ll bring his son?” and they both burst out laughing again.

  Chapter Five

  Sunday

  Ruth had entered their lives when she was fifteen years of age. Gordon and Madeline already had two sons and were shocked to find out they had a daughter too. Well, actually, that Gordon had a daughter and Madeline now had a stepdaughter from a one-night stand, a product of Gordon’s early sexual adventures as a young man without many condoms. Ruth had grown up with her mum, but as she’d got older and more and more dissatisfied with her lot, living without much money, she’d set out to find Gordon, her natural father. It probably hadn’t been too hard because both her mum and Gordon really hadn’t moved far from each other after that single night of passion up a nightclub toilet wall in Croydon. They’d both been young and stupid, and Ruth had been the outcome. Of course, when she’d come knocking with the idea Gordon was her father, it had caused a great deal of upset, and they’d made sure of her claim and of the situation by having her and Gordon take a DNA test. It was a positive match. Gordon was indeed her dad.

  Their twin boys, Andrew and Michael, were okay with it to start with. It was a bit of a novelty to suddenly have a fifteen-year-old stepsister hanging around the house, and it took a bit of settling in when she stayed over. Just practicalities like using the bathroom or her walking about in her underwear or the language she sometimes used in front of them all – she’d obviously been allowed a pretty free rein at her other home with her mum. Tanya had obviously been quite liberal. Madeline had never known her before, but not long after Ruth had come knocking, Tanya had shown up too. Just to chat, she said. Suddenly having a stepdaughter, finding out Ruth’s real dad was Gordon, did indeed need a bit of a chat to straighten the kinks out. Tanya seemed all right, really. Her one-night stand with Gordon was just a blip in her life many moons ago, and on the surface she seemed like a good mother.

  As time moved on and Gordon and Madeline had got to know their new daughter, Ruth had asked if she could spend more time with them. Tanya wanted to move out to France with her latest boyfriend and run a bar, and Ruth didn’t want to go and leave all her mates. In the last couple of years of school, it seemed the sensible thing to do, and they’d said yes. How the hell they’d all got through those years without killing each other she’d never know. As soon as Ruth had moved in, things changed, like a switch flicking on and staying on – forever. The foul language, moody sulks, hidden alcohol and staying out after curfew were a constant battle, and everyone in the house felt it. Poor Gordon. He felt the worst, that it was his entire fault – and yes, a big chunk of it was his fault: he had created the little cow in the nightclub loo – but he hadn’t had a hand in raising her or influencing her in any way. They’d all sympathised with each other, except Ruth, who was either blissfully unaware of the havoc she was wreaking or chose not to see it. Madeline had felt like getting drunk every night and resorting to violence.

  I still feel like that now. Who am I kidding?

  As the years rolled on, Ruth and Madeline’s relationship had strengthened somewhat, but they were not particularly close. Ruth had always had an edge that Madeline really tried to soften and warm to, but she was sure the girl thought Madeline the dumbest woman in the world. She certainly took any opportunity to belittle her. Comments in passing like “Your roots are due. Why don’t you get them done?” or “I saw a nice dress in town that would look really slimming on you” were common. One of her more recent digs was, “Why don’t you get a nicer job than working in that café?” They were subtle, but Madeline got the messages; she got them all. Ruth thought that because she’d made a name for herself in her industry, all women should be as brave and strong as she was, be motivated to achieve something and be less dowdy. But Madeline wasn’t like that. She was Madeline Simpson: not Ludwig Bemelmans' Madeline, or Madeline Kahn, but Madeline Simpson. And quite happy as she was, though wouldn’t mind losing a chunk of weight off her middle. And her legs could do with toning, but whose don’t? Despite everything, they’d grown a bit closer since Ruth had moved out at age nineteen, and while they still had work to do, they were making headway with each other.

  It was Sunday, and Ruth was coming over for Sunday lunch. Madeline was cooking. Even though it was warm outside she had a joint of beef roasting in the oven and was in the process of making an apple pie. She’d been fancying some fresh apple pie for a week now. Those sweet imitation ones you could buy from the bakers, sort of Mr. Kipling–like, were just not the same; they didn’t hit the right spot. Gran used to say, “They’ll be alright with custard on,” but that applied to anything sweet that was either burnt, stale or shop bought depending on what you’d done to it.
Hot, thick custard was the fixer for anything that needed fixing. Much like the all-important cup of tea.

