Same Time Next Week

Chapter 34

‘Well, that’s a waste of a tenner,’ thought Amanda, as she paid over her money to Scopesearch, put in her mother’s property details and up came the information: No neighbourly disputes, it wasn’t built over a coal mine, it wasn’t mortgaged, any Radon potential was below three per cent, last sold this year for three hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Total rubbish. They’d got it mixed up with next door which had indeed been sold recently and that was a considerably smaller property. Her mother had been overjoyed when those neighbours had gone, because they were always having barbecues or burning rubbish in their incinerator. Her mum’s house was worth five hundred thousand at least. Still, she supposed, it gave her a very rough guide by comparison. She rang Baker’s estate agents to meet her at the house the day after tomorrow, to take the next step.

Sky had endured yet another broken night of sleep. Wilton’s friend had stayed over, and they’d had the TV up really loud watching sport of some sort. Since she’d threatened to report him to the authorities, he’d been going out of the way to make things extra difficult for her. He’d put one of his greasy black hairs in her bottle of milk; she was almost sick when she found it as she was pouring some over her cereal. She hadn’t a clue what his endgame was. It could only be, she decided, that he had such a sad little life that this was how he got his kicks, with some revenge thrown in for standing up to him. They’d fallen asleep on the sofa it seemed, although one of them had been to the toilet in the middle of the night and rapped loudly on her door as they passed it, waking her up just as she’d managed to nod off.

As she stole past the doorway to the lounge on her way out to work, she heard them muttering, chuckling sotto voce.

‘Sky,’ called Wilton in a rough morning voice. ‘Come and meet Bri. He’s thinking about moving in.’

And Bri waved from the couch and said, ‘Pleased to meet you, love. I don’t suppose you’ve got any aspirin, have you?’

She didn’t answer. She was already stressed as she closed the front door behind her and it wasn’t even half-past eight. She attempted to start up her car and panicked because there was just a click and nothing else. She tried it again and it sparked into life, as if it was only joking with her the first time, as if it had the same sick sense of humour that Wilton Dearne had. But it was a signifier that something needed looking at and it was going to cost money that she didn’t have.

As she was driving, she thought that if this was what her life was going to be until the end, what really was the point of it all?

Mel had caught her lip as she was washing her face getting ready for work and the cold sore started bleeding and wouldn’t stop. She was in the bathroom trying, unsuccessfully, to stick on a square of loo paper when she heard the front door.

She froze, listened hard: someone was moving about downstairs, then she heard Steve’s voice call out her name. He was home. She tried to be cool, calm and collected, which was hard with pins and needles of anxiety taking over every limb and a lip bleeding and throbbing as if it had its own heart.

When she got into the lounge, Steve was standing there with his hands on his hips, and no intention of making eye contact.

‘Do you want to sit down and talk?’ he said.

She wanted to sit down and cry actually, cry from confusion because he wasn’t posed in any happy to be home, I’ve missed you stance.

She couldn’t trust herself not to say the wrong thing, she felt surrounded by eggshells that might break if she breathed out of turn. This was Steve, her husband of twenty-nine years and ten months and yet she didn’t recognise that look on his face, an expression she’d not seen there before, because he’d never not been able to meet her eyes. Not even when he’d had to confess he’d let the budgie escape.

She waited for him to begin, feeling her whole self shaking inside her skin.

He didn’t sit down, he shifted from foot to foot with nervous energy before he opened his mouth.

‘Look, none of this was meant.’

He let that sink in, not that there was much to sink in.

‘I still love you as well, Mel.’

As well?

‘You’ve known her for two minutes, Steve.’

‘We knew each other at school. We really liked each other.’

‘You kept her quiet.’

‘Did you tell me about everyone you fancied? Anyway, I didn’t expect what happened to happen.’

She fought against saying, ‘ What, banging her against a bog door ?’

‘… But it did,’ he continued, ‘and I’m not giving her up.’

Mel’s breath caught in her throat.

‘I’m as confused as you are, if it helps.’

It totally didn’t. And she doubted very much that he was confused as she was. She could feel tears making their way into her eyes and she willed them back because if one of them fell, he’d see that as emotional blackmail and use it as an excuse to leave.

He carried on. ‘I know it’s unfair on you. Just let me have some space.’

Space.

‘Obviously this can’t go on as it is for ever,’ he said.

Eventually, without emotion, she said – because he appeared to be waiting for an answer to a question he hadn’t asked – ‘You want me to wait for you to sort your head out, is that what you’re saying?’

You want to put me on ice so you can do what you want and leave me hanging?

‘I’m so sorry about all this.’

So that was a yes then.

‘What makes this… Chloe’ — tart, bitch, whore — ‘woman so special that you’ve done this to me?’ asked Mel.

