Stench

by AB Morgan

  Rory went through the motions of checking emails as he listened to their discussions, and he was struck by Anna’s unusual interjections. Once or twice when she spoke it was as if she were replying to a question that no one in the room had asked, or that she was making an unnecessary comment. This was attracting attention from Steve who, seated on an old sofa, glanced up at Rory hiding behind the laptop on the small scruffy desk the other side of the office area.

  ‘Are you local, Anna?’ Steve asked.

  ‘Fairly, I live in town. But I’ve only been here since my husband died. Apparently, everyone thought it would be a good idea to remain near my mother-in-law. I don’t stay for that reason, let me tell you. She’s pain in the arse. Damien was buried here, so I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to.’

  ‘Good for you. What do you do for a living? Or are you a rich widow?’ Grant enquired with a note of hopeful expectation.

  ‘I’m not rich. I’m in the “comfortably well-off widow” bracket I think. I freelance as a writer for local newspapers and I’m a researcher for TV documentaries.’

  Grant did a splendid job of probing for information. ‘You must have worked with our local celebrity then.’

  ‘Konrad Neale? Yes, I’m currently covering a story for Channel 7. I don’t have much to do with him. He’s the face in front of the TV cameras. I’m a collector of information, that’s all.’ Anna paused before appearing to shake her head in denial. ‘No,’ she said, rising suddenly from her seat to excuse herself. ‘Sorry. Need a wee. Back for the next part in a minute. Don’t start without me.’

  ‘No problem, take your time,’ Steve replied, studying her as she left the cabin to find the toilets in the adjacent building.

  ‘What a funny sausage. She’s been doing that all morning. Shaking her head or stopping in the middle of a sentence and forgetting what she’s saying. Nice girl though.’ From what he said, it was plain that Grant too had not failed to notice Anna’s level of distraction.

  Steve shrugged a query in Rory’s direction.

  ‘As long as she can keep herself safe on the road when we get out there, then let’s not worry too much. She’s probably one of those eccentric, creative, writer types.’

  Despite saying the words aloud, Rory wasn’t convinced. However, shaking off his uncertainties, he galvanised some action. ‘Right, Brian and I are off for a short ride and then we’ll head for the test centre. You’ll be gone when I get back, Steve, so I’ll see you on Friday.’ Rory winked at Grant. ‘Steve’s getting on a bit. He’s a bloody part-timer, aren’t you? How many lottery tickets have you scratched this week already? Ten?’

  Steve held up his hands in protest. ‘If it can happen to Dave, then I’m in with a chance.’

  ‘Dave was the previous instructor based here,’ Rory explained to Grant. ‘And he’s taken very early retirement. He won several tens of thousands of pounds and now lives with his wife in Portugal where they decided to buy a pad. Lucky bastard. Steve’s hoping to win enough for a ticket home to Kiwi-land before he’s too decrepit to fly. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Fuck off, you bloody upstart.’ Steve took a swipe at Rory who ducked in good time and nonchalantly carried on crushing his sandwich wrapper to throw in the bin. ‘Scrawny, lanky, sad-case,’ Steve continued. ‘You wouldn’t have this job if it wasn’t for Dave’s luck,’ he reprimanded. ‘You may take the piss but one day I’ll win big time and you’ll be sorry for the harsh words you say in the name of jest. Now bugger off and get Brian through his test.’

  Rory patted his friend and colleague on the shoulder as he passed by, then, picking up his gloves and helmet, he headed outside to start up his own motorbike. Brian gave a nervous wave to Steve and Grant as he turned on the ignition and pressed the starter button of the training school Yamaha.

  As they drove past the end of the compound in their high visibility vests, Anna stepped out from the toilet block. She didn’t even acknowledge them, and Rory saw for himself how self-absorbed she was as she walked, head down, merrily chuntering to herself. He shuddered, finally acknowledging that Anna was the source of an unease that had been increasing in intensity during the day.

  He was glad of the change of scenery.

  8

  The Vicar has Tired Ears

  ‘I’m sorry to call you again, Vicar, but I’m at a loss what to do or where to go. I phoned Dr Dalby at the surgery and explained exactly what my concerns are regarding Anna, but she wasn’t in the least bit reassuring.’