  “Maybe Ruth will bring a boyfriend for lunch one of these days,” she said to the kitchen window as she peeled apples. Now that Ruth was twenty-eight, Madeline thought they should have seen one or two men drift in and out of Ruth’s life at some point, but no, nothing. “Or even a girlfriend?” In fact, she’d often wondered if Ruth was gay – not that it mattered but she just wanted to know. Her mind wandered a little, the apple and knife in each hand at a standstill. “And what is the politically correct word these days for a female that is gay? Is it lesbian, as in LGBT, or does gay encompass all of those that prefer their own sex to the opposite? So why have LGBT? Why not just GBT?” The window never answered.

  She’d voiced her thoughts to Gordon, who thought she was just being silly and said, “Of course she’s had boyfriends.” But when Madeline asked him to name even one, he couldn’t and had gone back to his newspaper to avoid any further conversation about it. Madeline suspected he suspected. A woman notices these things more so than a man and doesn’t mind bringing them up, and on this occasion, she knew she was right. A part of her wanted to tell Ruth she suspected her sexual preference and they were cool with it, but she could only imagine the response back, something along the likes of “What the hell are you on about? I’m just busy, not gay!” or, “So what? I’m gay – you’ve only just worked it out?” No point in going there and upsetting the status quo.

  From her vantage point peeling apples at the kitchen sink, she could see out into the large garden and the fields beyond. A couple of dog walkers were out for a stroll, with their charges running around chasing sticks or balls that were thrown their way. She had picked up another Bramley apple and started to peel it when she heard Ruth’s voice through the now-open front door, chatting to Gordon about the journey over. Madeline turned to smile her ‘hello’ as Ruth came into the kitchen. They did the air kiss thing and Madeline turned back and carried on with the rest of the apples.

  “Apple pie by any chance?” Ruth asked hopefully.

  “Certainly is,” she said triumphantly, turning back to her. She knew it was Ruth’s favourite and a great way to keep her on side.

  “Bloody marvellous. Not had that for ages. Custard or cream?” Madeline again knew her preference depending on the season.

  “Cream of course, unless you’d prefer custard today? I can easily make some.”

  “Cream is perfect, thanks,” she replied thoughtfully, and Madeline watched her as she opened the fridge, put a bottle of pink liquid in and took a clear bottle of liquid out.

  “I brought a bottle of rosé because I wasn’t sure what was for lunch and rosé goes with both sides in my book, so we can open that when it’s chilled a bit more. Can I open this white in the meantime? I’m gagging for a drink.”

  She’s chatty and pleasant today. Wonder what’s on her mind.

  Madeline watched as Ruth read the label with a look of confusion on her face. It dawned on her what Ruth was querying.

  “I’m not sure what I picked up on Friday. I just grabbed one quickly, in a bit of a rush. Is it any good?”

  Ruth carried on studying the label and replied with a simple, “Just not your normal Chardonnay, that’s all. It’s a dry Riesling. We’ll soon see what it tastes like.” She unscrewed the top off the bottle. Sticking her nose close to the neck, she sniffed loudly, though Madeline thought she wouldn’t have smelled much from doing it like that. She opened the cupboard and took glasses out. There was the familiar glug glug sound as the pale, almost clear, liquid poured into them.

  “Here you go, Madeline. Try that.”

  Madeline wiped her hands on her apron and turned to take the glass Ruth was holding out to her, then took a long sip. It was crisp and cold as it slid down the back of her throat, warming her insides as it went. She took another, smaller sip and tasted it properly.

  “Now that is quite nice,” she said, pleased. “What do you think, Ruth?”

  “Not bad at all. Well picked, Madeline, well picked.” Ruth left the kitchen with a glass for Gordon in one hand and hers in the other. Approval, mused Madeline.

  Ruth was quite a striking woman, even from behind. At nearly six foot she had her father’s height as well as his blonde-brown wavy hair, and the clearest hazel eyes you ever did see. There was no mistaking who she resembled, and she always looked lovely, looked after herself, went running daily. And she worked hard. She’d learned how to build websites with the help of a friend at college, and then more recently taught herself to create mobile apps, and had set up her own business. Judging by how many people she now employed, she was doing all right.