‘I don’t want to say, it’ll sound as if I’m rubbing it in.’

He might as well have punched her in the solar plexus.

‘You froze the joint bank account.’

‘I know, I’m sorry about that as well. At least if I froze it, you’d know that I wouldn’t be able to take money out either.’

A small smile appeared on his lips, as if he expected a brownie point for that consideration; instead, it threw a match on the dry tinder of her fast-diminishing patience.

‘Weren’t you frightened that I’d burn your suits or set up a stall on the street selling everything in the garage for fifty pee?’

The look on his face those words brought was priceless. Maybe it was time he saw she could act out of character too. She would bet he hadn’t considered it could be a possibility. Good old faithful Mel. Well, she’d put that worm in his head. Why should she have to do all the second-guessing?

‘I’m really sorry, Mel.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘But not sorry enough to come home.’

A slow shake of his head.

‘I think you should go, Steve.’

‘I will. I’m trusting you not to do anything stupid with my things though, Mel. That would be criminal damage.’

‘FUCK OFF,’ she shouted, her volume button turned up to the max. She didn’t normally swear at all but these days the only words running through her head began with an F, C, B or W. Never mind her not recognising him, she didn’t recognise herself. He’d turned her into Shaun Ryder.

He fucked off as commanded. She stood at the window and watched him get into his van and pull away, then she collapsed into the armchair as if someone had reached inside her and ripped out her bones. She could feel the tears racing up to her ducts again and she stamped down hard on them. No, she would not cry because that was being weak and she needed to be strong because being a wet lettuce had done her no good so far. Then she did something ridiculously impulsive. She rang Pat and he said he’d come round after his shift.

Sky saw Angel Sutton enter the shop before Angel saw her, thanks to her coat sleeve getting snagged up on the door handle and giving Sky some valuable seconds to act. She slipped away unseen into Bon’s office. She thought it was empty and apologised when she found him there.

‘I’m avoiding someone,’ she explained.

‘Oh, the Sutton woman,’ he said. ‘Is she looking for you?’

‘I don’t think so, but I’d still rather not talk to her.’

Bon looked out of the glass window. ‘She’s heading down to the bottom. She’s got a big bag with her. Heavy, by the look of it.’

‘Is it okay if I stay here until she’s gone?’

‘Of course. I’ll go and keep watch.’

Bon moved out of his office. He was worried about Sky. She was awfully pale, to the point of looking ill. When she walked in that morning, he wanted to wrap his arms around her and press some warmth into her, some comfort. He wished he knew if there was anything worryingly wrong with her health; he wished he could help her. He wished he could love her.

He sauntered down the shop to eavesdrop. Angel Sutton was talking to Jock. He’d better go down in case they needed a translator. Jock had a very thick accent and often had to repeat what he said to be understood. It spoke volumes that a South African had to translate Scots into English for people; they’d laughed about that a few times.

Angel was in full flow, explaining what she wanted from him.

‘… Anyway, here they are. My grandfather is Archie Sutton, I know you’ll have heard of him. These are the very first tools he used when he started working so they’re precious to him. They’ve been in his garage for years and I’d like all the rust removed and the wood oiled or whatever you do and then mounted in a case for him.’

Jock looked at them: an array of old tools with weathered handles in three black drawstring bags. If they were as precious as they were supposed to be, they’d have been kept in a better state than this, was his initial thought.

‘I can restore the tools, but you’ll need my pal who is over there for the case. He’s no’ here today.’

Angel reached into her bag: Prada, with flashy gold letters on the side, and pulled out a sheet of paper.

‘This is what I want, if I can leave it with you for him, then. The tools mounted and behind glass and a brass plaque on the frame. I’ve drawn a detailed illustration. It doesn’t matter what it costs, I just want it done before September the first. You will take care, won’t you? You can throw away the bags they’re in. I think there was some old wives’ tale idea years ago that if you kept them wrapped in silk it would stop the rust, which obviously hasn’t happened in this case; hence the “old wives’ tale” label.’

Jock hadn’t heard that load of old piffle before, but he didn’t say as much.

‘Do you want a deposit? Do you have a machine?’ She took a gold bank card from the purse in her hand.

‘No, you’re okay,’ said Jock. Bon could tell from his face that he was probably thinking what a stupid idea for a present.

‘Can you ring me when it’s ready? How long will it take?’

‘I don’t know. But it’ll certainly be ready in plenty o’ time for September. I’ll need tae take your number.’

‘I’ve written it down on the illustration. Is Sky around today?’

‘I have nae seen her,’ said Jock, feigning innocence.

‘Day off,’ said Bon.

‘Do you have a telephone number for her?’