  The Reverend Gerald Fairbrother decided to park himself on the chair next to an antiquated telephone table in the dim hallway. He knew from bitter experience that any call from Brenda Chamberlain could be painfully longwinded.

  ‘I am surprised, she’s usually so accommodating in difficult circumstances,’ Gerald Fairbrother assured as he waved his wife away with a shake of his head and a flap of his left hand. In return, she produced a world-weary grimace and rolled her eyes to confirm her understanding. With a dull thud, she placed her capacious handbag down on the hall table then headed back to a seat in the kitchen where a crossword puzzle in the newspaper had previously been keeping her entertained. They would be late for dinner with their daughter and son-in-law. They were invariably delayed by the needs of her husband’s parishioners.

  ‘Well, she wasn’t helpful on this occasion, I can tell you,’ squawked the posh voice.

  The Reverend Fairbrother suspected he was about to hear every minute detail as Brenda continued unabated. ‘Evidently, she will see Anna if I can persuade her to attend the surgery, which, as you well know, is not going to happen because she doesn’t think there is anything wrong with her. Now then, you are sure Anna said she wasn’t taking any medication, aren’t you?’

  The elderly vicar repeated exactly what he had told Brenda before about his fleeting encounter with Anna in the graveyard. ‘She couldn’t have been plainer. I could only come to the same conclusion that anyone else would have done. She was talking to herself, but not like we all do. She was replying to someone who wasn’t there, with pauses in the right places, as if she was letting Damien speak back to her. She even admitted to me that she heard his voice.’

  Brenda sighed. ‘I know all this. Did you find out what she’s up to every day, sitting in her car and driving around following those vagabonds from the gypsy compound?

  ‘You can’t call people names like that anymore.’

  ‘Quite right. Scrap metal dealers, then. Pikeys.’

  ‘No, you mustn’t use that expression either. It’s racist.’

  ‘Hog wash and codswallop. There is no race called pikey.’

  The vicar placed one hand on his forehead and raised his eyebrows as far as they would go to help give suitable inflection to his voice. ‘Mrs Chamberlain, please refrain from such offensive terms. I must insist you refer to Mr Fewtrell by his given name.’

  ‘Mad Leo then. Did you find out what she’s up to following Mad Leo Fewtrell around? Well? Did you speak to Mr Ribble at the garage, or not?’

  The vicar had indeed spent a fruitful hour with Barney that very day, asking questions about Anna’s appearances in Lower Marton over the preceding weeks. Meeting Barney had been a welcome relief from the moaners and the groaners, the aged and infirm, and from the sycophantic hypocritical do-gooders he had to deal with on a daily basis. Barney never set foot inside the village church, nor any church for that matter, and yet it was Reverend Fairbrother’s opinion that he contributed more to the local community than most who did. At the far end of the garage the vicar had spied an ancient tractor, and for the first forty minutes of his unscheduled visit to Ribble’s Garage he engaged in a delightful conversation about the tractor’s history and restored condition.

  ‘I’m taking her to the Swandale tractor and steam rally next weekend if you fancy coming along. There’s room for a small one next to me on Tinkerbell’s love seat,’ Barney offered, waving to the upholstered bench behind the wheel of his lovingly restored 1947 red tractor.

&nb
sp; The reverend was sorely tempted. ‘It’s a wonderful offer, but I don’t think Ada would approve.’

  ‘Is Ada your own tractor, Vicar?

  ‘No. I don’t have one, more’s the pity - Ada’s my wife. Isn’t your wife going with you?’

  Barney grinned. ‘Netty? Yes, she’ll be riding in the backup vehicle in case Tinkerbell doesn’t make it and we have to tow her in. Besides it’s a bit of a squeeze for the two of us on that seat. Intimate isn’t the right word. Compressed, would be more like it. A couple of fat sausages forced together. That’s nearer the mark.’

  The vicar looked over each shoulder. ‘I shouldn’t let her hear you talk like that.’

  ‘Netty doesn’t mind.’