  Madeline finished peeling and chopping the apples and put them in a pan with some brown sugar to cook slightly, then retrieved the pastry she’d made earlier that was resting in the fridge. Lunch was going to be a nice occasion; everyone was in a good mood. The sun was out, she had a glass of wine, the apple pie was on its way, Gordon was chatting with his daughter and the roast beef smelled divine in the oven. Taking another long swig of her wine, she stood for a moment letting the surge of alcohol soften the edges of her nerves. A couple of good deep breaths and another mouthful of wine, and she was feeling quite relaxed. She rolled the pastry out gently and carefully lined the baking dish with it, then sieved the apples into a colander and placed them in the dish, covering them with the remaining pastry, patting the edges together and crimping them expertly as Gran had shown her years ago. Last, she pricked a few holes in the top to let the steam out and painted it all with a little beaten egg. Standing back, she admired her handiwork and smiled at her accomplishment. It looked superb even raw, and she set it aside to go in the oven once the beef had been taken out. She went to join the others in the lounge with her wine.

  Madeline should have known it wouldn’t last. They’d eaten lunch, gorged on apple pie and cream and sat outside on the patio finishing off the bottle of rosé Ruth had brought with her. They’d all had quite enough to drink – maybe that had sparked the heated exchange that had happened. They’d only been playing Cluedo, for heaven’s sake, and Gordon had been moaning about the fact that Mrs. White had been replaced by a new modern woman – Dr. Orchid, a sexy young biologist with a PhD in plant toxicology – and what was the world coming to? Why did they have to go and interfere with board game characters that had been around for what seemed like centuries almost? Ruth, on the other hand, thought it was a great move, very twenty-first-century. It depicted women a lot more positively than an old lady in a mob cap from way back when. Unfortunately, Gordon wasn’t having any of it, but he took his turn anyway, so Madeline made a quiet exit and slunk away to find her book, leaving them to it.

  Board games were not really her thing, but both Gordon and Ruth enjoyed them, as well as their fair share of puzzles. Both of them did the crosswords in the newspaper and Sudoku on their phones. With puzzles in mind, Ruth had actually started an online group, mainly for the locals about local stories and goings-on. It was quite a community now, and there were conversations about area vandalism or petty burglaries and the like. She called it The Daisy Chain, because when you made a daisy chain you made a necklace, a circle, and that was the end of it, all tied up – or, in the case of a puzzle, solved. Ruth spent ages on there, chatting about what was going on locally, and it had helped the police out in the past with leads and gossipy loose tongues. It covered the area around Croydon and South London, and Madeline was quite proud of her. Browsing it was a good way to spend some down time and she made a mental note to have a look later and see what had been going on in her digital absence.

  Chapter Six

  Week 2

  Monday

  Ruth sat in the warm kitchen, the morning sun already promising another hot summer’s day, just the kind she liked. She always knew she was solar powered; she hated the winter months with a vengeance and would have loved to live in sunnier climes all year round, but while she could work remotely, she
needed to be close to those she loved and her business in London.

  “One more cup of coffee and then I’ll hit the shower,” she said out loud to no one. Like clockwork every day, she rose at 5.30 am, put on her running gear and set off on her usual five-mile loop, come rain or shine. The loop took her to the nearby Beddington Park then back home to Richmond Road and her small but perfectly formed and positioned home. It was always so cheery, with the morning sunshine on the back, and in the afternoon on the front. She stood to put another capsule in the coffee machine and grabbed a clean mug for her second cup of the day, then turned back to the crossword puzzle she’d started just a few minutes ago. Plop, plop, whoosh sounded in the background, the promise of fresh coffee to come. This was the best part of the day. No one talking to her and disturbing her morning ritual, no one to please, and certainly no one to see her in her damp running sweats before her shower. And she loved her crosswords. She raced herself most mornings to complete each one quicker than she had the previous day, but she was not going to succeed today. She was stuck on seven down, ‘Inclined to sag,’ six letters. Nothing fitted, yet. The aroma of hot, fresh coffee filled the kitchen as the capsule emptied its rich contents into her cup. She walked over to the machine, added just the right amount of milk for her taste and took her steaming mug back to the table, sipping and moving on to the next clue, finding the answer almost immediately, and then the next. And the next. Now she was on a roll, and within ten more minutes she had managed to figure out seven down from the letters the rest of the answers had given her: it was ‘droopy.’ She sat back with a satisfied grin and heard the sound of familiar footsteps coming up the back path. Amanda. They didn’t live together, just spent quite a bit of time at each other’s houses, sometimes staying over but invariably going their separate ways at the end of their days. Ruth really loved her space, and both she and her partner worked odd shifts so they passed one another going in opposite directions like cars on a motorway. Sometimes they stopped and chatted. Sometimes they kissed. Rather than disturb each other’s routine, they lived separately and made it work. The back door opened and Amanda walked in, the night’s work etched in her face, the stress obvious to anyone, but particularly to Ruth.