‘I’m afraid… we don’t give out personal numbers,’ said Bon.

Angel made a thoughtful, hmm sound.

‘I really need to get a message to her. I wonder if you’d pass it on.’

‘I can get you some paper if you want to write it down,’ Bon offered.

‘Or you could just say to her when you see her that we’ve had a reporter sniffing around. It’s coming up to twenty years. She’ll know what that means.’

Bon didn’t give her the benefit of looking bemused. ‘Yes of course, I’ll pass that on.’

‘She’ll understand. Thank you.’ Angel smiled and headed towards the exit.

‘Twenty years? What’s that supposed to mean?’ Bon said to Jock.

‘It’ll be that fuckin’ prowler story,’ answered Jock, shaking his head. ‘Climbs oot the cundie every few years.’

‘You wouldn’t think it was still newsworthy after all this time, would you?’

‘They’re still talking about Jack the Ripper, Bon,’ Tony Cropper called over.

‘That’s because they never solved the mystery,’ said Mildred, walking over to join in. ‘And it’s the same with the Prowler. Did he or didn’t he have an accomplice who remained at large? If there was a second man, it’s no one they had on their list; they were all checked out and there was no evidence to link any of them to the crimes except Craven himself.’ Her voice dropped in volume. ‘Of course they saw Edek as the most likely, because he lived in a fairly remote place and his alibi was always that he was with his very frail wife and his young daughter at home. His was the least viable to substantiate. I remember hearing some idiot insinuate Edek was angry at the world for his wife being so poorly and as such, he wanted to hurt “normal” women.’

‘It’s not outside the realms of possibility, Mildred. Look at Sutcliffe. Anyone who knew him would never have believed he was capable of what he was.’

‘And therein lies the problem, Tony, because there was a very clear precedent of someone caring and family-orientated having such a hidden side,’ said Mildred. ‘Anyway, I refuse to believe it. But they will keep dredging it up, hoping someone will come forward with new evidence until the truth is finally uncovered. And until poor Edek is cleared, Sky will never be rid of that awful shadow hanging over her.’

Bon opened the door to his office and then closed it again. Sky was fast asleep on the couch in there, her eyelids fluttering as if she were dreaming. He let himself, just for a moment, imagine he were lying next to her, studying her beautiful face before threading his hand in her hair and kissing her awake.

She was still sleeping when Astrid came in for her wage. She always picked it up on Thursdays and then called into the Pot of Gold antiques centre across the square to see Kev’s old dealer friends and have a cuppa and a natter with them. Spring Hill Square had quickly become a community that looked after its own. Bon counted his blessings that he’d found it when he had. His was the biggest unit of them all and he hadn’t been looking for anything of that size. Then he’d gone into the Pot of Gold and seen all the various dealers who rented space from the owner, Lewis Harley, and it had made him think bigger: about a repair shop emporium of various specialists. They had joined him as if drawn to him by invisible forces, concluding with Sky, who fitted exactly the compact space outside his office which none of the others could have utilised.

‘Astrid, I have the cash on me but not the actual printed wage slip. Can I give that to you next week?’

‘Of course,’ replied Astrid.

‘Sky’s asleep in my office,’ he explained, taking the wallet out of his pocket. ‘I don’t want to wake her. I’m wondering if she’s not well, and when she wakes up, I think I’ll ask her to call it a day and go home.’

Astrid humphed. ‘I think that is the worst thing you can suggest, Mr van der Meer.’

‘Oh, what do you mean?’

Astrid shook her hand as if to wave away her own spoken words.

‘I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not my place.’

‘Oh come on, Astrid,’ said Bon, ‘you have to tell me now. I’m worried about her, if I’m honest.’

Astrid blew her breath out of her cheeks. He’d convinced her that perhaps she should, in this case, share a confidence because maybe Bon could help.

‘Okay, she has a landlord who is a creep. And she wants to leave but obviously she is tied to a tenancy agreement and has fünf ’– she held up her splayed hand – ‘months to go. But he is going into her room and she has to sleep with a chair rammed against the door. Can you imagine? I said to her, I have a room she can rent. It would be ideal for both of us but he won’t give her the bond back if she leaves early. He is making life very difficult. One night…’ She trailed off, not sure if this was too much, then decided that she was in for a penny so might as well be in for a pound: ‘… Yes, one night, I came to do my shift and I was very late and I found her asleep on Peter’s sofa. It is so bad for her, that was better than going home.’

Bon listened intently. ‘Is that true?’ he asked.

‘It’s true.’

‘And you have a place she can stay?’

‘I do.’

‘Do you have a spare hour, Astrid? I’ll pay you double.’

‘I do,’ said Astrid, feeling a wash of relief that she’d done the right thing.