  ‘I thought you’d only been married a year or so?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. We found each other eventually, better late than never. And she knows, no matter what I say, that I fancy the pants off her every day. She’s the only one for me. Now then, Vicar, what was it you really wanted to ask me about? The young lady in the blue car, wasn’t it?’

  Barney was well acquainted with Brenda Chamberlain, and he knew all about Damien’s death and that the young widow Anna could be found visiting the grave on a regular basis. He’d never met her in person; however, once the vicar had given him details of her car, Barney had been most helpful.

  ‘So that’s why she’s parking outside his garage every day.’ Brenda said, sounding relieved at having been given an explanation.

  ‘He thought she was from the council. Brenda, I am ashamed to say I have lied. I’m afraid I let Barney Ribble think what Anna wants us all to believe; that she’s doing undercover research for a documentary programme. He said he’d keep an eye on her because I told him you were worried that she’s taken on a dangerous assignment.’

  Brenda sounded shocked. ‘You lied? Why? Couldn’t you simply have told him she is mentally unstable?’

  ‘But you insisted that this is kept confidential. If I tell Barney, then surely everyone will find out.’

  ‘I suppose so, but really! I can’t believe that you, as a man of the cloth, deliberately lied.’ Without warning Brenda went off at a tangent. ‘You do know that Barney’s not his real name.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Barney Ribble. His real name is Kevin. It doesn’t suit him at all does it? Barney’s his nickname just because of the Ribble surname and the Flintstones, you see. His father had the same nickname, which was confusing until he died. Heart attack. Only to be expected given the size of the man. They used to be Big Barney and Little Barney until Little Barney grew even bigger and fatter than his father …’

  ‘Brenda, I really do have to go. My daughter is expecting us for dinner.’

  Sitting on the hard-wooden chair in his hallway, the Reverend Fairbrother allowed himself an unseemly string of muttered profanities as he held his hand over the mouthpiece and looked towards the ceiling for divine support. With none forthcoming, he shook his head in despair at ever being able to end the call from Brenda Chamberlain.

  ‘What did Barney say about why Anna is following the pikey lot?’

  A long slow exhalation from the vicar’s nostrils allowed him to compose himself enough to reply. ‘He doesn’t know exactly what she’s trying to find out, but she’s been following the Fewtrells each morning and on a few occasions has been spotted driving up the lane when they were out. Barney said he’d try to speak to her and warn her to steer well clear of their compound, because, more often than not, Mrs Fewtrell and at least one or two others remain at home during the day. Barney didn’t make any promises, but he did say he would try to warn her.’

  ‘That will have to do for now, I suppose. Meanwhile, if Dr Dalby can’t help then I’ll have to phone the psychiatric unit in Devon for advice about how to get Anna some treatment before this gets out of hand. Do something useful and start praying.’

  Gerald Fairbrother was well ahead of that request. He was already pleading for salvation and for his own sanity in the face of an onslaught from a formidable woman who was testing his patience.

  9

  Angry Damien

  After her motorbike lesson, Anna wanted a word in private with Damien. She hoped that the vicar was not at the church, for his sake. There was one other car parked in the churchyard, which belonged to an elderly gentleman changing the flowers at his wife’s graveside. Anna had seen him many times before, but they had never exchanged more than the time of day or a comment on the weather, his arthritis, and the state of his wife’s grave. He visited every week without fail on a Wednesday afternoon.

  She watched from the other side of the cemetery as he removed the old flowers from the vase encased by a square stone holder. He pulled the wilted foliage from the wire mesh and before replacing the old with fresh cut blooms he sniffed their aroma. He said a few words as he stood up, using the gravestone to balance himself and to provide much-needed leverage for his arthritic knees which he rubbed as he straightened his back. The old man waved when he saw Anna before he shuffled his way down the path back towards his car. She returned the acknowledgement.

  ‘There he goes. Spends a fortune on flowers every week since she died. Bet he never bothered when she was alive.’

  ‘Neither did you,’ Anna said. ‘Anyway. You and I need to have a serious chat about how many times you bothered me today. I thought we had an agreement. I come to talk to you here as long as you don’t try to interfere when I’m working, dealing with your mother, socialising, or any other bloody time when I need to concentrate.’

  ‘Well, you said you were nervous. I was trying to give you advice and encouragement.’

  ‘I know you were, but they noticed me trying not to answer you back, and it’s almost impossible to concentrate when you have two conversations going on at full volume. You know I can cope with the whispering but not the shouting in my ear about which lever the clutch is. Damien, you have to let me do this motorbike thing on my own.’ Anna scraped her hair back through open fingers.

  ‘I saw the way you looked at him. The quiet one. Rory. I think you could have found your next husband. Mother will be pleased.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s what this is about … jealousy. Come off it. He’s a married man, even you must have noticed the wedding ring.’

  ‘You wear one too and it never stopped you before. Didn’t you see the sad look in his hazel eyes? Like yours, Fruitcake. His eyes are sad just like yours. So, his wife is either dead or gone. Either way, you two have a lot in common.’

  Anna shook her head in vehement disagreement. ‘He hardly noticed my presence until you started with your comments. Well, if that’s your game, Damien, if you are going to insist on sabotaging my bike lessons by making me look like a mad woman, then I will stop coming here, as a punishment for breaking our agreement. Your amusing running commentary was getting on my bloody nerves. “That Grant wants to get in your knickers, Anna. See the way he leers at you”. Also, there was absolutely no need for you to have a go at me about giving out personal details of my work. I wasn’t going to disclose anything confidential.’ Anna wheeled round, turning her back in defiance to Damien’s gravestone. She couldn’t bear to look at his name.

  ‘I only said that the next thing you’d be telling them was how much you missed a good shag and whether they fancied a bit. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘There is everything wrong with that! I’m not a tart. Why are you behaving like this?’

  ‘Four men in one portacabin. Four men, Anna. Pick of the bunch. Four men of your choice. Which one do you want, Anna? Four men. The young one on the pushbike, the old one with the glasses, the Kiwi, the quiet one? Which one will it be, Anna? Four men …’

  Anna covered her ears, but Damien’s spiteful words continued to grate. While he repeated himself, she pulled her jacket around her and paced up and down the paths of the cemetery by way of coping with the incessant internal noise. After returning to the graveside minutes later, she took several deep breaths before she spoke to him
again, this time with a tone of controlled and deliberate tenderness.

  ‘Look, it’s starting to rain, Damien. We used to love the rain. Do you remember the days when we would huddle together and watch an old war film and listen to the raindrops tinkling on the windows? I don’t want to do that with anyone else. Please believe me.’

  She hated it when he became spiteful and so she tried hard to placate him, and to keep herself calm. This usually worked well. The more stressed she became, the more he criticised. And to counteract this negative pattern she had learnt to talk gently. It helped to reduce the level of emotional arousal that ramped up when she was anxious or irritable. Damien hadn’t been this grumpy for years. Not since she was taken to hospital after he died.

  Anna couldn’t recall the events of that time with reliable clarity, but she could easily bring to mind how Damien’s fury at his own death had erupted inside her head. At first there had been the occasional whispered word. He had called her name in the dark lonely nights before his funeral. She had cried for so many hours and days at his loss that she was exhausted by her own level of grief, and when he came back to her she cried again, this time with joy and relief.

  ‘Anna, I’m here. I haven’t left you,’ he had said to her. His voice had been as clear as if he was standing next to their bed. He came every night after that and within a week he brought her comforting words and whispers during the day. The solace turned gradually into bitter frustration. Damien seemed to become irritated with her, ordering her to find him.

  ‘Don’t you let them bury me in the cold. I don’t want to be in the dark on my own. You stay with me, Anna.’

  The thought of him being abandoned was almost too much for her to bear and, in response to his appeal for help the night before his funeral, she had raced to the undertakers. After banging thunderously on the large wooden door, she was let in. It was well past closing time. Standing in the reception area surrounded by serene pictures and dedications, floral arrangements and leaflets for bereaved families, she demanded to see her husband’s body to make certain that he was fully clothed and not left by himself in the dark.